Chapter Two

The rest of Castiel's week was fairly uneventful. In both Drawing I and Painting I, there were still-lifes set up for him to interpret. The one the Drawing professor had set up was fairly imaginative – apart from the typical set up of vases and flowers, there was also a damaged skeleton that the medical school had donated, as well as several animal skulls and lots of textured fabrics. Unfortunately, the still life the painting professor had set up was perhaps one of the least stimulating things he'd ever had the displeasure of rendering. The very first assignment she'd given them was to paint the still life to the best of their ability, matching the local colors in the painting as well as they could to show her what level they were all on. It wasn't hard, but due to the fact that any oil painting was a labor intensive process, it pained him to slave over getting the colors of various cups, shoes, and boxes just right. Some of the more forward students in the class had complained openly, something Castiel marveled at – he'd always had a strong respect for authority, and didn't cause trouble. But a girl with almost no hair on her head and quite a bit of titanium in her face had just looked at the professor and said "Look, I know this is Painting I, but surely we can do better than this."

His Art Practices class had given him a first assignment that had him stumped. His teacher, who exuded everything being an art professor meant by being 6'8", thin as a rail, and wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of paisley pants, had given them all a copy of the local paper and told them to make art. Many of the students had taken that quite literally, beginning to tear up the paper to do paper mache, but Castiel had just calmly opened it up and began reading, looking for something that left an impression. Although the paper was a slow read (things always are when you're looking for inspiration), he'd managed to find something of interest in the obituaries.

On Wednesday, Dean gave him the information for the party, as well as his phone number should Castiel get lost. Although he imagined it would be courteous to send the number a text to ensure it was right and by proxy give Dean his number, Castiel never did. Yes, there was something calming about Dean's presence, but the more he thought about it, the more that bothered him. They didn't know each other, and yet he was just going to walk into this stranger's house at 9:00pm (according to the piece of paper with all of the necessary details) and pretend he belonged there? It bothered him, probably more than it should. Still, he wasn't going to back out – once you say you're going to do something, you have to do it. It was a lesson all good people had to learn. A deal's a deal and all of that.

Another part of him, and Castiel couldn't tell if this was the more or less rational part of him, reasoned that there was no harm in going. Dean had reiterated that if Castiel didn't enjoy himself, he could always just leave. And he had the chance to make friends, not just in the form of Dean but any of the other people who might be attending. Castiel had never been a social butterfly back in Destiny, but that was because he grew up there, knowing all the same people and knowing everyone's secrets the way they knew his. When everyone you interact with on a daily basis knows everything about you without ever speaking to you, it drops the incentive to speak at all. But this was college! This was about trying new things, and he had assured his mother that he would try to like Lawrence before he ran off to New York next year. Well, this would be him trying. And when it crashed and burned, Castiel could reasonably say that he had a good run, but he was off to better things. Things involving frequent visits to the MOMA and the MET.

He slept in until 11 on Friday, and made himself a real breakfast when he woke up, instead of simply toasting frozen waffles like he'd done the past four days in a row. Having no Friday classes was convenient on a number of levels, but he doubted after this week that he'd spend another Friday without anything to do – the amount of in-studio art homework he needed to do was overwhelming, and since the still lifes were at school and taking photos of the still lifes would compromise the light source, he'd have to go up to the art building if he had to do homework. It was a little disappointing – part of the reason he'd gotten the two bedroom was because he could have his own studio, but he was sure he'd get mileage out of it in some way or another.

After breakfast, he had a videochat with his mother, telling her about his week and assuring her that everything was fine. Tactfully, he avoided mentioning the party, not wanting images of Animal House filling her head as what he was doing with his college education. After they hung up, he spent a good portion of the afternoon cleaning and unpacking, something he really hadn't had time to do since he'd moved in. The place really was alright. It was clean, it was tastefully decorated, and he'd even organized his kitchen the way his mother would have. But it was lonely. Living alone hadn't been the comfort he'd expected – after an adolescence that involved trying to get any alone time that he could, the freedom he was eventually granted didn't offer the reprieve he'd thought it would. Waking up to silence, never hearing the sound of his mother cooking up breakfast or wishing her a good night before he went to bed was… strange.

