hay guys so this is my first destiel fanfic and its also my first attempt at anything like this fic. i hope you guys enjoy it.I think it will just be like a two shot.I also dont have a beta so this fic hasn't been Beta ed hence all mistakes are mine .
I hope you enjoy the fic.
i don't own Supernatural but i like to think i'm a part of the spn family.
Same love
chapter 1
When the Winchester brought him into their home, eight-year-old Castiel thought it too big. He was so terrified of the high ceilings and echoing spaces in their elegant foyer, so bright and sterile. He thought to himself, there are so many things to break. Vases and little figurines littered shelves and tabletops, and Castiel was well aware that he'd never been very graceful. So he pressed his arms flat to his sides and watched the toes of his old sneakers as they led him through the house, up to his new bedroom. He threw himself into it with much relief. His ruby red room was comfortably devoid of all the little, delicate porcelain and glass trinkets that he'd passed on the way up the winding staircase.
His mother had died while giving birth to him and after that his father was never himself again. He kept blaming him for his mother's death and after a while Castiel began to think of it like that as well. Once after leaving home for days his father came back and called Mr. Winchester and asked him to take Castiel in for a while. His father and Mr. Winchester were best of friends and so he had readily agreed. After this my father had begun to plan to just give me away to them with full consent and by some miracle I was here.
He never thought he'd miss home, but that first night, he definitely did. Of course he didn't miss his fathers daily beating when he was in the house and empty fridge. he missed the comfort his bed had provided when he had a sore hand or bloody lips , he missed his hiding place beneath the stairs but most of all he missed looking at the big picture of his mom and dad that was still hanging on top of the fireplace.
But in his new home everything was new somehow unlived in. The red of the walls suddenly resembled blood. Plus, there were so many places for monsters to hide in the large house, little nooks and crannies behind furniture and tables.
He hid beneath the bed on the following day when Mr. and Mrs. Winchester announced his doctor appointment. He was terrified of needles, had only just been released from the hospital where they had constantly poked and prodded him.
The wooden floor he laid against was cold and comforting, and he could watch the door through the space allotted to him. After so long, it opened, and little feet pattered through. He inspected the shoes—brown and clean—and recoiled as they neared him.
The blanket was suddenly yanked up, and the intruder crouched, ducking his reddish hair to the floor with a patient, piercingly green stare. Castiel's eyes were wide with awe as he gazed back at this other boy, having never been around someone so clearly his own age since he was much smaller.
"Isn't it dark under there?" the boy suddenly asked, and when Castiel didn't answer—for he was far too stunned to do so—the boy shrugged, and simply joined him. He slid along the hardwood and lay beside Castiel, resting his cheek on his arm as he stared at him. He whispered in his soft, boyish voice, "I thought monsters hid under beds?" and pursed his little lips contemplatively.
Castiel laughed. It was so trilling, yet also, oddly hollow. When his laughter faded, he stared at the boy's face and traced the contours with his frightened eyes. He tried to convey in a gaze how he always felt: dark, cold air tickling his toes and climbing his pant legs as he lay motionless in the dark.
Castiel was the monster, because monsters were never afraid of anything—even needles.
But Dean—as he introduced himself—remained laying with him until Castiel finally conceded and emerged. For if Castiel was a monster, then this Dean was a white, shining knight, so brave to crawl beneath a bed and speak to the monster himself.
Dean stood with his chin high as they both finally emerged and then took Castiel's hand. He had an impishly crooked grin that enamored Castiel. Dean then promptly paraded Castiel around their big house, so proud and accomplished that he'd achieved what the adults had thought impossible.
When Dean's Mom, smiling and jovial at Castiel's ultimate emergence asked, Dean informed her matter-of-factly, "Castiel can't go to the doctor. He's playing with me today."
And that was that.
He showed Castiel his books and toy soldiers and electronic video games. Castiel had never seen electronic video games before. Dean—always the selfless creature—wanted to give his every toy to Castiel, and after many days spent playing with him, took to leaving his things in Castiel's room. Mary would find Dean's expensive devices there and ask, "What if you wanted to play with it later, Dean?"
It made Castiel uncomfortable to see his new best friend's squandering and neglectful behavior admonished. He feared Dean's punishment. Thus, Castiel would clutch his hand and tremble in fear of seeing John strike the boy. This had been a common punishment for Castiel before he'd come into the Cullen house.
A very common punishment.
