"Dean, this is my favorite song!"
The boy with the short blonde hair, Dean, groaned inwardly at the redhead's excitement. Tonight would not be going his way, especially when he was out on the town with none other than Anna Milton, who was known for always getting her way with men. Dean, who had not been too weary of the rumors, asked Anna for the night, only to realize he had just walked into what every other teenage boy in Lawrence, Kansas had already fallen for. He was bait for the oh so horrid ex to sink his claws into, and on top of that, Dean knew the only way he'd be getting off tonight would be by his own hand.
At the moment, he was perched along the wall of the Dance Place, as they called it these days, listening to the kind of music he could only describe with one word; shitty. The rules of the Dance Place were simple- one record player. You brought your own records to play, and it had to be popular stuff. Occasionally, Dean would hit up the Place with a couple of buddies that had not great but decent taste in music, and fend off any Beatles-crazed girls with one Devilish look.
Tonight, though, he was with girl, and there would be no fending done on her watch.
As a matter of fact, Anna Milton loved the Beatles, probably more than anyone in Lawrence. Dean didn't know if the real reason he had asked Anna out; did he particularly like the girl, or was it just some unsaid rule that the Varsity Quarterback dated the head cheerleader? Dean couldn't care less.
"The last ten songs were your favorite, An." He protested, words slightly slurred by the lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "How's about we head to The Roadhouse? Not exactly havin' a blast here."
"Just one more song, please? Dance with me, Dean."
The red head latched onto his arm, dragged him off the wall and into the crowd of other twisting and turning boys and girls, before starting to sway to the music herself.
Dean didn't move, save for his arm which was, unfortunately, still in the grasp of a certain Milton girl. Dean gave her a pointed look, a smoke screen billowing between them from his cigarette.
"I promised Ash a race. Jo's covering his shift."
"Excuses." She sighed, twirling under his arm, him moving halfheartedly, still. "Dance with me, and then we can meet Ash for your stupid race."
"It's not stupid." Dean cut her off, but without reason. Anna really didn't care, and Dean really had no patience to get into it tonight.
"Do you know the name of this song, Dean?" she asks quickly, changing the subject. She didn't wait for Dean to answer. "It's called 'Helter Skelter' by the Beatles. Isn't it just swell? Aren't the Beatles just swell? Lennon's cool, but the McCartney, really, he could- "
"Anna." He interrupts. "The Beatles are lame."
Anna sighs, dropping Dean's arm, finally.
"What's your bag, Winchester?"
She was glowering at him, a hint of detest in her eyes, and Dean knew that if he didn't play his cards right, he'd probably never get another shot with Anna Milton again. He felt only half-guilty that he really didn't dig her, but it wasn't his fault now, was it? Maybe they just clashed. Then again, that was his excuse for every other time that a girl an him didn't work out. Pretty soon, people would be getting suspicious. The other half of him was stuck with the same attitude that came with being surrounded by a ton of people and what he proclaimed was bad music. Filled with detest, he shook his head.
"I'm-" Dean didn't have time to finish his sentence.
He heard the Place's back entrance, which was, for your information, its main entrance, opening, the feeling of time slow still hitting him like a wave. He couldn't be sure if the feeling came first, or the other person had, but it still made his stomach flip, his breath hitch. There, walking through the door, was a guy- probably around his age, maybe younger, and looking just as unwilling to be here as Dean did- with dark hair and a sweater, an averagely pretty blond chick on his arm. Dean's eyes were wide, his lungs burning painfully from the moments he had forgotten to breathe.
Anna, who wasn't as dumb as a lot of people made her out to be, spun around.
"Dean!" She huffed, turning back to him so quickly that her skirt flounced around her. "I cannot believe you right now, getting all flustered over my brain-dead cousin's date."
Anna, oblivious to Dean's real thoughts and to the surprised and even somewhat confused look on his face as he turned his attention back to her, continued to glare.
"Meg Masters isn't even that pretty, look at her, just look! Besides, she has horrible taste. If she's here with Castiel, then she obviously wouldn't want you. And besides, I heard she's easy. You don't want an easy girl, now, do you Dean?"
Dean had given up paying attention to the redheaded girl's lecture. Her words were irrelevant, anyway, because Dean obviously had no intention of chasing Meg Masters of all people, the girl he had hated since the seventh grade when she made fun of him for being the shortest boy in their grade. It was the boy she was hooked to that caught his attention. He was sure it was the intensity of this guy that had made him lose his breath, a strong aura of restlessness seeming to come from him and prevail against the force of company. Meg, immune to the invisible force, clung to him like a leech.
Anna was still glaring, silent with expectation.
"That's your cousin?" Were the only words he could muster when he got his bearings back. Anna damn near screeched.
"I tried to be nice, Winchester. Don't bother calling." Anna left the place with a ferocity that Dean's sure wouldn't settle over well on Monday when he was back in school, trying harder than he should to keep a reputation that no one would harsh him for. Everything was so good so far on that field, but that was probably due to the facts that 1) he was the varsity Quarterback, and 2) he was no longer the shortest kid in their class.
