I really really wanted to write an AU that starts with Cas and Dean as kids and continues throughout adolescence to adulthood. So it goes.
"I believe this is my seat," a squeaky voice fills Dean's ears.
He looks up to find the source of the voice and simultaneously guards his sandwich. If somebody wants to mess with the new kid and steal his food, they're barking up the wrong tree. Dean will protect his marvelous sandwich with his life if he has to. His mom works wonders with peanut butter and jelly, really. She even cuts off the crust for him!
Dean hopes to intimidate the dorky, scrawny kid. Obviously, the poor boy is oblivious to Dean's attempt, and Dean sort of understands. The kid must be an alien, because, seriously, what's up with the whole attire? They're in second grade, not in the courtroom. The slacks and shirt are alright, he guesses, but a tie? Although it does match his ridiculously blue eyes, that much is true.
"I believe I can sit wherever I want, buddy," Dean protests and takes a huge bite of his sandwich.
The boy sits next to him. "Yes, of course." He places his lunchbox carefully on the table. "I just usually sit alone at this table. It's been sort of established that it's mine by now."
Dean slurps a bit of his apple juice (and even though John stresses that straws are for girls, Dean can drink out of a juice box like a motherfudging man, thankyouverymuch). He inspects the boy's modest lunch—a few lettuce leaves, some carrots, and… is that celery? He can't sit at the same table with a kid that casually munches on celery. That's a social suicide.
The boy's eyes meet Dean's and he stops dead in his track. Maybe it's the disgusted expression on Dean's face, the little scar on his forehead from when he played cowboys and Indians and things went a little bit wrong, or the copious amount of freckles on Dean's nose and cheeks—who knows?—but the kid observes him with an intensity that Dean's only seen on TV when he watches soap operas with his mom (and later pretends to hate it in front of his dad, because again, he's a motherfudging man).
"That's really creepy, y'know?" Dean finally snaps.
The boy doesn't even blink. "What's creepy?"
"This," Dean flails his arms, "that look of yours. Like you're about to kill me or kiss me. If you don't wanna end up with a black eye, don't try either, 'kay?"
The boy tilts his head and a small smile tugs at his lips. "My name is Castiel."
"Good for you?" Dean snorts and wonders what kind of sadistic parent gives their kid a name like that.
Sure, Dean might have been named after his grandma (and that's really embarrassing, yeah), but nobody can actually tell. And he's not going to tell anybody either. He has a reputation to hold. Being a new kid, he has to start all over again, and it'll probably take a while for people to respect him (or fear him) again. Starting with a heartfelt story about how his mom thought it would be a wonderful idea to name her child after her deceased mother isn't really in Dean's plans.
"And your name is?" Cas (Dean mentally renames him, because Cas-tee-el or whatever is just too hard for him to remember or even care about) continues after a moment of silence.
Dean considers rolling his eyes and walking away, but the sandwich is just too good and he's not willing to risk putting it to waste. "Dean," he mutters instead.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean."
And okay, this kid might actually be an alien. With the way he speaks, dresses, and doesn't understand basic signals that he's not wanted here, Dean genuinely believes he stumbled upon an extraterrestrial creature. If he wasn't so busy being annoyed, he'd jump around excitedly and probe the kid.
He watches the way Cas pokes the leaves and cringes at the celery. It's just a guess (yeah right), but Dean would bet ten bucks that the weirdo next to him isn't very fond of rabbit food. Dean can definitely understand that. He's tried vegetables before (and he still has to sometimes—y'know, mom rules) and the taste was very unpleasant. However, when it comes to celery, 'very unpleasant' is a mild way of putting it. Dean can't remember the taste exactly – he was four when he tried it – but he's convinced it tastes like puke and pee flavored milkshake. Yuck.
Dean throws a glance at his second sandwich, Cas's scrunched nose, again at his sandwich, then at the disgusting salad, and sighs deeply. Why do I always have to play the good guy? He wordlessly shifts the second sandwich towards Cas, sighing even louder to make sure that he hears.
Castiel practically hugs him with his eyes, that's how grateful he looks. He touches the sandwich gently (which Dean thinks is absolutely dumb; mom buys good bread, so it's not gonna crumble or anything) and opens his mouth to speak.
Before he can do so, Dean shakes his head. "Don't mention it. I just didn't wanna be seen with a guy who eats dumbass leaves, 's all."
Cas nods, but doesn't fail to notice the flush on Dean's cheeks.
"That trench coat is way too big for ya, Cas," Dean laughs as he sports a huge leather jacket himself.
It was all Dean's idea to come up to the attic and go through the old stuff stashed here. Cas wanted to go through their textbooks, so they could prepare for sixth grade during the summer (what a nerd, right?), but Dean insisted that they explore the abandoned attic like people in movies often did before they found a map to a hidden treasure, because what's a summer without an adventure, right? So here they are.