The first time he reacted in this way—shoved Dean behind him and gazed fearfully into Mary's bewildered eyes—he begged, "I stole his toys. Hit me instead." And then Castiel waited for Mary's fury, expected her to go downstairs and call her husband home from work to administer Castiel's punishment himself.
But instead, she stepped forward with teary eyes. This alarmed Castiel, and he flinched instinctively, incapable of knowing that she only wanted to embrace him. It was then that she did go downstairs to call her husband, and Castiel—frantic and scared—attempted to slide himself underneath his bed, to become the monster that wouldn't even fear John and his belts and needles.
But Dean didn't allow him. Dean seemed to understand more than Castiel, and was sad as he led him to lay on the bed, instead of beneath it. They curled up and Dean pressed himself close to Castiel, caressed his hair as he cried and shook in fear. They were clutched tightly that afternoon, Castiel's little sobs muffled by Dean's grey shirt as Dean shushed him.
So tired from their abridged day of playing, they fell asleep in that position.
And this was how Mr. and Mrs. Winchester found them: legs and arms all tangled and entwined like vines around a picket fence as they slept peacefully. They didn't dare disturb them, and Castiel awoke feeling much better when he realized that he wasn't waking alone.
The little boys never slept alone again.
At nights, Dean came to Castiel and in return, must have gained something—though Castiel never understood why Dean didn't grow bored of just laying there in the dark with him while he acted like a scardey cat. Sometimes they'd quietly play games or use black markers to write on Castiel's walls. Mary had encouraged him to do so when she'd found him tracing words into the red paint with his fingertip, a small, focused smile adorning his lips. The boys' tiny whispers echoed and embedded themselves within those walls at night, writing little snippets of tactical strategies utilized by their action figures.
They were inseparable by default. Castiel watched Dean's wide smiles with wonder and held him unlike a normal boy would have, arms always around his little waist or shoulders. And Dean touched Castiel in foreign ways. He'd pet his hair and hold his hand, and Castiel liked it. It never made Castiel feel like a puppy that had been brought home in offering to the lonely nephew, even though he'd already come to the realization that this was likely the case.
Dean made him feel loved.
Years went by with their predictable routines of waking and playing and going to grade school and falling asleep coiled around one another, and Castiel didn't question his feelings. It was the only real friendship he'd ever known. Dean himself rarely socialized with the other children on the playground at school, instead opting to plant himself beside Castiel in the sand beneath the monkey bars. It was here that they'd eat Mary's extravagant bagged lunches, pearly teeth biting into shiny red apples and their giggles regarding the girls with cooties who fawned over Dean's messy hair by yanking it.
The other children eventually accepted that neither would join their groups on the swingsets.
But they were growing older as the years passed, summers coming and going and climbing the ranks of their grade school with one another. Shoes were outgrown, pants became too short, and odd things began happening to Castiel's emotions.
Dean was Castiel's home. He'd grown attached to him in ways that no one his own age could comprehend. For the longest time, Castiel could not eat or sleep or walk outside without knowing Dean's immediate whereabouts.
One day, Dean went out to the river behind the property. He left Castiel behind because he'd been bathing, and Dean was always impatient. Castiel had told him to wait, that he'd help him catch the tadpoles for their school project, but Dean went, awkward feet trodding through the murky trees to the riverbank alone.
Castiel emerged from the bedroom and searched the house for him, growing panicked when he realized that Dean was no longer inside. He couldn't understand the way in which his breathing grew labored, or why his pulse raced and his vision went blurry. Castiel ran out of the house into the backyard, in such a hurry to get to the riverbank that he tripped over branches and scuffed his knees. He didn't care. He stood up and continued his path, eyes wide and frightened with every second that he couldn't see his friend and know he was okay.
Castiel had always feared something would happen to Dean—that monsters would defeat his white knight. Dean had always been sheltered. Castiel knew that worse evils in this world existed beyond the trivial school yard trickery that Dean was accustomed to.
Slipping into the mud of the riverbank, Castiel spotted the shine of Dean's red hair, his pant legs rolled up as he crouched in the water, dipping a glass jar beneath the surface to capture the slimy tadpoles.
Castiel wanted to run in after him, but he was afraid and didn't know how to swim. He was happy just knowing Dean was alright, and as the boy turned to him, a wide small on his face as he exclaimed, "Caught six!" Castiel was relieved.
