In the Blink of An Eye

by Chuck's Prophet

It's almost forty years into the future, and the U.S. Government has issued a warrant for every child to be inoculated with a random serum that enhances and prepares them for war. Rights are stolen, choices are made, and an unlikely duo meet to fight the system. Destiel. Rated M for explicit content including sex, mild violence and language.

In the Blink of an Eye

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves." –William Shakespeare

Dedications

This fan piece is dedicated to my best friend and mentor, Eve, who I indisputably know was separated from me at birth.

Special thanks to Eric Kripke and the writing crew at Supernatural for instilling faith that I can do this for the rest of my life.

---

"Academy Handbook— Year 2050"

8776 W. Pond Stead Ave.,

Colorado Springs, CO

Welcome to the Academy, where every male prepares to meet his tomorrow!

Dress Code

Every male is required to wear appropriate clothing. Other forms of accessories are acceptable so long as the object(s) does not interfere with combat training. The student is responsible for his possessions. Lost or stolen items will not be reported.

Behavior

Every male is projected to be orderly and respectful. Disorderly conduct on school property such as loitering, intoxication, or any form of disturbance of the peace will result in expulsion. Males will not engage in roughhouse of any kind during campus hours with the exception of training. Leaving campus for any purpose is strictly prohibited.

Academy hours:

Mondays through Saturdays: 8am to 3pm.

Sundays: Studying periods.

Training

Training will be held in the back field located behind the campus. Here, the males will engage in the handling and care of his power(s). Males will be under strict supervision from consenting instructors. Powers used on or by threat to another male or instructor(s) is strictly prohibited.

Training hours:

Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays: 10am to 4pm.

Further guidelines will be enforced upon official arrival.

Failure to comply with these regulations will result in immediate expulsion from the Race."

Dean exhaled sharply as the automated voice over the loudspeaker degenerated on the last words. Surrounding him was a prism made entirely of white—at least from his realm of perception. He hadn't expected to be moved along so quickly when he stepped through the vestibule. He moved through a manifold of corridors before reaching a section entirely of doors.

It wasn't his objective to be where he was. Each child had a designated course—destiny, as many would so casually put it— and was sent away for lack thereof. He wasn't even informed upon arrival into the Academy that he would be "looked over" before he was shipped to his room. He could still hear the humming of the lasers running horizontal down his bare stature, and the conspiring amongst the staff as they witnessed him in awe, like he was radioactive or something. Sure, Dean always knew that he wasn't normal in some form or another, but it wouldn't be before too long when he would stop brooding over the idea altogether.

He faltered opening the door handle to his room. His emerald eyes wavered; a headache was ensuing. He grappled for something to sustain his balance on, but instead found little comfort on the shallow floor. His hands ran through his golden hair; his breathing was decelerating fast. Digging so excessively into his head that he thought his scalp would bleed; Dean reached out for the knob again, this time seizing it with one hand and clutching for dear life. Technicolor images fluttered behind his retinas… a boy lunging out for his hand, calling his name. His voice sounded through his cranium like a rusty doorbell…

Then it stopped. The headache, the pictures, the shrilling voice, it all stopped. He opened his eyes warily. The ambiance was exactly as it had been moments before his full-blown attack: discreet, unoccupied. He picked his stature up and shot his head around the hallway again, just to be completely sure. Then, craning his head one-eighty sensing the proximity of someone behind him, he saw a young boy, bouncing excitedly as Dean's eyes met his. As he neared closer, Dean's head surged again with the same image, this time clearer: there was another boy, arms folded over his chest in some form of resentment. Casting a somewhat eerie shadow over Dean's mental state, he wore his straw-colored hair combed over his face and circles underneath his light blue eyes that stared coldly at him.

"W—who the hell are you?" Dean managed through escaped breaths, clutching his head wearily. Dean saw the boy standing in front of him clearer as the other boy in his mind began to dissipate from his cerebral view. He had long brown hair that grazed just an inch or so below his shoulders, wide chestnut eyes and an inane grin plastered on his smallish face. He definitely didn't seem as menacing as the other boy, but he couldn't be too sure about anything.

"I'm Sam!" he exclaimed, lending an eager hand. Dean denied his greeting, still more than a little shaken from the psychological episode. Sam noted his struggle to regain full consciousness, but his carbonated approach remained. "Oh, that's just Luke. He likes to do that to new students."

"You know him?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam nodded reassuringly. "He's my boyfriend! Or—erm—at least that's what he calls me."

"Uh-huh," Dean agreed warily. This boy, Sam, was at least four years younger than Dean's sixteen, which couldn't have made Luke much older than him. "And he does this to every new student?"

Sam shook his head vigorously, his crimped hair bouncing with him. "No, sometimes he does it just to do it. He says that if people are easily to manipulate, then they deserve it. I guess you're part of that exception!" he exclaimed, beaming favorably. Dean nodded slowly. This kid was too naïve for his own good.

"Uh huh," he repeated, mostly for lack of better words, "well tell your friend Luke that he can stop poking around in my melon. It's not exactly the ideal welcoming."

Sam laughed light-heartedly and raised his hand to his forehead in a solider salute. "Aye aye, Sir!" Dean was halfway out of the hallway and into his dorm when Sam hobbled closer to him. "So what's your superpower?"

Propping the door with his foot, Dean heaved a sigh. This kid was persistent. He supposed the truth would explain itself. "I don't know. I just got here and no one's explained a damn thing. As far as I know, I don't have one."

A sad expression crossed Sam's glowing features. "Oh. Well, I guess that's okay. It took me a while to discover mine."

"Oh yeah," Dean scoffed indignantly, his back faced to the smaller boy, "what's that?"

I wouldn't laugh if I were you.

Dean gasped, the door nearly closing in on his leg. He swung in a three-sixty, eyes wide with apprehension. That certainly wasn't his voice speaking…

"I can predict the future too!" Sam squealed, bouncing in his step again. Alright, Dean could believe the mind voodoo, but psychics. He almost felt bad for the kid. Whoever told him he inhabited an extraordinary ability at his young age ought to be punished, probably that weird-ass punk, Luke. Then again Dean knew what it felt like to grow up too fast, and this was just another child fallen victim to that.

"Alright, what's my future then?" Dean said, humoring him for kicks. Sam pressed his forefingers furiously to his head, closed his eyes, and began running them in circles around his temples. His eyes fluttered underneath his lids and his lip curled in trepidation. Then his body came to an ease, hands falling with his opening eyes.

"I see a table; you're bounded by sapphires and you can't escape."

Dean rolled his eyes and kicked the door open again, this time shutting it completely behind him. This was going to be the longest few years of his life.

---

There were about a thousand different things he would rather be doing than studying the laws of psychics. Gouging his eyes out, for instance, would be much more riveting. He could teach physics in one sentence: what goes up must come down. Why it would take a whole semester to explain a one-sentence concept he would never know.

However, this class wasn't the root of his problems. Although he wouldn't concede to the truth, it was the detriment of not knowing who he was. He spent years building a cerebral barrier that divided him from his innermost thoughts. But now that he was enrolled in a facility that went so far as to put him under a microscope like a test subject, those thoughts couldn't help seep through the cracks. He received in return the most inquisitive faces and consecutive undertones among the staff, while most new students were sent on their way. What was it about him that this place wasn't telling him? Why were there kids like Sam and Luke who could writhe inside someone's mind and he was classified as the Grade-A freak?

With his last class out of the way, Dean slung his backpack over his shoulder and headed down to a café a block or two down the drive. Food seemed like the only logical route to take when trying to forget about something—either that or study a test on Saturday; however, at the moment, physics class was really testing his nerves.

The restaurant was more spacious than it looked on the outside, and more vibrant than the flavorless white on the inside. Surrounding each side was the soft drone of music over the loudspeakers and the chatter of voices occupying said tables. The place wasn't the least bit unkempt for how surprisingly busy it was. Waiters maneuvered their way around the new customer carrying tray after tray of entrees with a smell so delectable that he had to bite his lip to prevent excess salivate. One server attended to him a few minutes prior to the carrying.

"Table for one?" he asked, eye peeking keenly. Dean nodded. He was sent to a small table for two on the far right of the establishment. Dean took his seat and, without even glancing at the menu, knew what he wanted. He had had a hankering for it ever since he arrived at the Academy; pie. He had to have his cherry pie.

"Hello, sir, what will be your beverage of choice?" A different waiter chimed, coming to rest at his table. Without so much as a glance over, Dean replied an iced tea. The same waiter returned moments later only instead of setting down the drink, managed to spill the contents inside the glass all over Dean's lap. This seized Dean's attention; he flung back in his chair gasping, ice sliding down his crotch a rather stinging than chilling sensation.

"Oh my—I'm so sorry!" He craned his head in the direction of the waiter's voice, though finding no one there except the many faces staring in awe at Dean. He realized why a few seconds later; the host had gone so far as to pull out a dozen napkins, bend down below the table, and hastily dab at the inflicted area, fingers working his way around and in-between his thighs. Blushing profusely at the rather intimate contact, Dean looked down only to find the brightest pair of blue eyes looming between his legs. I see a table; you're bounded by sapphires…

The waiter immediately put down his napkins—that was after the excessive eye-lingering between them stopped—and crawled out from underneath the platform.

Then the most unceremonious thing happened; something loomed inside him, like a volcano imploding over a vast cityscape. He felt it simmer deep within him, a broiling sensation that started from his back muscles and expanded well below his knees. His skin began to illustrate the sweltering colors, turning red on contact. He stood up from his chair frantically and ran into the restroom a few tables away. He ran his hands manically down every inch of skin in front of the mirror. Touching it only enflamed the nerves more—and hurt him just as bad. Winching, he peeled his shirt just above his breasts only to witness the color engulfing his body.

You can't escape.

The faint screeching of the stall door brought him somewhat back to Earth. Combing his shirt back over his torso, he swung his head brusquely to a familiar figure. The waiter's expression had remained the same: deplorably shamefaced.

"Sir, I am so sorry—"

Dean couldn't force his head to look at him. He was too shaken to even muster words. "It—it's fine."

"No, it's not—"

"Look, will you just—" Dean stopped mid-sentence, sensing something cool seeping through his swollen skin. He glanced down to find the host's hand clutching onto his wrist; though moderately, it calmed his irritated flesh… how was he doing that?

The other boy wasn't affected—either that or he was just oblivious.

"I'm sorry; let me help you," he said so sincerely that Dean had finally cocked his head to look at the guy. He had dark brown hair that cascaded lightly over the arc of his eyebrow and descended back. In addition to the hair, he had plush lips and the kind of eyes that could only be classified as bright sapphire. He used them to stare at Dean in not wonder but understanding.

"It's…okay," Dean said to his surprise. His eyes trailed his eyes to his shirt where his nametag in bold read Castiel. Dean followed Castiel submissively as he guided him out of the restroom and eventually out back of the restaurant.

Castiel began explaining the events that occurred once they were a safe distance away from the meddlesome customers that watched the two boys as they exited. He was glad that Castiel hadn't made a big scene out of it as he escorted him out, keeping an appropriate distance from the emerald-eyed boy. Dean wasn't exactly comfortable knowing that his body was a radioactive time-bomb—or from what he presumed. Because his actions were impeded by an inept waitron—who, even Dean had to admit was one of the nicest looking specimens he had ever fancied his eyes upon—he couldn't really tell what his power was. For years, he had been curious about his alias; the person behind the mask. For years, though secreted beneath layers of ignorance, he knew that there was something inside him, something greater than himself.