Cas went on and on about the collection of books that he's found ("Is this Jane Eyre? Oh Dean, Dean, it is!") until Dean opened the humongous wooden closet filled with dresses, pants, hats, jackets, and anything else that you might expect from a closet. This one, however, is special. According to Cas, the 'historical value of those garments is astounding,' which prompted Dean to try on every single piece of clothing that he could manage.
"Did this belong to your father?" Cas twirls, fascinated with the corners of the trench coat flailing in the wind.
"Nah, that was probably grandpa's," Dean waves him off. "This, though," he caresses the lapels of the threadbare leather jacket, "this was dad's."
For some reason, Dean isn't disappointed that they didn't find a treasure. This, this simple jacket that any other person wouldn't stop twice to think about, this jacket… feels like a treasure. It's a piece of his dad, his biggest hero. Whatever John says is the law for Dean, whatever he likes is what Dean likes, whatever he hates is what Dean hates. And if this jacket once upon a time meant something to dad, it means a lot to Dean.
Later, when Cas and Dean get tired of playing with the clothes (and Cas stops inquiring about the books), Mary prepares some PB&J sandwiches (without a crust, of course) for them, and they settle down to eat, still in their trench coat and leather jacket.
John laughs at how ridiculous the two look, and when they express their adoration of those 'old rags', he allows the boys to keep them.
"Hey Cas?" Dean utters mindlessly as he chews the remnants of his sandwich. "Didn't we meet over a peanut butter jelly sandwich?"
The corners of Cas's eyes crinkle. "Yeah, I guess we did."
"I'm kinda glad that you sat at my table."
"I believe it was my seat."
Cas lies on Dean's bed with a book propped on his lap, while Dean browses through his dad's old records. He finally settles on Led Zeppelin and lets the music surround the room. Maybe John is Dean's role model, but his interest in classic rock is genuine. He doesn't know a better feeling than screaming at the top of his lungs the catchy songs and deftly moving his hips like a motherfucking (that's right, he updated—he's almost an adult) man.
Cas amusedly rolls his eyes and sets the book aside. He's partially annoyed, because he was really into the story. Doesn't matter that he's read it already. Jane's passionate crush on Mr. Rochester never ceases to amuse him. Nevertheless, he's willing to have a break to watch Dean dance gracefully (or not, depending on the song) and sing like a goddamn angel.
"Hey, hey, mama, said the way you move, gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove," Dean hollers.
Cas admittedly doesn't recognize this song, but he doubts he will like it.
"Oh, oh, child, way you shake that thing, gonna make you burn, gonna make you sting."
It wouldn't be so embarrassing if Dean didn't stare directly at Cas. His eyes slide over Cas's body as he sings with a huge grin plastered on his face. He moves in a way that is borderline feminine, but still very Dean. As he throws his arms in the air, his shirt rides up and exposes a tanned hipbone. Cas settles his gaze on the bare skin before his eyes snap back to Dean's face. The bastard is laughing and… w- was that a pelvic thrust? Couldn't have been. Dean wouldn't mess with Castiel like that.
It isn't until halfway into the chorus that Cas refuses to ignore his quickened pulse.
"Hey, baby, oh, baby, pretty baby, tell me that you'll do me now/Hey, baby, oh, baby, pretty baby, do me like you do me now/Didn't take too long 'fore I found out, what people mean by down and-"
"Dean, stop it!" Cas buries his flushed face in his hands.
Dean stops in his tracks and bites his lip to stop himself from laughing hysterically. "What's wrong?"
What's wrong? Castiel asks himself. He'd like to know himself. He's pretty sure that wanting to throw yourself at your best friend and kiss him until your lips are numb is wrong. Not to mention the urge to grasp Dean's (casual reminder: his best friend's) hips as he buries himself inside him. To add that, it's not the first time that he's fantasized about that. So yeah, there's a lot of 'wrongs' that Cas might offer as an explanation.
Instead, he chooses, "What would your girlfriend think if she knew that you have a huge man-crush on your best friend, huh?" with a nervous chuckle.
"Lisa?" Dean snickers.
Cas nods, although he was asking about Tessa. That was about two weeks ago, though; Dean must have broken up with her already.
"Please, that was just sex. The best sex I've had yet, to be honest with you," Dean winks. "But that's over now."
"Just how many people have you had sex with, Dean? You are just sixteen," Cas huffs.
Dean's eyebrows shoot up. Cas has never had any problem with Dean's flings—at least that's what Dean thought. Now he looks as if he wants to slap Dean so hard that his head turns 360° (Castiel is perfectly capable of that, that's for sure).
Cas shouldn't get mad at Dean just because he's confused about his own feelings. He shouldn't guilt trip Dean because he's insecure and wants Dean all to himself. Dean doesn't owe him anything. They're friends, nothing more. He shouldn't be thinking like this at all. But it's exactly what he does.