Maybe he'd get a cat to keep him company. Even in his loneliness, a cat sounded better than a roommate.

Around 7:30, he took a shower and shaved. He was still too young to buy alcohol, so it wasn't as if he could bring a bottle of wine to the party with him, as was customary. Granted, in movies, no one ever brought the host of wild college parties anything – they just drank and usually fornicated in the host's parents' bed. Which seemed awfully rude, but since Castiel had never been drunk before, he couldn't comment on whether or not it was proper. Dean had mentioned there would be booze, quite a bit from his tone, and Castiel knew that if he drank his way into a stupor when he got there, he wouldn't be able to leave, regardless of his comfort level. Part of him wanted to say that he shouldn't drink at all, but he knew he wasn't going to do that. He was in college, and this was what college kids did. They drank, they did drugs, they had casual sex, and while Castiel didn't believe in premarital sex, the bible wasn't wholly clear on its policy on experimental drug use.

He left at 9:30, not wanting to look overly eager by arriving on time, and the only reason he knew that social norm when he ignored so many others is that he'd been given a very stern talking to about it back in high school by a friend. It felt wrong, not bringing a gift, but as he pulled up to the house, which seemed to thrum as muffled classic rock seeped through its insulation, he thought it might be forgiveable. None of the twenty-somethings heading into the house seemed to be bringing gifts, just talking animatedly and entering the house without so much as the preamble of knocking. There were cars everywhere; parked in the street, in the driveway, across the street, and even one parked on the front lawn. The home itself surprised Castiel a bit. He didn't know why, but he hadn't expected Dean to live somewhere so nice. It was a respectable neighborhood, the sort where every family on the block has 2.5 children, the kind of place he grew up in. Of course, he and his mother never lived in a house quite this big, but still. Some part of him had imagined Dean was living in a tiny apartment on the other side of the tracks, the way he was.

Following suit with the other guests, he didn't knock, just letting himself in and taking a cursory glance around. It was a den of inequity, and Dean wasn't kidding. There were chicks. Everywhere. It wouldn't have been of import to him had they been in less compromising positions, but they were all young, fit, beautiful, and drinking. In fact, everyone was drinking. Castiel had never seen this much alcohol in his life. On the floor, a circle of people were sitting around a deck of cards that had been fanned out in a circle, and each time they drew one, at least one person drank. In a typical draw, he observed, it was more like three or four. Not far from them were a couple of people playing beer pong. Castiel wasn't clear on how the game worked, but both participants seemed to be winning due to the fact that neither were standing without difficulty.

He hugged the walls to avoid bumping into people as he made his way into the next room, a dining room from what it looked like, where a spread of all different kinds of junk food laid out appealingly. At the end of the table was thirty or so plastic cups of beer, twenty shot glasses (about half of them full of clear liquid and half of them full of brown), and several partially dented vodka and whiskey bottles. People were yelling over the music, which he didn't recognize by name but the song was familiar to him on some level, and some were dancing or pumping beer out of a keg in the corner of the room. Doubt creeped up on him supernaturally – yes, the bible wasn't specific about drug use, but this… this seemed wrong. This was hedonism on a dangerous level, and words like alcohol poisoning and drowning in your own vomit were making an ugly appearance in his mind.

He sidestepped a couple who were intimately involved with one another and headed into the kitchen, which had less people in it but smelled distinctly of marijuana. He'd become familiar with the smell in high school, after his mother had permitted him to go to a music festival with several of his friends. Upon further inspection, he found a small bong and a couple of pipes sitting near the open window, the contents of their bowls ashed from being smoked and quite a few black ashes dumped in the kitchen sink. Somehow, that seemed distinctly less threatening to him than all the beer, but he ran the water to wash it down the drain regardless. It was unsightly. Through the window, he could see people chasing each other outside, as well as quite a few people sitting around a firepit and smoking. He figured that if Dean wasn't out there, he was going to leave; he didn't know anyone here, hell, he didn't even recognize anyone here, and he wasn't going to stay and get drunk with a bunch of strangers. Yes, there was a certain amount of experimentation that should be done in college, but this? This was a bit too much for a man who'd been to church almost every Sunday of his life.

