Dean spends the next view days in self-imposed quarantine, only really talking to Sammy. He doesn't even reply to Cas' texts, which are as endearingly eloquent as the man himself. Seriously, he's never met anyone else who actually uses semi-colons and hyphens in texts before. He finds it oddly attractive. He even finds himself typing out a reply saying 'Will not be at the café tomorrow; seem to have contracted a stomach virus' before he realises that only Cas can pull off that shit without sounding like a massive douchebag and he throws his phone at the wall, refusing to pick it up for two days.
In short, he's starting to realise that he's absolutely, well and truly fucked.
It's almost a relief when Sammy literally kicks his bedroom door in on the third day of his self-induced solitude. He had been starting to wonder if all this wallowing wasn't a little bit Wuthering Heights.
Sam throws Dean's coat onto his bed and pulls the covers back, exposing Dean to the February cold. Dean swears in all the languages he knows how, but Sam's only response is to pick up the blankets and dump them on the floor. Dean knows he's serious then. He sits up, shivering.
"Get up, Bridget Jones," Sam orders, rooting through Dean's drawers and producing a clean t-shirt and a pair of jeans that Dean thinks he's only worn for a week. "We're meeting up with Cas at the library."
Dean scowls.
"No," he says. Sam stares at him.
"Yes," he says. "God, Dean, have you been taking life advice from the kids on Supernanny? Grow a pair, will you? I don't know what's got into you these past few days. Jo says - "
"Jo doesn't know anything," Dean says, quickly. Smooth. That'll definitely stop Sam from asking questions. Nicely done, Winchester. 10 points to Gryffindor.
Sam is looking at him strangely. He shakes his head in despair and walks out of the room, muttering something under his breath about damn crazy brothers and hormones in the water supply.
If only that were the case, Dean thinks to himself, miserably.
For the entirety of their short walk to the library, which is spent in incredibly uncomfortable silence, Dean focuses on the women around him. He tries to find one who'll give him the same instant reaction that Cas did. He notices a few who would ordinarily cause more than a stirring in his trousers, but for some reason, he can't force himself to be that interested. This is decidedly not helpful, he thinks. As they approach the block nearest the library, Sam starts talking about Meg, but Dean isn't listening. He's thinking about someone else.
They find Cas sitting by himself in the Celebrity Biographies section, and Dean appreciates the irony. The small upwards tilt of Cas' mouth lets him know that it wasn't an accident, and Dean is torn between wanting to kiss the hell out of the man for being so damn endearing and punching him square in the face for making him feel that way about a dude.
They sit there for about half an hour, Sam, Dean and Cas, talking about random shit; school (Cas studies Masters Architecture), TV (Cas doesn't own one) and girls (Cas doesn't have a girlfriend and blushes when asked to provide further details). In fact, Dean learns a lot more about Cas than Cas learns about either Winchester. If he didn't know any better, he'd say Sam was up to something. Luckily, he knows that Sam isn't enough of a douche to have any ulterior motive.
Sam proves him wrong approximately seven minutes later when he stands up with a look of regret.
"I'm sorry, guys," he says. "That was Meg - " he waves his phone at them as if to prove a point. " – and she's having kind of a hard time with our latest assignment. I said I'd go help her out at her place. You're all right without me, yeah?"
Dean finds all this rather hard to swallow, mainly because he can't imagine Meg having kind of a hard time about anything, but nods anyway, dry-mouthed.
"I think we will cope," Cas agrees.
"It'll be a challenge though, without your dry wit and scintillating conversation," Dean adds, and Sam grins. Dean wants to frown, but he doesn't really want Cas to think he's a grumpy douchebag, even though he kind of is, and it's his fault.
"You're a jerk," Sam says, but there's no malice behind it.
"You're a little bitch," Dean retorts, and there's definitely a hint of anger there, but if Sam picks up on it, he ignores it. He gives them a weird little salute and walks off, leaving Dean and Cas alone. Together. Alone together. Dean wants to hurl.
They sit together in silence for a couple of minutes, Cas reading something about old buildings and Dean doodling on the back of a sexual health pamphlet. He's starting to feel more comfortable. Cas doesn't seem to have any expectations. Maybe he hasn't picked up on Sam's weirdness. Maybe Dean's just being paranoid. Hey, maybe he even imagined his argument with Jo the other day.