"You can't just go around and fuck everyone, Dean!" Everyone but me.
Dean frowns and maybe he'll regret getting mad, but at the moment, he doesn't give a shit.
"Since when do you have the right to tell me what to do?" he snarls in a way that makes Cas's stomach twist.
This is it. He's losing Dean, because he never deserved him in the first place. Since the first day they've met, Dean was too good for him. Too cool for the quiet, shy nerd. Now that they're in high school, Dean should be with the popular crowd where he belongs, while Cas should just stay alone, like he did before Dean invaded his life. That's the natural order of things.
What was Castiel thinking? He can't have Dean. Definitely not in the way he wants to have him.
"I-" Castiel chokes on the words, yet his voice remains deep and steady, "I don't. I don't have any right to tell you what to do. I don't have any right to feel the way I do. I never have and I never will." The tears in his eyes (where did those come from?) threaten to spill now. "I'm sorry, Dean. You're right."
Cas smiles wistfully and stands up from the bed abruptly, striding to the door. The sooner he gets out, the better.
A hand settles on his shoulder.
"Cas, come on," Dean pleads.
When Castiel faces him, Dean almost stops breathing. His chest aches with the thought of hurting Cas. The tears in his glassy eyes (that won't stain his cheeks, they never do), parted lips, the pained look… Dean caused that. Dean caused that and if he ever felt more terrible in his life than now, he can't remember. The worst about it is that he doesn't even know what he did wrong. Cas started the whole thing, prying about things that don't concern him. Or maybe the problem is that they do.
Cas won't look at him, and so Dean props his chin up. They're standing close, way too close even for best friends, and if Dean's reading this right (Cas is staring at his lips, for fuck's sake, he can't be wrong, can he?), there's only one thing they can do.
He's not really sure who moved forwards first. In the end, it doesn't really matter. When their lips connect, everything else is forgotten. Cas's lips are much softer than they look, and soon they'll be much pinker. The kiss is slow but needy, tender but desperate, gentle but frantic. Dean lightly tugs at Cas's hair, and Cas nips on Dean's lip in return. Their tongues find their way to each other's mouth and explore what they dreamed about for the past few years.
Dean almost gets a heart attack when Cas tires of the delicate foreplay and shoves Dean against the wall with a deep groan. He roams his hands through Dean's hair, caresses his collarbones, and moves lower until he harshly grips Dean's hipbones and flushes them against his.
"I thought," kiss, "about doing this," bite, "just a few minutes ago."
Dean moans as Cas's tongue finds his pulse. "I think about this all the time, Cas."
Dean feels Castiel's smirk against his neck. Cas bites down and- yep, that's going to leave a mark. Not that Dean particularly cares at the moment. As you might be aware of, he doesn't know a lot of things. Somehow, though, he knows that this isn't a one-time thing.
The ride is silent and peaceful. Dean drives his beloved Baby, the radio blasts AC/DC, his boyfriend sits next to him, birds chirp, the sun shines… you know how it goes. It's just a wonderful start of a day in general. That is, until Castiel opens his mouth and lets those seven words ruin Dean's mood.
"Dean, I've gotten a scholarship for Stanford."
Dean almost crashes. That's not a part of their plan. Cas is supposed to go to The University of South Dakota and Dean goes to the University of Sioux Falls nearby, while he simultaneously works a job as a mechanic at uncle Bobby's. Such a simple, well thought plan. They both get higher education and get to be together. Right?
If Cas told him earlier that he's considering any other school, Dean would accept it. He'd never stop Cas from achieving his goals. But why didn't he tell him sooner? The 'plan' to stay in South Dakota was Castiel's idea, after all. He lied to Dean, claiming to apply to a 'few colleges, nothing major,' then continued to play with him throughout the rest of the school year. He must have had found about the dumb scholarship at least three months ago.
Dean parks (if the super-fast turn to the curb can be called parking), keeping his hands firmly on the wheel. He breathes in deeply and summons all positive energy around him, like his mother taught him. Needless to say, it doesn't work.
"What the hell, Cas?!"
Cas bites his lip and does the thing with his eyes that Dean hates so much (it makes his heart melt and that's not fair game during arguments).
"I didn't say I'd go," he whispers.
If Dean looked furious before, he is close to exploding now. "You ain't gonna go? Dammit, Cas, of course you're gonna!"
Castiel tilts his head in that adorable way of his. "Do you not want me to stay with you?"
"There's nothing I want more," Dean admits, "but I can't stop you from doing what you gotta do. I want you to be happy, Cas. That's what love means, innit?"
Cas frowns. "I am happy with you."
