Sometime in May in a dirty school counselor's office:
"Oh, Dean." Castiel sighs. "Those shoes were quite expensive too." He pulls the sleeve of his shirt on his right arm and looks at his friend, who head is buried in his hands.
"Yeah, don't remind me." Dean mutters. "Balthazar gave me the stink eye for weeks."
"And stink nose too, I imagine." Castiel says with a grin and Dean sticks his tongue out like a child, making Castiel laugh.
The counselor is holding coffee covered tissues in his hand and tosses them at Dean, who throws his hands up in protest.
"So then what happened?" The counselor asks impatiently. He taps his pen on the desk and the two boys exchange looks.
"Dean's better at story telling." Castiel says quickly before his friend has a chance to open his mouth. Dean grunts, but leans back in his chair.
"Well…"
The Sunday after the Saturday of last September
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
"Urghh. Turn the goddamn microwave off, Sammy." Dean moaned. He rolled over in his bed and squinted at the clock. It blinked 8:30am. He buried his face in his pillow and closed his eyes.
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
Dean chucked the covers aside and crawled out of his bed, stumbling towards the window on wobbly feet and pulling the curtain aside. A wheel loader in the empty lot next to his house beeped as it held up dirt, then dropping it with a thud. Dean stared as the loader repeated its actions a few times more before rubbing his bedhead and taking a trip to the bathroom to relieve himself.
"Well, you're up early for once." Bobby commented, not looking up from his newspaper when Dean walked into the kitchen a while later. A steaming pot of coffee was sitting on the counter. Dean grabbed his favorite green mug from the cabinet and filled it with the dark liquid slowly, careful not to spill, then took a sip.
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
"People still read newspapers?" Dean leaned back on the counter, plaid boxers shielding his ass cheeks from the cold granite—butt frostbite is no laughing matter.
"Not everything that's older than you is ancient, Dean." Bobby answered. He turned the page to the Sunday comics, laughing quietly to himself at the Garfield strip. Dean took another sip.
"Yeah, but anything that's older than you is." Dean teased, laughing into his cup.
"Funny."
"Yeah, I am pretty funny."
"Did your dad call back yet?" Bobby asked, changing the subject. He folded the newspaper in half and set it on the table, looking up towards Dean.
As far as Dean knew, John Winchester could either be a Secret Service Agent on a mission or a friggin' rock star touring the Continental United States. John left for work on Mondays, a quick cream-cheesed bagel and a goodbye to his boys, and then he's out the door. Gone. Poof. Then John would come back on Tuesday. Of the week after.
For a while, pre-Bobby era, Dean was okay with it. Totally cool with the whole dad-disappearing-magic-act. He was used to making dinner for Sam, ramen noodles every night were easy and effortless. He was used to the silent agreement of how they ate Lucky Charms, Dean would eat the marshmallows, Sam would eat the actual cereal part. He was used to taking Sam to the library to read (seriously, who does that?).
Enter post-Bobby era, who told John Winchester to get his shit together and take care of his sons. John left for a month after that incident, and came back to find Sam and Dean living with none other than Bobby Singer. Child protective services would separate the two. Not an option if you're dealing with the Winchesters.
Bobby got the foam finger with #1 Dad! printed on it for father's day that year.
"Don't know. I didn't check." Dean told his surrogate father.
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
"Hmph." Bobby grunted and then went back to reading, flicking open an article titled Stretching Your Dollar with one hand.
"What's up with newspapers? They're like…paper blogs." A raspy voice drifted into the kitchen. Sam entered moments later, his own bed head worse than Dean's.
"Mornin', Sam." Bobby acknowledged, ignoring his comment.
"Morning." Sam replied sleepily. The he frowned.
"Uh oh. Why so serious?" Dean asked his little brother, imitating the Joker's tone and poking Sam's side.
He sighed. "There's this girl, we were talking on Friday, and—" Sam started, but Dean quickly cut him off, shaking his head and swallowing the tepid coffee in his mouth at the same time.
"No, no, no, let me leave first before I'm forced to listen to another one of your soap operas." Dean set his mug on the table.
"As opposed to your stupid sport talk?"
"At least I get some action from it." Dean retorted. He ruffled his brother's hair and then left Bobby and Sam alone in the kitchen.
