Chapter Four
Monday morning, Dean is already cursing as he gets out of bed. He tries to run through the list of things he's thankful for, but by the time he gets to his job, he's already thinking of Anna , which makes him think of Castiel, which makes him think of piercing clear blue eyes staring straight into his soul and by that time he's thrown his change of clothes on the ground in frustration and sunk back into his mattress.
No one could say he hadn't tried. He'd been nineteen when he moved to Aldhaven, just out of high school and ready to start living the 'real' life that people always promised would come afterwards. Five days after they moved in, the local paper landed on their front doorstep with a front page story about two men who had been caught together in parked truck on the side of the road. When word made it around town, they were both taken by a group of local men and beaten within an inch of their lives. One of them died in hospital three days later. The other survived.
There were parts of the story, though, that didn't make it to the paper. The guy who survived lost his job, and not a single person in town would hire him. His wife left him. His children, two boys, had their lockers vandalized, were ostracized by every one of their friends, and were terrorized and beaten up on a daily basis. It was only when the younger son had both of his legs broken by a couple of older boys that the police would step in and do something.
That was the first time Dean had felt it: the unspoken force at work in the town that made sure normal was celebrated and abnormal was swept under the carpet by any means necessary. The forces at work protected those who did their bidding; the guys who'd beaten that man to death were never persecuted. All evidence convicting them mysteriously disappeared before their trail date, and the case was dropped without another word.
Dean remembered the morning he'd picked up that paper off of the front porch, and read it front to back. He'd felt terrified, paralyzed. Aldhaven was supposed to be a new start for him and Sam, but after finding out about what happened to those men, all he wanted to do was run.
He hadn't left the house that day. He'd stuffed the paper in his closet so that Sam wouldn't see it, and spent the rest of the day convincing himself that he was not going to leave. This was their chance, this was supposed to be their home, and Dean was not going to fuck things up again. He couldn't do that to Sam. His little brother deserved more than that, and Dean was not going to be the one to take it away from him.
So, he spent the next two years learning to be silent, learning to fly under the radar, learning to fit in.
By the time he's dragged himself out of bed, driven Sam to school and himself to the garage, he's the kind of exhausted that coffee just isn't going to fix. Anna brings him a cup anyway, of course. He moves through the day sluggishly, and slips out back for his lunch break alone to avoid Anna. He catches his boss, Bobby, giving him concerned looks throughout the afternoon, but Bobby isn't the kind to ask and Dean isn't about to tell. He usually looks forward to four o'clock, when he can punch out and get home, but today it doesn't seem to make a difference. The heavy feeling in his chest and the memory of haunting blue eyes follow him wherever he goes.
He finishes his last repair on a rusty old Ford, grabs his stuff and slips into the deserted, darkened lobby, letting Bobby close up the shop. He pushes open the front door and steps into the afternoon sunlight. He hasn't taken two steps when he notices the figure sitting on the wooden bench beside the door.
"Castiel?"
The boy raises his head and looks at Dean, and Dean feels elated, bothered, and a little bit turned on all at the same time.
"What are you doing here?"
"I... uh..." Castiel turns up his palms and lets his perfect posture slouch a little, dejectedly. "Is Anna here?" He's wearing a blue short-sleeved collared shirt tucked in to beige pants, complete with the navy blue tie, and there are goosebumps all along his forearms from the late October breeze.
"No, she's not," Dean answers. "She leaves at three every day."
"Oh. Okay," he sighs. "She said to meet her here for a ride home. I guess she told me the wrong time."
"I can give you a ride home," Dean offers without a second thought. If it seems too eager to Castiel, he doesn't say anything.
"No, that's alright. I'm fine walking. Thank you for your offer, though." He stands, heaves his bag onto his shoulder and starts crossing the parking lot.
"Seriously, dude. Let me give you a ride. Your house is probably on my way. It's not a problem."