Dean shrugs to himself, sure that the night had been going in the same direction, regardless of the number of people involved, and that by next week, Anna Milton would have another guy to take her dancing, and that he himself would be at home, probably jacking off in his bedroom.
The guy was on the dance floor, swaying and swinging around happily with Masters. He felt uneasy, like an intruder, what with the way he was watching. That smile seemed private, probably meant for Masters only, and Dean was just standing there, watching like he had every right to. 'Whatever.' He thought. 'Guy's in a public place. I do have a right.'
It didn't change the fact that he still felt guilty in watching. He was getting angry with himself, and right when he decided to look away, finally, and maybe leave and find Ash for that promised race, the guy looked up at him. The smile was gone from his face, looked like it hadn't even been there in the first place, and it was replaced by a bored, edgy expression. Dean inhaled sharply when the blue eyes found him. His eyes sent a cold shudder through his body, and he was almost certain that he had seen this boy somewhere before.
He kept on dancing with Meg, never quite tearing his eyes away from Dean's, and Dean grew awkward. It was the first time that he'd felt like that in a while, so impressionable under a gaze that could only be scrutinizing him from across the room. He wondered, briefly, if the boy was slowly taking him apart from across the room. If he said he wasn't squirming in his leather shoes, he'd be lying.
He cleared his throat, not sure for whom exactly, and ripped his eyes away. He felt angry again, cheated. How dare he feel ashamed for staring at the guy, he did it right back, for longer even, and he didn't seem sympathetic in the slightest. As a matter of fact, Dean could feel the other boy's eyes on him still.
After his five moment's hesitation, he turned, abruptly, and walked with a certain concluding swiftness out of the Dance Place. Outside, Dean breathed in the cold Lawrence air, and closed his eyes. He leaned against the brick wall of the building he'd just left, and pulled the now burnt out cigarette from his lips, and tosses it to the ground. Crushing it with his foot, he sighs, and tries to allow all thoughts of reputation and consequence leave his mind.
Sammy, Dean's fourteen year old kid brother, is probably home by now and probably doing the chores that Dean was supposed to take care of but didn't so that, in the morning, when their alcoholic father woke up he wouldn't be madder than Satan with the two of them. He hates putting so much stress on his brother, and he doesn't like to do it whatsoever, but he needed a night out. If not to relieve himself of a little of his own stress (which he encourages Sam to do whenever he can), then to save the dwindling reputation, which hides what's really been going on at home.
He doesn't like to think about home.
Dean rolls his shoulders, tense with how things had been going that evening, and groans as they ram into the building behind him. Without opening his eyes, he pulls a sleek, black cigarette case out of his leather jacket's one good pocket (because the one on the left has a tear, and things fall and are lost through that pocket faster than stars fall) and pops it open, pulling out his umpteenth cig of the night. Slipping the new smoke between his lips, he slides the case back into his pocket, and fumbles around a moment for his pack of matches. Groaning, he remembers he ran out of matches a good two hours ago, and upon sad realization, he just doesn't have the extra money to buy a new packet.
He hears a flick, the familiar sound of a match being struck up, and considers asking whoever his partner is out there in the real world if he can borrow a flame. Before he knows what's going on, smoke invades his lungs, and he coughs, sputtering and shocked. Dean's eyes split open fast, only to find a set of life-altering blue ones staring into his, their owner a little too close for comfort and holding a burning match to his once unlit cigarette.
Dean's about to tell this guy to hit the road when he realizes, yeah, this guy is actually just standing there, fingers still clamped around the down end of a burning match. The flames moving rapidly down the wood, and if he doesn't do something quick, this guy's gonna burn. Dean makes haste in spitting on his hand, pressing the saliva and his hand down on the flame to put it out.
"Watch it, pal, you're gonna burn yourself." He hisses, the match falling down to the ground between them, when the boy drops it.
Dean's hand is cradled around the other boy's firmly, now. Smoke is starting to rise between them, so Dean takes his free hand, and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. The guy doesn't move his hand away, so neither does Dean, refusing in some ridiculous little ploy in his mind to lose anything to this shameless bastard.
Only, Dean feels bad calling him a shameless bastard, even in his head, because his blue eyes are opened wide, a flash of terror running through them.
"I'm sorry." He says, his voice roughly, almost painfully deep, but quiet. Timid. "I di-didn't mean to…"
The blue-eyed boy gestures with his hands, telling Dean absolutely nothing about what he is sorry for, and Dean is frustrated beyond control. 'Then again,' He thinks. 'he looks pretty fucking terrified.'
"It's okay." Dean replies, quickly, a sinking feeling settling in his chest. "And uh, thanks, I guess, for uh…"
"No problem, Dean." Blue eyes offers, a tight lipped something of a smile moving across his face. "I don't smoke, but I found these…" He raises his own free hand, replacing an almost full pack of matches for his hand back.