But now that his powers were unleashed, he wasn't sure he wanted them anymore. What difference did it make? He was still an anomaly to everyone, with or without special abilities. Before the Academy, he was disregarded by people of all ages. But now, although he was more than recognized, he was still a social leopard. No one would bother with him then and now that he was the subject of ridicule—and possibly even fear—no one would dare look at him, let alone coexist in the same breathing space.

"So, you haven't experienced this sort of thing before, this—"

Dean shot him a condescending look. "Red-Hulk-PMS crap? No, I don't think so."

Castiel nodded affirmatively. He began mumbling something indecipherable to himself; Dean couldn't see due to a shadow sweeping across his pensive features. Finally, after an extensive amount of time brooding over what he should say, his mouth began to form audible words. His voice came out soft, unhurried and almost in a whisper.

"Look, we're not granted permission to just spill this sort of stuff to new students, but—well, usually you're sort of familiar with this, your powers, I mean. Most people have at least a concept of what their power is. That's why they're enrolled in the Academy: to learn how to control their powers, and ultimately learn to control their life."

"I didn't choose this life; I didn't choose this—whatever this is," Dean argued.

"None of us chose the life that we're destined to lead, it's chosen for us. The government is one huge laboratory and we're the guinea pigs. They're waging a war and we're bred to be soldiers," he explained.

Dean's mind soared with images of men inoculating poison into infants on a conveyor belt, like an assembly line consisting of young male offspring. His stomach churned with resentment; every needle stained red with the blood of a new generation, was every child stripped of purity all because of a war that was brought upon by the indecency of men.

He managed to somehow push those thoughts away long enough form a response; sadness interlaced with a tinge of resentment: "What am I?" He wasn't sure if he was speaking to the man in front of him or his subconscious mind.

"Cassie! Get your ass back in the joint! There's a handful of people who aren't gonna serve themselves!" Castiel inclined his head from his older brother Gabriel to the boy with the deflated expression crossing his already-pained features.

"I'm sorry," Castiel said sympathetically. It looked as though for a brief second that he was going to reach out and envelope him in an embrace. Castiel thought better of it; though he wasn't afraid of him, he presumed that Dean was. "I really wish I had the answers to your questions—"

He faltered in his speech, grasping for a pen and a pad of paper in his holster to jot down a quick note. Folded off in sections, scribbled on the lined sheet of paper was a phone number. "My shift ends at ten. Call me any time after then. We'll get through this together, okay?"

Dean could barely muster a nod by the time that Castiel had left. Clutching onto the singular sheet of paper as if it was his last lifeline, he began to head back to his dorm. Usually, nothing would have pleased him more than to receive a gorgeous man's number, but right now all he needed was for the minute hand to move faster on the analog clock above his bedroom door.

---

Eleven wasn't as momentous of a time as most seventeen-year-olds built it up to sound, especially when one was working a six-hour shift after a nine-hour school day. He almost immediately lunged for his cell phone at the far end of the kitchen island, hoping that Dean hadn't called only to reach a nonexistent voicemail. He saw the horrified look on his face as he rushed to the men's room and the pained glare he fixated on the ground. No one should have to experience such turmoil in a short amount of hours. Strangely, his cell was at full battery, no unread messages.

"Did you ever think maybe he's just not that into you?" Gabriel chided, a smirk crossing his smug features as he tossed his tattered dishtowel into the sink.

"It's not like that," Cas argued half-heartedly, the other half of him wondering just why he hadn't receive any messages.

Gabriel Novak crossed his brother; hand perched underneath his chin in mock-interest. "Then what's it like, Romeo?"

Cas sighed deeply, trying his best to uphold his collected aura. "He needed help."

"Yeah, he needed help alright—needed help getting into those pants of his and I'm sure you did a bang-up job trying—"

"Gabe! Just stop trying to help, okay? I don't know if you missed the memo, but you're not exactly brother of the year," Cas retorted, tossing his phone aside. Gabriel's eyes peeked with a fine mix of annoyance and interest.

"What's his problem?" he asked, eyeing his little brother curiously. Castiel rolled his eyes, and shook his head exasperatingly, as if to drop the subject and dispel his "concern" altogether. For a split second, he almost did… had Gabriel not been his only means of transportation home.

Refusing to get side-tracked by his obnoxious brother, Castiel proceeded to grab his phone and the kitchen keys, crossing the floor of the diner, Gabriel close behind. "He discovered his powers."

Gabriel emitted a deep chuckle. "I'm sorry, and how old is he?"

"See Gabe, maybe this is why you don't have a girlfriend."

"All I'm saying is that it reminds me of someone I know," Gabe said, narrowing his hazel eyes at the waiter. Cas finished with the last latch, and leaned against the frame of the entrance, tossing his unkempt hair to the wind. His eyes wandered to the crescent moon hanging above them. He began to formulate an appropriate response until Gabe's voice intersected his thoughts.

"Look," he said, bracing his shoulders, "I know you're thinking you can help him—that you two can discover yourselves together or whatever—but give it a rest, little brother. Don't give advice where it's not just."

Castiel laughed at the comment, removing Gabe's hands from his smallish shoulders. "Yeah, you would know, you're the professional." He strode in the direction of Gabe's beat-up sedan when, in the blink of an eye, the older boy appeared before him, dangling the diner keys in front of Castiel's face smugly. Castiel heaved a sigh; why did Gabe get teleportation?

"Right-o little brother!" he exclaimed cheekily, bouncing on his way to the parking lot. Castiel checked his phone one last time. No new messages. He frowned. Perhaps he would see him tomorrow.

---

Maybe I'm a psychic, Castiel thought approaching his doorstep. Sitting quietly underneath the rusted door handle was none other than the handsome stranger from a few hours ago, staring up at him with flecked curiosity. He almost didn't recognize Dean, had he not gazed up at him with those emerald eyes he would have reported him to the authorities. A long black hood and denim jeans wasn't exactly anonymous, especially considering the unusually close proximity to his dorm.

"Hi," Dean said in a small voice, his hood slipping just past his ears to reveal his mangled hair. Although he knew there were bigger questions, the only one that Castiel could verbalize was about the state of his autumn spikes. Dean answered that it was raining outside, to which Castiel narrowed his eyes at. Glancing down at his own state, he saw that his clothes were sprinkled here and there with water. He must not have noticed, being that he was in a car.

"Why didn't you call?" Castiel said discreetly, bending down to level with Dean.

"I didn't want to bother you…." His voice trailed off along with his hood completely. Castiel couldn't be sure from his partial view, but he could have sworn that there were burns running vertically down the nape of his neck.

"You wouldn't have bothered me," Castiel said gently. "It bothered me when I didn't hear a word from you in hours."

Dean mumbled his apologies along with something else that Castiel couldn't quite decipher. He happened to glance down at Dean's arms folded numbly in his lap when, peeking out from beneath, he noticed, were the same abrasions that he saw behind his head. Gingerly, he seized the tip of his right sleeve and began to pull up. Consequently, there were similar marks on his forearms. Castiel grappled for words; these weren't typical rug burns, nor were they self-inflicted wounds: they were a spectrum of red hues, in the center bright beige and extended outward into a deep red, all surrounded by a brittle black finish. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen; words just couldn't comprehend what he was staring at.

"I don't know," Dean said sheepishly, biting hard on his lower lip, "they just came after the diner." For a split second, his focus shifted to his mouth. That too, judging by the long gash splitting down the middle had been abraded from those actions. He wished there was some way he could help the guy, if not just lightly caress those clips, just to make him forget about the scars.

"Let's you inside, focus on one thing at a time," Castiel said, mostly to reassure himself.

Once inside, he shrugged off his tunic and handed it to Dean, who was sitting with his arms folded over his knees on Castiel's couch. Dean were to question why he needed a new shirt, but glancing down would answer his question; the seams were frayed from fingering the thread apprehensively several times and the beige color of the material drained to an ungodly silver from the rain. Quavering in place wasn't exactly helping his state and only made him long more for the warmth of the shirt that he cradled in his hands now.

He rid himself of his own shirt, briefly exposing the deep crests in his shoulder blades (although Castiel would not admit he was staring for the sake of good intentions). He brought Dean into his dorm to help him, not take advantage of him.

He returned with a cup of warm tea a few minutes later, guarding the bottom of the glass with his hand as he handed it to the shaking boy. Dean accepted it somewhat reluctantly, only to set it on the coffee table a few moments later.

"Sorry, usually there would be creamer but my idiot brother had to vacate my inventory," he explained, aggravation hinting in his tone.

"It's fine—"

He went on without even hearing Dean, "And my laundry is way past overdue. I keep putting it off because I've barely even had time to breathe with my slave-driving shift and—"

"Cas," Dean said softly, "don't sweat it." He pulled his feet out from underneath his elbows to gesture for the teen to ease himself. Cas laughed; here was a boy trembling in his boots because his body was fluctuating impulsively, and he was the one reassuring him not to be afraid.

"Sorry," Castiel replied impishly, feeling slightly like a dick for relaying his life events. Shifting his weight to sit next to the caramel-haired boy, he continued, "Everything has seemed a little haste since we met. If I'd known that you were waiting outside my doorstep this whole time…"

Castiel with the tousled hair had said more, however, his mindset was too mesmerized by merely witnessing the formation of his words as they painted his flawless features. He wanted to touch him in some way—a hand on his knee, shoulder, face—something to bolster his dwindling confidence. But Castiel's fear was most likely equivalent to that of Dean's. Although Cas was doing the best he could he knew already that no one could help him, and even if he wanted help, he also knew that that wouldn't involve physical contact with anyone, especially Castiel. If he was capable of scarring himself, he didn't even want to imagine the things he was capable of doing to someone he barely knew.

No—if he genuinely cared about Castiel, he wouldn't have publicized his presence outside his threshold. But here he was, sitting in the boy's dormitory, analyzing his feelings.

Castiel must have deliberately stilled because when Dean was propelled back to reality, he saw his mouth close and fingers doing the rest of the talking as they wavered over his chafed skin. Hesitatingly, he pressed his forefinger to the flesh. Then, though as uneasy as he was valiant, he began replacing the rest of his digits over his forearm, foraging the rough surface. Dean was going to bite back—tell him that he could get hurt if he dared move another inch—but once Castiel had touched him, he was at a loss for words. His heart was deceiving, drumming rapidly against the cage of his chest, because for the first time, he breathed.

You're bounded by sapphires…

"What do you think?" Cas asked, his eyes raking over Dean's arms. Dean swallowed a huge lump in his throat. He couldn't tell him. There was no way he could tell him. "Dean?"

Dean exiled his arm from Cas's grasp and buried his face. It was hard enough for him to comprehend, but Cas? Although, if Sam had been right about his vision—if Dean had seen what Sam had—then it has to be true. He must be insane for thinking this of someone he just met hours ago but… the twerp was right—and God did those words taste like vinegar admitting them—he was kind of bounded by Castiel. There was something different about him, something that he hasn't found in anyone else before… understanding?

Go with your gut, Winchester, he soundlessly reprimanded. So he did, and so the truth came forth.

"I can't feel anything."

-.-.-

The weeks following their unconventional rendezvous, Dean met regularly with Cas after class. But between the strict campus schedule and Castiel's job, it wasn't nearly as much time as Dean would like to see him. Usually they would sit in his dormitory, sometimes talking, sometimes studying, and other times just sitting in the living room watching television.

At first, he had to digress, the conversations were minimal, but that was only due to Dean's speech impediment. He never really conversed with anyone in his life, notwithstanding his caretaker.