Castiel stops, turns, and looks at Dean. His gorgeous eyes flit across Dean's face, searching, for a few seconds. His expression, however, doesn't change. Eventually, he says, "Okay."
"Great," Dean grins, feeling something other than melancholy for the first time that day. He leads Castiel to the Impala and lets him pull open the passenger side door and slide in. The boy relaxes into the leather seat, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head back with a breathy sigh.
"Long day, huh?" Dean watches him as he turns the key in the ignition.
"I suppose you could say that. They're usually… long, I guess."
"Hmm," Dean sighs sympathetically, and immediately criticizes himself for being a total girl. He rolls down the windows while he tries to think of something interesting to say, just so he can have Castiel's eyes on him again. The other boy beats him to it.
"You were at the church service yesterday."
"Yeah, I was. It was my first time."
"Did you enjoy it?"
Dean hesitates, not sure of the right thing to say. He doesn't want to offend Castiel. He wants to do anything he can to keep him in the seat next to him for as long as possible.
"Yeah, it was pretty neat."
"You don't have to lie, you know," Castiel's reply comes quickly. Dean takes his eyes off of the road for a split second to look at him. He's staring out the window, the same infuriatingly blank expression on his face.
"Uh…. okay. If you really want to know, church has never really been my thing. But, it wasn't the worst hour I've ever spent." At least the last part is the truth.
"Hmm," Castiel nods, and the syllable sounds a lot more attractive coming out of his mouth than it had out of Dean's.
"Your dad seems pretty intense," Dean mentions.
Castiel scoffs. "Intense? I guess that's one word for it. He's a good man, but he becomes very consumed by what he does." There's a note of sadness in his voice that wrenches Dean's heart a bit. "You can take the next left. It's about five minutes up this road."
Dean lets a silence fall over them, tries to keep things comfortable, tries not to act too interested. He studies Castiel, trying to devise without asking too much. He's clean shaven, his hair is immaculately messy, and his clothes are pressed and pristine. Even with his shirtsleeves rolled up, he looks a hundred times more put together than any other guy Dean has seen in Aldhaven. He's quieter than them too, and every movement he makes seems to be carefully considered, and just as carefully executed. He's everything that Dean can fantasize about, and everything he can't have. Even if he were gay, he would be way out of Dean's league. Lost in his thoughts, he almost doesn't notice Castiel begin to shiver.
"Geez, you must be freezing… Here," he reaches into the backseat and brings up his old brown leather jacket. "Wear this."
Castiel looks at him gratefully and graces him with a tiny, upward curve of his lips, which just about makes Dean's heart explode. Dean's sure he's about to kill both of them because he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the sight of the dark-haired boy leaning forward and slipping each arm carefully into the worn leather. It fits him pretty well, even though it's a little long in the sleeves. He relaxes into his seat again and seems content.
A few minutes later, he gets Dean's attention by placing a hand on his bicep, which makes Dean's hopes skyrocket, but he pushes them down just as quickly. It was just a touch. "Dean, can you stop here, please?" Castiel asks.
"Yeah, for sure. Is your place close?"
"Yes, it's just a minute's walk up the road."
Dean pulls over to the side of the road, wondering why he can't just take him right up to his house, but not prying. Castiel unbuckles, but stays seated, looking at his hands. The expectant silence makes Dean's ears pound.
"I'm sorry if this was any inconvenience to you," Castiel says. "And thank you for stopping here." He opens the door and steps onto the gravel, bending down to get his bag.
"Castiel…" Dean says, although he has no idea what words are going to follow it.
"Yes, Dean?"
"I… I hope you have a really good night."
Castiel gives a drawn, tired resemblance of a smile. It reminds Dean a little of his own. "I hope you have a good night as well."
And then he walks away. He doesn't look back, but it takes Dean a minute or two to drive away, just in case. He leaves the windows down and lets the country breeze soothe his warm cheeks. He's pulled into his own driveway before he realizes that, of all the people Castiel must have shaken hands with that Sunday, he'd remembered Dean's name.
