I dont own Supernatural.
Mary and John were beginning to worry about Castiel, and he knew it. He hid away in his room for the remainder of the summer and spent his time dreaming and sulking. He only came out for dinner, never capable of containing his bitter tears when Dean would return home at twilight, flushed and sweating and exhausted from a long day of playing baseball with the other guys.
Castiel hated baseball—not that he was ever invited to play, of course.
One evening while the two were washing dishes, Castiel heard Mary asking Dean why he was never invited. "It's just a little odd that you were so attached at the hip, and now you won't even take him out to play with you," she wondered aloud.
Dean lied quite easily, "I asked him to come and he said 'no.'"
This produced a term from John when Mary went to him, concerned: "Social dysfunction."
Castiel balked at these words, infuriated at Dean. He wasn't certain how, but he made a plan to get back at him—to make Dean feel as excluded as he did. He began listening to music that he knew Dean would loathe. He chose the loudest, heaviest, most obscene and frowned upon songs and played them whenever he was certain Dean would be home. He was always quite pleased whenever he'd catch a glimpse of Dean's face, wrinkled in distaste.
But Castiel actually found himself relating to the words of the songs—angry and withdrawn.
Before school began again, Mary took Castiel out to buy his own clothes, since Dean's bedroom—and consequently, his closet—were now off-limits to Castiel. He chose clothes that were the farthest from what Dean wore.
Dean liked black, grey and brown and so Castiel chose white, black and blue.
When school started again, Castiel found it difficult to watch Dean with the other boys. He had to sit at his own table Sophomore year, exiled from his usual spot at Dean's side. Outwardly, Castiel remained emotionless and numb, but inwardly, Castiel was anguished with every moment that he had to watch Dean's smile from across the room.
Castiel stopped caring about his grades, found it difficult to remain focused on the boring material. He'd spend his afternoons gazing out windows and concocting fantasies of Dean's ultimate absolution. In his daydreams, Dean would come to him, remorseful and pleading, and Castiel—never capable of saying no to him—would accept him with wide, open arms and a joyous grin.
They'd kiss in Castiel's fantasies.
It wasn't always on the mouth.
On Halloween that year, Dean took Jo Harvel out on a date, to a costume party that Castiel hadn't been invited to. Jo went as Marilyn Monroe. Dean went as John F. Kennedy. Castiel went to the Winchester' liquor cabinet when they fell asleep and got drunk for the very first time.
He vomited in his closet.
When his "parents" had found their liquor missing that Thanksgiving, they'd punished Castiel—a first. He was prepared for a myriad of methods used to accomplish this. Castiel knew by then that John would never strike him. Instead, they grounded Castiel to his room, where he had round-the-clock access to a brand new computer, high speed internet, and websites where he could watch men do what he always wished Dean might.
As if he went anywhere else.
The numbness never came. Castiel always read and heard about people becoming numb to this kind of pain, but he wasn't so lucky. Rage filled Castiel like a violent waterfall, brimming over the edges and threatening to spill over at any given second. Whenever it did, he'd be forced to lock himself away like a volatile prisoner, too afraid of his flagrant transparency to simply... snap.
God, how he wanted to snap.
Now, Castiel was watching by the ledge, his ribbons of smoke twirling like a zephyr toward the night sky as it twinkled. He tucked himself away in a dark corner of the balcony and watched. He was always watching. Two glowing eyes in the darkness of the forest. Something's off, but you don't know what.
He flicked his cigarette and narrowed his eyes—his sapphire-colored eyes.
He hated that fucking gemstone. He hated the humid breeze, caressing his flesh with nothing but chill. He hated the sounds coming from below him and the rattling of the windows like monkeys in cages. He hated so much these days.
He hated himself. He hated his scars. He hated his black hair and it's course curling. He hated being sober, and he hated lying to his "parents." He hated them. He hated his red bedroom and the cold floors. He hated the memories—and—he—fucking—loathed—Lisa-Braeden
Dean looked so strange now, sitting on the hood of his new car and laughing. He threw his head back, and his abdomen tightened with the chortles. Castiel could sense its dishonesty in the oddest way. He wanted to be there to look a little closer. He wanted to set his jaw and narrow his eyes and peer into that bizarre sound. He dissected it with careful incisions. High. Low. Deep. Repeat. Bounce of the diaphragm. Tosses of bronze.
So few could see his strangeness, really comprehend or grasp its existence.
To Castiel it was a flashing billboard on a crowded interstate. It reminded him of little bugs, teeming beneath tree bark and gnawing until nothing was left but a hollow stump. Slender fingers. Animated as they waved. Words spoken, vibrations of sound that twisted and distorted through a crooked smile. Dean brushed her hair back from her neck. Fingertips grazed her skin, and she smiled, smiled, smiled.
He blew his smoke into the air slowly, allowing the noxious cloud to obstruct the view of lips touching. Hands on backs. Whispers in ears. More laughter, stretching wide around the space and calling, "Look at me! Look at me! Aren't I so motherfucking divine?"
Tiny, tiny hands, grasping and clutching as their lips glistened under the pale moonlight. Her fingers trailed his shoulders and sank into the blue fabric of his shirt. She hooked her knee around his hip and moaned against him. She reached down and cupped his groin, and he shoved his fingers into her hair with a fevered grunt.