Dean sprinted up the stairs—thank god for track, right?—back to his room then locked the door behind him, eyes already aiming for yesterday's jeans that were hung over the bed frame. He searched through the pockets for his phone, desperate to check if John left any messages.
Dean panicked when his hands met with empty fabric. He looked under the bed, between the blankets of the mattress, dumping all his clothes and checking in his laundry basket, but his phone was better at hide-and-seek than Sam's dead hamster. Dean sat his bed and racked through his brain for the places he thought he might have been at with his phone.
Castiel's name popped up in his mind. Dean groaned. As cool as Castiel was with cleaning up a drunk Dean, Dean knew he wouldn't be welcomed to Castiel's home after yesterday's incident with Balthazar. But you gotta do what you gotta do, he thought.
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
Dean pulled the pair of jeans over his boxers, not caring if they smelled a bit like vomit, almost tripping down the stairs as he fumbled with the belt buckle. He walked to the back door and instinctively reached out to grab his keys from the hook, but when his hands felt air, he turned around and stalked back to the kitchen. Sam and Bobby were still there, Bobby acting as if he wasn't paying any attention to Sam's words, which he probably wasn't.
"And then Jess sort of smiled at me? I'm not sure." Sam was saying.
"Bobby, do you have my keys?" Dean asked, even though he already knew the answer.
"Why, you goin' somewhere, boy?"
"Yeah, I left my phone at a friend's house. Now can I please have my keys to get there?" Dean demanded.
"Uh, no. I don't think so." Bobby took a sip of his coffee.
"Why not?"
"You don't get it do you, son?" Bobby looked at him with such concern, that Dean almost wished he hadn't asked for his keys. "Damn you," Bobby continued, "I almost had a heart attack when Ellen called yesterday mornin', tellin' me some crap about how you went home with someone she didn't know and that you were too drunk to know who either," he snapped. This was Sam's cue to leave, and the chair scraped the floor when he stood up and left.
"I—I'm sorry, Bobby. I didn't realize—" Dean took a step back, surprised and confused at Bobby's sudden anger. Bobby never scolded him for crashing at someone's house for the night after he drank too much. He didn't see how Castiel was different.
"Of course you didn't. You never do. And what would've happened if you knocked 'er up, Dean? We—you don't have what it takes for that kind of commitment." Bobby stopped to take a breath and Dean furrowed his eyebrows, confused. He took the short pause as an opportunity to speak.
"Bobby, I went home with this guy from school." Dean clarified, speaking slowly, because truth be told, Bobby wasn't getting any younger. A look of realization dawned on the older man's face as Dean sputtered them out. Then Bobby's eyes shot up, expression telling Dean his exact thoughts.
"What? No! Gross. Nothing happened. He's, uh, he's on my track team." Dean backtracked quickly. There was a short pause as Bobby narrowed his eyes, trying to decide if Dean was lying to him or not.
"What's 'is name?"
"Uh, Castiel. Novak I think?"
Beep beep beep beep.
Thump.
"Novak? Huh, nice folks." Bobby's face softened and he took a sip of coffee.
"Can I have my keys now?" Dean hopped from one foot to the other.
"No, ya idjit. I'm drivin'." Bobby added, patting his shirt pocket. Dean heard a jingle. "And for the rest of the week you can take the damn bus to school. Hopefully by then you'll learn your lesson," he muttered.
"Fine. Can we go now?" Dean asked impatiently.
"Later. It's a Sunday. His family probably at church or somethin'." Bobby mumbled under his breath.
"Bobby." Dean whined.
"Dean." Bobby echoed, mimicking his tone. "I said we'll go later, so stop your bitchin' and take a Midol or somethin'." Dean let out a sigh, knowing there was no way he was going to win the argument.
"Fine." He said and plopped himself on the couch for some extra shut eye, the wheel loader beeping and thumping in the background.
When Bobby drove up to Castiel's house, he threatened to make Dean walk home if he didn't return within five minutes.
"I mean it, boy!" He yelled when Dean snorted and stepped out of the car.
There were multiple cars surrounding the house and parked in the driveway with different colored lights streaming from every window of the house. Dean could hear the muffled thumping of music coming from the house and he wondered if he got the address wrong.