Each child, prior to their birth and inoculation, is assigned a caretaker, someone of applicable age to enter the guardianship of a newborn. Said caretaker provides the supplies their illegitimate child with the necessities for optimal growth, unconditional love, support and a formidable but fair foundation in which to reside. Dean's caretaker was an older man by the name of Bobby. Bobby, though ripe into his hoarier years, was one of the only people that understood Dean.

That's why, when it came time to be shipped to the Academy, he practically clawed the taxicab to shreds. He never understood why Bobby's last words to him had been Be strong. Every night, before his mind would drift into a short-lived comatose, he would contemplate the phrase: Be strong. Why did he have to sacrifice his life for another life not as amazing?

But Cas, well, Cas was different. Cas was, so far, the only exception he's ever encountered. He was someone that, although Dean would very rarely ever contribute to their conversations (or at least that's how he felt), accepted the words that came from his mouth. And best of all, Cas never tested Dean, unlike some students in particular he could tick off on his fingers (cough Sam, Lucifer).

It did make him wonder, though. When Cas had first touched him, that evening in the restaurant bathroom, Dean did feel something. Albeit it was the first and certainly last thing he would ever truly feel, it was something, as if Cas's hands were holy water during baptism on his sinister skin.

Could it be, possibly, that Cas was the reason for his numbness? He quickly reprimanded himself for thinking such a thing. No, Castiel was good. He just got lost thinking about it sometimes. He'd grown up believing, with no credit to Bobby's skepticism instilled within his mind, that all people were naturally bad, so he just stayed away from the population altogether.

That was, obviously, until a few weeks ago when he met Castiel. Since the fateful day that Dean's powers had not only been unveiled to the teen, but that Dean professed his big problem, Castiel never bothered to bring it up again, to his relief. That, however, was about to change, too.

It was a Thursday afternoon when Dean and Cas were in his dorm as aforesaid, talking on his couch while the television was playing, mostly for background noise. Dean was telling him about his first and most recent experience in training.

Training hours didn't exactly help with his situation, either, he explained; it only promoted his incapability to harness, let alone conjure his power. There were days when he surely thought his instructor Alastair would make him into coffee. Dean would tell Alastair that he wasn't at all familiar with his powers and that, if he did, he would never put anyone in danger because of his senseless actions. Even when Alastair would insist time again that the only thing he had to destroy was the vast forestry ahead of them, Dean wasn't convinced, and had refused as sensibly as he could. This would become routine: Dean would reject, Alastair would mumble something inaudible in his adenoidal voice, stalk off jaded, and Dean would be left watching the other students.

"Sounds like you're quite the teacher's pet," Cas mused, a smile hinting at his lips. "I wouldn't worry too much about Alastair; he's the poster-boy for Doucheville."

Dean's mouth dropped. Laughing lightheartedly, curiosity getting the best of him, he shifted on his leg to see Castiel clearer. From the new angle, he could see the faint gleam in his sapphire eyes. "Why, Alastair?" Dean said in mock-astonishment, "What did that harmless man ever do to you?"

Cas chuckled lightly. "Word got around that I was queer. In an all-boys school that doesn't exactly pan out well," he explained, "but Alastair didn't like that, didn't outwardly say anything against me or anything, just works me harder than all the other students since."

Dean's eyes fell. "I'm sorry I didn't mean to get on a sore topic—"

"You're fine," Castiel shrugged, shifting his own stature to meet Dean's vexed face. "Honestly, my sexuality has never bothered me. It's just a shame that society's so bent on trying to make 'all men created equal', if you know what I mean."

Dean knew exactly. Even before discovering his powers, he never felt like he belonged in the world he's living. "I can't imagine being normal. I mean, I've tried but nothing good ever comes out of it. Bobby always used to tell me that I was a special kid, but I never believed it for a second."

"Bobby?"

"My caretaker," Dean explained, "he was a cool dude, at least in the time that I got to know him."

Cas nodded. "Well he sounds like it. I mean, I know I've only known you for a few weeks but I really like you." He paused to clarify his comment. "Not in a romantic way, of course, I just mean in a friendly way—"

Every muscle within Dean was screaming against his animal instincts not to pounce on Cas right on the spot. He was absolutely beautiful, and the fact that he was nervous around Dean sometimes, especially since he was rather confident otherwise, made his cheeks flush. "I got it," Dean laughed. "But, while we're being honest, I wouldn't mind if you did. Your feelings are valid and you're not so bad yourself."

Cas pursed his lips, as if the compliment took a great deal of contemplation before it was finally processed and accepted. When either of them didn't say anything for a while, Dean continued with the conversation. "So who was your caretaker?"

Dean could tell that Castiel repented the thought of her. "Her name was Naomi," he said. "I can tell when you talk about Bobby, you really cared about him. I wasn't as fortunate to have someone as understanding. Naomi was possessive, had certain expectations that I just couldn't live up to."

"Naomi? I thought the government removed women's rights to raise children…"

"She had connections, became a legal guardian under some sort of condition, I forget, doesn't matter," he finished, tossing away the thought as quickly as it had come.

Dean still had curiosity lingering in his system. He braced his hand on his forehead as quickly as he removed it, conscious of the scars. He knew that Cas was alright seeing them, but it was more of a personal issue for him. But his question wormed around in his mind, and had since the day that he came into contact of Castiel. "What matters to you, Cas?"

Cas's mouth cringed into a small smile, and when splayed before Dean, grew immensely wider. "Honestly," Cas said, purposely emphasizing the one word that Dean had grown fond of using, "you do."

Dammit, if he didn't look like a girl obsessing over girly feelings, he sure did now. When another long silence transpired, and unwarranted smiling and staring at each other, Castiel lifted himself from the couch and sat on the coffee table to have a face-to-face, proposing something of importance.

"So, I know how you said to me a few weeks back that you weren't comfortable discussing your, you know," Cas said, and was Dean glad that he hadn't spelt it out for him again, "but, well—I might be able to offer an experiment—you know, if you're interested."

"Cas, you know that I don't want to do anything to hurt you," Dean said warily.

Cas nodded. "I know believe me I know, I've grown up trying not to hurt the people I care about," Cas said, "but if this works, I'll never anything of you ever again."
Dean sighed. Maybe Cas was right; what if this proposition turned out to be the solution to his problem? Sure, it wasn't like he was going to ever touch anyone in his life—he didn't have the luxury of having that special someone—but he was certainly starting to feel the pangs of loss hitting him like a fly ball.

Showers. Showers were one of the many things that he missed the sensation of already; the warm water streaming gracefully down every curvature of his body, the feel of steam thrashing against his face when he closed his eyes to comb his fingers through his hair, sending more warm water trickling down his spine. He hadn't realized how fond he'd grown of such a monotonous chore until he couldn't feel them anymore.

So he decided if anything was worth fighting for, it was showers. And, besides, what did he have to lose that he hadn't already lost?

Cas's eyes extended, incredulity falling on his pale features. Had he actually said yes? He leveled his focus with Dean. "I promise on my brother's grave that I won't hurt you."

"Isn't your brother still alive?"

"Yes."

"Wait, lemme get this straight; you would sacrifice your brother's life for a stranger's in a heartbeat?" he said, laughing. Cas didn't seem amused by the comment.

"Well, you're not really a stranger," he simplified, then, staring into the imperceptible distance, he nodded slowly. He looked like he was almost savoring the thought. "But then again, I hate my brother."

"So… uh—what's this experiment?" Dean coughed.

Castiel dispelled his musings, chuckling at the newfound dread in Dean's tone. He decided to keep him in suspense; after all, it was part of his plan. If Dean suspected anything then it would be soiled altogether.

He broke away from Dean to cross the television. Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, he switched the television off and set a commander for the lights to dim. If Dean hadn't known any better, he would have thought that the teen was using his apartment to direct pornography. But he could determine by the confidence in his stride back to Dean and the way that he fixated his navy blue eyes on his that he was resolute on something, and that despite the results, he would get it done.

Dean liked that about the guy; his determination was inexhaustible. When he was bent on doing something, he would fall through with it. Just last week, Dean vouched up and down that he would help him complete his ten page essay that he had delayed due to his chaotic schedule. But Cas was actually angered that Dean had even offered, and within the few hours that they were together, he turned a single paragraph into fifty paragraphs.

Cas led Dean away from the couch, anything that could potentially distract him could impede the process. "Close your eyes," he said. Dean did as he was told. Then he asked for him to lend out his arms. Dean was reluctant; he hadn't for exclusive purposes touched Cas, not even so much as bumped into his shoulder. Although Dean couldn't see, Cas's face fell with sorrow. "Do you trust me?"

Dean nodded, knowing Cas had a point. He was the only person he had grown to trust. He loaned his appendages, forearms face-down. His eyes were still sealed, but he had a hard time concentrating on the next thing he said. It was hard to focus on Cas at the moment when his mind was teeming with thoughts; thoughts that consisted solely of ifs, whys and hows.

His thoughts were somewhere completely different, however, when Cas's hands met the crook of his arms, gliding down and back up his skin. This process was repeated, Cas's voice waning softer each time: "Focus on me."

Although Dean couldn't transfer his feelings into thought, the sound of his heartbeat in sync with Dean's own thrashing heart was plenteous. He focused on this "feeling" more or less, particularly when his hands scaled up behind his head, grasping the nape of his neck and unkempt hairs. He exhaled sharply. He was going to feel this, whatever it took. Cas pursued, now outlining the contours of Dean's face with his digits, forward and back again.

Dean's breath hitched in the back of his throat; there, he could feel. Maybe it was because it was one of the only body parts left that hadn't been scorched red, or maybe because Cas's experiment had worked; either way he opened his eyes and wrapped his arms around Cas's waist in a thank you. Castiel's shoulder muscles were tense; he could tell by the visible rigidness in his shoulders. He was thankful to ease that tension after the embrace, but also to be the one that caused it; it meant that Castiel truly did care.

When they pulled away, Castiel chuckled, "Guess that makes sense, you always use those face muscles to check me out."

"Oh shut up," Dean said, laughing along with him; and suddenly he wasn't so afraid to.

---

The days following the experiment, Dean went about his usual regime: mornings waking up, afternoons at school, evenings at the diner, then nights (and sometimes midnights) with Cas. Sure, it seemed like he was carrying on quite fine, like a fisherman with the world as his oyster, but it was actually the contrary. But hey, he was entitled to feeling a bit… eccentric. For the first time, he had had intimate contact with someone. He never even hugged Bobby, mostly for lack of better reason. But this was for a better reason; the reason that he truly loved Cas, everything about him.

One part of him hoped that Cas felt the same.

While walking home from said boy's dorm one obscure night, Dean drew the collar of his coat over his ears, as if to shield him from his Cas-time continuum. He was so immersed in his musings that he didn't seen the wind getting knocked out of him until he was flat on his back. One of the figures above him scrambled to heave him upright, quickly apologizing for his stupid actions, while the other just stood glowering at him with a stink eye.

"Oh hey, Dean, right?" Sam's voice chipped. Dean brushed the dust off of his coat.

"Yeah," he grumbled in reply, before of course, noting that Luke was probably amputating every one of his limbs inside his mind at the moment, quickly changing his tone. "How are you?"

"Good!" he exclaimed cheerily, gesturing to the older kid, "Luke taught me more about my psychic-voodoo stuff! I can levitate things!" He went on like a five-year-old who had just rode every ride in Disneyland, "Luke says that if I work hard enough he'll teach me how to kill someone!"

Luke chuckled lightly, staring straight at Dean, before quickly converting back to his trademark glare. Dean narrowed his eyes in suspicion before changing the subject.