Castiel—drunk and dizzy—vomited over the railing.
"Where did you go?" Dean asked as she took her seat. His hair hung in his eyes. Flopping down. Wide eyes. He picked at his chicken and avoided anything outside his bubble of perfection. He wasn't oblivious to Castiel's cutting stare. He was just ignoring him. Castiel wished he could ignore Dean, too.
She grinned. "To the lady's room, of course." Her hand sought his, wrapped it up tight, held it down and locked it away. Their fingernails were bright and entwined and laying atop the Winchester family dinner table like the prettiest picture. Everyone was smiling. Castiel inspected her fingers and, against his will, envisioned them wrapped around Dean's rigid cock.
Castiel ground his teeth and tapped his boot, shoved the food into his mouth.
"Your home is so lovely, Mrs. Winchester!" Lisa exclaimed like screeching chimes that made Castiel cringe. Eyes bright like headlights scanned the walls, and she gushed, gushed, gushed. Castiel felt sick again. The pleasantries swelled around him. "Everything tastes delicious! I love that painting! Your pearls are gorgeous!"
And this was the most horrific thing about this Lisa fucking Braeden. She hadn't an ounce of malice in her. She was polite and kind, attractive and sensual, sweet and sugary, intelligent and strong-willed. And she was genuine in her care for Dean. When all pretenses were stripped away, Castiel could only come to one conclusion.
Castiel hated Lisa most because he had no logical reason to.
Mary beamed with pride and joy. John was engrossed in a newspaper. Dean was nodding along and eating small, menial bites. Shoving them down the hole. Holding her hand. Grazing her shoulder. Smiles so crooked and bizarre were flashed and disarmed her anxiety.
Castiel fucking hated that smarmy, crooked smile of his. He shouldn't be smiling like that—teeth and pink and bright green eyes, seeking brown. Every time he saw the smile—the one meant for Castiel—he wanted to stand and scream and toss his chair about like a petulant child. Didn't they understand anything?
Dean was his.
Dean kissed Lisa goodnight in the foyer as Castiel passed to climb the stairs. Hands on hips, thumbs on cheeks, and tender whispers. Dean stared after her form with sparkling eyes and a thrilled stare. He probably liked watching her ass sway, Castiel seethed. Then the door was closed, and Dean was trodding away. Bounce in his step.
He never looked at Castiel anymore. It felt as though Forks was a chasm below him and he was falling. He was a weightless, yet somehow swollen mass that kept dropping. He waited to hear the final "crack" of his landing. Waited to feel the pain of his ending. Waited for the ground to finally give way to nothing.
He hadnothing.
Castiel's fingernails penetrated the flesh of his palm, and when he finally,finally bled, his lips twitched like a dying body.
The stale linger of its taste in his mouth was the worst.
It was bitter, with an edge of saccharine, like blood and candy. He could feel it's violent dance on the tip of his tongue with every passing day. It never waned. Like a ghost, it haunted his empty halls, floating through the vacant rooms and searching for tattered toys and discarded, broken soldiers. How he wished he could give it back, shove it into his arms and laugh, laugh, laugh.
He could taste it the strongest at midnight. Could smell soapy hair and feel damp breaths against his neck. He could hear soft breathing, see twitching-dream fingers. Could feel hot, tender flesh beneath his eager fingertips.
Castiel had always been such a weird, dark little shit.
Castiel still found himself waking at the twelve chimes of the hallway grandfather clock. He'd forget the betrayal, and his feet would take him through the house, up the stairs, and to the door he was once welcome to enter. It wasn't until his hand wrapped around the brass knob that he'd remember.
It would wrap its bony fingers around his throat and squeeze until he'd gasp in the darkness. He'd stagger back and let the handle go without really meaning to. He'd feel Dean's words every night, thick like cold venom coating a candied shell.
"I don't sleep with fags."
And there—in front of the entrance which was once a soothing balm to his wounds—Castiel would cry.
He wouldn't sob. Castiel wasn't a sobber—he refused. But the tears would trail down his cheeks like searing tracers, regardless of his efforts to disallow them. He was always so weak like this—tired and scared and utterly fucking alone. Where was their compassionate fucking boy now?
And then Castiel would go back to bed. He would remove his boxers and lay naked beneath the covers. He would grab a white down pillow and shove it between the sheets, turn on his side and grip it between his thighs. He would move his hips against the smooth coldness, releasing a sigh. He would smash it against his throbbing erection.
His hand had always been lacking, so cold. Had felt so clinical and to-the-point. He'd wanted to imagine a pale, lanky body beneath him as he came. He wanted to feel above it, in control of it. He wanted to dominate it. This is the method he still preferred. Castiel couldn't even jack-off like a normal boy. But though that sickened him, made him feel shame, he continued.
He'd eventually turn to lay on top of it.
He would prop himself on his elbows and tuck his chin to his chest so he could watch himself fucking it. The tip of his cock would slide against white, peeking out from between his stomach and cotton. He'd imagine a little tuft of coppery hair, a trail from a belly button, hot breath on his face.