He remembers the string of swear-words he received via text that night and realises that nope, that definitely happened.
"Do you have any work you need to complete here?" Cas asks out of the blue. Dean shakes his head.
"I do Psychology," he says. "I'll just psycho-analyse you later."
Cas blinks.
"I doubt you would find much of interest to report," he says.
"You underestimate yourself, young Padawan," Dean responds, and immediately realises he is now essentially flirting via the medium of obscure Star Wars references and resolves to commit suicide as soon as he gets home.
Cas looks at him in the same way one might look at someone who has just announced they intend to murder their next of kin. Dean's heart does an intensely annoying flippy thing.
"Would you like to come back to my dorm room?" Cas asks. "We could watch a film, if you like. I do not own Star Wars but could probably procure it from my roommate's vast collection."
The thing is that actually, yes, Dean does sort of want to see the dorms at this place because he sacrificed living in them in order to move into some squalid shithole with his younger brother. A part of him feels as though he missed out on an integral part of the college experience by doing that. He never really got to experience the late night parties and the sexually voracious roommates, the sound of the asshole in the dorm above having sex until 3am and the fire alarms going off at turn-that-fucking-alarm-off-o'clock because someone was smoking pot in the shower. Instead, he got overdue rent warnings and a brother who didn't seem to understand the concept of laundry.
He nods, and Cas positively beams. Dean tries hard not to blush or sweep the other man into a decidedly girly hug.
"I'm impressed you got the reference, by the way," he remarks. Cas blinks.
"What reference?" he asks.
Dean is surprised to see that Cas' dorm room is a complete and utter mess. Seriously. It makes Sammy's room look spotless. There are dirty boxers strewn about disturbingly liberally and almost every available surface is cluttered with complete shit; DVDs, food packaging, forlorn-looking items of clothing. He resolves never to tell Sam that he's the messiest person he knows again.
Cas clearly knows what he's thinking because he sighs and sweeps an area clear near the foot of his bed.
"I can assure you, most of this mess is not mine," he promises. "I can take responsibility for this area here - " he gestures towards the neatest area of the room, comprising a bed and a desk that's only piled about half a foot high in crap. " – whereas the rest of it can be attributed to my absent roommate."
"He's kind of a slob, huh," Dean states. Cas nods, grimly.
"Very much so," he agrees. He reaches across a small pile of what appears to be gossip magazines and picks up a dusty laptop, which he sets down on the bed. He looks at Dean apologetically. "I must apologise that the only chair in the room is currently… otherwise occupied."
Dean looks around and sees that there's a chair on the other bed in the room. Well, he thinks it's a chair. It's in three bits and appears to be acting as a makeshift clothes horse. He shrugs.
"It's cool, man. We can sit on your bed, right?"
Cas nods, solemnly.
"I mean, can I trust you not to make any inappropriate advances?" Dean jokes, instantly regretting it. Cas blinks twice.
"I believe I shall be able to restrain myself," he eventually says. Dean forces a smile.
"I'll try and do the same," he says. "Right, which film are we watching?"
Cas looks nonplussed.
"I am not a connoisseur of filmography," he admits. "I generally watch whatever everyone else is watching. I am quite amenable to most films. Although I have to admit to a slight hatred of anything starring Will Ferrell."
Dean knew there was a reason he'd become friends with this guy despite the awkward one-sided attraction. He grins and picks up a DVD near the bed that's not resting under a pair of used socks.
"I think you'll approve of this one," he announces, waving Monty Python's Life of Brian in the air triumphantly.
"I have heard good things about that one," Cas agrees. "I would quite like to see if my roommate's appreciation of it is based in fact."
Dean assumes that means he wants to watch it, so he shoves it in the laptop and sits on the bed, his back resting against the wall. Cas provides him with a pillow to lean on and when he scoots closer in order to see the screen he accidentally ends up with his arm sort of squashed against Dean's side, which Dean finds he really doesn't mind.
Shit blows up in Dean's face at what Sam once dubbed 'the cock scene'. At the sight of an actual penis on the screen – the first penis Dean has ever seen in any situation other than accidentally walking in on someone in the shower – he realises that what he's actually doing with his life right now is watching a man's real cock and balls with the man he's grudgingly beginning to admit to having a huge crush on, and that's not OK. It's all getting a bit meta-fiction for his tastes.
