It's nothing. All next week, Dean repeats it until it becomes a mantra, a senseless thought that he can employ without even thinking – it's nothing, it's nothing. It's nothing, even when Castiel sits with him at lunch on Monday, and they talk so easily that it's like they've known each other for ages. It's nothing even when that one occasion accidentally becomes a ritual and from then on they take lunch and coffee together between third and fourth period every day. It's nothing even when they start remembering little things not only about each other, but about the other characters in their lives; Castiel's favorite childhood nanny (Martha), for instance, or what happened at Sam's twelfth birthday (chaos). It's nothing even when Castiel looks at him too long, like he's about to say something that will change everything, and Dean can feel the pressure of his eyes like they're hot and boring into his skin. It's nothing. Dean must be imagining every bit, because it's nothing. Nothing.
But Sam, always too intuitive for his own good, notices his agitation, and starts asking – ironically – if there's a girl he should know about. Dean swallows, and says no, there's no girl. It's not a lie, he reasons. And as for that fact – that Castiel is a man – well, it's unusual, but it's not a surprise. It's happened to Dean a few times in the past, although perhaps the attraction was never so powerful. He's gotten used to it. He's never acted on the feeling, though, maybe because he never got the chance, maybe because he's never met anyone quite as magnetic as Castiel. In any case, he figures it just means that he's a flexible kind of guy who can appreciate beauty in all its forms.
Sam seems dubious when Dean says he's just fine, but Dean counters with a question about Jessica (seems you're awfully focused on girls these days; is there anything you'd like to tell me?), and his baby brother turns scarlet and doesn't bring it up again. Later, Dean says he's just stressed, that's all. He's got a big exam coming up, and between work and studying he's been spreading himself a bit thin lately. That is also true, but it's no cause for agitation. Dean has been spreading himself thin all his life; it's the only way he knows how to exist anymore. But Sam believes him, and that's all that matters.
There is one last obstacle, however, between Dean and successfully convincing himself that it truly is nothing. Friday looms ever closer, and the less time there is left in the week, the more Dean finds himself thinking about that dinner reservation, poring over it at every quiet moment until he catches himself and redirects his train of thought onto cars or schoolwork or something else that could only support the idea that it really is absolutely nothing.
He works harder than ever before, staying up late into the night studying to chase off dreams, and going the extra mile for Castiel whenever he can. At least the students have started to warm up to him. They're snobby and conceited, but otherwise not so bad. In any case, Dean always flourishes when he's working hard, and things are looking up, even if he's exhausted.
Sam is happy, too, and that's worth everything. In fact, his only complaint has to do with the teacher of his third period class (biology), a man whom Dean soon identifies as Gabriel and who is otherwise easily distinguished by a dimpled mouth and small bright eyes. It is a tradition in his classroom, claims Sam, to make annual sport of torturing one lucky student. Apparently he chooses his victim at any point during the year, and when Sam made his entrance a few weeks ago, it was, as the other students joke, love at first sight.
Therefore, Sam has become the butt of every joke and prank imaginable (the professor, he seethes, is like an overgrown child), but since this curse doesn't seem to effect anything serious, such as grades or workload, Dean can't really complain. He does ask Castiel about it at lunch, however, and to his surprise, Castiel explodes into laughter, the genuine kind that still leaves Dean breathless, with a pounding heart, even though, again, it's nothing.
"That's one of my brothers." Castiel dashes a tear from the corner of his eye. "He has a wicked sense of humor to say the least, but he's harmless. The fact that he's chosen Sam really just means that he likes him. I wouldn't worry about it. No matter how it seems, your brother is in good hands."
"Good hands?" Dean is doubtful, and Castiel gives a crooked smile.
"He'll write a mean letter of recommendation, especially if Sam survives his pranks without breaking down. Tell Sam about that when the time comes. He'll think you're insane, but you won't be sorry."
"Roger that," chuckles Dean, and they fall back into comfortable conversation, just like always.