He would thrust urgently against it, the blankets on his back rising and falling with quick, sharp bounces and falling off his bare shoulders. His mattress would squeak, just like he always knew it would. He'd stare at himself moving against it and talk as if Dean were there, beneath him, writhing. Castiel had a vivid imagination and he'd say the most disgusting things to Dean's effigy.
The most disgusting, horrible, honest and arousing things.
At first he'd whisper sweetly, softly, tenderly to his absent lover, secret and gentle as he bucked into the pillow. He would shift his knees and he would push harder, offering husky praise to vacant space as he lifted his stomach for a better view.
He imagined Dean being so tight...
And then he would fall and writhe and rock into the bed with a pleading, begging groan as he came. Shuddering, he'd call his name as if Dean might hear him from across the house. He wanted him to rush through his door and swear that he'd never leave him again. He wanted to feel his sinewy arms encasing him yet again, holding Castiel's sweaty head to his chest.
Instead, Castiel would lay his cheek down, staring at the door and panting as he pressed his dick into the soiled pillow, just a few more times. It was so much easier this way. He'd forget the pain of standing before Dean's door—too exhausted and breathless to think. And then he'd fall asleep, sticky and empty.
Castiel did his own laundry now.
He'd waited for this moment since Junior year. It was the best fucking day he could remember having since Dean had kissed his wrist. Castiel walked on air through the halls of his high school, a secret grin on his face as he drifted from class to class, sticking to the shadows and the crevices of classrooms.
The girls were more chatty than usual and this... this pleased Castiel. The guys weren't much better, their whispers only minimally softer but ultimately decipherable. He'd lean in over his desk to catch their phantom and intangible murmurings, wanted to pluck them out of the air and shove them in his pocket for safekeeping. His hidden smile grew wider with every second.
Dean had stayed home today, as had Lisa
If it weren't for the school gossip, Castiel would have never recognized his fortune. For in the hallways and the stolen seconds before and after classes, the student body was abuzz with particularly satisfying information.
Lisa Braeden kissed one of the Biker boys. Dean found out.
They were no longer together.
Nothing could dampen Castiel's high spirits. Not even when the assistant principal cited him for dress code violation because his pants had fallen too low on his hips. Not even when Ms. Ann informed Castiel of the possibility he might not graduate, due to his laughable GPA. Not even when he missed the bus and had to walk home, the rain already beginning to fall.
Castiel was positively soaked to the bone by the time he reached the large white mansion in the forest. Mary and John's cars were both absent from the garage. He checked. The house was an eerie kind of silent, as if maybe a calm after the storm.
Castiel went straight up the flight of stairs and passed his own room. Dean's door was closed, as he'd expected it to be. Internally, his heart was fluttering wildly in anticipation, all abuzz like the campus had been. He didn't even bother knocking.
But he wasn't prepared for what he saw: Dean curled up on the bed beneath his sheets, staring at the far wall with vacant, bloodshot eyes.
Castiel inspected him with much misery, the buzz in his chest subsiding to a deep aching that he never wanted to experience. Dean's pain was Castiel's pain.
In that moment, Castiel realized that he'd been so very wrong about Lisa Braeden. He had ample reason to hate her, every fiber of her being. She possessed Dean's heart, his perfect, flawless, fragile, delicate heart. Castiel had never entirely realized the depths of Dean's feelings for the girl, but there was no denying them now. She'd had his heart, and Castiel knew this with certainty, because clearly, she had crushed it.
Castiel knew how that felt, could see the symptoms and signs miles away. If ever he were doubtful of this fact, all he had to do was look in the mirror.
He felt no sense of vindication. There was no glory for Castiel in seeing Dean like this: crumpled and discarded and empty. There was only a deep sense of empathy, an impossible longing to comfort and soothe, a craving to absorb as much of that ache as he possibly could.
So Castiel removed his wet jacket and moved closer to Dean's bed, growing more and more miserable with every second that Dean completely disregarded his presence. Castiel pulled back the blankets and slid underneath, dampening the sheets with his soaked denim and dripping hair.
Dean was so motionless that Castiel thought him much like a statue. Except that he wasn't. Statues stood tall, they didn't lay curled around white bedsheets, despondent and limp. When Castiel was close enough, he lay his head upon the pillow, placing his eyes directly in Dean's line of vacant vision. There was only a slight spark of recognition in Dean's green eyes, but it was enough for Castiel to feel relief.
But then Dean whimpered.
It was a soft, anguished sound that pierced the depths of Castiel's soul. And he couldn't restrain his arms from seeking Dean's body and encasing them in what little comfort Castiel had left to give. Dean did not return the embrace at first, but Castiel smelled his hair and smoothed it back, hooked his wet leg around Dean's calf, the way he always had.
Castiel had never been the strong one. All he could do was hold Dean's prostrate body until he felt his arms respond, one draping itself weakly over Castiel's side. It was only an echo of what he knew they once shared. It was dark and miserable and painful in ways that Castiel couldn't possibly enjoy. Even though he finally held Dean in his arms, it was, in many ways, tainted with despair.
As was their sleep.
They must have slept for hours upon hours, if not days. Castiel could sense Dean in the depths of his seemingly never ending slumber, could reach him and touch him and cradle his head in his hands. He could also, almost instinctively, feel the sun's set and rise as he dozed contentedly.