"Oh, Sam, I actually have something I've been meaning to ask you."

Sam's face lit up with eagerness. "Ask away!"

"Well, okay, so what you said—about my future—it all came true…"

"Of course it did! I'm psychic!"

He couldn't believe he was actually going to ask this. "I was wondering if… maybe you possibly knew anything more?"

Sam rubbed his small chin thoughtfully. "What do you want to know?"

"Anything more about the last vision, I guess," Dean tried his best nonchalant tone he could muster.

Sam hummed in dedicated thought. "I'm gonna need something more specific…"

"Alright, um," Dean sighed, trying his best to disregard the cold stare that Luke was sending him, "is the person you saw—the sapphires—do they uh… see anything in particular that they might like?"

Sam tossed his head back, snickering. Knew I shouldn't have said anything. Think it's too late to develop invisibility powers? "I knew what you meant the whole time, I just wanted to hear you say it," he said, grinning; then in a more serious tone: "I can predict almost anything in the world; weddings, funerals, a guy bashing his wife's head in with a cleaver, you name it, I've seen it all. But love… it's the one thing that I can't predict. Imagine it's like…" He paused, searching for the right analogy, "a game of chess. Some things are super predictable while others… well, aren't."

"So that means no vision?" Dean asked, slightly annoyed with the wise speech.

Sam shook his head. "No vision."

Suddenly, Luke began tugging on Sam's arm and whispering something in his ear. Whatever it was it moved the small boy in the other direction with little time to gather a proper goodbye. He turned behind him a few paces away, despite Luke's firm grip on his arm, and yelled something that had Dean's wheels turning for a while before turning into his dorm.

"Love isn't determined by a premonition; love is determined by your own actions."

-.-.-

"Mr. Winchester."

Dean stirred from his reveries with a startle. He must have been making some serious happy noises because the entire class was simultaneously eyeing and laughing at him. He shook his head, wiped away forming saliva from the corner of his lips and faced his teacher, Mr. Michael. He wasn't pleased, needless to say, with Dean's apathy.

It wasn't like Dean was the exemplary student, sure he showed up to class five minutes before the bell, but hardly had he ever turned in an assignment due to him, and there was hardly a moment when he was actually listening to the monotonous words spilling from his teacher's mouth. School was a waste of time anyhow, and it's not like he would need to know half of this crap to get a decent paying job. And it certainly wasn't like he had high expectations of himself before or after high school—or whatever this place was. He was just a kid; he wasn't about to be a victim of conformity to a blind society.

Sheesh, when did you turn into a human rights activist, Winchester?

"I—uh—"

"Let me guess: you can explain?" he said sardonically, tossing a stapled packet of papers onto his empty desk. "Explain to me in a twenty page essay."

Dean's mouth hung agape; it didn't help that the whole class joined in on a communal stare, laughing and talking in undertones about the new student. Great, as if I wasn't enough of a freak as it is.

Once he had turned around and continued teaching, he slammed his head back down on the desk. Not only was this going to be a long day, but a hell of a long school year too.

-.-.-

Between the pooling horde of customers and his boss barking at him to get a move on, Castiel didn't exactly have much time to set his head down for a few minutes. However, that didn't mean that that's what got him in trouble in the first place.

Usually—not usually, all the time—Cas was a straight-laced worker. He never clocked in late, never forged an excuse to get out of working, and certainly never pushed his luck (although it would please him more than anything) when it came to his weekly salary. At the end of the day, what mattered more than the money was his family.

A little over a year ago, Castiel's sister Anna was in an automobile accident, wound up in the hospital with more mental trauma than physical. She hasn't woken from her comatose since. So although it was below regular minimum wage, the job was better than sitting around, waiting and praying for a miracle. He and Gabe worked around the clock so that they could pay the hospital bills; provide medication that could enhance the healing process, anything that could potentially wake her sooner. He hasn't heard word from Naomi about her recovery since.

Sure Anna wasn't his legitimate sister—neither was Gabe his real brother—but that didn't mean he didn't care. Anna had grown quite fond of Castiel—possibly as more than friends but Cas tended to overlook that minor detail—and he couldn't help himself from helping. It's taken everything in him not to crack, between school and worrying his mind over Anna's recovery, but as much as he hated it, the job kept him grounded. It took his mind off of the continual crap that life handed him on a rusted platter and it did offer him real life experience.

When he got out of this weird school, despite society's plans for males, he was going to be a doctor. Run a charge-free clinic and help as many people as he can without charging extraneous amounts of money to do it. And if that meant busting tables was a stepping stone to reaching his goal, then he would just have to endure it.

"Table five needs a wash-down!" After a while, when the teen hadn't replied to the order, his friend Balthazar nudged him hard on the shoulder. "Cas, hey, table five!"

Cas shook himself free of his musings. He would get out of here whatever it took. The American Dream wasn't dead yet.

Later that evening, as Cas was locking up the restaurant, he was confronted by a familiar face. The figure approached him leaning against the establishment like he owned the place, face luminous under the florescent street lights.

"Hey good looking," Dean teased, eyebrow wiggling playfully. Castiel laughed, a part of him wishing that he had retained the same enthusiasm that the boy was overflowing with. He's actually never seen Dean this boisterous—especially considering how they met. It certainly made Cas content to know that he played a role in his newfound happiness. He even noticed a change in his apparel; he was wearing shirts with shorter sleeves, exposing some of his skin.

They began striding down the vacant streets together, laughing and talking as they usually did. Dean had grown more skeptical in his views about the world—has he always been like this?—and Cas had said that he didn't blame him, and began explaining his situation with Anna. He was surprised at himself; he's never told anyone outside the realm of family about his sister, and especially not just out of the blue. But Dean had become such a good friend in such short notice that he allowed every little thought to come pouring out.

Dean looked conflicted. Cas knew that he was trying to evoke pity, trying to grasp even the slightest of psychological pain that Cas had felt when he heard the news. He slowed his pace, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know—"

"How could you? I didn't tell you doofus," Cas said, nudging into Dean's shoulder to ease the thick tension hanging in the air. "I haven't told anyone," he said on a more solemn note, "Gabe and I are the only ones who know."

Just as more silence was about to hang between them, a beat-up Camaro came rolling up to the curb. Looming from the open window was none other than the devil himself. "Yo little bro, what's the haps?"

Cas, coming to a stop at the corner, rolled his eyes and gestured to the face through the car. "It's inevitable now," he grumbled, "Dean, Gabe, my brother; Gabe, Dean."

Dean nodded his head diffidently. His cheeks flushed a bright red at the next thing that Gabe said. "It's finally nice to meet the guy that Cas won't stop gushing about," he explained, "sometimes it gets so bad I have to spoon out bile with my fingers."

Cas scoffed, mostly to avert Dean's face from strangling him completely. He was used to Gabe's vile remarks. "Thanks for that image, Gabriel," he spat. "Isn't there somewhere you need to be?"

Gabe seemed almost offended, but not quite. He raised his arms away from the steering wheel, gesturing to the vastness around him. "I have all night, little bro!" Then, finally noting the urgency in Castiel's stare, he understood, tossing him a wink before revving the engine. "Ah, right. Well nice meeting you, Dean."

Castiel began walking again before Dean had. The last thing that he needed to see was his own face flushing like a goddamn tomato. By the time that Dean caught up with him, the color drained almost completely, for which he was thankful. His brother would surely get a mouthful tomorrow.

Luckily by the time they returned to his dorm, the encounter was discarded and Dean was focused on more important matters.

"Do you mind if I use your shower?" he asked. Cas understood without him saying anymore; he usually didn't meet with Cas as early as he had, which meant that that cut out time for hygienic care. Not that he even needed it; Dean looked absolutely flawless as it was. Not only did his saccharine cologne (which Cas was almost positive he hadn't started wearing until after they met) mask his natural state, but so did the heavy five-o-clock shadow pirouetting around his cheekbones. The dark contrast to his bright emerald eyes was something that Castiel had grown dotting of. He hadn't realized how much he would miss it until Dean had asked for a razor prior to stepping into the bathroom.

The sound of the shower cranking into use racked his mental state. After a while of continuous listening and visualizing, he began rummaging through his backpack to dispel his not-so-appropriate thoughts. Opening his calculus textbook he began furiously scouring through the information, only to find that he didn't recall any of the material. He gnawed on the metal part of his pencil. He couldn't possibly maintain mathematics any longer if the alphabet kept showing its face in his homework.

One more year and I'll be saving the world, he thought absentmindedly, and calculus will be something I'll either laugh at or use as a target for shooting practice.

He closed the book and instead opened a new one on his tablet: Catch-22. Although the book was assigned (and a little over a century old, respectfully) it wasn't half bad. It discussed the war, and even had a smidge of dry humor that Castiel liked. He understood well enough what it felt like to go to war; hell, every student on the campus had some concept on the subject, they were all going there eventually.

Castiel became so engrossed in the novel that he hadn't even noticed Dean saunter out into the living room to grab something from his backpack. He seemed a tad sad but it was concealed far enough that Castiel didn't pay too much mind to it. Instead he paid more mind to the fact that Dean was unclad from the waist up, and still somewhat sopping wet. His body was truly a wonderland, a deep crest running vertical between his breasts and multiple overlaying his hard abdomen. He had to do everything in his willpower not to let his curiosity take the best of him and get up and bury his fingers in said crests and other places he would rather not think about—

"Much better," he commented. Dean sat down next to Cas, his own curiosity initiating conversation. "What's that?"

Cas's words came out in a stammer. "I—uh, it's called Catch-22. It's a book we're reading in class."

"Huh," Dean said, eyeing the tablet, "I wouldn't know, never read a book in my life."

Cas stared dumbfounded, "Really?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope, I'm more the type of guy to paint the backdrop for the story. When I get bored I draw whatever comes to mind."

"I'd never pin you for the kind of guy that draws," Cas stated, trying to disguise the smile hidden behind his seemingly stoic features.

Dean must have read his mind because a grin stretched across his cheeks. "What else are you supposed to do during class?" he shrugged, folding the bath cloth around his waist over his lap, tucking tighter into his thighs. Oh, how he yearned to be a bath towel. "Are you okay, Cas? You look a little pale."

Cas glanced down at his hands folding in his own lap; they were perspiring and trembling slightly. He hadn't noticed how profusely he was sweating until now. His face was burning; his legs were on fire… God, what the hell was happening? Had he been this nervous around him before? He pushed the tablet aside, used the edge of the table to secure himself.

"Yeah, just need a glass of water," he said, moving just as quickly, only instead of landing in the neighboring kitchen, he landed on top of Dean. Dean chuckled awkwardly, bracing him out arms-length. Shit. Shit. Shit. I'm such an idiot. It was bad enough that Dean had lost all physical feeling; all he needed was to be reminded. Scrambling to his feet, he silently scolded his ineptness. Dean hadn't let go completely, however; in fact he was staring at him as if he'd been caught naked in class, eyes wide, mouth parted in astonishment.

Dean liked him back.

He hadn't remember when he pressed his lips to his, or the exact moment when his tongue had glided into mouth, but Dean was kissing back, wrapping his hands around him, lifting him higher, tugging, pulling, and grinding into him as if nothing else in the world mattered. His mouth tasted sweet, much like the aforesaid cologne that Cas loved so much. His hands were the kind of calloused that felt gratifying underneath his shirt, and he had him wrap homier around his diaphragm. Cas leveled with him, straddling his hips unceremoniously, causing his towel to slip slightly below his hips.