He stepped out through the back door and looked around, sighing in relief when he recognized Dean's face glowing by the firelight. There was a beer in his hand and a girl on either side of him, but Castiel strode forward and dragged one of the iron outdoor chairs towards the firepit, sitting down in front of him and acknowledging him with a nod.

"Dean."

"Castiel!" Dean smiled, and that wave of calmness swept over him again. Familiar and yet not. "Hey, I'm glad you came. I didn't think you would."

"Well. I did say I would come." Even to his own ears, he sounded stiff and clipped. He relaxed his shoulders a little. "I didn't realize so many people would be here. Are these all your friends?"

Everyone around the firepit laughed, and Castiel frowned a little bit. "No, no. Uhh.. I maybe know like, twenty people here? A lot of people plus-one'd. Or two'd, or three'd. But hey, I'm always up to meet new people. Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure."

Dean rose to his feet, disentangling himself from the women who had snaked their arms around him, or their ankles, or something - Castiel hadn't really been looking at them, and Dean wasn't acknowledging them either. Not anymore. The moment Dean was out of his sight, rationality took over again. Wasn't it a bad idea to drink alcohol around an open fire? Wasn't it a bad idea to allow complete strangers into your home, who could damage or steal your valuables? Shouldn't he turn down that music before the police show up on a noise violation? Not everyone, including him, were 21 and up, so then it'd be an underage drinking violation as well. And of course, there was the marijuana too – he wasn't sure if Dean was supplying that or not, but even if he wasn't, he'd probably get blamed for it. Suddenly, Castiel felt stupid for staying. Every red flag he'd been taught in Drug Resistance and Peer Pressure Resistance programs were going off, and yet he was just sitting here, trying to rationalize it because he was a college boy now.

He was working up the courage to just get up and leave when Dean returned with a cup of what looked, and smelled, like orange juice. Going against the rambled, internal monologue he'd just fought through, he wordlessly took a sip, and underneath the juice he could taste something like nail polish remover. He suspected it was vodka.

"So. You mentioned you're an art major. What's that like? I can't even draw a stick figure."

One of the girl's had swapped her seat with Dean's and was chatting animatedly to the other, and Dean just stared at him, sipping his beer and smiling and Castiel felt secure. Familiarity. God, that word didn't even describe it, it was like the worst case of dejavu he'd ever had, but not of this moment. It was like he'd met Dean before, under wildly different circumstances. He racked his brain, thinking of boy scouts, art camp, elementary school, middle school, anything that explained this feeling, but he came up frustratingly empty. Every time. It was like trying to remember a dream, the harder he grappled for it, the faster it pulled away. He sighed, taking a large swig of his drink. "It's harder than most people think."

"Really?"

"Yes. Everyone thinks studying art would be easy. We don't write many papers, we don't take many tests. UK doesn't even have a math requirement if you're seeking your BFA. But we have to work a lot harder than academic majors." Dean raised an eyebrow at this, not in doubt but in curiosity, so Castiel kept going. "A normal class is 3 credit hours, so you go to that class three hours a week. Naturally. But art classes are double that. We get three credit hours for six class hours, not to mention the homework load is a about as many hours, per class, as we are in class. Usually more. Additionally, it's hard for art majors to achieve a 4.0 because many of our professors don't give As, as an A implies perfection and the argument can be made that no art is perfect. Not to mention that once you're done with an assignment, you have to be critiqued on it by your class and your professor. At least with a paper, you can take your failures with a bit of dignity."

Dean laughed, and it was genuine, and Castiel realized he enjoyed it. Making him laugh. He wasn't particularly funny, and when he was, it was usually at his own expense.