He leaps up from the bed. Cas looks incredibly confused, his huge blue eyes growing even wider as Dean knowingly makes a complete prat of himself.
"I'm sorry, man," Dean splutters. "I can't do this."
Cas narrows his eyes.
"Do what, exactly?" he asks. "Watch a film? I was unaware that this was generally considered to be a strenuous activity."
"Watch a film with you, Cas, on your bed, like two twelve year old girls! We're grown-ass men! I am twenty-five years old, y'know? This shit just feels a bit weird to me. I'm sorry."
Cas scratches the back of his neck and closes the laptop. He doesn't make any move to stand up; just regards Dean coolly from the bed. Dean can actually feel his blood pressure increase.
"I fail to see the issue," he says. Of course he does. Of bloody course.
Then Dean decides that actually he hasn't put his foot in it enough and continues.
"And then there's you, sitting all pressed up next to me like my high school prom date! It's weird, Cas! It's like, I don't know, you're gay or something. It's not normal for dudes our age."
Something has changed in Cas' expression. Where there was previously genuine confusion and a hint of concern there is now pure, unadulterated rage. Dean swallows hard.
"Would that be a problem?" Cas asks, quietly.
"Would what be a problem?" Dean questions, his heart racing. A part of him wants to apologise, knows he's essentially digging a hole all the way to China, but the rest of him is a bloody Winchester and Winchesters don't back down.
"If my sexuality were different from yours," Cas clarifies. "If I were gay, as you so eloquently put it."
Dean really wants to kiss him now and prove that he's got it all wrong, he's not a homophobe, far from it, but he doesn't think that would be particularly well received right now.
"I don't know," Dean says honestly. Of course, the main problem with that would be that then Dean would have no real excuse not to just jump his bones here and now, not that he's in some way morally opposed to it, but apparently Cas doesn't understand that.
"I think you should leave," says Cas, flatly. When Dean doesn't respond, his voice gets a little louder, but it's still quietly furious. "Now."
Dean doesn't retort because he's tired of all this and he just wants to meet a nice girl and not be confused any more and if having Cas be cross with him is the only way to do that, then so be it, he'll take the risk.
He leaves.
When he gets back to his flat, he ignores Sammy's concerned questioning and heads straight for his bedroom, locking the door and flinging himself onto his bed in an excellent impersonation of a melodramatic teenage girl. He can feel something uncomfortably lumpy under his pillow, so he rummages around for a moment and pulls out his cellphone. He hasn't looked at it in three days and he's not really surprised to see he has ten texts and more missed calls than he can be bothered to sift through.
He skims through the notifications until he finds one that makes his heart sink to somewhere beneath the soles of his feet.
It's from Cas, of course, and it was sent yesterday. It just says 'Thank you for spending time with me. I hope you feel better soon. – Cas' and there are three things about it that make Dean want to rush back to Cas' dorm and just kiss the man breathless.
Firstly, he's signed off as Cas, Dean's nickname for him, which is just too endearing, and Dean can't help but feel a swell of pride that he's impacted Cas' life in some way, even if it's just a nickname.
Secondly, he says he hopes Dean feels better soon, because of course he'd bought all that bullshit about Dean being ill. He hadn't known that Dean had actually been avoiding him so as not to lose all self-control and make out with him non-consensually.
Thirdly – and this one is the killer, in Dean's opinion – he's actually thanked Dean for spending time with him. He actually thinks that it's in some way an inconvenience for Dean to hang out with him, or Cas is the one that's benefitting from their odd little friendship. Which is totally fucking insane. Dean's the one who should be thanking Cas for letting him see his tight little smiles whenever he realises he's become the butt of another joke, for never using contractions no matter how long it takes him to say a simple sentence, for putting up with all of Dean's bitch fits because really, deep down, despite the layers of muscle and the five o'clock shadow, Dean's just a hormonal teenage girl.
He's not overly surprised to find that his eyes are welling up, and he allows himself one moment to marvel at the ridiculousness of the situation; Dean Winchester, lothario of the entire school and renowned womaniser with abs of steel and the self esteem of an Adonis, is lying in bed, crying about a boy. Only a moment. Then he returns to feeling sorry for himself, re-reading the text until his phone battery dies and he falls asleep.