Really, right now, life is unrealistically bearable. Dean misses work at the garage, and he doesn't love being tired all the time, but it's worth it, and his job gets more enjoyable by the day. The only dark spot, in fact, is Friday, and he's almost started to hate Castiel for being so confusing and magnetic and posing so many unprecedented difficulties. He tell himself that he's not going to worry, but once school gets out on Friday and Castiel waves goodbye, reminding him to come by at seven o'clock – like Dean could have somehow forgotten, like it hasn't consumed his every thought since last week – he can barely concentrate on hugging Sam goodbye.
His brother will be staying at the dorms this weekend, which is good because Dean will have more time to study, but bad because he'll have more time to think, and thinking seems to be his downfall as of late. He drives back to the apartment with his mind racing. He wonders what Castiel will wear, what he'll cook, what he'll say, if he'll finally comb his hair, or if he already combs his hair and it sticks up like that anyways, beyond help. As he climbs up the stairs it occurs to him that he's going to have to wear something, too, something nicer than old jeans and a leather jacket, but not too nice, so that it doesn't look like he's trying to look nice, so that he can keep up the illusion that it really is nothing, nothing at all.
He distracts himself with schoolwork until five o'clock, then takes a shower and shaves. He takes extra care not to cut himself with the razor, and nearly burns away his skin with aftershave. After that, he debates heatedly between the two nice colognes he has before realizing how stupid he looks bent into the medicine cabinet, chewing worriedly on his lower lip. He blindly grabs the first bottle. Finally, he goes to the closet and stands helplessly at the door.
He has two suits and an extra sport jacket for job interviews, but that won't do at all. His nice silk shirts will be too recognizable; there are five of them, one for each day of work, and Dean repeats them every week without fail. Thankfully, he doesn't think he needs a tie or fine trousers. He finally decides that nice jeans will do, and is grateful that he only has one pair, dark blue denim that hug his hips and thigh, complete with a designer emblem and all. They were a gift from Bobby on Dean's twentieth birthday and serve well as a staple for casual dates, although Dean tries not to think about that particular coincidence as he buttons the fly, because this is a business dinner, nothing more. Nothing.
A shirt, however, poses more complex issues. It's January, so short sleeves are out of the question, and he can't wear anything stained or torn, so that rules out most of his favorites. He contemplates a waffle-knit sweater, but remembers that Castiel wore something like that the last time he was over, and decides against it. But a sweater, he thinks, might be a good idea. In the back of his closet he finds a green pullover that fits snugly at the waist and brings out the color in his eyes. He fidgets in front of the mirror for a while before he decides that it's an acceptable combination.
It's six o'clock, so Dean tries to read a battered copy of Vita Nuova (translated into modern Italian, of course) while he waits for his hair to dry, but just can't concentrate of the book, not right now, at least. But maybe the subject matter is to blame – Dean actually enjoyed The Divine Comedy, but this text isn't quite as arresting as Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven, what with the lack of fires and rivers of blood and that huge frozen lake at the lowest level. In any case, he puts down the book with ten minutes to spare and goes to the bathroom to run his hands through his hair over and over again, like it makes some sort of difference.
It's nothing, he reminds himself as he puts on his nice leather shoes and goes down to the car. Nothing, as he starts the engine. Nothing as he pulls out, night already set soft and black on the horizon, the gloom of the streets ruptured by the lemon-yellow light of the lamps and store windows. Nothing as he turns up the music to drown out his thoughts. Castiel's neighborhood is already hushed. The grand lights of the mansions cast transfixing liquid patterns onto the lawns and sidewalks, and once in a while the wind carries through the open window of the Impala a burst of laughter, conversation, the sound of glasses clinking together, high heels against marble floors.
Dean pulls up to the curb. A few lights are on in Castiel's house, blazing warm and soft onto the lawn. The glow pools between the cobblestones in the driveway and the footpaths, drips slowly from the stairs, soaks into Dean's hair. His palms are sweaty. It's nothing, he promises himself. He fights down the violent urge to turn and flee. How ridiculous to be afraid when it's nothing at all. He runs a hand through his hair one last time and rings the doorbell.