Castiel seemed to awake to a weight in his chest that puzzled him. He squinted his eyes and wondered what the hell was fucking with his hair, something seeming to flutter through his tresses in a darkly, achingly familiar way. Castiel hadn't had anyone touch his hair since...
He opened his eyes to bare skin and a waistband, a little trail of coppery hair disappearing beneath it. Castiel's head rose and fell with Dean's breaths, his skin exploding into a current of electric gooseflesh with every pass that was made against his scalp. Dean's fingers. Castiel knew they were Dean's fingers. He must have, even in his dreams, because the weight that filled his chest was something that Castiel hadn't felt in so long.
Castiel sighed, his arm wedged uncomfortably against Dean's side. He was afraid to speak, terrified to spook the moment and watch it flutter away and dissipate into nothingness.
Dean's voice was gravelly and weak. "I guess everyone knows." His fingers, his smooth, long, gentle fingers, never ceased in their tender caresses.
Castiel suppressed a shiver. "I'm sorry," he whispered and was surprised to hear the utter sincerity of his voice.
Somewhere behind Castiel's head, Dean shrugged. "So am I."
When the deep chasm of silence fell upon them, neither abandoned their position. Castiel's eyes remained saucer-wide and stared fixedly at the patch of hair before him. He'd always imagined it, had seen the beginnings of its growth, but had never had the opportunity to view it matured. He memorized the way each hair curled against Dean's belly, scattering outward into nothing but pale flesh.
"Castiel," Dean eventually called, his fingers faltering. "Can I ask you a question?"
Castiel was unnerved by the slowing of Dean's caresses and the frailty of his voice. "Okay," he resigned with more than a little wariness. He was incapable of denying him.
Dean's voice was dreadfully knowing as he asked, "Why did you change your hair?" And then, as if to punctuate his own suspicions, Dean grasped at a thick lock and twirled it around his forefinger.
Castiel wasn't sure what to say or how to answer him. He'd changed his hair months prior, had seen no visible evidence that Dean had even noticed. Swallowing nervously, Castiel coldly declared, "You really don't want to know," and prepared himself for Dean's ultimate rejection and callousness.
"I do," Dean insisted.
Castiel released a long sigh and began to turn his head. He realized that this was likely the last moment he and Dean would share with such scarce proximity. The pit of his stomach hardened and tensed in preparation.
Castiel looked Dean in his bloodshot eyes, propped on his elbows and stoic. He wasn't ready before, but this time... Castiel knew exactly what to expect.
"You prefer brunettes."
Castiel was back in his bedroom. He and Dean had slept for so long that he was no longer tired. He'd left Dean's bedroom that morning confused, hopeful, pissed off, and some how more confused.
Upon Castiel's confession, Dean hadn't kicked him out. Then again, he hadn't stayed in bed, either. Looking rather awkward and still just as empty as he had the previous day, Dean had excused himself, citing that he'd desperately needed a shower.
Castiel was uncertain what to make of his lack of reaction. He worried that maybe he'd been more transparent all this time than he'd known. Then again, Castiel had never been able to hide from Dean. He wasn't surprised that Dean had likely known the truth all along.
Which was why Castiel now lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling and fantasizing, hoping. This was what pissed him off. Castiel didn't want to get his hopes up just to watch them crash and burn. But try as he might, he couldn't stop himself from envisioning that trail of hair or Dean's green eyes. He couldn't stop himself from recalling the way Dean's bed had smelled—more like man than boy.
Castiel's mind kept stampeding between thoughts, first tender, and then violent, lascivious, longing, giddy, despondent, before finally continuing the circuit with no resolution. That was, until he heard a slight rapping on his bedroom door.
Castiel's eyes snapped to the source of the sound just as Dean's head peeked through, hand grasping the knob. Dean appeared rather uncertain as he stepped into the room, explaining, "Can't sleep."
Castiel swiftly sat up, scooting his back flush to his headboard and quickly running his fingers through his dark hair. He was caught off guard and knew that he must have looked like shit. "Me either," Castiel hurriedly agreed, eyes darting to the space at his side.
Without the necessity of Castiel's gawky request, Dean gracefully traveled to the bed, the mattress shifting once his weight was settled.
Dean's lips were set into a hard scowl. "I fucking hate him," he declared, eyes crinkling around the edges. Castiel didn't need to ask him to elaborate. Dean ranted, "Matt Donovin". He's a complete moron. Has no tact, whatsoever. He's rude and smells like a dog."
At this, Castiel's lips pulled up into a bitter smile. For all the hilarity of Dean's slight, Castiel knew what fueled it. "I think Lisa's the moron," he corrected, a little more harshly than intended.
Dean winced minutely at the mention of her name, shoulders folding inward protectively. "I can't hate Lisa," he admitted, suddenly weary as his chin dropped.
Castiel resented his voice for consoling, "It probably didn't mean anything." He instantly wondered why he was defending Lisa of all people. He should have been playing on Dean's vulnerability and demonizing her further, but he simply couldn't stand to see Dean so broken.
Dean snorted, nose wrinkling weakly. "But... don't kisses always mean something? They're so... intimate." He looked to Castiel, a plea in his stare that Castiel couldn't possibly fulfill.