"That's actually genuinely interesting. I'm not gonna lie, I thought all art majors did was draw pictures and smoke pot all the time."

"Well, no one said that wasn't true."

Dean laughed even harder than that, and Castiel smiled a little in self congratulation. "Yeah, well, that's sort of what engineering majors do too. Instead of pictures it's all circuits and calculus problems on $5 paper."

"I can empathize with the paper. A sheet of Stonehenge costs $4 at the local supply store, and I needed 10."

"Stonehenge?"

"Heavyweight paper. I believe we'll be using it for watercolor and ink in my Drawing class at some point in the semester, but for now we're using charcoal."

"Huh."

They lapsed into silence, and Castiel wasn't sure if it was comfortable or not, so he drained his drink. He really couldn't taste the vodka that much, the juice was much stronger, and he wondered if Dean had made it light on purpose. He couldn't feel anything. As if on cue, Dean stood up and took the cup from him, tossing his beer bottle and saying something about getting them more drinks before disappearing back into the house. This time, Castiel didn't immediately feel a wave of regret and doubt – in fact, he felt content. Dean was good to talk to, and he wasn't doing that thing people who hosted parties often had to do – juggling friends they'd convinced to come and inevitably not paying anyone enough attention. When he returned, he gave Castiel a slightly stronger version of the same drink he'd made him, as well as a slice of pepperoni pizza, dropping back into his seat with a smile.

"So. You mentioned you had a brother, when we were at the supermarket?"

"Right, yeah!" Dean took a large bite of his pizza, chewing maybe once or twice before swallowing it whole with a swig of beer. "Sammy. He's a good kid. Took a while but his balls finally dropped because he's at a girl's place for the weekend, which is the only reason I'm throwing this shindig. He pitches a fit like nothing you've ever seen if I play my guitar too loudly, let alone." He gestured around, as if that explained everything.

"What's that like, having a brother? I always wanted siblings."

Dean rolled his eyes and laughed, sipping his beer. "Not as glamorous as TV makes it look, I'll say that. But me and Sammy are really close, and even if he's a bitch 99% of the time, it's nice to have someone you can always depend on? Y'know?"

Castiel thought of his mother and nodded. "Yes. I know."

"Aaanyway. He's a good kid. Early acceptance to Stanford and everything, and we haven't gotten a letter yet but I'm pretty sure he's gonna score a full ride. Why he wants to go all the way to California eludes me, but. Whatever. He's strong willed, so he'll either go to Stanford with my support or without it. Might as well go with it." Dean paused, finishing his pizza and chasing it with his beer, and Castiel realized then he'd been so busy listening that he'd neither eaten nor drank anything Dean had brought him, so he set upon the task of doing both.

"Are your parents out for the weekend too?"

Dean's face fell a little, but just a little, and he seemed to shake the falter in his smile away immediately. "Not exactly. My mom died of natural causes when I was pretty young, and then dad died last year. He left me the house, which was why I decided to go to school. Before that, all I had was GED and I was working at some autoshop, and I wasn't really doing anything with myself. I mean, I loved working cars, but I did a lot of stupid shit. After my dad passed, I tried to straighten myself out and do something important. He was always real proud of Sammy, since the little nerd had a 4.0, so I tried to take after him. It's not much, and hindsight's 20/20, but I think the old man would have been proud."

Castiel felt like he'd crossed into something too intimate just then, and he looked around, but both girls were gone, and the music was loud enough that from where they were sitting, anyone else outside probably couldn't hear them. Still, it… felt wrong. They hadn't known each other long enough for him to hear this, and yet part of him was totally unsurprised when Dean had declared them dead.

"So is that why you're studying engineering? You're interested in cars?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah. My uncle, well, basically-my-uncle owns this autoshop and told me that's what I should look into. I'm really interested in restoration. Like getting classic cars looking brand new and stuff. So I'm here, and I guess once I'm done I'll try and start my own business. Since I don't have to worry about rent or, starting next year, Sammy, I should be able to do that."