Castiel doesn't keep him waiting long. On the doorstep, he grips Dean warmly by the shoulder, then ushers him inside. The house is like an envelope of warmth, and the air is rich with the smell of food. Castiel leads him to the kitchen, and goes to peer inside the oven, and Dean sees with relief (and some amusement) that he's wearing worn brown corduroys and an apron over a maroon sweater, that his hair is still a mess, and that his chin is still dusted with that perpetual five o'clock shadow.
Castiel shuts the oven and implores that Dean follow him out back, where he's got the grill just about ready to go. Dean raises an eyebrow – grilling, in January? – and Castiel shrugs, pulling a bowl of meat from the fridge and showing Dean to the backdoor.
"I for one cannot live without a good hamburger," he confesses as they step outside. "And I fear that I only trust myself to meet my standards."
Dean grins. "In that case, these had better be good."
Castiel glances up with a smirk, and the shadows play strange tricks on his face, bleeding into the curve of his mouth and altering the light in his eyes, transforming that surreal blue.
"Is that a challenge?"
"Maybe."
"Then I accept."
The grill throws a soft, amorphous light a few feet in every direction; it uses real charcoal, not propane, and the woody smell permeates the air. Dean sits on a little bench nearby and watches as Castiel forms patties with his hands and makes small talk about nothing in particular. The orange light suits him – but maybe every light suits him – casting a changeable gradient across his face that highlights the detailed nuances of his expression, the concentrated crinkle of his brow as he sets the first patties onto the flame.
The smell makes Dean's mouth water. They keep talking about nothing, or at least nothing that's really important. Nothing.The conversation is mostly about class, plans for the upcoming semester, the kids who are doing well, and the ones who show cause for worry. Just work, and that's all for the best, really. Castiel presses down on the patties one by one and smoke billows wildly into the air, momentarily coloring the night.
He makes five burgers, two each and an extra just in case. Once the patties are cooked, he slides them off the grill and onto a platter to rest before he sets red peppers and hamburger buns back onto the flame. It's an aesthetic pleasure to watch him cook, really: another situation in which he's fluid and engaged, a little bit lost to the world, in the best way possible. Dean is content to observe and occasionally follow with his gaze the luxurious plumes of smoke to the point where they disappear in the into the inky night sky. At some point they fall into an easy quiet that lasts until Castiel is finished and beckons Dean back into the house.
He offers to set the table while Castiel arranges the food; at first, Castiel protests, but Dean insists, desperately wanting to somehow make himself useful. At long last, he's directed to the linen drawer. He tries to be tasteful in his selection as Castiel garnishes the burgers with actual garnishes, little sprigs and parsley and all. Normally Dean would be mildly revolted, but in this case, it's almost adorable, what with the way Castiel crinkles his brow as he pushes around the ingredients and smiles when he thinks it's done right. But Dean focuses on the silverware because such thoughts can't be allowed.It's nothing.
Castiel finally unties his apron and lets his hand come to rest on Dean's shoulder as they settle at the table, dropping a compliment regarding his decorative skills with only the faintest shading of mirth. Dean rolls his eyes and puts up a show of irritation, but he doesn't mean it, not at all. Not when Castiel is smiling at him like that, eyes soft and sort of melted at the edges as he pushes a burger onto his plate and carefully twists off the cap on his beer. Dean shakes his head to chase away unwanted ideas and focuses on eating.
Castiel wasn't kidding about making a good burger, and Dean doesn't even bother with being prideful in this case, because it's honestly delicious. In fact, he barely stops eating long enough to mumble a compliment. Castiel's eyes flicker with pride, and the edge of his mouth quirks up slightly but sharply, pleased. Dean's ravenous, but Castiel eats with an almost birdlike delicacy, quickly but carefully, fingers and tongue darting every which way so that the process is clean, too. It's a bit mesmerizing, actually, and Dean concentrates on the grain of the wooden table, the drops of water sliding down the flank of his beer, to keep from staring.
Dinner is over too soon, but they linger at the table before dessert because the third round of beers has brought a heightened ease of conversation. The alcohol rolls words around in Dean's head and coaxes them out until they tumble across the table, liberated at last. He has to be more careful, but he's also enjoying himself, and maybe getting a bit lost in the amorphous and profound blue of Castiel's eyes after all. Castiel has come loose at the seams, too, and the lines between business and friendship have started to blur; for instance, he drops swears easily, and even complains about work from time to time.