He rarely let Dean out of his sight again, opting to bathe after dark, when he knew that Dean was forbidden from leaving the house. It never seemed to bother Dean, who rarely left Castiel's side anyway. For the longest time, everything was perfect, because Castiel was used to odd things happening to his emotions. Emotions were something he could handle.
But then, odd things started happening to Castiel's body.
He saw it on television between a married couple. The man and woman were in a bed together, and he laid atop her, pressed into her and put his tongue into her mouth. Castiel was fairly certain that this was the type of television he wasn't allowed to watch, but he was sick with a cold, and Mary had allowed him to sleep on the sofa as he stayed home from school. He'd just been flipping through channels when a flash of flesh made his finger pause on the rubber button.
He watched the man put his hand over her chest, and they made sounds, his hips pressing her into the bed as she began removing his shirt. Castiel was excited. He sat up and leaned closer to the television, snotty tissues being crushed in his fists as he gaped at the screen, wide-eyed. The man began thrusting and moving on top of her and... Castiel knew that he wanted to do that.
The sooner the better, in fact.
He felt so thrilled watching it. He wanted to turn off the television and go to his bed right then. But Castiel stopped at the top of the staircase. He contemplated it a little more, and he realized that he didn't share a bed with a woman.
He shared a bed with Dean.
Castiel wasn't able to think of anything since. The only thing more exciting than doing that with a woman was doing that with Dean.
The thought also amused him that night as Dean jumped into his bed. The springs would make them bounce, Castiel was certain. He wanted so badly to do it with him. It looked like so much fun. But something on the surface stopped it from emerging in the form of brave and exciting displays. He was afraid of waking Dean's Mom and Dad with his dark little giggles and bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.
Shortly after that, Castiel began having curious physical reactions to Dean's body, though he didn't completely understand them. He was forced to hide countless, perplexing stiffenings of his penis and the evidence of thrilling dreams against his soft, sticky belly come sunrise in their shared beds.
The first time it happened, he panicked, thinking he'd wet the bed and that—surely—he'd humiliated himself in front of the one and only person whose opinion had ever mattered to him. Frantic, he kicked a bewildered Dean out of bed and shoved his dirty underwear into the bottom of the bathroom waste can, praying that he wouldn't be caught and punished for doing something so unbelievably childlike.
Mary found them and promptly informed her husband. This spurred a rather uncomfortable and awkward conversation regarding words foreign to Castiel: masturbation, ejaculation, penetration. All of the "—ation's" confused Castiel as he sat in Dr. Cullen's office, red-faced and bewildered. Especially since John kept mentioning girls. Castiel had never liked girls. They were gross.
But Dean was not.
Castiel liked Dean. He found his face and symmetry to be intriguing, could stare at him for hours and never grew bored of it. When Dean would lay next to him, Castiel would like the warmth against his stomach and chest, would wish to be closer to him.
Castiel wasn't able to determine whether or not it was okay to feel that way toward Dean, so he felt it best to keep it secret until he discovered otherwise. He was too afraid to ask Dr. Cullen. He didn't want to risk his new home—his best friend. The thought alone terrified him. He was certain that he could not exist without Dean. He often hated his reactions toward Dean for this reason, though he couldn't understand why he should have to hide them.
It felt so natural.
Later, Castiel became consumed by curiosity over his body—enraptured by the sensations of touching his penis. He wondered about what Dean's might look like. He'd wrap his fingers around the stiff length and pretend it might be his. He desperately wanted to know what it might feel like to rub them together, though he feared that asking might be inappropriate.
He didn't masturbate like normal boys either—preferred laying atop a pillow rather than using his hand, as Johnhad once awkwardly explained to him. It was the only way he'd ever seen anyone have sex before. It was easier for him to imagine that Dean was beneath him, giggling and making sounds much like the people on television had.
Castiel's pants always grew tight when he got a new pillow.
"It's cold," Dean shivered as he sprang through the door to Castiel's room. Castiel had been waiting since his door had closed that evening. He was too old to fear ridiculous things like monsters now—a thirteen-year-old.A teenager. This thought excited Castiel.
He couldn't wait for school to let out for the summer so that he and Dean could go to the beach. Castiel still couldn't swim, but that didn't matter. He liked seeing Dean in his swim trunks, had even encouraged him to buy the black ones.
He liked seeing Dean's body, so much more toned than his own. Castiel was usually described as "twiggy," with his skinny arms and legs and awkwardly frail frame. Castiel also had long, ragged scars across his back that he was too embarrassed to reveal. But Dean was so perfectly proportioned and symmetrical and... perfect. Castiel wished he looked like that.