"I wouldn't know," Castiel replied, a little embarrassed at his inexperience. He couldn't have eased Dean's mind even if he had known, incapable of judging the relationship between Lisa and this . Matt Donovin
Dean, suddenly curious, quirked an eyebrow and doubtfully hedged, "You've never kissed anyone?" But then his eyebrow fell and he turned his face away. "Because you don't like girls."
And there it was, so certain and defined.
Castiel had never said as much aloud. The evidence was contained to his midnight whispers, his indifferent attitude, his well worn computer, and his classroom fantasies. There was some satisfaction in his own nervously spoken, "Right," that he hadn't quite expected.
Nodding, Dean lifted a hand to wrap around his neck, rubbing awkwardly. "That must really suck," he offered, but then turned an immediate and delicious shade of scarlet.
Castiel realized the hidden context of Dean's words and found his own face flushing. Ignoring the uncomfortable atmosphere that had settled between them, Castiel shrugged. "Eh, who really wants some asshole slobbering in their mouth, anyway?"
Dean finally met his gaze, rolling his still-puffy eyes. "There's more to it than just slobbering in someone's mouth, Castiel." Then Dean's eyes seem to grow brighter as he explained with an enthusiasm that made Castiel uncomfortable, "There's something about having someone open themselves up to you, let you get close enough to kiss them, that's... special and meaningful. It's a language all its own, a way to tell someone what they mean to you and how much you want them without using words." When Dean finished, he was impossibly more red, the tips of his ears a startling magenta.
Castiel realized then that Dean was one of those laughable romantics and felt a fleeting swelling of what might have been a mocking chuckle. Had Castiel not felt overwhelmingly unfortunate to have never experienced what Dean described, he would have.
But he was filled, brimming, with a profound sadness that must have shown in his expression, for Dean's wistful smile quickly faded. Castiel lacked the grace and nobility necessary to suppress his whispered plea.
"Show me," Castiel implored, though he knew that doing so would be risking whatever scant closeness he'd only just regained.
Dean's hand was once again around his neck, anxious as he scratched and avoided Castiel's stare. "I don't know..." he trailed off, uncertain but—to Castiel's exultation—not entirely repulsed.
Castiel licked his lips and excitedly promised, "I'll never tell anyone, Dean, I swear to fucking God. Please," he begged, body already poised in anticipation of Dean's resignation.
"Lisa..." Dean worried, brows pinched tightly in concern.
Castiel couldn't contain his anger as he snapped, "So, what? It's okay for her to go around kissing motherfuckers while you're together, but you have to sit and pine away for her once you're apart? What kind of fucked up double standard is that?" Castiel quickly caught himself at the sight of Dean's tormented expression, softly adding, "She'll never even know."
So expectant was Castiel becoming of Dean's rejection—he'd really ruined his chances with his quick temper—that Dean's quiet, "You promise not to tell?" completely took him off guard.
Vehemently, Castiel nodded, so much so that his faux-brown hair flopped and swayed, and when Dean finally raised his eyes to his, Castiel thought he might just fucking explode right then. He'd never had reason to imagine his fantasies might come to fruition. Every one of them began with Castiel kissing Dean.
The air seemed to buzz as Dean took a deep breath, turning his body to Castiel's and noting bluntly, "This is kind of weird." But Castiel didn't think it was weird at all. Castiel thought it was right and perfect and meant to be.
Then Castiel wondered if Dean's hopeless romanticism wasn't rubbing off on him.
Castiel wanted other things of Dean's to rub off on him.
Trying desperately to shake himself, Castiel lied, "It's not a big deal," and pivoted toward Dean, his every cell electrified in wait.
Dean didn't use his hands or touch Castiel in any intimate fashion. Instead, without any preamble, he leaned into him and placed his lips over Castiel's. Castiel was thrumming with excitement as his breaths grew sharper, nervous as his hands raised to touch Dean's face, apprehensive as he attempted to cavalierly mimic what he'd seen so many others do.
Dean's lips felt tight in the infancy of the kiss and Castiel wondered if it was normal. Then as Castiel's hand met Dean's hair and the hot skin of his jaw, they began to slacken, the kiss growing loose and languid, slow and sensual.
Below the soft wool of his pants, Castiel throbbed and twitched.
Tongue. Castiel wanted tongue. He was rushed and greedy in his impatience, prodding the crease of Dean's lips with the pointed tip of his tongue. Dean's lips tightened once more, but were ultimately parted in Castiel's wild persistence.
Castiel was zealous and hungry and lightheaded as he clutched Dean's face to his and moved his tongue throughout the cavern of Dean's warm mouth. Castiel's breaths were gritty and abrasive, his head tilting to accommodate his near-maniac enthusiasm to explore.
Dean suddenly yanked himself away, eyes wide as Castiel's tongue guiltily sought his own wet lips. Castiel worried and inwardly scolded himself for being so aggressive in his haste to absorb the perfection of the moment.
Dean brought the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping away the gloss of Castiel's kiss. "A little... sloppy," Dean murmured. He made a poor attempt at hiding his grimace.
Castiel's heart plummeted to his stomach. He'd been a shitty kisser, and now, that was the only intimate impression Dean had of him. Dean had said himself, kisses were important. Castiel was horrified at his poor technique. "Let me try again," Castiel begged, moving closer to Dean's body.