"The kids are so ungrateful, sometimes," he laments, "that I can't help stopping to ask myself if I'm really making a difference, if there's any way – any way in the world! – that I can make them learn, and not only that, but make them wantto learn, truly, so that success is more than just a passing grade."
He looks so pained that a little ache blooms unwarranted in the bottom of Dean's chest.
"Jesus, Cas," he sighs, lifting one hand, almost like he's going to reach out and touch him, God forbid, only to let it fall back onto the table. "Look in the mirror once in a while. I've seen you teach, and it's downright amazing. And I swear I'm not just looking for a raise here. Trust me when I tell you that if anyone can find a way, it's you."
Castiel's expression sharpens with interest, but not because of the praise.
"Cas?" he ventures after a long pause.
A stretch of quiet. Castiel twirls the neck of his beer between his thumb and index finger and doesn't look away. It's transfixing. Dean swallows thickly. He's terrified for a moment that he's betrayed himself, but then he reigns in his nerves, evens the tempo of his breathing, trying to seem nonchalant.
"Sorry, I – man, was that too informal?" He scratches at the back of his neck, hoping the kitchen lighting downplays the flood of color that he can feel spreading from his face to his chest. "My bad. It's just easier to say. I won't do it again."
"No, that's alright," says Castiel, and his voice has gone impossibly soft, perhaps relatable in terms of color and texture to the first light of dawn or the sort of breeze that blows up in early spring. Dean's never heard that tone before, and it's dizzying. "I like it."
"You do?" Dean vaguely registers the dreamlike quality of his words. "Okay. I'll call you Cas, then, if you really don't mind."
"I don't."
"Good."
They hold each other's gaze for what is an eternity and nothing more than the blink of an eye all at once, and Castiel's mouth falls open a bit, and he blinks long and slow, so that light is drawn up through his eyes like a backwards sieve, and for a long moment Dean suffocates, but then in a blessed stroke of luck, the oven timer shatters the laden silence and Castiel comes back into clear focus. He gets up to go fetch dessert, and the moment he's gone Dean sort of collapses over the table, elbows supporting all his weight as he almost lays his head in his hands. He's imagining it, he has to be. It's nothing, nothing at all.
"It's nothing special," echoes Castiel as he comes back from the kitchen with a pair of oven mitts tucked into one hand. "Just a pie. Apple. Say what you will, but I've always loved baking."
"You're a pussy." Dean waves his hand dismissively. "What else is new? I love pie, anyways."
Castiel beams. "Excellent. Come back to the kitchen. We can eat there. I'll get to the dishes later on."
"We'll have to see about that," counters Dean as Castiel ushers him to the counter and gets him to measure out a slice. The smell instantly sets his mouth to watering. He didn't tell Castiel, but apple pie is his favorite. It's eerie, this unintended synchronization between them, something sort of suggestive of what exists between him and Sam, but at the same time totally different, supercharged with a tenacious sort of electricity that Dean can't get off his skin no matter how he tries.
He and Castiel lean against the counter to eat. It's quiet, just the sound of forks against china and the soft hum of the kitchen appliances. After a while, however, Dean starts to come up with the conversation, fueled by curiosity and coaxed forwards by the alcohol and the gentle but constant warmth of Castiel's gaze. He starts asking Castiel questions unthinkingly, with no tangible rhyme or reason, really just because he wants to know, and Castiel seems happy to oblige.
"Your favorite place to go when you were a kid?" He's chewing, but that's alright; they're long past the constraints of manners.
"Oh, I don't know." Castiel looks down, smiling privately, and Dean suddenly feels a little bit like an intruder in some locked fantastic world that he's never known: a good childhood, of course. "India was wonderful, but my father was always busy, so I'll say…well, the year we spent in Beijing. Magical place, despite everything."
Dean snorts. "Jesus, I meant something more along the lines of your favorite pillow fort, you know."