Castiel nodded. He'd never really given much thought to cars, but classic cars had a certain timeless quality to them that he could appreciate. "That's interesting, Dean."

A couple of Dean's friends joined them then, sitting around the firepit and holding the pipes Castiel had seen in the kitchen. One was rather small, orange with swirls of white bubbling through the glass, and the other was quite a bit larger, a lovely shade of cobalt that reminded him of Picasso's blue period. Unlike before, the bowls were no longer full of dirty black ash but rather pungent smelling weed. He drained his cup, setting it down and taking a bite of his pizza. The two introduced themselves as Jack (music major), and Katherine (mechanical engineering), which surprised him a little more than it should have because Katherine was very pretty and wasn't riddled with even half as much social awkwardness as Castiel had been carrying himself with lately.

"Have you ever smoked before?"

Castiel lied and nodded. He didn't know why he was lying – it's not like Dean seemed to be the type that would tease him about it even if he hadn't, but he was struck with the urge to impress him. Maybe the drinks were starting to take effect – he was beginning to feel a bit heady, a bit pleasantly warm. Dean grinned and said "Do you want to? I'm gonna take at least a couple hits but you don't have to feel obligated."

"Sure."

An hour later, Castiel was high and drunk for the first time in his life, and he loved it. It unnerved him a little how much he was enjoying this actually, he really shouldn't because to be overly self-indulgent was a sin, but as the waves of pleasure cruised through his body, halfway an orgasm, halfway a seizure, he was utterly content. He was also seriously relaxed, chatty even, loosening up to Dean's friends, and their numbers grew and grew the more he talked. They were staring at him, smiling wide and laughing when he said something particularly funny, but Castiel was so gone he really didn't know what he was saying. He was so gone he wasn't even sure he was speaking, because his thoughts seemed so loud that they could be words. Or were they? He wasn't sure. He didn't care.

After they'd smoked, there had been shots. Castiel hadn't been interested in shots until he'd smoked three bowls, after which he was pretty sure he could do anything. So everyone around the pit had done one shot, then Dean had fetched another round, and then a girl whose breasts were very large had brought a third round, and by then Castiel was, as she'd put it, totally fucked up.

All through the night, Dean stayed close. He smoked, he drank, he caught Castiel and steered him upright if he was swaying a little too much. They talked about cars, art, music, film, and Castiel learned that Dean loved metal. Not metal as it was now, but according to him, "real" metal. Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Motorhead, 70s and 80s metal bands from "back when music was good". Which was what had been playing most of the night, although every now and then someone would change it to dance music if those inside were in a particular mood. He learned that Dean loved action, sci-fi, horror, and hated dramas and chick flicks. Castiel probably could have guessed that; Dean's tastes were hypermasculine, and apparently his brother was the sort that cried during Nicholas Spark movies and read Twilight. Castiel was pretty sure Dean was exaggerating, but having never met Sam, he couldn't be sure.

Dean learned a lot from Castiel, mostly because he was babbling and answering any question with complete honesty. He learned Castiel was from a little boonie town and was raised in a religious single-parent household, and had a slightly Norman/Norma Bates thing going on with his mother. He learned Castiel was very intelligent, and if he hadn't majored in art, probably would have majored in religious studies. He learned that he liked documentaries and independent films, the kind of weird shit Dean would never watch, and he learned that Castiel knew virtually nothing about music. Destiny's only source of music was Best Buy, where Castiel had only ever bought the censored album versions of whatever was popular. Dean had sworn to him that they would correct this, and Castiel had just nodded enthusiastically, staring at him like he was the only thing in the world. Dean learned that while Castiel knew nothing about music, he knew everything about books and art, and could babble about the incredible color relationships in a famous painting for thirty minutes before someone finally shut him up.

The party started to wind down around three AM, and people were starting to taper away, either heading home to pass out or heading out to clubs to continue partying. Castiel stayed in the wrought iron chair outside, next to the fire and next to Dean, too intoxicated to drive home even if he wanted to, and he didn't. In the course of six hours, he ate his way through four slices of pizza, half a bag of cheese puffs, a handful of pizza rolls, six handfuls of chexmix, seven oreos, and oddly enough, a can of tomato soup. And he was content.

