Castiel looks insanely pretty tonight. Maybe it's the pale moonlight spilling over his wiry frame, or the way his hair is slightly ruffled from the wind; or maybe this window has some weird, distortion effect that makes everything look like a fricking oil painting on the other side. Either way, he can't seem to stop staring at the boy across the street. He's just too damn beautiful not to be stared at, you know? Which is why he's so nervous about paying him another visit.
What if he can't control himself? What if he touches his hand or calls him beautiful again? What if he can't stop staring at him and his stupid feelings come bursting out? What if –
"You know you've been washing that plate for ten minutes, right?"
Dean jumps at the sound of his dad's voice and drops the plate in his hands, splashing a wave of dirty water against his chest. "Huh? What? How long've you been standing there?"
"Long enough," his dad says, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "I know what you're doing, boy."
"I dunno what you're talking about."
"Yeah, you do."
"Dad –"
"I ain't stupid, son. Old, but not stupid." He nods at the window above the sink and laughs. "I didn't know you were pining this hard."
Dean blushes. "What? Pining? That's hilarious, dad."
"Oh, okay," he says with a rise of his eyebrows. "I thought you got distracted staring at Novak through the window, but I guess you're just real keen on washing the dishes, huh? My mistake."
"I wasn't… Why would I…? I mean, I don't –"
"No need to explain yourself."
"There's nothing to explain!"
"Sure, sure."
"Dad, seriously…"
"What?"
"I'm not pining after Cas, alright?"
"Okay."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're a smart kid, Dean. You know what 'okay' means."
"Not when you say it like that, I don't!"
His dad lifts his shoulders and sighs. "I know what you're going through, son. I went through the same thing with your mom."
"Whaddya mean?"
"Well, she was the pretty, smart girl from the right side of the tracks – nice house, good money, solid grades… and I was the guy with an alcoholic dad and debts up to me eyeballs before I hit twenty." He gives Dean a look. "D'you really think asking out your mom was easy?"
"I thought mom asked you out?"
"Well, she had to in the end. I was never gonna do it."
"How come?"
"'cause I didn't think I was good enough," his dad says simply. "When I first saw your mom, I had a black eye and two holes in my shirt… She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid my eyes on, and I was a mess."
Dean huffs a laugh. "What did you do?"
"I ran away, like an idiot. She never even saw me. Wasn't until two weeks later that we actually met."
"Really?"
"Yep. I was damn lucky she came into the garage that day, or else I might've missed my chance. Imagine that."
Dean does. "Me and Sam wouldn't be here."
"Nope. And I probably would've followed in my daddy's footsteps."
"So, mom saved you?"
"Damn straight, she did."
"Huh." Dean considers this for a moment. "But what if you'd met someone else, or moved outta town or something? You still think you would've ended up like that?"
"Maybe not," his dad says, leaning back against the sink. "But I would've missed out on something real special. A once in a lifetime kinda thing, you know? That's what your mom was for me: a real chance at happiness… My one in seven billion."
"You think there's only one person for everyone?"
"Course not. But there is a special kind of love that doesn't happen too often; so when it comes around, you've gotta snatch it – while you've got the chance." He points at Castiel's silhouette through the window, then gives Dean a playful nudge. "That boy out there? He might just be that special someone for you, son. And I know you ain't big on feelings, but you ain't that great at hiding them either." He chuckles. "It's written all over your face, you know?"
Dean stares down at the shipwreck of dishes in the sink, pointedly avoiding his dad's knowing smirk, and shrugs. "You're seeing things, old man. Must be the cataracts catching up."
"That's funny… Almost as funny as you deflecting."
"Deflecting? I'm not deflecting."
"Okay, but you are denying you have feelings for Castiel?"
"Well, I don't!"
"Right."
"Since when're you so obsessed with the Novaks, anyway? You're worse than mom and Sam."
"I'm just sick of seeing you moping around the place like a lovesick puppy. We all know how you feel, Dean. And it's pretty damn obvious that Novak feels the same way. So why in the hell are you two dancing around each other, huh? Why aren't you doing something about it?"