To his surprise, Castiel colors, and his eyes go unfocused. "Oh – in that case...well. To be honest, my family wasn't much the type for pillow forts. My parents didn't want to be distant, but they couldn't help it, sometimes. They were busy. They had to hire nannies, governesses, whatever. All good women, but…well, they weren't my mother and father, after all."
Dean swallows; he hadn't expected that. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."
Now it's Castiel's turn to snort. "Don't be ridiculous. That's not prying. I just told you more than you asked. Forgive me. It's a bad habit of mine, you see, talking too much once I've had a bit to drink."
"Not so bad," mumbles Dean, and catches a fleeting glimpse of Castiel's smile before he determinedly jerks his gaze away. He's desperate to change the subject, and finds himself wandering towards Castiel's living room, still carrying his plate in one hand. Castiel follows and turns on the light, watching Dean from the doorway as he makes his way around overflowing shelves of books and movies, squinting at the sepia portraits hung on the walls and admiring the glassy face of the HD television.
"This is sweet," he breathes, and Castiel chuckles, coming to join him in the center of the room.
"I suppose."
"You suppose? Come on, man; look, you even have all the extended editions." Dean is referring to The Lord of the Rings trilogy, enthroned at the top shelf beside their printed companions.
"Of course; it's only a necessity."
But Castiel gravitates towards the bookshelves, and when Dean glances over his shoulder, he catches him smiling at the worn spines like they're old friends. At that, he feels it again, that irresistible pull bringing him over to hover at Castiel's shoulder, trying to drink it all in at once. He's not much for reading unless it's in a foreign language, but he can appreciate passion, and the collection is impressive. He can't even read some of the titles, but he recognizes gilded letters, real leather covers: authenticity, like everything about Castiel.
"It's beautiful," says Dean softly, and Castiel nods.
"This little library is one of my great joys in life." He smiles almost bashfully. "One day you should see my study. I don't mean to be boastful – or in this case, I suppose I do – but this sorry lot is nothing compared to what I've got in there."
Dean gives a low whistle, and Castiel chuckles, setting his plate down on the coffee table after finding a clear spot amidst the teetering stacks of books and papers and old mugs still sticky with tea. The clock on the television says it's just past ten, and Dean knows he should go, but he can't do it, not yet. In the meantime, Castiel is rummaging in his movie collection.
"Have you seen any Woody Allen films?" He resurfaces suddenly, a few DVDs in hand. "He's a real favorite of mine. Absolutely brilliant, especially when it comes to being an intellectual."
Dean frowns. He's not sure. Castiel gives him a few names, and it turns out that he's seen Take the Money and Run. The other films, however, are unfamiliar, and Castiel takes on a wicked grin – Zeligit is, then. Before Dean can fully grasp the situation, Castiel is turning on the television and kicking off his shoes, pushing aside a precarious stack of exams to make room for his feet. Dean's stomach drops. He nearly recovers his voice in time to escape, but then the screen roars to life, and it's too late.
He settles uneasily onto the couch, and Castiel gives him a brief smile that stops up his throat perhaps beyond repair. He's never been more conscious of anyone before, and the slightest suggestion of motion is to him the epitome of alarm. Castiel so much as breathes, and Dean's hair stands on end; he shifts deeper into the couch, and his adrenalin pounds. He wants nothing more than to flee, but at the same time he wants to press his face into Castiel's shoulder, just inches away, so that the heat of his skin is almost palpable, and certainly imaginable. It's absolutely the worst situation conceivable, and he can't escape. He has nothing to do but focus on the movie, the movie and nothing else. Nothing else.
Dean's always been good in a tight spot, and he actually manages to lose himself in the plot, so that when the clock strikes eleven and he looks over to see Castiel dozing gently, head pillowed on the opposite armrest of the sofa, it comes as a surprise. He tenses at first – this might be the most terrifying obstacle of all – but then wills himself to relax. It's alright; he can ignore it, because it's nothing, and nothing is very easily ignored.
He stares blankly at the screen for about half a minute before his eyes are back on Castiel. At the very least it was, he consoles himself, a noble effort.