By four thirty, including himself and Dean, only ten people were still around, and most of them were laying down, asleep or texting quietly. Castiel was beginning to sober up a little bit – the alcohol was still fully in effect, but the hazy blanket of his marijuana high was finally starting to loosen and his clarity began to return. Abruptly, he was aware that it was late – a lot later than he'd intended to be there, and for a moment there was panic, then, calm again. The high surged back, a wave that had pulled back with the tide before crashing forward again, before steadying into a comfortable balance once more. Again, he aware of himself, and struggled to his feet, realizing he was alone outside. Dean had left. How long had he been gone? It seemed like hours since Castiel had really seen him. In fact, every thirty minutes had dragged on like three hours, everything slow and personal, every little moment within a moment was amplified. Brightened, slowed, crystal clear so he could see everything, even when lost in thought.

He made his way through the sliding door back into the kitchen, shutting it with some difficulty and frowning when his mouth was too heavy to say Dean's name. This was starting to stress him out. The dining room was empty, the stocks of food and liquor he'd decimated earlier startling him more than it should. It felt like a dream. Like he was lucid-dreaming, only it was reality, and that thought startled him even more. He felt his head twitch hard as he slowly moved past the dining room and into the living room, surveying everyone. On the two couches, three people were sleeping, and one person was on a laptop in the loveseat. In the next room over, a pair of heads could be seen peaking out from under a fuzzy blanket, empty plastic cups surrounding them as well as packs of cigarettes, car keys, and softly glowing cellphones. Most of the lights were off, only various electronics illuminating the room and the light pouring in through the windows, and it didn't feel real.

Distantly, he heard a door open, but it felt like a dull roar compared to the bright light of the bathroom's light spilling through the crack in the door. It crashed across the hardwood, a supersaturated yellow, and next to it the dark wood looked black. Everything was black. Castiel found himself strangely compelled by this, mentally equating it to looking like a comic book, but then the light disappeared, and the room was normal again. Castiel stumbled, suddenly extremely aware of how stoned he was, and Dean was jerking his shoulder and telling him to come upstairs.

So he did.

The house was quiet. When had the music stopped? Probably hours ago. It had all been drowned out by the roar of his own mind, his internal monologue so loud he could swear he was talking. But he kept grabbing his lips and confirming that yes, he was silent, wasn't babbling to Dean, whose presence seemed utterly surreal. The various electronics in the house, like the wall clock that glowed blue in the hallway and the phone charger with the red light next to a closet clashed with one another, and to Castiel they were as bright as the multicolored rotating lights he'd seen in clubs and concerts. How was this house so bright? A very old nightlight spilled green from the bottom of the wall, clashing over the other reds and blues, and Dean was talking again. How long had he been talking? It had been ages since he'd really listened. Dean was pulling his arm and helping him up the last few stairs, leading him down the right into a room with lots of posters and awards on the walls, and for a moment Castiel worried this was too intimate before his clarity and doubts were submerged in the ocean of his high.

Dean was saying something, and Castiel spoke for the first time in a while.

"What?"

"I said take off your jeans. You can crash here." How could Dean be sober enough to talk? He was talking so fast.

"Is this your room?" He blinked, staring for a long time at the surroundings, trying to make sense of it. "You like Cats?"

Dean snorted loudly. "No, that would be my darling Samantha. She's started wearing the training bra, bless her heart."

This mildly sexist comment made Castiel laugh for a very long time, and Dean laughed too, laughed because Castiel's inebriated laughter shook his whole body and made him look crazy, and Dean kind of fell in love with it. But they were both shitfaced, and they'd known each other for less than a week, so he didn't do anything because that was wrong. He just helped him into bed in a totally not-gay way, checked downstairs one more time to make sure nobody was getting sick, and was asleep a little past five.

Castiel dreamt of flying.