Dean was the one to break away first, nimbly hands resting on the back of Cas's disheveled shirt. He repressed his face in the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry, I can't—I want to—"

Cas shushed him with another deep-seated embrace. "You will," he said, caressing his face, the one place he knew he could still feel sensation in, "I promise."

---

Dean ended up crashing at Cas's that night. Musings of the boy preoccupied his state for the remainder of daylight; laughing, smiling, and embracing; just being in his presence was enough to finally drive him to the brink of insanity. It would have been nice; he had to admit, to have been able to transfer sentiments into sensations. He would have loved to have felt him squirming awkwardly in his arms before finally making the epic plunge to kiss him.

The only thing anchoring his boat in place was Castiel's voice resonating down the empty corridor. He highly doubted that he was immersed in schoolwork, because his voice was rich with mirth. Though it was stifled every so often because he assumed Dean was fast asleep, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard; just knowing that he was the cause of his chronic happiness was a serenade to his ears. As long as Cas found ecstasy, Dean was the happiest fish in the sea.

The caramel sun barely transcended over the mountains when Castiel had woken Dean in a rather shrewd way. Somehow he had managed to climb on top of him, bestriding his hips—all while he was merely stirring from his dream, he might add—and bent close enough to kiss him chastely on the lips. Dean, not even attaining full-consciousness, had still somehow managed to kiss back and, without opening his eyes, lunged for Cas's t-shirt to pull him closer.

Dean sat up after the warm embrace; Cas still wrapped firmly around his abdomen, he draped his own limbs around his ass. "No breakfast?" he asked, smile tickling the bottom of Cas's lips.

The host replied with a soft bite to his own, kissing him even more raptly than before. "If you want breakfast, we'll have to hit the diner before class because I can't cook worth of shit."

"Wait, you work at a restaurant and you don't know how to cook?" Dean asked incredulously.

"I said I knew how to serve, I never said I knew how to cook," he corrected.

Dean smiled. "Well, you seem to be doing a good job of that then."

"You think? I can't be too sure with empty pockets."

"I'm sorry, here's your tip." He planted another extended kiss on his chapped lips and plowed his digits through the seams of his fabric, into the sensitive skin on his backside. Cas returned the embrace heartily, pressing his digits into the soft crests of Dean's cheekbones as he slid his tongue inside his mouth. Although Dean couldn't feel it, he got satisfaction knowing that Cas did; hell, the guy had arched back like a cat and hardened instantaneously; needless to say, that was satisfying to him.

"It'll suffice for now," Cas winked, repressing the urge to whimper.

"Is that so? Because I'm pretty sure your pockets are full now," he said, returning the small gesture.

Cas chuckled, "touché" written across his face in the form of scarlet. He lifted off of Dean rather unenthusiastically. "We should get going, I have"—he glanced down at his wristwatch—"approximately an hour until public mortification; early shift." He paused, turning to eye a wrinkled Dean, an amused gleam intercepting his eyes. "Did you maybe want to take another shower?"

"What's the point when I'm gonna be out of them in a few hours?" he replied smugly. "It's all yours; I usually take my showers before I go to sleep."

Cas was still flushed from the previous comment. "Great, how's a guy supposed to take a shower now?"

"I don't mind if you masturbate; it's your dorm," Dean said, flashing him his winning smile. "I can help you out with that if—"

"I've got it, thanks," Cas waved, the last of his dictum being clobbered by the sound of the door slamming behind him. Dean smiled; the sound of the shower rendered any previous doubts he had had the night before obsolete. He was surprised his face hadn't got stuck like that for as often as he'd been doing it lately. He had to digress, though; he wouldn't mind so much if it had.

-.-.-

"Order up!"

The cerulean-eyed boy leaped from his dreams at the chime of Balthazar's voice. The vacant tray in his hands was momentarily replaced with manifold foods; eggs, sausages, crepes, things of that nature. The diner was usually teeming with customers, or so he had heard from the grapevine. Now quickly scouring the establishment he found that the rumors weren't far from factitious. He usually didn't work morning shifts, but when his boss had phoned him sometime after the dinosaurs were added to creation, he was forced to cover for his associate, Chuck. Cas, however, more than cooperative to take his shift. He'd even gone as far as to relay a video message to his friend, stressing his flexibility to the older gentleman. Sure he had school in a few hours, but what was the harm in a little extra drop in the bucket?

Castiel distributed the contents to his designated table, even going so far as to reaffirm his name if they needed anything and even complementing a few patrons on their attire. Some regarded him with a shy "thanks", while others—a few older women and two particularly handsome gentlemen—used flattery to return the favor. Then, leaving with a jovial smile, Cas capered back to the kitchen to grab some more grub. He turned heads when he practically waltzed in, humming no tune in particular. He was about to leave with his next entrée in hand when a singular voice kept him stationary.

"My, my, who let a horny teenager into the kitchen?" Gabe whistled, "Spunky, step away from the corndogs!" he exclaimed, barking jubilantly like a hound dog.

Cas rolled his eyes detachedly. "Nothing happened, my dearest brother," he sighed.

"Oh yeah, then why are you shitting sunshine and rainbows, buttercup?"

"I'm just happy, is that not acceptable?" Cas asked seriously. Gabe shook his head defiantly, chewing on his fingernail in thought.

"No it's not…"—a slow smile of realization spread across his face—"he sucked you dry."

Cas seemed genuinely horror-struck. A nervous laugh escaped his lips, "Most certainly not."

"You're bluffing."

"No, I'm not."

"Not even just a little scrape of the tongue—"

"GABE."

The older brother was now exchanging the same perturbed look, "Seriously? You've known this guy for over a month now and you haven't even gotten to third base yet? Little man, you are slackin' in the sack."

"Dean's not like that; he doesn't care about the extra stuff," Cas defended.

"Little bro, the sooner you realize the better. Take it from a grown man; we're all about the physical sensations. Hand jobs, chewys, it's all a little slice of Heaven."

Balthazar strolled into the kitchen moments later, staring dumbfounded at the two Chattie Cathies. "Oh my god, will you two women get off of the soap box and serve some fucking tables?"

That was Castiel's signal to scuttle out of the galley as fast as humanly possible. He followed promptly behind the tall fair-haired man, trying his best to disguise the smile creeping to his stoic features.

Gabe tisked at his brother's speedy but clever escape. "We'll talk about this later, Princess!"

---

When Gabe said something, he followed through—and thoroughly. He examined Cas as if he was a test subject underneath his microscope, probing him in every possible way until he would reveal something extraordinary. Or perhaps the way he instigated was like a father figure he never had, cross-examining his daughter after a late night out with bad boy Billy. Even so, he felt exposed to his allegations, and, frankly, a tad bit irritated. He never knew if Gabe did this deliberately to mock his younger sibling or because he cared about him.

Then again we were talking about the same guy who discreetly smeared Nair on every toilet roll in the men's restroom.

"And then what happened?"

Cas fixated his stare on Gabe's hands working with the backdoor locks on the restaurant. Any eye contact with his brother would only earn him fifty more years of chastisement. "And then he kissed me back, and everything was just… perfect." Goddammit, he specifically wanted to steer clear of clichés.

"Wow, that's—actually not terrible," he commented, eyes narrowing as he tugged harder on the padlock. Cas shared the same look of surprise. "I know I even spooked myself admitting that." Finally the lock unhinged and he slipped the key through, turning the rusty metal until he heard it double-click. "Do you think you love him?"

There wasn't a single doubt that crossed his mind. Every time he so much as accidentally looked at Dean, his heart swelled to the size of Sasquatch. He smiled, fondly recollecting yesterday night's events that had him spinning all morning. The sight the sound, the smell, the taste, the mere physical touch that radiated Dean's essence, it was all the foundation of his deepest fantasies. "Yeah, I do."

Gabe laughed light-heartedly, glancing over just in time to note the love-struck expression plastered on his face. "Then don't let him go."

Cas smiled as Gabe slung his arm over his shoulder and together they strode to the parking lot. When they reached his car, however, the older brother was a little more than taken a few paces back when Castiel hadn't climbed into the front seat. In fact, he just stood there facing no direction in particular.

"Are you okay?"

Cas turned to him, grinning and nodding his head heartily. "Yeah—actually, it's a nice night to walk, don't you think?"

"Sure is, little bro," Gabe said, returning said gestures and hopping into the sedan. He waited until Castiel had vanished around a backstreet to rev the engine and crank up the tunes. Then, throwing his head back and laughing, he too vanished, leaving behind only the faintest trace of exhaust as he slipped down the road.

-.-.-

"Castiel Novak, as in… Castiel Novak?"

"I swear to God, Charlie, our little boy is growing up."

The voice over the phone—Charlie—laughed, "And this guy hasn't rocked his cock yet?" Gabe grinned against his cell, albeit the girl on the other line couldn't physically feel or see him do so.

Charlie was a longtime friend of the Novaks. Gabe could still remember their first encounter as if it were yesterday. It all began with a phrase: You're just a great big bag of dicks. (The word "filter" wasn't exactly in Gabe's adolescent vocabulary).

Enter Charlie Bradbury. Although she was a few years younger than him, she had a mouth as fiery as the pigment of her hair. He knew from the moment that she told his neighbor Raphael to fist his own ass that they would be good friends. He was relocated several months later to a different home, where he had met his brother, Cas, but years went on before Gabe would let himself lose touch with Charlie. She was a good friend, and though he secretly carried a torch for her, she was always interested women, particularly in his sister, Anna.

But it wasn't so bad—he and Charlie were still close and who knows; if Anna ever woke up decided she liked placenta, he had the prospect of watching two redheads go at it.

"I personally think he's lying, but he says he's in love…"

"Aw, that's adorbs," she gushed, "Cas and Dean sitting in a tree, f-u-c-k-ing!"

"I miss you, Charlie."

Charlie snorted. "Are you driving intoxicated, Gabe? I could have sworn I heard you say—"

"I'm serious," he argued, "I'm like a pedo out here without you, driving around late at night and gorging on candy."

"Remember ones with the razorblades are for the kids."

Gabe laughed, combing a long strand of honey hair behind his ear. He then realized that it would probably be in his best interest to keep track of the signs that tell him where exactly he was. He had only moved to the campus around the time that he was old enough to attend it. He practically got down on both knees, pleading his caretaker Naomi not to enroll him.

He couldn't exactly complain, though; Naomi tolerated Gabe. Cas, on the other hand, was enthralled by the time it came to his education; he despised Naomi with the power of a thousand burning suns and just wanted out. Gabe could only assume from his nights eavesdropping on the two that it was because of his sexuality. Naomi believed that sexuality was like a multiple choice test, and that Cas was choosing the wrong answer. Almost every night she would either verbally or physically abuse him—not to the point of bloodshed or scars, thank God—in some form; sometimes it got so bad that Gabe had to interfere with the arguments just so he could go to sleep.

However as the years went on, and Naomi's abusive actions grew terribly worse, Gabe found that he wasn't defending just an acquaintance anymore; Cas became like a younger brother to him. Gabe was the only one that he could confide to, when he ever did. After relentlessly arguing with her about Cas, the wicked caretaker couldn't help but occasionally wonder about Gabe's sexuality. Charlie had been nice enough to provide him once or twice with a false elucidation in front of her, calling him honey and kissing him innocuously on the cheek just so Naomi would get off his back.

He batted his eyes a few times and ran his hand over his face to keep from falling asleep at the wheel. Glancing at the dashboard analog, he heaved a sigh. 10:07; only three minutes more since the last time he checked. It wasn't as if he had school to go to the next day, it was mainly just solitude creeping over him. There was nothing to do around the damn area; nothing other than drive around town aimlessly as your mind sifted through the street signs.