Before Dean could answer—his nose still a little wrinkled—Castiel swiftly captured his lips with his own, and though Castiel held Dean in what could have been interpreted as an aggressive manner, his lips were the antithesis of his grasp in Dean's hair. Castiel offered soft pecks that he figured weren't slobbery at all. Dean—stiff and reluctant—sighed against him, an exasperated sound that Castiel used as an advantage to force his tongue inside.
Castiel was much slower this time. He even drew his tongue back with each prod, Dean eventually acclimating to his wet rhythm of dive and retreat, dive and retreat, dive and retreat. He swallowed each time his lips closed, hoping that he wasn't being 'sloppy' anymore.
Dean didn't yank himself away this time, instead indulging Castiel in what felt like an hour long make out session, but was probably more like a two minute kiss.
"Better." Dean offered a small smile when he pulled away, his lips a satisfying, shiny pink as a result of Castiel's soft suction.
Castiel was engulfed in a sense of ecstasy at Dean's praise, proud and particularly blissful. "Practice makes perfect," he pondered, a serious jest that he accentuated with an excited smile.
Dean emitted two dry chuckles, his eyes still echoing of a distinct void. "I think you're good," he said before lying down and closing his eyes.
"Third time's a charm?" Castiel nervously dared, a little disappointed at Dean's answering yawn.
"Mind if I crash here?" Dean asked, though he was already burrowing his feet and legs beneath the blankets.
Castiel answered by turning off his lamp and nestling himself into Dean's side. He was momentarily afraid that the kisses might make Dean resistant to his affection, but Dean was compliant in his exhaustion.
"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted." Castiel accentuated this with a rather dramatic yawn, stretching his arms high into the air for effect.
John and Mary both nodded, but Castiel's gaze was fixed to their motionless son, lounging on the sofa and watching the television with disinterested eyes.
"Yeah. Okay," Dean replied in a monotone voice and rose, following Castiel up the stairs.
They went to bed together now.
Castiel ignored Mary's prying eyes as they followed the boys up the staircase, down the hall, and disappeared behind Castiel's bedroom door.
Once inside, Castiel could no longer contain his ardor. He turned to Dean, grasped the back of his head and crushed their faces together. Castiel's lips moved over Dean's in a militant fashion—invading and assailing. Castiel sucked and pulled in his frenzy, gasps hissing from his nose in broken octaves and caustic whirrs.
Dean's hands hung limply at his sides, his head and face and lips accommodating as they shifted to adapt to Castiel's nearly violent kisses. Castiel's hands weaved through hair as he ducked and straightened in a series of indecisive poses. He settled with running his palms down Dean's sides and grasping his narrow hips.
Castiel's tongue protruded and coerced Dean's lips into an obedient separation, as it always did. Castiel loved the taste of Dean, would have smiled had he not been so occupied with his rampant lips.
He tugged Dean closer to his bed, careful not to break their sacred chain of dive and retreat, dive and retreat, dive and retreat. Castiel was getting closer, his hands roaming Dean's hips with the thrilling promise of fleshy palmfulls of Dean's tight ass.
With an inhale through his nose, he quickly descended until his hands were there, splaying across the swells beneath the denim and burning with the need for less clothing. But that was the next step, Castiel reminded himself. He had been so patient, had spent an entire month just badgering Dean for kisses alone.
With time, Castiel had been able to escalate their nightly meetings, from innocent kisses meant to provide Castiel with experience, to fevered, pious displays that Dean rarely objected to. In fact, Dean never said a word.
Castiel was becoming quite frustrated.
Dean never touched Castiel. He never made the sounds Castiel emitted. He never initiated or begged Castiel for more. He never closed his eyes. He never tensed or strained under the struggle of his arousal.
Dean was passive, at best.
Castiel's kisses grew more aggressive and frenetic, as they always did. Dean's complete indifference was maddening to him, made his lips furl and flame in persistence and censure. His tongue prodded and shoved—a hopeful poke to an inanimate body.
But Castiel had much to be thankful for. He had Dean's tongue in his waiting mouth, his lips on his own, his ass beneath his eager palms, his groin only inches from Castiel's aching erection. And Castiel had gained even more than that. Dean spent more time with Castiel, even ate lunch at his table during school. He'd always talk softly with Dean while the brunette Braeden girl sat across the room, silent and visibly morose.
Castiel enjoyed seeing her red eyes, her pallid skin, and her obvious remorse. She'd cast Dean the most desirous of glances from across the room while he sat before Castiel with his back to the girl. Castiel basked in her dejection, would chat happily with Dean about menial things as the hour passed. He'd long to hold his hand beneath the cover of the table, and had only recently worked up the nerve necessary to do so.
Dean hadn't even spared him a puzzled glance. He'd merely accepted Castiel's grasp, staring into his plate of food with a blank expression. Castiel had soared as his thumb had rubbed and caressed, his voice never pausing. He'd felt as if he were the luckiest fucker in the entire lunchroom. Castiel didn't even care that no one could see.
Castiel had decided to be patient with Dean, as his gratitude for these small developments was simply unquantifiable. At nights, Castiel would kiss Dean and display his unbridled hunger for his tongue and lips and hair and skin and it was the best portion of his day, most of which was spent at Dean's side anyway. It was so much like how it had been, and Castiel was wholly euphoric to be back in Dean's good graces and then some.