In asleep, all the square angles of Castiel's face have gone soft at the edges, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes loosening, the sharp line of his mouth lying slack so that there's no definite form to his lips. The blue light of the television highlights the minute spray of his eyelashes, their infinitesimal shadows surreally lengthened down his cheeks. He looks tired but peaceful, one hand curled over the opposite thigh and the other tucked under his cheek to lend him an almost childlike impression. Dean is transfixed.
At long last, he gets up and heads to the kitchen to get started on the dishes, gathering the plates and old mugs from the coffee table on the way. He's nearly done when Castiel surprises him, eyes still glazed with sleep. He gives a splendid yawn and yanks the sponge away from Dean.
"You're a guest," he mumbles, and tries to push him aside with his hips. Bad plan; Dean springs away so fast that he nearly sends water spraying everything. He's glad that Castiel is too exhausted to really notice the wash of color on his face, the way he stutters as he says that it's gotten so late, he really should go, he's overstayed his welcome, anyways.
"You've overstayed no welcome," retorts Castiel thickly, brandishing a soapy plate for emphasis. "I was just up all last night grading. But you are right. It's late."
"Thanks so much for dinner," says Dean as he makes for the door. His fingertips are still alive with the static that's run down from the rest of his body. "It was great, really."
"Nonsense. thank you, Dean," hollers Castiel from the kitchen. "Drive safe."
"Sure thing." His breathing is settling now. "See you Monday. Don't be late."
"Shut the fuck up."
"Never."
And with that, Dean steps onto the porch, shuts the door, and bolts for the car. The cold tears into his chest, brings tears to his eyes, burns away the last of the alcohol. He stumbles into the Impala and presses his forehead into the steering wheel until the world narrows down to the pressure against his skull, simple pressure, easily understood, tolerated.
"Never, Cas," he breathes, and jerks the car into drive.
He's careful. It's nothing. He doesn't think about it all weekend because it's still nothing, no matter what. No matter how Castiel smiled. No matter how he looked from across the table. Now matter how reverently he regarded those old books. No matter how his face softened as he slept and Dean felt like he could reach out and his whole expression would somehow give into his touch and reveal all the tiny secrets that constituted his being, the little gears and cogs that together made up Castiel Novak, professor of classical languages among other such pursuits and possibly the most infuriating and magnetic man to ever exist. No – none of that matters, because it's nothing, nothing at all.
Dean has a quiet weekend. He does his schoolwork, talks to Sam for a long time on Sunday, and finally makes some headway into Vita Nuova. Refreshed, he gets to work early on Monday to run some copies as a final thank-you for dinner, with the full intent of otherwise never mentioning that night again. It looks like he's not the only one out and about early; he hears voices echoing down the hall, and he's about to walk into the teacher's lounge when suddenly the name drops through the background noise of conversation like a bullet: Sam Winchester. Dean's breath hitches, and after a moment's debate he presses himself against the far wall, just barely in comprehensible earshot.
"…I must admit that I was certainly surprised by his performance."
It's a baritone that Dean doesn't recognize. There's a brief pause in which only the hum of the copier and the drip of the coffee machine are audible.
"And why's that?"
Dean nearly bolts. That even, earnest tone is unmistakable. There's a low chuckle, colored with a note of incredulity.
"Please, Castiel. A boy from that sort of background?"
Dean feels his hackles rise, but at the same time, a little ache starts just behind his ribs: what can Castiel say to that? Another agonizing pause.
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean."
A snort. "Don't play dumb."
"Please, Uriel." Castiel's voice sounds offbeat, almost hollow, and in that moment Dean's almost afraid. "Humor me."
The sound of coffee hitting the bottom of a paper cup.
"Alright. Let's be realistic. That sort of people…well, they're just not our sort of people. You know that. You saw the boy when he first came in. He was the picture of what most Americans wouldn't be willing to call poverty. Scruffy, used uniform – used everything, actually. And not to mention how he gawked at everything as if he were some sort of newborn." A heavy sigh. "Frankly, that sort of kid shouldn't fit in here. But Sam really stands out from the rest of his lot. Despite how he's been raised, he might even have a future here. I'm impressed."