Here's something new, he thought, upon craning his head ninety degrees to his left rear-view mirror. He couldn't be sure but he thought he could make out two figures standing a few feet away from each other on the sidewalk. One of them was tall with windswept blonde hair and stood perfectly erect while the other, a boy with light brown hair looked like he was enduring a rough beating.

He quickly hung up with Charlie and proceeded to slow his car after a while to get a better view, tucking the sedan behind building high enough that it cast a shadow over. He checked again, this time noting that the brown haired boy was clutching his abdomen and crying out in agony. The other figure had barely moved an inch from before, just stood there looming over the boy with some sort of sick satisfaction. Then he realized that the guy wasn't just any ordinary Joe prowling the streets: it was Luke.

Oh I've been waiting for this day all my life.

Gabe turned off the ignition and piled out of the car, approaching the two figures. When he got to the scene he noted something else: the boy was Dean. Tears were streaming down his face, at least from what he could see through his hands.

"Hey jackass, you gonna stand there or are we gonna tango?"

Luke shifted his eyes to the older man in front of him. Gabe was already bracing himself, arms outstretched and swinging to the anxious rhythm of his body. When either of them hadn't said a word, Gabe took the first swing, fist whipping across Luke's face in one swift move. Luke jerked his head back and cocked his jaw, shaking off the ache as if he'd just been prodded with the tip of a pencil.

Gabe struck again with his other fist, again earning him a succession; only when Luke came back up this time, he swung his fist in Gabe's line of direction. Gabe merely smiled, waved, and teleported behind Luke. Luke went to attack again, but something cut him short, something neither of them expected:

Dean's skin from head to toe malformed into an ungodly red as he heaved himself from the ground, as if on auto-command, staring directly in Luke's line of direction. His eyes—were his eyes always that yellow?—burned brighter, literally; emitting from his sockets was photochemical-like smolder. From his hands came infernos, also aimed in Luke's direction. For the first time, he actually looked, well, scared shitless. Obviously he hadn't been prepared to face the boy's powers, or like Dean, just didn't know he had them. That hadn't meant, however, he didn't continue to pursue Dean.

Before he could fire his first shot, Gabe leaped in front of Dean, shielding him from doing anything rash. He then placed two fingers two his forehead—nearly toasting his good finger, might he add—and in a flash, they were in the diner.

Something in the teleportation process had destabilized Dean's power, causing his skin and eyes to gradually tone back to their original pigment. Gabe looked to Dean as if he had just seen the ghost of one of his beloved idols.

"Dean-o," he breathed, glaring at his burnt finger, "why the hell didn't you mention you were the Human fucking Torch?"

Dean shook his own head, dispelling whatever he had been thinking about minutes before. His voice came out small, in a stammer, "Wh—what the hell j-just happened?"

Gabe threw his head back incredulously. "You almost fried Luke's ass, that's what happened!" He paused, adding in for kicks, "If I was gay, I'd be so aroused right now."

Dean overlooked the—compliment? "Look, I'm just as surprised as you are…" He glanced down at his hands. He began grazing the tips over his others, just to see if they would react in the same way again; they hadn't.

"You mean to tell me you don't remember any of that?"

"N-no…"

Gabe threw his head back again, still reveling in what he had witnessed moments ago. "Wow! I mean…wow!"

"Look," he began, trying to stifle his irrepressible trembling, "I'm usually not one to admit but I'm fucking scared, okay? So if you're going to stand there and antagonize over something that I'm not exactly proud of, I'll make sure the door doesn't hit my ass on the way out."

Gabe couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face. "Then let's sit instead," he said, gesturing to the table closest to them. Dean sat down circumspectly; he couldn't help take some pity in what he had just said to the 20-something. It wasn't his fault he was genetically mutated with some foreign power he knew nothing about. And after all, he did save his ass.

"Does Cas know?" he asked more attentively. Dean shook his head. "Think that might pose as a future problem?"

The teen glanced down at his arms again; goosebumps were forming around the places that had lit up the brightest. "I don't want to hurt him…"

"Look, man," Gabe started, leaning in on his folded arms, "I'm the last person to be giving advice about relationships—hell, I fell in love with a lesbian—but you don't have to always please him. If he loves you like he said he does, then he'll find a way to make it work."

Dean's eyes knitted together at this statement; his emerald eyes were now flecked with newfound curiosity. "He said he loves me?"

"Shit," Gabe cursed, "if you must know, yes; but don't tell him I told you that; it's hard enough working with him when he goes on and on about you. I mean you're a cool guy and all but goddamn, it just never ends."

Dean's face reddened which not much contrast to a tomato. He didn't know what to say, judging by Gabe's observations. He was probably analyzing every moment they were together, and taking into account that each day spent was another day that Cas was falling for him. It must have been nice; knowing that someone loved you in return.

He went onto a more severe matter: "Now please, for the love of God, suck his dick already."

Dean chuckled. "Yes, Mr. Miyagi."

He got up to leave before Gabe interjected his actions. "Where do you think you're going?"

"Back to my dorm…?"

"Yeah right," Gabe scoffed, grabbing his keys, "from now on we're carpooling."

-.-.-

The days subsequent to the accident grew increasingly longer, and the trembling became worse; worse in the sense that he couldn't write legible words without his words going completely askew. He couldn't even imagine how his face looked, and he didn't want to know arbitrating by the disturbed facades around him. They didn't know the half of it; they didn't know that there was something embedded within his myriad spherical pinnacles was something that wasn't a part of him, wasn't human. The thought in itself was enough was enough to send him running for the hills.

The worst part was that he didn't know if the trembling was a byproduct of his apprehension or if it was a side-effect from everything. That was just it; the worst part of this whole circumstance: he just didn't know. If he had the strength and mindset, he would laugh about it; a month ago he thought he didn't know anything about himself; he ought to be warranted the award for biggest understatement of the year.

Something much worse was beyond his control. Castiel had grown to be his best—and only—friend, the one person that he couldn't imagine carrying on without. Cas was the only reason he hasn't buried himself alive yet; he reached out to Dean when he hadn't wanted to lend his hand, touched him where he thought he was permanently desensitized. But how would he react when Dean would tell him that he couldn't feel at all; that he couldn't feel the same lips that raised him from perdition?

It all started with a guy named Benny Lafitte.

Cas had just gotten released from his later then they both anticipated. Dean hadn't minded too much about the waiting though; the diner really did have the best pie in town. He was reluctant about eating, granted that he was more concerned about trying to keep his body under control. Cas would have without doubt been wondering why he wasn't devouring what he knew was his sacred fare. So Dean ate, trying to focus more on the consumption part of the activity rather than the fact that he couldn't feel the cool metallic fork on his tongue.

Cut to the end of his shift and enter Benny Lafitte. Cas had made sure that the closed sign was hanging on inside of the front door, but somehow, to this guy, it was only a test to see how far he could overstep his boundaries. He heaved the door open and came waltzing in, eyes falling on the young employee sweeping floors.

"Novak, is that you?" he said, a southern dialect mingling in with his deep voice, "Can't tell with all this faggot fog clouding my vision."

"We're closed," Cas said flatly, not even looking up or acknowledging the customer's name.

Benny crossed his hand over his heart in mock-agony. "Not even a 'hello'? That hurts, faggot."

Dean was already confronting the slightly stouter man by the time Cas hadn't done anything about the snide remark. Immediately he felt the familiar itch behind his retinas, the same one that almost bleed them dry the night before. He clenched his hands in tight fists; he had to remember his purpose. He wasn't here to start a fight, and more importantly, wasn't going to smite a guy just because he was an ignorant fuck.

"I don't appreciate you calling him that," he said bluntly.

Benny stepped closer, examining the specimen that had been placed before him. "Well, well, aren't you special standing up for your boyfriend?" This threw Dean into a tailspin; there was no stopping him now. His skin was already crawling with electricity, the same kind that turned him into Robocop the night before.

"Damn straight," he growled, eyes watering from drinking down his power, "and neither you nor any other redneck son of a bitch within a hundred mile radius will come within a foot of my 'faggot' boyfriend or I will rip your fucking lungs out through your chest."

Benny, however, wasn't as daunted by the comment; in fact he was gloating. "I like your style, slim. What's your name?"

Dean was so overawed with ire that he had unclenched his fists and was heaving himself on top of Benny, punching, clawing and almost biting the boy in several places had Cas not run up and snatched him from behind, holding him back. Wrapping his arms around him, he noted that his body was exceeding far beyond normal temperature. When he had forced him to look at him, he also noted that his breathing wasn't the only thing irrational; his eyes were bright yellow, he was practically foaming at the mouth and his face was broiling like a teakettle.

Dean had thought that that moment was the end of them, of everything he had worked so hard not to lose. But after Benny had scrambled out the door, with Dean still in his firm hold, Cas rested his hands both of his hands on top of his arms. Despite the antagonizing blisters forming at Cas's digits, he did this until he felt Dean's body gradually lessen in swelling and his eyes flashed back to their familiar emerald-green pigment.

The light-haired boy regained his level-headedness and gaped in astonishment at how quickly he had transformed back; it wasn't just Castiel that made him turn, it was something in his hands, radiating that same cool, cosmic energy that Dean had denied of existing since the day he grazed his hand lightly over his forearm the first day they met. When he glanced down again, he saw that his skin was an insipid blue and was crawling rapidly like shattered frost on a glacier. He gasped in revulsion before he actually realized: the chill, whatever it was, had healed him. When Cas was moving away, he felt—albeit minutes too late—the sensation of his touch was lingering on his skin. I can feel?

"W—what the hell, Dean?" he stammered, hands never emancipating his skin.

Dean fought for words, but all that he could do at that point was what he's wanted to do since. Placing his hands behind his head—had Cas's hair always been this soft?—and kissed him vigorously on the mouth. Cas reimbursed him despite apprehension bubbling on the surface of his thrashing chest. Dean felt this, and the gibes on the tongue wrestling with his, and his arms compacting tighter around his neck as Cas's arms in return slunk into his waistband, towing him closer to his aching body, and it was the most marvelous thing in the world. Dean's used both his hands to slide his fingers underneath Cas's shirt, imbibing in the warm, suave skin that lay beneath.

As Dean began bussing down the length of his neck, Cas eye's couldn't help but concern himself with his hands paralyzed with uncertainty at his diaphragm. Dean had to forcibly remove his mouth from Cas's enflamed skin to distinguish just what he was looking at. He glanced down, exchanging glimpses with the blue-eyed boy, and slid one arm out from underneath his chemise to cup his face.

"It's okay, I want this—" he cut himself short, seeing the look in his eyes that wasn't exactly reassuring. Then he realized it was something else, something Dean had been concerned with from day one. "You can't hurt me. You saved me, Cas."

Cas finally stared into Dean's desperate, deprived eyes. That's about all it took to squash his previous doubts, along with another virtuous kiss on his part. They resumed their actions, Cas skating his hands underneath his pants and groping his ass as Dean maneuvered Cas's shirt off and continued lapping the bittersweet taste of his bare skin with his tongue.

The other boy heaved him off of the ground, carried the two of them into the kitchen and placed him on top of the serving counter. Immediately, the two began ridding themselves of their pants. Dean had only removed his pants, to Cas's pleasant surprise, giving him just enough leverage to climb on top of the cool metal, reach inside his boxers, and palm his erection. Dean moaned, his mind in a state of delirium, still unable to comprehend that he wound up in the circumstance that he was in at the moment, and the fact that Cas's fingers worked gingerly was certainly not clearing his mind any.