Castiel chuckled and flung back the blankets just as Dean approached the bed, diving beneath with chattering teeth. The winter would be gone soon, but for now, Forks was wet and cold and the hardwood floors of their rooms did nothing to help matters. Castiel hissed as he felt one of Dean's cold toes touch his.
Then he said, "You're freezing! Get over here," and eagerly opened his arms to Dean, who did not hesitate to accept Castiel's offering. Their chests crushed together and residual shivers emanated through Dean's body as Castiel warmed his arms with his hands.
Castiel nuzzled his nose into Dean's hair—Dean's soapy-smelling hair—and sighed, happy that he was no longer alone. For even if Castiel was much too old to fear ridiculous things, he certainly could not deny that being alone in the dark unnerved him.
Crushed chest-to-chest under the quilts, Castiel could finally turn out his lamp and find peace. Castiel burrowed deeper into him, as he always did, and hooked one of his legs around Dean's. He wanted to keep him pinned to his side as his anxious eyes searched the darkness of his bedroom. Dean's sleepy breaths washed over his neck and eased Castiel.
It was then that Castiel's focus would shift from the darkness to the body against him. Castiel felt his chest rising and falling and pushing and pulling. He felt Dean's hand at his back, limp as he slipped into slumber. Castiel felt Dean hips against his and he had to move back—just a little.
Castiel's erection throbbed.
Secretly, he'd rub softly against Dean some nights when he was certain his slumber was deep enough. Just a brush against his thigh, light as a feather. It was enough to create lengthy dreams that were far more fulfilling. He'd feel his curves and snake his arms around his torso, squeeze him gingerly and but a gentle rock was enough to satisfy his need and make his imagination run wild.
As Dean now slept against him in the cold room, Castiel anticipated that moment. His penis was throbbing and ached to be pressed against something. Anything. Castiel remained still until he was absolutely certain he would not rouse Dean. Then, slowly, he brought his hips forward and his erect penis touched Dean's hip.
Castiel wanted to make sounds and rub against him further, though he knew he couldn't. He was frustrated. He chided himself for being careless and not masturbating as he often did before Dean would come to his room.
He'd seen other boys their age french kissing girls much like he'd seen on television that day.
But Castiel didn't want to french kiss girls. He sighed into Dean's hair and eventually closed his eyes, wondering if he'd ever be able to have those things with Dean. But for now, Castiel really didn't care. As much as he spent his time thinking about sex and kissing and rubbing his erection against the pillow that he wished was Dean, he was certain that—so long as he had this—he would be perfectly content for the rest of time.
Castiel hugged Dean tighter.
The first moment Castiel recognized a thin fracture between him and Dean existed was at the piano. It was a foreign, baffling thing, this crack that that could grow into a chasm at any moment. Try as he may have to ignore it, one Sunday morning proved it impossible.
"No. Your fingers aren't moving fast enough," Dean instructed through gnashed teeth, brows pulled together in annoyance. He had the most adorable scowl gracing his lips, hard, and yet soft.
Castiel replied, "What's wrong with going slow?" and tried the melody once more, so languorous that it was drawn into a series of sharp, ragged notes.
Dean cringed. "Because it's not a song if it takes a year to play," and then Dean shut the cover so hastily that it struck Castiel's wrist, and he snatched his hand back in surprise.
Staring at the bruising line, Castiel felt a pang in his chest where his happiness usually existed, nestled deep within Dean's soft caresses and gentle smiles. The slamming of his wrist put a dark, black mark upon Castiel's heart. He tried to shove it away, into the back of his soul where Dean's other indiscretions lay—a shove of his shoulder, an annoyed snapping-at, a tattle-telling to Mary—and yet Castiel couldn't simply disregard it.
They were becoming more and more frequent, he realized with sudden alarm.
He'd been trying to get Dean to teach him the piano. He knew so much about music and could play so beautifully. Castiel felt locked out of some obscure niche in Dean's life that he couldn't quite access.
But Castiel was horrible at playing piano and Dean was too impatient to teach him properly. It had taken him over a month to learn simple childhood lullabies, and his fingers were too short and awkward to move with the same speed and grace as Dean's.
Castiel rubbed his wrist, scowling at the piano cover. He didn't like piano anymore, couldn't grasp the complexity of playing the damn thing. It made him feel inferior to Dean, as if he were unable to keep up. He feared being left behind in his simple ways and lack of luster. Castiel didn't have any kind of special talents.