Dean looks away from those bright eyes, staring down at the matches in the palm of his hand. Curling his fingers around them, he pushes them into his good pocket, and moves his gaze to the ground.
"Guess you aren't very social either. Can't blame you, though, Meg Masters has enough priss to scare away most normal people." He chuckles. "How'd you know my name anyway?"
This isn't how Dean usually acts. He isn't friendly to strangers, especially weird ones who go around lighting cigarettes for other people and almost burning themselves in the process. He doesn't touch other guys like he had this one, and on a normal night, he most definitely wouldn't be letting a smoke burn untouched.
"Social anxiety." He answers shrugging, a tinge of pink forming on his cheeks. "Meg Masters told me when she saw me…when she saw me staring at you. Meg is my friend." He swallows down, eager to shake his nerves away, Dean figures. "I'm Castiel."
"Castiel?" Dean repeats, raising the cigarette to his lips when it becomes apparent that this guy isn't going to back up. He takes a draw, blows it to the side so that it doesn't hit this Castiel's face. "That's a mouthfuluva name you got there. Mind if I call ya Cas?"
Castiel shakes his head 'no', his eyes trained on the cigarette in Dean's hand. Dean can feel the soft brush of air against him, coming from Cas' breathing. He isn't too comfortable with the way his heartbeat speeds up at the feeling, but he deals because, ultimately, he hasn't been this close to anyone and liked it for a long time. 'It's dark and no one's looking, so what the hell?' Dean thinks.
"No, a lot of people call me that. Meg calls me angel-face." Castiel blinks, for the first time, Dean's sure, since their conversation started.
"Meg your girlfriend?" Dean asks, out of spite.
"Gosh, no." He answers, abruptly. "Meg says that I am too… I think the word was 'Rasputin'? to be boy-toy material."
"What in Heck does that mean?" Dean demands, brows furrowed, as he flicks his ash to the ground.
"I have absolutely no idea."
The same tight-lipped, almost-smile appears on his face, and although Dean feels a little smidgen of pride for helping in making it happen, he can't help but think that it's nothing compared to the smile he'd had when he was dancing earlier that night.
Castiel had a way of speaking that was uncanny, in a sense that all his vowels and consonants were properly pronounced, unlike most of the current generation, definitely unlike Dean. Dean was laid back with his talking, like a true greaser, except he cut his hair much too often to try and raise his social status among the unimpressed people of high school environments. That was life, though. People always trying to be what they weren't.
Dean likes to think that it was that very peculiar originality in his speaking habits that made him say his next words, but in truth, that was only half of it. He was tired of being with so-called normal people, just wanted to be with someone who was, well, themselves. Cas seemed to do that easily.
"Wanna book it? I know a place we can waste time. Kind of a Dullsville, but…" He trails off nodding. "We don't have to…" He supplies after a moment of thoughtful silence.
"No, I think I'd like to." Cas nods. "I just… well, Meg…"
"I'm sure she'll understand. Besides," Dean smiles. "You and I both know that she never intended to leave this place with you."
"You're awful."
"Am I?" Dean chuckles to himself. "Come on, my bike's parked around the corner." He nods his head in the direction of his bike, waiting for Cas' response.
"Well…okay, I guess." He answers. "But not for too long."
"Don't worry Cinderella, I'll have you home by midnight."
Dean slides past Cas, pulling the other boy behind him by the arm. The thought of having Cas on the back of his bike sends a thrill through him, has him jazzed and ready to show off exactly why Johnny Law's been hot on giving him those high-priced speeding tickets, which is, by a horribly unfortunate chance, one of his favorite pass-times.
Dean's bike is his prized possession, and he'd kill for her. His 'Pride N' Joy' he calls her. There was bad scene a couple months ago where a couple of Clydes got together and keyed up her smooth black paint. Dean saved up though, gave her a new paint job when he could, and, in the mean time, beat each member of the guilty group damn near senseless in a rumble outside the Roadhouse.
When Dean sees her around the corner, he grows even more prideful, at first, and then self-conscious. What if Cas is that kind of person? You know the kind of anti-fun, deadbeat people he'd struck out unlucky with on so many occasions. They were usually girls, but a couple of guys he knew were like that, too. They'd grow up to be Normans, car salesmen with large bellies and clean cut faces. People that never live, and fade into nothing eventually.
Dean looks back at Cas, and decides that that's impossible, and also that he likes the way his hair gets blown down over his forehead. With a mental kick in the ass, Dean remembers that he's not supposed to be attracted to guys, and that it's wrong. His stomach sinks, his eyes lower, and he looks back at his baby in high hopes that the feelings will pass. He feels like a guilty hypocrite, and wonders if he's got a future in politics. Snorting to himself, he shakes his head. 'No way that'll ever happen.'
He also hopes Ash will forgive him for skipping out tonight.
"Here she is." Dean announces, smiling at his pride and joy. "You're in for a hell of a ride, Castiel."