Dean did the only thing he knew how to do: pull Cas closer to him. He drew him in leisurely by his ass, only to receive a surprising domino effect: Dean's undergarment slipping from his waist. Cas ran his hands across the velvet of Dean's thighs and placing his mouth over the once chafed skin before taking Dean in his mouth. Dean wrapped one leg around Cas's midriff as he operated—and quite effortlessly, may he add—and just about drove his fingers into his orifice, paving his entrance. He had to grab onto Cas's ringlets, now damp with perspiration and determination, to keep from losing his mind before the end of the activity.

Cas ended up reversing the roles before Dean could exert all of his fluids. Planting another passionate kiss on Dean's lips, Cas eyed his chiseled features hungrily before placing himself inside him. As he delved further, Cas' digits skated across Dean's arousal. He he allowed the other man sufficient time to relish in the feeling he had longed for. Dean did just that, moaning softly, savoring in the sweet release.

They hadn't departed from their close proximity for a while, however; Cas merely stood behind him, sliding his hands across Dean's torso, pressing his mouth to every part of Dean that he missed in the process. The lighter-haired boy enveloped his hands around Cas's, grinning with the most vitality he could muster at the moment.

He laughed thinking about it; in some form, he had that douche Benny to thank for his hospitality.

Cas laughed too, but for an entirely different reason, "I'm so losing my job."

-.-.-

Yeah, I'm totally psychic.

Castiel's boss stood before the exact spot that he and Dean had made love the night before. It wasn't as if he was completely reckless; Cas punched in his last labor hours practically down on his knees, scouring "evidence" from the inlay. He couldn't help it that Crowley had an acute sense of smell.

Every employee had to evacuate the kitchen almost as soon as they were called in for work. They had to close the restaurant until prior notice under "breached health regulations", which was fancy talk for Crowley was about to fire someone after he found out who copulated in the kitchen. Someone must have tipped him off because Cas was the first one he laid his dirty finger on.

"You're fired, Cas."

Cas went so far as to unbutton his shirt and set it on top of the counter with his working tie. Crowley stared dumbfounded at the other workers, who were all standing in a horde like a flock of pigeons, gaping at the half-naked man walking out of the building. He barked loud enough that they almost all simultaneously snapped their heads to look at him.

"Anyone care to join him?"

They quickly dismissed whatever thoughts were running through their heads and shuffled their feet in the opposite direction, all but one. Gabe wriggled free of the pack and strode to meet Cas, whose hands were inches away from latching onto the mental handle of the door. He pushed it for him, you know, being the gentleman that he usually wasn't, and waited until they were out of earshot to blast him with his big mouth.

"Whoa, whoa, what happened back there, Bambi?"

"Gabe, you know what happened," Cas grumbled, trying to stay one step ahead of his pace.

Gabe scoffed, shrugging his shoulders almost innocuously. His next series of inquires came out like rapid fire. "Yeah, well, I mean how did it happen? Did he Hulk out? Was it Bana-level awesome or Ruffalo-level awesome? Dude, if it was Ruffalo—"

"You knew?!" the younger brother exclaimed. He had his feet implanted in the sidewalk; an indication that he wasn't going anywhere until Gabe told him just what in the hell was going on. Gabe sighed; goddammit; he was so close.

He had him at arm's length; a part of him knew that Cas was still unaware of the powers he projected on Dean because how else would he and Cas have had sex without Dean—well, crisping him to shreds, to put it moderately. He didn't know because his powers weren't in development yet but within the first week that one's powers are initiated is the same week that they cause the most damage without even using them. Powers required a lot of physical as well as mental strength, and until they were learned how to be controlled, they simply served as a form of self-mutilation. And if Cas's powers were in the initiating stage, and he had no prior knowledge of it, then it would ultimately destroy him or whoever was closest to him.

"Look, Dean came to me, alright?"

Cas shook his head furiously. "Why would he—?"

"He was in trouble and I kind of pulled his ass from the fire—literally…"

"Gabe, what the hell are you talking about?" Cas said irritably, arms folded over his chest. Then Gabe did something that surprised him above everything else: he looked at him in the eyes. Gabe never under any circumstance looked him straight in the eyes unless something was seriously wrong; the last time was when Anna was put into urgent care. Cas thought he was playing some kind of cruel, twisted joke until he saw the wretched and terrified look in his light hazel eyes. "Gabe… what's going on?"

Gabe chewed on his lower lip. "I shouldn't be the one telling you this, little brother, but—" He faltered in his speech, erasing his former sentence to instead replace it with the preface. "When I found Dean, Luke was using his psychic-voodoo shit on him. Goddamn, I mean you should have seen him—never have I seen a face more battered, more broken in my life…" He paused again, relaying the images behind his retinas. "Then something kind of miraculous happened… his whole body transformed into this—this—"

"Yellow-eyed hulk?" Cas tried. Gabe nodded.

"It was like he was given a second chance," he laughed, mostly out of edginess, "and I swear to God if I wasn't there to save him he would have sautéed the bastard extra crispy."

"Why—?"

"He didn't want to tell you because he thought he would hurt you," Gabe explained; he'd become familiar reading his younger sibling's mind for years. "But I mean you—for him not to have lashed out—you're like his Betty Ross or something."

Cas never understood Gabe's infatuation with primordial Marvel movies. "I don't know either… I mean yeah, I've touched him before but this time it was like… I healed him," he said, wavering on the word. It still seemed so unreal, the one little detail that he wanted so bad to look over. The singular phrase reiterated in his mind: You saved me, Cas.

Gabe wavered as well; Cas knew what he was going to instigate next. "You think it's because of your powers?"

"I'd like to think it's because of my perky nipples."

"Cas—"

You saved me, Cas.

"I don't know, Gabe," he rejoined somewhat irately, "can't I just enjoy what I have for a fuck's second without thinking about the rest of my life?"

Gabe set aside his sanctimonious speech for the moment. He knew, on some level that Cas was right; he was just a kid; after all he needed all of the fulfillment that his life had to offer. Besides, he knew he wasn't going to get any further with his brother for the moment. But that didn't mean that his mind wasn't still preoccupied with other subjects along the line…

"So granted that the whole restaurant smells like cottage cheese—"

"Yes, Gabe," Cas said finely, replenishing his brother's sick satisfaction.

Sure enough, the corners of his mouth made a formation acute to a smile. He then proceeded to walk on down the pavement, his brother trailing farther behind but still in pursuit of the gloating man. Cas might have partaken in the reveling as well, had he not been curbing what was probably his biggest secret yet.

-.-.-

Dean stood alone in a field amid the distractions around him. He tried focusing on the nature surrounding him, such as the contiguous sun seething on his tanned skin, or the manifold birds congregating in the trees, confiding sweet nothings to their neighbors. But there was always a convulsion that sent his ass back to reality. Right now it was either the boy to his left manipulating his body to cart numerous logs over his shoulders and the unpleasant sounds he made while doing so, or monkey-boy to the right of him climbing trees and haphazardly breaking thick branches in the process.

Naturally, his state of mind wandered to the sight and sounds of these kids at work. Alastair must have reprimanded him myriad times, barking and sometimes striking him across the side of the head for what Alastair assumed were the same reasons as before. He almost laughed; little did that asshole know that Dean could smite him where he stood.

"I expect each and every one of you to work your asses ten times as hard!" he roared over the commotion, "If you want to survive, you gotta sacrifice the time. Recruitment was over a week ago and I expect each and every one of you to have the opportunity…"

It was all composted into blah blah blah after that.

He wished that there was someone he could talk to just so he wouldn't have to face Alastair's wrath as often. Cas was his only real friend on campus but he wasn't at training today… or yesterday…. or the day before. He knew that he couldn't possibly get excused from school every day, even if he did have a job.

He would talk to Sam but was off training with some guy named Azazel, something about being part of a "special child" subdivision that focused on kids like him with psyche powers. Dean hadn't really paid much attention; it was all a little too Children of the Corn for his taste. As much as he would have liked to have someone next to him at the time being—especially with Sam's happy-go-lucky attitude that he could definitely use right about now—he knew it was in his best interest to keep within a mile's proximity. He hadn't even come close to forgotten about his last encounter with his psychopath "boyfriend" and he wasn't about to risk his identity—and his life—to get a taste of it again.

Just as his class was stepping into the showers (even though he didn't do anything, it was probably in his best interest to shower so that it looked like he was productive), Dean couldn't help but overhear a certain banter between two boys. He could have almost acutely seen one or the both of them through the clear glass had mist not been heavily clouding the panels that they occupied.

"Are you kidding me?" One of them, a boy with a drawn-out southern accent said incredulously, "Nobody wants to be recruited, man; it's like wanting suicide."

"Ash, you're fucking insane; I would kill to be on the frontlines," the other, a deeper voice, replied in the neighboring stall.

"Tell me, is that before or after you get yourself killed?" Ash retorted.

"Dude, c'mon it's a once in a lifetime opportunity—"

"So is life, Adam. Don't you get it? Falling in love, raising a family, growing old, that's once in a lifetime."

"Whatever, you're just jealous that Christian Campbell got accepted before you."

Ash chuckled. "Campbell's a douchebag; he deserves what's coming to him."

"You're so fucking pessimistic, Ash."

"Sometimes you gotta be. Hey, did you hear…?"

The rest of the conversation faded out as he saw the two figures, through the faintest clarity of his own stall, vacate the facility. The words that Cas had said when they first met flashed over his eyes like blinding headlights would down an obscure road; none of us chose the life that we're destined to lead, it's chosen for us.

Dean's forehead creased; he wasn't kidding. He proceeded cleansing around his torso, scouring away the invisible grime in attempt to soothe his racing mind. But then the rest of the quote came back to him. His eyes widened in horror as he envisioned Cas hissing the next phrase as he slowly faded away. The government is one huge laboratory and we're the guinea pigs.

He hadn't realized how long he was standing underneath the spigot until the lights in the establishment dimmed. He opened his eyes to find his blood pooling underneath his feet; he had driven his fingernails so hard into his palms that it actually left a lesion behind. But even that hadn't stopped the last singular phrase from overriding his mind:

They're waging a war and we're bred to be soldiers.

---

Dean trekked to the diner as fast as he could with rain showering vehemently over the bleak town. It didn't help much that the storm was distorting his perception, and if the street lights weren't just vaguely illuminating the road, then he would have been completely lost. He pulled his coat over his ears to shield from the earsplitting sound the water made as it splashed unceremoniously around him. He would have to remind himself to thank the God he never thought existed that he could feel the water sodden through his jeans; it was frigid and unwelcoming to his skin but it was a feeling nonetheless.

He crossed far enough beyond the stretch to the diner only to find it completely dark inside and bordered off with thick, wooden panels on the outside. As if he wasn't sprinting fast enough with Cas not returning his calls or texts, it certainly didn't ease his mind knowing that the one place he was at most frequently was on lockdown. Regardless, he shook the handle furiously, pleading for a miracle. When the handle hadn't budged, he pounded his fists on the entrance. He couldn't be gone, he just couldn't. He ceased his drumming long enough to coat his oxygen over the frosty window and, running his fist over the warm spot, peeked through. He could barely make out chairs folded on top of tables and some kind of tape plastered over the kitchen, a light color with the same bold black lettering stretched across multiple times.

Shit.