As he walked up the marble steps leading to Castiel's house, Dean thought about every possible apology.
I'm sorry I upchucked on your shiny white floor that probably costs more than my house.
I'm sorry I got drunk and made you waste gas, but, hey, at least you got to take my pants off.
I'm sorry I ruined your date that was bound to go wrong anyway since your boyfriend is a huge dick.
Dean rapped on the door twice before noticing the doorbell. He pushed the button and pressed his ear to the glass, listening for a chime. A blurred figure came to the door and Dean stepped back when it opened.
"Hey, I think I left my—" He started, but the person who opened the door wasn't Castiel. Loud music blared in the background, making Dean's ears wince.
"Wow, you're here early," they said. Dean looked the guy over. He was a young guy in his twenties, dark hair like Castiel's, but brown eyes. "You're not due for," he checked his watch, "another hour. Lou isn't here yet."
"Uh, sorry?" Dean asked, confused. Bobby honked the car and Dean waved him off.
"And I thought—" the guy looked over Dean's shoulder then stepped back to run his eyes over Dean's body. "They said White Chocolate was their best, but I guess I should've asked if White Chocolate came with breasts."
"Hey, man." Dean snapped his fingers, somewhat offended.
"Who's at the door, Gabriel? Is it the pizza guy?" Someone out sight called.
"No, it's the stripper!" Gabriel yelled back. Dean's eyes widened. Gabriel stepped out onto the welcome mat and pulled the door behind him, leaving a thin gap. He was shorter than Dean, but obviously a few years older.
"I was expecting a lot more glitter too and a police costume." Gabriel continued. "Lucifer won't be too happy. Well, beggars can't be choosers, eh?"
"The fuck you talkin' about?" Dean demanded, finding his voice.
"You are the stripper, aren't you? For my friend's twenty-first?" Gabriel narrowed his eyes, looking suspiciously like an older Castiel. "Lou was expecting a lady dancer, sorry 'bout that. Aw, damn it, now I have to complain. Costumer service can be a bitch these days," he trailed off.
"What? No. I'm a—" Friend? Acquaintance? Buddy? "—classmate of Castiel's. Is he here?" Dean finished lamely.
"Oh. This just got awkward." Gabriel said, eyebrows shooting up. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Uh, no. Cas is out with that British douchewad, Ballastar or something." Dean gave a small grin, taking an immediate liking to Gabriel. "Sorry, what did you say you were here for?"
"I didn't—I left my phone here, I think? I was here yesterday." Dean peered into the house.
"Well, sure, come on in. Any friend of the little bro's is a friend of mine."
Dean walked into the house hesitantly, trying to avoid hitting his head on the streamers hanging from the chandelier and lights. The spot where he threw up was wiped clean of any evidence, but the lights were dim so it was hard to tell.
"I'm Gabriel, by the way. Castiel's awesome older brother if you haven't noticed yet." The guy introduced himself.
"Dean."
"Woah. The Dean?" Gabriel stopped walking and looked at him, astonished.
"What other Deans does Castiel know?" Dean asked, confused again.
"One, as far as I'm concerned." Gabriel let out a hearty laugh. "You're the one who puked on the blondie's shoes? You know the one with the funny hair?" Gabriel waved a hand over his head.
"Did Castiel tell you that?"
"I'll take that as a hell yes." Gabriel slapped him on the back, hard, and Dean coughed. "Nicely done, Dean-o. Cas needs more friends like you." Dean didn't know how to respond to that.
"He the stripper?" Another guy sitting on a couch yelled over the loud music and jolted his thumb in Dean's direction. Dean reddened. "He's a little macho, isn't he?" the guy continued. "Didn't know Lou was into that kind of stuff."
"No. Shut the fuck up, Mike. He's my new best friend. Does he look like a stripper?" Gabriel shouted back.
"I don't know. He's a little young. Like a puppy?"
The doorbell rang, saving Dean from more embarrassment.
"Uh," Gabriel said, looking between the door and Dean. "Go upstairs and get your phone. I'm pretty sure it's on his desk or something. You know which room it is right?"
"Yeah, the one on the left."
"Okay, I'm not gonna even ask how you know what." Gabriel patted his back then turned and left him. Dean jogged up the stairs, taking two at a time, and heard a cheery "Aye! Happy birthday, motherfucker!" from downstairs.