Dean's fingers came up to the bridge of his perfectly straight nose and he pinched it, squeezing his eyes closed. Castiel kept his gaze locked on his wrist and eventually felt Dean's hand on his own, prying it away from his spiteful grasp.
Dean smiled ruefully, but then he brought Castiel's wrist up to his lips—his perfectly pink lips—and kissed the reddened line, green eyes fixed to Castiel's, oh so contrite. "Sorry," he whispered when he gingerly released his hand, but Castiel was in a state of shock from the sensation that still tickled against his bruising flesh.
They talked and laughed, and Castiel was impatient. He wanted Dean to leave, so he asked him to go set up his new game system. When Dean was up the stairs, finally leaving Castiel alone, he brought his wrist to his own lips and copied Dean, stealing a phantom kiss that left him feeling exceptionally giddy.
He prayed that Dean might hurt him again—and very soon.
All the boys sat huddled around the top bleacher, a couple of them shifting in a fashion quite familiar to Castiel. He shifted too, but not because of the pornographic magazine that sat between Dean and Sam.
Dean was horny, Castiel could tell.
His cheeks were flushed with the most beautiful rose-colored hue, frosting the tips of his ears in a fervent pink. Castiel mentally dubbed this shade of Dean, "Pretty Porno Pink," and he inwardly snickered. Dean's green eyes were gaping at the image of a woman—a leggy, large-breasted brunette woman—and his hand was hidden suspiciously deep in his cargo short pockets. Castiel couldn't shake the vision of Dean possibly touching himself, right in front of him.
"God, she's hot," Sam sighed, pursing his lips as his head dipped closer.
"Smokin'" some of the boys echoed, but Castiel didn't much care abouttheirassessments.
His eyes were trained to Dean, hoping that he'd find the image as repulsive as he did.
Sadly, Dean was clearly excited, stuttering, "W-where did you get this?" There was brief, subtle movement under Dean's short fabric, and Castiel desperately needed to get home and loosen his own.
"My brother," Sam replied, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Even that small gesture, from someone like Sam, had Castiel's erection throbbing so badly that his hips bucked.
His mind was wildly creating fantasies with both Dean and Sam now. Then again, Castiel was so frustrated that even the disgusting woman in the magazine could have gotten him off.
Dean shifted again. "Send him my thanks," he chuckled, low and husky and Castiel grew impossibly harder. He scooted a little closer to Dean, under the ruse of wanting a better angle in which to view the picture, and Dean, noticing, gave him the space necessary to nestle his body closely.
Dean always saved Castiel the seat closest to him.
His arms were warm, and the one nearest to Castiel still had its hand shoved deep into his pocket. Castiel imagined all these other boys leaving so that he could get closer and whisper in his ear, "I can help with that..."
He'd never felt so brazen and so unforgivably turned on, by just watching Dean's arousal nonetheless. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this secret from Dean. They spent so much time together, alone and intimate, and the opportunities they might have to explore were so incredibly appealing to Castiel.
But then Sam was watching Castiel with narrowed eyes, and Castiel realized that his own stare hadn't been on the magazine, but instead, on Dean's subtly shifting crotch.
Castiel gulped and quickly looked away, ignoring the accusation in his gaze.
"Hey, Castiel," Sam suddenly said, and all heads snapped to him, most of the faces flushed and blank. Sam smirked and wondered aloud, "I'm guessing this isn't your type of material." Then Sam pulled out a sports magazine, full of sweaty men and athletic advertisements, and slapped it down on the bleachers, in front of him.
The other boys were silent for only a moment before their eyes widened, and then they were laughing uproariously, Dean stock-still and staring at the sports magazine in bewilderment.
Castiel stood, indignant as he glowered at Sam's ridiculously greasy hair, and wished that he could pour bleach into his brain, just to dissolve the momentary fantasy he'd just had of him, sullying Dean's solitary perfection.
"Shut up," Dean eventually defended as Castiel stalked away to the restrooms, hoping they might go home soon.
Castiel couldn't wait to curl up to Dean and dream of that hand, lost in the depths of pocket fabric.
"What do you mean?" Castiel asked, leaning against his headboard with one knee tucked to his chest. The soft glow of his bedside lamp illuminated Dean's face from below as he stood, and it accentuated his eye sockets—made them look sunken. His lips looked bigger. The lines of his fifteen-year-old body were almost visible through his old, sheer t-shirt.