Dean throws a fork onto the draining board and stomps across the room, purposely shouldering past his dad in the process. He doesn't owe anyone an explanation; his feelings for Castiel are his fucking business. And the last thing he needs is his parents pushing him towards something he can never have – something he doesn't deserve to have. It's not fair. If anything, it's cruel.
"Why can't you just drop it?" he hisses. "Me and Cas were friends a long time ago, and now we're not. End of story."
"It doesn't have to be."
"Look, dad. I'm happy you've found your true calling as a fricking love guru and everything, but leave me out of it, alright? I really don't wanna hear your bullshit hippy advice."
"I know you feel like crap right now, so I'm gonna let that one slide," his dad says. "But that doesn't mean I'm gonna stand by and watch you screw up your life over something so ridiculous. You're a good kid, and you deserve some damn happiness."
"I am happy."
"Oh, c'mon. Don't gimme that."
Dean scrubs a tear from his cheek with heel of his palm. "Well, I'm sorry I'm not jolly enough for you, dad."
"I just want my son back."
"I'm right here."
"You know what I mean." He presses his lips together. "Things have changed. You don't have any friends; you spend all your time hauled up your room doing God knows what; you go quiet whenever me and your mom talk about college; you have no idea what you wanna do with your life… I can feel you slipping away from us."
"I dunno what you want me to say."
"I want you stop being so hard on yourself," he says. "Do what makes you happy. Go talk to that boy and tell him how you feel."
Dean dries his hands on a ratty tea towel and shakes his head. "No way. I can't do that, dad. He's like this perfect specimen, you know? And I'm not even close to being on his level. It just wouldn't work out…"
"So you do like him, huh?"
"Fine," he groans. "I admit it. You happy now?"
"A little."
"Still doesn't change anything."
His dad touches his top lip with the tip of his tongue – something he does when he's thinking hard – then crosses the room. Dean flinches when he puts his hand on his shoulder; he's not used to his dad being all 'touchy-feely' with him.
"I almost lost your mom 'cause I didn't think I was good enough," he says, his eyes dark and serious. "And if she hadn't strolled into that garage and gave me her number, I'd still be thinking the same thing. But she changed the way I felt about myself, you see? She liked me, and that made all the difference in the world." He tilts his head forward, like a school teacher giving his pupils a good-natured lecture on the trials and tribulations of life. "You'd be a damn fool to make the same mistake I did, kid. 'cause not everyone gets the second chance I was given."
Dean chews the inside of his cheek. "I can't ask him out, dad. I just… I can't do that, alright?"
"Fine. That's okay." He shrugs. "But at least talk to him. Don't lose him as a friend, you hear me? Castiel's good people, and you need good people in your life. Even if you don't think you deserve them."
And with that, he slaps him on the back and goes upstairs.
Dean lingers in the doorway for a while, momentarily stunned by his dad's uncharacteristically wise words. He makes it sound so easy, like reinserting himself into Castiel's life would be simple and painless. But it wouldn't be.
Even if Castiel really did forgive him for what he did all those years ago, Dean would still be constantly plagued by his shitty actions, knowing deep down that he'll never be good enough for Castiel… You see people redeem themselves in the movies all the time, but that's usually after a five-minute montage with happy, upbeat music playing in the background. And Dean isn't really a montage kind of guy.
"Jesus Christ." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm so fucked."
He glances out the window and catches a glimpse of Castiel's feet swinging back and forth beneath the branch. He smiles. Castiel is so calm and rational – nothing like Dean, who's jittery and short-fused. How the hell would they even work together? His mom would probably spew some spiritual bullshit about opposite personalities complimenting each other, but Dean doesn't believe in that sort of thing.
He's 99.9% sure that Castiel would get bored of his attitude after a while; and that would depress him way more than the dreaded 'what ifs'. At least with 'what ifs', you've got the freedom to pretend that things could've worked out in the end. Happy ever afters are much less complicated when they're hypothetical.
After a few more seconds of feeling sorry for himself, Dean slides his tongue over his teeth and snaps himself back into action. He promised to visit Castiel after dinner, and that's exactly what he's going to do. He just needs to grab a few things from upstairs first…
Once he's packed and ready to go, he sneaks outside – like he's on some top-secret mission or something – and trudges across the wet grass towards the tree. Castiel has his back to him, so Dean is free to be as nervous and fidgety as he likes until he turns around. He takes the opportunity to calm himself with a series of deep, cooling breaths; just enough to ease the frantic fluttering in his chest. The last thing he needs is to keel over in the middle of the fricking street because his heart can't keep up with him at the grand old age of seventeen.