Dean walked to Castiel's room and opened the door. The room was dark except for the glowing clock on the nightstand. Dean flicked the lights on and looked around the area. The room was nearly three times the size of Dean's and he walked around, observing knick knacks he hadn't noticed before. Castiel had the largest collection of drawing utensils and there were random sketches scattered on a desk shoved into one corner of the room. The floor was littered with balled up papers like they were mindlessly thrown to the already over-filled trashcan.
Dean's phone was perched on the desk, as Gabriel promised, with a sticky note pasted on it that said "Dean" in neatly written letters. He unstuck the note and left it on a pile of papers. Dean pressed a button on his phone, heart sinking when the notification inbox was empty. He grabbed a stray pen and scribbled "Thanks" under his name before turning the lights off and leaving the room.
Dean padded down the stairs and a guy with a paper cone strapped to his head passed by, catching Dean's eye and stopping in his tracks, Gabriel following close behind.
"Hey, Gabe, I thought you said your fucking kid brother wasn't gonna be here." Lucifer, Dean presumed, complained. "I don't wanna go to jail for serving alcohol to a minor."
"Okay, first of all, that's not my 'fucking kid brother', and second of all, would you relax? He's just picking something up." Gabriel explained, shoving Lucifer into the living room.
"Whatever. This is my day, and if I get into trouble, you're going down with me." Lucifer threatened, giving in to Gabriel's pushes.
"Yeah, that's definitely not ironic for someone who shares a name with the devil." Gabriel said sarcastically. "Best if you leave, Dean-o." He told the boy as Mike opened the front door, and then Dean was being hustled out, followed by the front door slamming in his face.
Sometime in May in a dirty school counselor's office:
"Gabriel Novak? I believe I counseled him in his freshman year when he tried setting a basketball on fire. Said something about roasting marshmallows?" The counselor narrows his eyes and looks up at the ceiling, trying to remember.
"That sounds like him." Castiel says quietly.
"You gonna keep interrupting or…?" Dean growls. Castiel pats his hand, another warning not to upset the counselor, who is probably used to frustrated teenagers.
"Yeah, sorry. One last time."
"Thank you."
Monday morning on the first day of October:
If Castiel never avoided Dean at school, he did now.
"I'm sorry." Dean apologized to him when he finally managed to find Castiel in the huge school. The blue-eyed boy glanced at Dean quickly before continuing to pull books out of his locker. Dean stood there like an idiot, and looked around, waiting for Castiel's answer.
"It's fine." Castiel said finally. He was lying. Only a second after Dean had let himself out of Castiel's house on Saturday, Balthazar was throwing a fit, yelling bloody hells at the top of his lung and cursing Dean in ways Castiel never knew was possible.
"No. I puked on your boyfriend's shoes."
"It's fine, Dean."
"No it's not."
"It's not your fault." Castiel paused and put a fake thinking face on. "Actually it is." He hurried to get his class papers, knowing that Dean was the type who would continue to apologize until absolutely sure he was forgiven. Castiel found the whole situation hilarious actually, but his annoyance grew steadily as Dean continued to admit his faults.
"At least let me repay him or something. I could take an extra shift at my job." Dean insisted.
"Dean, those shoes probably cost more than the world's dirtiest prostitute."
"You're kidding."
"I don't kid." Castiel shut his locker rather harshly and walked away. He could sense Dean's presence behind him and sighed when Dean spoke again.
"He hates me now doesn't he?" he asked.
"I don't think he's particularly fond of you at this moment. But he'll get over it."
"I don't even know him and he hates me." Dean sighed.
"Stop being such a little bi-bitch." Castiel stammered and walked into a classroom. Dean entered behind him and the teacher tried to usher him out.
"Well, what about you?" Dean asked. "One second." He flashed his killer smile to the teacher.
"What about me?" Castiel set his books down on the table and faced Dean.
"You're not mad at me too are you? I didn't mean it."
"Just consider yourself lucky I offered to be your designated driver this time." Castiel answered.
"Well, I didn't ask you to paddle my ass back to shore or anything."
"I'm saying you should try to control your drinking from now on, Dean."