"This isn't a joke," Dean whispered, but Castiel wasn't laughing. In fact, Castiel was very close to weeping, but he wouldn't let Dean see that. He clenched his teeth and wound his finger tightly around a loose thread of his bed sheet. It cut off his circulation and turned his fingertip blue.
Castiel pulled harder.
"Come on," Castiel pleaded softly, one last time, nodding his head to the space at his side. He was doing his best to play it off, uncertain how transparent he was being.
Dean's eyes stared at the void, blankets all rumpled and shoved back for the promise of his warm body.
Castiel hadn't wanted to ask. They'd never needed to and this new necessity confused him. Their beds had been open to one another for six years.
Dean's eyes were lifeless now, his posture indifferent. He shifted his weight. "Never," was his quiet answer and he turned, stalking from the room with his head down.
When the door finally closed, Castiel let the cancer of his absence invade him. It was crimson and bare—like his bedroom at midnight. The red walls were covered with marker and sketches and doodles and poetry they'd once been capable of sharing. The lamp illuminated little and Castiel scowled at the scant scrawlings he could decipher.
His finger was now numbed.
He wondered why Dean was doing this—denying Castiel his comfort. But he already knew. He'd heard the whispers around the house that floated to his ears like an evil, hissed chanting.
"Aren't they a little old to be sleeping with one another,John? Shouldn't you say something?"
Castiel had ignored them and would wait for Dean to come. If ever he failed to, Castiel would go to him. That was how gravity worked. Even during evening dinners, they'd shift together, like a graceful dance. Dean had been so oblivious and uncaring for so long. It had been the sweetest little abomination—this secret longing Castiel had kept hidden.
Castiel was apt at hiding.
But Castiel also knew that Dean's Mom's and Dad's displeasure had nothing to do with this. Castiel knew that this was his fault. He'd been careless and stupid—had allowed Dean to feel his morning erection and had reacted in an untoward way.
That had occurred earlier that morning and Castiel knew he had ruined it all with one, half conscious thrusting of his hips. Dean had opened his eyes and furrowed his brows, and when Castiel had realized what he'd done, he hadn't scrambled away. Instead, he'd held his hips there and had wanted to do it again. Their eyes were droopy from sleep, and Castiel's mouth felt fuzzy, but he'd been groggy and still enveloped by the euphoria of the dream he'd had about Dean.
Dean, who'd looked so confused and tired beside him.
Castiel had leaned his face closer to Dean, grinding his erection into his warm thigh.
Somewhere deep down, Castiel had convinced himself that Dean would feel the same things. He'd hoped that they could keep it secret and explore each other. But Castiel should have known better. Castiel often heard Dean doting over certain girls at school and knew he'd been attracted to them. Not Castiel. Dean liked their brown hair and petite frames, kept magazines hidden beneath his mattress with naked women in them. These were the things Dean dreamed about. Not Castiel. Never Castiel.
Dean had shoved him away with an aggressive haste.
Castiel wanted to plead with him as Dean flung himself out of the bed, aghast and horrified. He'd wanted to explain that he couldn't help it and that Dean had the softest, palest, most beautiful skin. He wanted Dean to know that he would gladly deny those reactions if he'd simply stay with him.
He wanted Dean to know that he meant so much more, that Castiel's curiosities and reactions were not the cause, but the effect of his connection to Dean.
Now, Castiel needed Dean at his side to make him feel safe and loved and valuable. To give him a place in the world. He craved the light buoyancy that often invaded his chest when Dean was near, touching him in little, affectionate gestures. He ached to place his head in Dean's lap, to feel his lithe fingers stroke his hair and stare into the green eyes that drove the darkness away.
He pulled the thread around his fingertip tighter, little tingles prickling the flesh. He was close to springing up and running to him. He wanted to catch Dean by the wrists and slam him against a wall in a violent, appalling way. He wanted to tell him that he couldn't survive without him—tell him to open his eyes and see how much they belonged together, in that way—tell him to open his mouth so he could finally taste the sweetness of his forbidden lips.
Castiel didn't sleep, and he never turned off the lamp.
Castiel eventually heard the terms that summer, in the locker rooms, on television, and coming from the dirty mouths of the neighborhood boys.
Gay. Fairy. Faggot. Queer.