But Castiel's patience was wearing thin. He needed Dean to touch him. He was growing fretful with Dean's lethargy and grabbed his warm hand while his face smashed itself closer, always greedy. Dean didn't protest as Castiel brought it between them, crushed it to his throbbing dick, and groaned into his wet mouth.
Castiel used his hand to guide Dean's, sliding it up and down his erection as he plunged and withdrew, plunged and withdrew, plunged and withdrew. Castiel was aching now, his belly tight and burdened, coiled cord around a tender bale. He whimpered and growled, forcing Dean's pliant hand faster and faster and faster. He recalled how he'd often fantasized about this, Dean's hand finally, finally, touching Castiel's cock. It was just as he'd imagined it, except—
Castiel ceased, pulling away and panting as Dean simply stared at the wall behind him. Dean's hand fell away from Castiel's bulging crotch with a listless sway. Whereas Castiel's chest rose and fell with labored and excited breaths, Dean's remained calm and shallow.
"You should really think about painting," Dean droned, flopping onto the bed with those eerily cadaverous eyes. He murmured, "It seems so dark in here."
Instead of answering, Castiel's face contorted into a raged grimace. He approached Dean at the edge of his mattress, reached down, and grasped his denim covered crotch. Castiel had fantasized about this too, but it wasn't quite the same either.
Because he was only partially aroused.
Dean's erection was fragmentary.Incomplete. Castiel searched Dean's eyes, finding only green mixed with confusion and an elegant oblivion. Then Castiel pulled away and wondered whether or not he could possibly settle for partial perfection.
"Fuck it," was Castiel's response. "I like it dark." He removed his shirt and descended upon Dean's submissive form. He remained silent as Castiel straddled his lap, took a thick fistful of Dean's hair, yanked his head back, and engulfed his lips. His hips pressed into Dean's stomach and drew back, repeating and mimicking the dive and retreat of his tongue.
He flattened Dean's hands to his chest and forced them to feel and stroke and caress. Dean's palms were so warm, so soft. Castiel's active imagination aided him in believing that his hands traveled trails of Dean's creation. He imagined that they way in which they circled his waist and embraced him was solely of Dean's volition, and not his own.
Since Castiel could only stomach forcing Dean's hands to do so much, he finally rose, his hooded eyes watching Dean as Dean watched him. Castiel reached for his belt and unfastened his pants. He shoved his hand inside, palming himself with a grind of his teeth. He continued doing so, up and down, grind and stare, until he spilled across his wrist, shoulders jerking inward. Dean held his gaze without watching.
Castiel's hands felt so cold.
Dean looked better today, and Castiel was especially uplifted by the sight of him in the hallway. It had been nearly two months since his breakup with the Braeden girl. It was about fucking time. Dean loped between the rows of lockers, headed to the lunch room like the rest of the Senior class. His lips were pulled up into a small grin that made Castiel's chest feel airy and light. Castiel intercepted him with a smile and clap on his back.
Dean seemed to stiffen at the contact, his smile withering ever so slightly.
"Wanna' go see a movie tonight?" Castiel asked as he sat. It was a Friday and he figured, given Dean's good mood, that maybe a night out might do them both some good.
Dean rested one arm on the table and looked away, muttering, "Not tonight." His eyes were glued to the large doors of the room, watching the people swarm their way through.
"That's cool," Castiel supposed, a little disappointed.
They never went out.
"We could go down to the river or something, Or Port Angeles?" Castiel suggested with a hopeful shrug.
But Dean didn't answer because, at that moment, Lisa Braeden walked through the doors, met Dean's gaze and began walking to their table with a timid smile. Castiel's eyes narrowed as his hand sought Dean's beneath the table. He grasped it possessively, his malignant stare cutting and obtuse.
Dean jerked his hand away, straightening his back as he greeted, "Hey, Lisa" He smiled at her. It wasn't a small grin or hollow or forced. It tucked inward and curled around his face, lifted his cheeks and brightened his eyes.
"Are you sure it's okay to sit here?" she asked Dean, biting her lip anxiously as she regarded the seething form before them. Clearly, Castiel made absolutely no attempt to hide his ire.
"No. It's not oh-fucking-kay if you sit here. Get lost—" Castiel snapped, feeling quite pleased at her obvious flinch.
"Shut up, Castiel," Dean warned in a hard voice. "I asked her to sit with me. If you don't like it, then we'll go somewhere else."
As Castiel moved his stare to Dean, Lisa slowly lowered herself to the seat beside him. Dean's face was a facade of calm, but Castiel could sense the anger that brewed just beneath the surface.
It was the most emotion Dean had shown in months.
"Why would you do that?" Castiel breathed, his throat unbearably tight. He wanted to match and exceed Dean's anger with his own, but found himself incapable. He was much too afraid to feel anything else.
"Because I want to eat lunch with my girlfriend." Dean's jaw was taut and defiant, his eyes challenging and yet final. When he turned to Lisa, every inch of him softened and glowed.
Castiel simply couldn't believe it. "Wh—What?" he stuttered, incredulous. "You're calling this... this... slut—" They both winced. "—your fucking girlfriend again?" Beneath Castiel's skin, his blood boiled. It simmered and scorched until his fingertips felt numb.