"Okay, save the lesson, Castiel. I have parents for that." Dean said a little more harshly than he meant. The warning bell rang, signaling one minute until first period. Castiel narrowed his eyes.
"You should get to class, Dean." He told him and flipped through a folder, looking for nonexistent notes and hoping Dean would get the intimation that he was being dismissed.
Dean jumped off the desk with a grunt and made his way through the crowd of students trailing into the classroom, Castiel's eyes boring holes into his back.
Sometime in May in a dirty school counselor's office:
"Wait, when was this?" The counselor asks. Dean lets out an exaggerated sigh and slumps in his chair. "Sorry, Dean. One more. I promise."
"Last week of September? Maybe?" Castiel answers.
"Yeah, that sounds 'bout right." Dean says. He raises his eyebrows.
"They were already selling Halloween decorations."
"Welcome to America, Cas."
Monday morning, second period, the first day of October:
"By the way, your brother is lovely. Quite the charm." Dean ridiculed, sliding into the seat next to Castiel's in their English class after Henriksen's lecture.
"My brot—Gabriel? When did you see him?"
"I left my phone at your place, so I swung by to pick it up. Then he answered the door, called me a stripper, said you were out, and apparently, I'm his new best friend."
"A stri—Dean why didn't you just call? You can't just show up to peoples' house uninvited."
"Dude, did you not just hear what I said?" Dean raised his hands in emphasis and Castiel turned his attention to the board, where FIRST 6 WEEKS PROJECT was written in white chalk.
"Shit." Dean breathed.
"Exactly, Mr. Winchester." The class turned to look at him and Castiel buried his head in his hands.
"Now, I'm going to assign you partners—stop sighing. I hate grading them as much as you hate doing them, but I promise you guys, this will be fun." Henriksen assured them in his teacher voice.
"Ash you'll be with Benny, Castiel with Dean," Castiel made a sound of protest as Henriksen went down the list. "Ed with Garth, Jo with Kevin, and so on. I hope you are all smart enough to know the alphabet, because I don't have time to go through all this." He threw the paper behind him and it floated in the air for a moment before settling on the ground.
"With your partner," he continued, "you are going to make a poster about right and wrong choices. Use text evidence people. Text evidence from a book, a movie, I don't give a crap. This is English class. Text evidence, you hear me? That goes for you Fitzgerald." Henriksen shouted at Garth, and the class laughed again.
"Fitzgerald the fourth." He corrected and adjusted his glasses, which only made the class laugh even more.
Henriksen explained the project for the rest of the class period, all the while Castiel made sure Dean took careful notes.
"I got it. I got it." Dean said, brushing Castiel's hand off his notebook for the third time.
"No, Dean. He said the poster needs to be twenty-two by twenty-eight. Not—I can't even read that."
"Then how do you know it's wrong?"
"Because that's clearly a three." Castiel pointed to a mark on his paper and Dean sighed, scratched it out, and wrote 22x28 next to it.
"And it's due on the fifth of October. This Friday." Castiel said.
"Yeah, I know."
"Well, it's not written on the paper!"
"Well, it is in my mind!" Dean argued and Castiel scowled, turning away.
"You had better not forget, Dean."
The bell rang, signaling lunch, also known as Dean's favorite time of the day.
"You say stop, and I say go, go, go." Henriksen sang, motioning for everyone to leave the classroom.
Dean followed Castiel out, and then stopped abruptly when Castiel turned around.
"What now?"
"Dean, I need to get a good grade on this. Okay? I have early college applications I need to fill out and they're not going to accept me with an F on my report card." Castiel looked at him with big blue eyes. Dean sighed.
"Fine. You want me to come over? We'll watch a movie in a total non date-y way and you'll write down the right things and I'll write down the wrong." Dean said and turned away.
"You're like a child, Dean. You don't know right from wrong." Castiel scoffed, but Dean could hear the smile in his tone. Dean faced him again.
"Point taken. I'll be at your place Wednesday at six after practice, capiche?"
"Why not yours? Gabriel might have the wrong idea and Balthazar…" Castiel trailed off.
"Because you have a bigger television. And it's in HD. Can I go now?" Dean asked, stomach grumbling.
"Yes. Go." Castiel waved him off and walked in the opposite direction towards the library.