He peeled himself from the door and ran around the side of the restrained building to the parking lot. He scoped every car in the lot, but not once did his eyes come to land on a decrepit sedan. He then ran across the street and a few blocks south to Cas's dormitory. There too he began thundering his fists against the door; no answer. He lunged for his phone in his pocket, dialing the only person that may have a lead on Castiel.

"Where are you?" Dean's breathing probably sounded like a premature woman having contractions but he didn't care. He wouldn't have much of a sound in the next few seconds if someone didn't tell him what the hell was going on.

"Dean? Shouldn't I be asking you the same question?"

"I don't know—the diner, it's closed down and Cas isn't responding to any of my messages…"

"Whoa, whoa, calm down little man, the diner got closed down because someone and I won't mention who—wink wink—got busy in the kitchen with their boyfriend. It's only temporary… well, except Cas's job—"

"Yeah, I figured that much, asshole," Dean spat, "where the hell is he?"

A pause, "He's not with you?"

The younger boy carded his hands through his tawny, damp hair. "Gee, I don't know let me check—why the fuck do you think I'm calling you, Gabe?"

"Easy, easy," Gabe chided, "did you check his dorm?"

"I'm there."

Another pause; it sounded like he was scrambling for the keys to his ignition. His voice came back with more concern. "Shit, alright, um… you keep checking around I'll keep my headlights on."

Dean hung up so fast that his phone froze momentarily. The next step was for him to calm the fuck down. Okay… he can't be too far; there was a campus policy that a student can't leave the general area under any circumstance. But knowing Cas, he could have found a way—

His thoughts were suspended by a sound; a band of feet pounding against the pavement. He craned his head swiftly in the direction of the uproar; he had heard of them, they only crept around at night; the Band of Brothers. The BOB was disreputable for arresting and torturing homosexual men. They had a license from the government to persecute each and every one of them during the night, and they worked stealthily.

The teen cloaked into the form of a dank wall behind him, holding his breath until they had the opportunity to pass. Just as he was sure they had, he heard one man shouting his name and the others for them to follow suit. Dean hit the asphalt, down an abandoned alley and through a side street that cut through the campus. Heart thrashing against his ribcage, he ran directly into thoroughfare. He nearly faced a collision with a set of blinding headlights had the driver not pulverized his breaks. Through tapered eyes, he saw the faint illumination of the driver and breathed a sigh of relief.

Gabe briefly acknowledged his new passenger before stepping on the gas, leaving the five or so figures in the dust. At least one good thing came of the whole situation.

"I think I know where he is."

-.-.-

"I'm sorry Mr. Novak, there's nothing more we can do."

Six words, that's all it took; six words to set his fire to the rain already driving down his cheeks. He wrestled for words but all that came out were blank notes, empty promises. He glowered at the pastel face of his sister—or what was; she was never this pale—and the faint illumination that the fluorescents cast on her thin arms. She was imbrued with blood from the shoulders down. He ran his hands over his face.

"You're kidding me…"

"I'm afraid not, we've given her our best. She's sedated right now but there's not much el—"

"Did you just say sedated?" Castiel's head snapped; he narrowed his enflamed eyes on the passive ones of the doctor.

The doctor—Mills, something or other—snapped her jaw a few times. "I… uh…?"

"What are you giving her?!" he seethed. He nearly sprung his small stature onto the doctor had his brother Gabriel not been restraining him. His nails had driven deep into Gabe's flesh a few times trying to thrash and kick his way out of the hold. He eventually sank into the same arms that were detaining him, scrunching his hands into the fabric of his brother's shirt, exhaling sharply. He cried for hours.

Tonight wasn't much in contrast, hell even the dates weren't far off; he still cried for an extensive period of time because he was put in a circumstance that could only be categorized under his damn luck. He thought he could retain this secret… that was until it consumed his lucid mindset, and drove him to the other side of the universe.

He glanced down at his slip for the thousandth time; one-way express to Albuquerque. He didn't know New Mexico still existed until today with the Hispanic Annihilation Act put in place sometime in 2030. He assumed it wouldn't be too much of a problem; he had identification with him if there were guards that happened to question his motives for entering an alienated area.

He thought he heard the screeching of the Eurostar; turns out it was only a passing car. He was about to sink further into the waiting bench until he saw the same car come closer to view, headlights practically blazing into his skull. Two figures stepped out of the car, one with long brown wisps around shoulder-length, the other tall and broad-chested.

"Dean?"

The car door slammed and the counterpart came into view under the dim streetlamp. "Cas," Dean breathed, mouth convulsing into a small smile, "I—I was—"

"Castiel Jimmy Novak," Gabe interjected. Swiftly he strode to his brother's size, seized him by the lapels of his trenchcoat, and pressed his face against Castiel's, so close that he could practically taste his foul breath lingering down his turtleneck. "I am going to ground you so fuckin' hard into the ground you'll be cleaning grit out of your teeth for weeks, do you understand me?" Castiel just gaped at his brother's red face, one part surprise two part fear. "Do you understand me?!"

Dean braced his hands. "Alright, Gabe, let's just handle this like civilized people—"

"Civilized?!" he fumed, clenching harder on the punched-up fabric. He craned his head to look at his brother again, only this time something caused him to release his hold. He moved back to his car to gather himself.

Dean tried this time, playing the role of the good cop. "Cas," he began sympathetically, "what's going on?"

"I didn't want you to worry—"

Dean chuckled half-heartedly, mostly to relieve the tension knotted in his chest. "How can you expect me not to worry? I try calling, texting, and no reply. Then the diner… if you got fired because of us, you can tell me. You don't have to be here, we can work things out—"

He paused after noting that Cas hadn't been listening; his head suspended and he bit hard on his lip. "That's not it, is it? Cas, what is it?" He had to repeat this numerous times before Cas even began to formulate words.

"I got recruited, alright?" He held his tears at bay. "I'm sorry if I don't want to be the person that was chosen for me… it's fucking hard enough just to be myself."

Dean was at a loss for words. He saw the recruitment thing coming, but he had been so driven to believing that Cas was bent on his job that he hadn't stopped to think about how he felt. Cas had told him from the start that he wasn't afraid of his sexuality, and he had to go and ruin that by having sex with him in the one place that accepted him for who he was.

He managed to push that thought far enough back to hear Cas speak again.

"After I was fired, I was almost positive that my ass was grass, and then he came to me,"—Cas stood fixating his gaze on something in the unremitting obscurity of the night—"told me his name was Zachariah…said he could wipe my slate clean if I joined his crew. He said I'm one of the last ones left… my powers; it takes a while but eventually …I can heal anyone I choose."

"Sir, I am so sorry—"

"It—it's fine."

"No, it's not—"

"Look, will you just—" Dean stopped mid-sentence, sensing something cool seeping through his swollen skin. He glanced down to find the host's hand clutching onto his wrist; though moderately, it calmed his irritated flesh… how was he doing that?

Dean shook his head. "I don't get it, why are you running, then? I mean you could have what you've always wanted; yeah, you'd be a soldier but you'd be doing what you've always wanted—"

"But it's not my life!" Cas bit back, a single tear spilling disgracefully from one sapphire.

"What are you talking ab—?"

"Dean, my life is here,"—he gestured to the ground in which they stood—"here as in with you."

"What matters to you, Cas?"

Cas's mouth cringed into a small smile, and when splayed before Dean, grew immensely wider. "Honestly," Cas said, purposely emphasizing the one word that Dean had grown fond of using, "you do."

Dean couldn't even muster words at this point; it felt like his throat was congested high with tissue paper. His heart was surging with joy, but his voice of reason was gnawing on his brain. "Then why are you leaving?"

"I'm not the only one," Cas replied. Delving his hand into his coat pocket, he pulled out a duplicate paper and held it out at arm's length for Dean.

"Do you think you love him?"

"Yeah, I do."

Gabe laughed light-heartedly, glancing over just in time to note the love-struck expression plastered on his face. "Then don't let him go."

Dean narrowed his eyes at the slip. "What—?"

"Come with me, Dean," Cas said, "let's be criminals together."

Dean opened and closed his mouth multiple times. His nomadic gaze finally came to rest on Castiel's face, brimming with uncertainty and something else he couldn't quite identify. "Wait—you knew I would find you?"

"Of course," Cas strode close enough to speak to him and only him: "I love you, Dean."

And although it may not have seemed like the appropriate answer, it was the first and only thing that made sense all day. He answered in the only way he knew how; draping his arm around his midriff and pulling him into his mouth. From there, his flesh returned the same three words. The slightly shorter man returned the action, latching onto his shirt for support.

"Oh please, you two have the rest of your fucking lives to do that!" Gabe exclaimed. He was leaning against the hood of his car and simulating gag-reflex noises.

Cas laughed, withdrawing from Dean's arms to wrap his own around his brother. This caught Gabe unexpectedly, but he managed to work his way around the ineptness that was Cas's body to return the embrace. "Thanks for the lecture, very convincing," he said in an undertone.

Gabe released him somewhat reluctantly, clasping a reassuring hand on his shoulder and tossing him a wink, "Anything for my little bro."

Cas sprinted to Dean's side again, clutching Dean in one hand and the Eurostar ticket in the other. The storm ceased by the time the train slowed to the station. They exchanged indiscreet smiles—they nearly got themselves killed outrunning the social order and circumventing destiny, and never had they felt more alive.

-END-

Epilogue

Ten years later

Life is like a game of chess; some moves are predictable, while others aren't as predictable. I've spent my whole life countersigning the unthinkable; things that would make Satan himself question his morals. I grew up believing that I was the one that should be locked in a psychiatric ward, because I didn't live up to the standards of my peers. They would tease me in manifold ways, and of course, most of the time I didn't even know, just stand there with this stupid smile plastered on my face. Youth has a funny way of turning its victims into farsighted fucks.

But no matter how often I was victimized, humans were an interesting species. Mutants—true mutants—don't question what the social order has in store for them. Humans, on the other hand, have choices—past tense, had choices; the United States government alienated the chromosome years ago that held humanity with a syringe and one-way ticket to warfare. Mutants were then substituted into society, and since that momentous day, all hope of ever making a single decision again was lost.

That was until I met them: Dean and Castiel. Two boys, who changed the rules, threw caution and the biggest middle finger to the wind by defying the system, completely transforming my view of humanity.

These two weren't even meant to fall in love, not even meant to find each other. Dean was meant to self-destruct; Castiel was going to be labeled as an Unmarked Child and put under quarantine until he received a "proper" dosage of an alien power. Then, Dean had a change of heart, decided he was famished, and went to a diner outside of campus where he met Castiel. Dean was going to be persecuted, Castiel too; only under the circumstance that he would stare down the barrel of a .45 before he made it to California to be with his sister.

Where are they now? As far as I know they were arrested in Flagstaff and slayed like dogs… or they had made it to Escanaba, where they were living vicariously—and illegally—through some clinic that Castiel had opened up across town… I can't keep track anymore.

I had a detailed future recorded for them, but they tore up the ending and made their own.

Inoculated with foreign poison or not, humans are unpredictable creatures. I decided to give up my powers after I was drafted into service. I lost a lot of my friends—friends whose future I saw flashing before my eyes every night before I went to sleep, and that's just no way to live.

"Sam, it's your turn."

I advanced my piece one place. My opponent advanced five places.

"Checkmate, bitch!" he exclaimed, collecting the game pieces in a single swipe. Another figure rounded the corner of the room to see what all the commotion was about.

Castiel smiled and took a seat on Dean's lap. Draping his arms around his neck, he kissed him softly. "You're such a dork."

And sometimes, just sometimes, humans are completely predictable.