They spoke of boys, like Castiel, who were attracted to other boys—though the way in which they spoke of it was far more vulgar and demeaning. Castiel had never thought his attraction to another boy as wrong and found it difficult to comprehend why it necessitated its own term. He so badly wanted to ask someone to explain it to him, but found Dean to be evasive of his company.
With no school to occupy him, Castiel followed Dean around the house. He sank at his side on the plush, white sofa. He tried to watch their favorite shows with Dean, but they never talked. Castiel would then follow him outside, wordless and lost, as Dean sought the group of boys he'd come to call friends. Castiel was rarely referred to as a "friend."
He hated it when Dean called him his "brother."
It didn't take long for Dean to grow annoyed with Castiel's persistence. "Stop following me," he finally snapped one day. Castiel had been trailing behind him, counting their steps as they traveled the sidewalk. Dean's infuriated spin caught Castiel off guard.
He flinched.
Dean rolled his eyes, his hair shining in the sunlight with flecks of ruby red. A drop of sweat trailed from his ear and pooled into his collarbone. "Don't you want to make your own friends?" he asked meaningfully, eyes alight with irritation, cheeks flushed with fury. His nostrils flared and Castiel had always thought Dean adorable when angry.
Of course, now, Dean was angry with him.
Castiel opened his mouth but couldn't speak. He didn't understand having anything of his own. Castiel shared with Dean and Dean shared with Castiel. There was no one thing owned solely by the other. They'd shared clothes and shampoo and candy bars and ice cream and soda pop and toys and... everything. He couldn't fathom the line required to sever that concept.
What was the point in having anything if he couldn't share it with Dean?
They could hear the voices of the other guys around the corner, and Dean shifted impatiently. Without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and loped toward them, so graceful as his muscular body moved. Castiel was still stuck in his awkwardly skinny body, all twiggy limbs and too tall to know what to do with them. Dean's hair stuck to his sweaty neck and Castiel memorized their curly Q's and matted O's.
And then, because he simply didn't know what else to do, Castiel followed.
Dean stepped right. Castiel stepped right. Dean stepped left, Castiel stepped left. Dean curved his path, Castiel curved his path. It was customary by this point. They even walked the same now. Talked the same. Used the same taboo language in private and liked the same junk food. Dean had adopted a fraction of Castiel's odd, southern accent, and in return, Castiel had adopted Dean's sharp annunciations, their speech becoming one, fused drawl unique only to them. Dean was an extension of him—a dual part of Castiel's body that he had no choice other than to accommodate.
But then the guys' voices got closer and Dean's fists curled at his side. Castiel furrowed his brow at them, tilted his head and pondered their meaning.
And then Dean spun.
Castiel flinched.
Dean put his palms to Castiel's shoulders and shoved him with an angry growl. Castiel watched his face as if in slow motion—the furling of his pink lips, the forward sway of his messy hair, the darkness of his eyes, and the creasing of his pale forehead.
Castiel—shocked and puzzled—tumbled to the ground and landed on his bare elbows with a blinding "crack."
He cried out in pain, could feel the course pavement below him scrape his skin away from bone and burn. It reminded Castiel of that excruciating moment when leather had met his flesh as a child. It wasn't the pain that hurt. Castiel found the pain to be oddly stimulating and, though the sensations burned, the throbbing made him acutely aware of his every nerve ending.
Castiel liked that.
No. The pain did not hurt Castiel.
Castiel was hurt by the persons who intentionally inflicted it.
His watery gaze was trained on the figure above him, and Castiel whimpered. Even though his elbows bled, it was his chest that ached. Castiel found it difficult breath. Dean's face was pale now, not flushed. His green-apple eyes were wide and aghast, and he staggered back, mutely shaking his head from side to side.
Castiel felt a tickle of pleasure from the remorse and horror that covered Dean's face like a tragic mask. Castiel was so weak physically, so vulnerable, and he hated feeling that way. This guilt was his only power over Dean. His perfect lips parted, and he did apologize, but when the guys grew nearer, Dean did not offer Castiel his hand. He hung his head and his remorse transformed to pity. Then Dean's face was blank, and he was turning to the others with a small, guilty shrug.
Blood trailed down Castiel's arms as he stood; using his blonde hair to veil his humiliating tears. He dusted the dirt off his back and when he extended his arms, a smatter of pain speckled his sensitive and raw skin. The guys all shot him odd looks and continued their laughter and walking.
Dean followed them, but Castiel followed nothing.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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