Silence. Dean feels raw and hot. He's so angry he can't even breathe. The hallway is blurred, spinning, turning crimson at the edges. He's about to charge in and strangle Uriel himself, all else be damned, but then Castiel starts to speak, and the world screeches to something of a halt.
His voice is even at first, like always.
"What a good point you raise, Uriel."
A moment's pause. "I'm glad you agree."
"Oh, certainly." The soft sound of paper giving way: someone is clenching their coffee cup. "Because it's obvious that our sort of people– well, that we wouldn't dare set ourselves even close to the standards of the rest of humanity, would we? Of course it is only natural that we should exist as a separate legion, cloistered within the walls of this academy, superior. The academy makes us superior. Our learning, or situation, how we were born – it all makes us superior."
Audible tension. The baritone again: "Yes, if you must put it as such, I suppose – "
"And so it's surprising to you, Uriel, that Sam Winchester should dare to succeed, because he is not as we are. Such audacity! The boy is truly amazing. Tell me something, Uriel, if you might be so kind. How long have you had a window into the life of the Winchesters? It must be fascinating, to know exactly how their life is, to be able to understand the poor specimens who exist so far below you on the grand cosmic scale. But forgive me. I make the assumption of a window because surely you must have a window to be able to pose such a judgment. Do you have a window, Uriel?"
Another miniature eternity.
"Don't be ridiculous, Castiel. I was being figurative, you know that."
And suddenly Castiel's voice rolls with thunder.
"So was I."
Pause.
"I don't understand what you mean."
The sound of a single footstep.
"I mean, Uriel, that you know nothing about the Winchesters, and that it makes me sick that you presume to do so in the very least. You do not know Sam, and you most certainly do not know – you do not know Sam, in any case. You do not know what his life has been, and yet you wonder at his intelligence, his compassion, his ability to be human, as if he were ever anything lesser thank you or I – my God! Believe what you will, but at times like these I cannot help but think people like Sam are the more privileged."
Quiet. Castiel's voice had risen, but when he speaks again, it's nearly a whisper, and Dean has to press again the wall to hear.
"You are my brother, Uriel, and I love you, but at times you appall me more profoundly than I can say. If I ever hear you speak of Sam – or of any Winchester, for that matter – in such a way again, I will never forgive you."
There's only a split second for Dean to gather his wits before Uriel comes storming out, fists clenched at his sides. Then it's over, and Dean is alone in the gaping silence of the hallway, clinging to the stack of paper as if his life depended on it. It's only a moment before he knows what to do. Again, it's not something he really considers. It's not rational, it's not even conscious. It just happens.
"Dean." Castiel looks up from the coffee machine. Fear lies written clearly across his face. "How long were you – "
The papers are lost to the floor. The coffee cup flies away in a long arc. Dean grabs Castiel by the shoulders, and they slam against the far wall with a crash. Castiel almost says his name before Dean kisses him. The roar of anger flares impossibly bright, scorches his chest, and then it's dead, not anger at all anymore. No. At long last it's just honesty, raw and reckless. Dean doesn't let Castiel say anything. It's short. He lets go and Castiel stares.
"Thanks," says Dean.
And with that, he bolts.
He's going to lose his job, and he deserves to lose his job, and there's nothing he can do, and he doesn't know what he's going to tell Sam. It's not like the academy can expel him for Dean's actions, but it pains him to imagine not being close to his little brother for at least a short while every day. But again, he deserves it. For everything. And yet he's in a state of disbelief. It's not even the job that's so important. Not at all.
What's important is that this is the first time he's really failed Sam.
He ignores Castiel for the rest of the day, and receives ignorance in return. It's a final kindness on part of a man who was always too kind, he supposes. How fitting. Dean actually spends lunch in the bathroom, like the unpopular girls in junior high, crying over a sandwich waiting for the bell to ring. It's a low point, to be sure.