"But are you going to be happy in twenty years? When you work a fucking lame job and regret not going to Stanford all these years ago?" He runs a hand through his hair and lays his head on the seat. "You can accomplish great things. You're smart, determined, and hard-working, and loyal, and… Point is, don't let me hold you back. I've got nothing for me in the future. I'll keep fixing cars until the judgment day, there's no changing that."
"Dean, you know that's not-"
"True? Cas, I know what I am and what I'm always gonna be."
When Cas doesn't look convinced, Dean continues. "Maybe this relationship won't last forever. And what then?"
"Don't say that."
"You know it's true! We're teenagers, Cas! How many of these relationships actually last? I'm not gonna be the person who stopped you from going. I'm not."
Dean musters all his courage to speak those last words. Those words that hurt so much, yet without them Cas won't take the opportunity of his life. He deserves so much better than Dean. Somebody who's smart and educated like him, somebody who actually has a future. "And that's why I'm breaking up with you."
Castiel wonders if his heartbeat halted or he just died on the inside. People say that heartbreak hurts in a different way than a physical wound. They're right. This is so much worse.
When he was thirteen, he got in a car accident and slipped into unconsciousness for a week. Breathing became a challenge, and waking up felt like a million bees stinging his eyelids. He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue weighed a ton, and a chainsaw temporarily resided in his throat. His heartbeat resounded in his whole body, stabbing him repeatedly. The ache was terrible, nothing like he's ever experienced before.
Then he gathered the power to turn his head.
Dean was sleeping in a chair next to Cas's hospital bed. Castiel attempted to speak again, which sent him into a fit of coughs. Dean's eyes shot open and in two quick steps he was standing beside Cas, grabbing his hand and kissing his temple. The ache immediately diminished.
This time there's no one to kiss his temple and wash the pain away.
"I'll come back for you, Dean," Cas utters.
Dean gives him a sad smile in return.
"I love you."
Dean downs another shot of whiskey. He'd like to say that he's getting drunk because of his break up with Jo, but he'd be lying. He loved her, he really did, just not in the way that she wished for him to love her. He can't bring himself to love anyone. He's tried – oh trust him, he's tried – but unfortunately, love is not something you can drill into your head until you believe it.
He's pathetic.
A twenty-six years old elementary school teacher (he really doubts that anyone would comprehend how that happened; he's simply sort of kind of good with kids) with everything he's ever wanted except for one thing only—a soulmate. Well, not a soulmate to be exact. He doesn't want just any soulmate. He should be around 5'11 with messy dark hair and sapphire eyes, preferably wearing something dorky, and it wouldn't hurt if his nose was stuck in a book.
Time heals all wounds, but sometimes you just can't help but wonder who came up with this bullshit. 'Time' is such a relative word. It might mean two seconds, but also two years. It might mean right now, or an eternity. Maybe 'heal' is just a dumb oxymoron implying that the pain is over when we drop dead. Wouldn't that be ironic?
Thoughts like that usually signify that he's shitfaced and probably should head home. And so he does.
It's his twenty-seventh birthday, hooray. He's one year closer to death and still unhappy. Isn't the gift of life just beautiful?
He contemplates staying in bed all day, but decides against it. If he stays home, he'll end up watching a stupid soap opera and crying, because Antonio obviously doesn't love Elena as much as she loves him, and it isn't her fault that her mother killed Antonio's grandfather to inherit the hacienda. Um, Dean would know that if he watched soap operas. But he doesn't. Pff, duh. Nobody watches Telemundo, channel 341, up in this house. Haha. Of course not.
Sammy calls around 4 PM, congratulating Dean on getting old, and narrating about his adventures (mostly consisting of almost receiving a B for his paper) in Stanford. Yeah, that bastard abandoned him and left to Stanford, too. He's always talked about it when he was a kid, but Dean never thought that he'd actually go through with it. If God's up there… well, then fuck him sideways with a tadpole.
Not that Dean didn't work harder than expected, too. Initially, he never expected to finish his bachelor's degree. And here he is with a master's degree, teaching a bunch of cute kids the multiplication table. He wouldn't change that for anything in the world.
He puts on his dad's leather jacket and lets his feet lead him wherever they like.
Dean ends up in a movie theatre. Watching a rom-com. A freaking rom-com. Maybe it's not too late to sprint back home and catch the new episode of Cuidado Con El Angel.
When he stands up to leave the trailers begin, enticing him completely. He chews his popcorn and makes plans to go see half of the movies that are being promoted.
"Excuse me," a deep, gravelly voice resonates in Dean's ears.
He looks up to find the source of it and his breath hitches. Same blue eyes, same stubborn set of jaw, same tousled dark hair, same shy smile… it couldn't possibly be…
"Cas?"
Cas grins and his eyes sparkle with something that Dean identifies as glee. "Told you I'd come back for you."
Dean grins and if someone later asks if he was crying, he'll deny everything.
"Anyway," Cas recomposes himself and a solemn expression overtakes his soft features. "I believe this is my seat."