Dean's fist came down on the table with a blunt "bang" that drew stares. "Don't you talk ever about her like that," Dean spat, lips curled back into a daring sneer.
Castiel removed his gaze from Dean, locked his jaw, and turned it on Lisa. His Castiel-colored eyes narrowed. "Whore, slut, bitch, cunt, ugly fucki—" But Castiel did not finish, because Dean had a healthy fistful of Castiel's shirt, yanking him forward.
"I said, don't you ever fucking talk about her like that!" The entire room seemed to be watching now, Castiel's face only inches from Dean. He stared at him blankly as Dean smoldered and puffed. His green eyes were so enraged, nearly murderous. Castiel had never seen anything like it, simply sat, gaping at the image of utter vehemence before him.
Castiel wanted to kiss Dean in that moment, more than any other. He didn't want a partial Dean. An empty Dean. An Dean who kissed him while wanting her. Castiel licked his lips instinctively, feeling an impossible draw to Dean's seething mouth, longed to steal a little portion of passion that was intended for Lisa, not him.
"You promised," Dean forbade with a flash of alarm.
Castiel felt so sick.
So quickly was Castiel's anger disrupted and swallowed by a tidal wave of grief that it stole his breath. "You never—" He gasped for air, licking his lips furiously. "You never care when they talk about me. You never say a fucking word, and I don't even deserve it, like her... You never—" And Dean's eyes dimmed, so trivial a gesture as he released Castiel and looked away, a flicker of shame.
Castiel had been abandoned by Dean before, but this felt so much worse. In the recesses of his mind, Castiel wondered why? Hadn't he been preparing himself? No, he realized. These last months with Dean had given him the falsest sense of security. With every kiss that Dean didn't deny him, Castiel had unknowingly fortified a counterfeit niche in Dean's heart. Seeing the contrast between this Dean—Lisa's Dean—and the Dean Castiel had been with for weeks was undeniable proof.
"We should sit somewhere else," Dean eventually whispered to Lisa, who sat staring back and forth, confused and stricken.
"You never—" Castiel repeated, still incapable of concluding his thought, of speaking the words aloud, of making them tangible. But Dean and Lisa—his girlfriend—were already rising from their seats and turning their backs on him.
He could hear the two walking away, could discern the soft, quiet tenor of their voices as he sat motionless, staring unseeingly at the table. After a moment, his chest felt so tight that he thought he might suffocate. He pulled air into his lungs in starved gasps, felt his lips tingle with numb and cold and the memory of Dean's never-sincere kisses.
No, Castiel reminded himself. They were never Dean's kisses. They were always Castiel's. Dean just accepted, but never took and never gave. With every passing second, Castiel's quiet wheezing grew louder, sharper, until he heard an alarmed voice.
"Oh my God! Are you okay?" He didn't know whose voice this belonged to, didn't care.
He didn't regard them as his hand clutched his chest where Dean's had, his stomach doubling over as his eyes grew warm, blurry. There was something of a twisting within, the room seeming to spin around him as the cacophony of lunch room voices invaded his head and distorted into indecipherable chatter. Still his eyes grew warmer, fuzzier as he struggled for air. He wondered if he might go blind.
When the tears fell, Castiel was shockingly startled. They dribbled onto the table inches from his face like awkward and fat raindrops, spattering and swelling. Castiel felt hands on his shoulders and knew they belonged to Dean, could smell his cologne and hear his rushed questions, could feel his sheer lack of affection.
"Castiel? What's happening?" Dean's asked, shaking his shoulders.
But Castiel did not answer. He could only repeat the same two words, over and over and over, like dark, jagged hymn.
"You never—" loved me.
When he stood, it was oddly, physically painful and he groaned in discomfort. He didn't want to be standing straight like this. It sent shockwaves of pain down his chest and stomach and he simply had to escape. He had to put as much distance between himself and his own unutterable words. He hoped the farther he got, the less true they'd become.
Castiel wasn't that stupid.
He shrugged himself away from Dean, could see the look of panic mingled with pity in his expression as Castiel fled the room. The image of Dean's face as Castiel clamored through the double doors would be forever etched into Castiel's memory as the moment he realized exactly what he was to Dean Winchester: a discarded toy, a boyhood pet, a bygone, a stigma. His dirtiest little fucking secret.
Castiel didn't stop. Instead, he ran the entire way home. When the rain came, it penetrated the cotton of his shirt, the denim of his jeans, and the fragility of his flesh. He felt translucent, crystalline. His tears came in short, errant surges that he could find no rhyme or reason to.
When he grew too tried to run, he jogged. When he grew too tired to jog, he walked. When he grew too tired to walk, he chanted. When he entered the empty house, he trodded up to his dark, scarlet room and stood before the bed he had kissed Dean upon, not even twelve hours ago. The bed that his white knight had saved him from, time and time again.
Castiel slid himself beneath it.
Okay so this is the end and i know this might not be the ending you expected it to be but i hope you saw what i see when i think about Dean and cas as a couple.
hope you enjoyed it. leave a review about what you thought.
im thinking about writing another fic also in which there will b a HEA . so if you want you can keep your eyes out for it.
Lots of love .