The end of the day comes too quickly. The students file out, unaware that they leave Dean to his doom. He wants to flee, lay down a resignation letter and escape, but he can't. He still has his dignity, and that much at least he must maintain. And yet a permeating sadness engulfs his chest, a sadness that has nothing to do with Sam or unemployment or failure. He knows what it is. He's going to miss Castiel, despite everything, or perhaps because of it. But he'll work out that much in the safety of the apartment.
Castiel closes the door after the last student. It's the first time that Dean has really looked at him all day. His expression is indecipherable, and then he turns his back to lock the door. Privacy in shame: yet another kindness. Castiel is still for a long moment. Dean looks down. But Castiel turns and that infuriating magnetism of his draws Dean's gaze up despite himself. His expression – no, still indecipherable.
Castiel exhales into the silence.
"Dean."
And then he's across the room, hands digging into Dean's lapels. Dean stumbles back against the desk; the wood screams and an avalanche of paper spills onto the floor. Textbooks rain down and the joints in his neck crack. It's the most forceful kiss he's ever experienced. Frenetic, senseless, hands on his jaw, neck, the hollow of his throat, fists balling in his hair. He can't move.
"Forgive me," gasps Castiel into the tender spot at the crook of his jaw; his hair prickles Dean's cheek, and it's startlingly intimate. "All day I couldn't look at you or else – "
At that, Dean surges forwards, grabbing Castiel's face in both hands. Castiel's arms tangle around his neck and he arches into his chest. It's tacit comprehension. Dean is half-sitting on the desk and Castiel nestles between his legs. There's nothing more to be said for a long time.
"I heard you in the teacher's lounge." Dean kisses the shell of Castiel's ear. "I heard everything."
Castiel clings to his neck. "Oh."
He tries to kiss him again, but Dean leans back a bit, albeit reluctantly.
"Cas. What you said. I mean. I can never tell you how much…I mean…fuck."
Castiel pulls back maybe an inch to meet his gaze. His expression is clouded, but the light in his eyes is clear, conscious, tender. In a dreamlike motion he presses his index finger to Dean's lips.
"If you can't say it, then don't talk," he whispers.
That's it for a good while. Another kiss, and another, and another; it is in fact an indefinite series of kisses, without clear beginning or end, absorbing and exhilarating and eventually beyond description. Dean tries to worry that it's too much, but he can't. He doesn't want to stop, so at long last it is Castiel who dips his chin away (but keeps his hand balanced precariously on the crook of Dean's elbow, a pinpoint of heat in the chaos of the senseless rush in his ears, the pounding of his blood).
"I have a parent-teacher conference in five minutes," he explains, and sounds so regretful that Dean knows it can't be a rejection. Even so, he steps away, but Castiel only stretches forwards to keep his hand on his arm.
"I'll call you later," he whispers.
"You, uh. You don't have my number," says Dean, dizzily, dizzily, dizzily.
"Yes I do. It was on your job application."
Dean grimaces, unhappy to be reminded of their circumstances, and Castiel chuckles and apologizes, his voice roughened, rolling low and husky from somewhere deep in his chest. At that, Dean smiles a little bit, and says goodbye, but before he can leave Castiel catches his sleeve and draws him back.
"Just one more," he says, mouth slack, eyes unfocused. "Please."
Dean's breath hitches. When he kisses Castiel this time it's not desperate or bruising, but soft, deliberate, almost careful. His pulse fluctuates dizzyingly, and for an instant Castiel presses into his chest, knits his hands into his hair, but then he's gone, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, leaving Dean stumbling forwards a bit.
"I'll call you," he promises, again.
Dean nods, inching reluctantly towards the door. "Talk to you soon."
Castiel glances up from his desk with a smile. "Soon."
Dean slips into the hall and shuts the door. Then it's only a moment before the breath seems to come rushing out of him all at once and his knees go flimsy, fit to collapse. He's not going to lose his job. He's not going to lose his job, and Castiel is going to call soon, and maybe he'll even get to kiss him again. It's too much. If Dean has learned anything, it's that his life can't be this good. It can't be real. And yet, real it seems. It's unbelievable, and maybe, he admits to himself, it wasn't exactly nothing, after all.
AN: As always, thanks so much for your wonderful support and your readership! Until next week :)