"Uh. Hey, Cas," he says, once he's managed to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth. "Sorry I'm late. I was washing the dishes."
Castiel smiles over his shoulder, then twists around. "It's okay, Dean. I saw you through the window."
"You did?"
"I can see everything from up here, remember?"
"Hah. Yeah."
"So. You want to know why this tree is so special to me?"
Dean shuffles his feet. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, you know?"
"I know. But it's okay. I do want to."
"Oh. Okay."
"But you need to come here first," Castiel says, patting the branch next to him. He's wearing that smug little smile again, and Dean can't help but laugh.
"You're a sneaky sonofabitch, you know that?"
"I only promised that I wouldn't make you sleep in the tree again."
Dean snorts. "You got me there."
"Loopholes are my speciality," Castiel says with a grin. "I suppose you could say I've got a lot of free time on my hands."
"That is true."
Dean tosses his bag up to Castiel, then takes the same route up the side of the tree as he did last night. It's a little darker out, but he manages to make the climb without breaking any bones. Castiel grabs his forearm and pulls him up the rest of the way, then hands him back his bag. There's a curious glint in his eyes, and Dean can tell he's wondering why he brought a bag if he's not planning on spending the night again.
"I brought you some stuff," he explains, unzipping the rucksack and pulling out a balled-up blanket full of random things. "I just figured this might be your last night in the tree, so you probably wanna make it special."
Castiel gives him a strange smile, then pours over the varied spread of useless items. It's mainly junk he found in the back of his drawers: an old Rubik's cube with a missing centre piece; a zip bag of tiny, toy soldiers; an electronic sudoku game; a notepad covered in meaningless doodles etc. But he also threw in a bag of snack mix, a couple cans of diet coke, a torch, and a paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451.
"That's a really good one," he says, gently tapping the front of the book. "It's set in a future where all books have been banned 'cause the government wants to control what knowledge is available to the public." He winces at the nerdy enthusiasm in his voice, then adds, "I kinda thought it was relevant 'cause, you know… it's about people mindlessly destroying things they don't understand. But the ending's kinda hopeful, so I dunno… I thought you might like it."
"That's very sweet of you, Dean." Castiel touches the back of his hand and smiles. "Have you remembered any of your own stories yet?"
"Nice try."
Castiel chuckles. "And the rest?"
"Oh, right!" He gathers his drawer-dwelling junk into one pile and shrugs, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I figured you probably won't get much sleep tonight, so I brought you some stuff to keep you occupied. It ain't much, but it's all I could find."
Castiel quirks an amused eyebrow. "Toy soldiers?"
"Hey! Those things are the bomb, dude."
"Oh, my sincerest apologies…"
"You being sarcy with me?"
"Of course not," Castiel says, slapping a hand over his heart. "I would never."
Dean laughs. "You're such a dick."
"I try."
"Whose wise idea was it to teach you sarcasm, anyway?"
"I believe it was you, in 7th grade," he says. "Zachariah Milton was being mean to me in the playground, so you taught me how to embarrass him with sarcasm. I developed a flare for it."
Dean snaps his fingers and grins. "Oh, yeah! I remember now. Man, that guy was such an asshole."
"I thought you two were friends?"
"What? No."
"Oh… I thought you started hanging around with Zach and Gordon in High School. I must be confusing him with someone else."
Dean thinks for a moment, then cringes. "I mean, I used to eat lunch with them in 9th grade, but that was it. I'd never be actual friends with dickwads like that."
"What are 'actual friends'?"
"Well, people you actually like."
"So, you were just pretending to be their friend?" Castiel frowns. "Why would you do that?"
"I dunno." Dean shrugs, picking at the peeling stickers on the Rubik's cube. "I guess I just wanted to seem cool or something. They were the most popular guys in our year, and no one ever gave them crap. I think I wanted to just glide through High School, you know? Like them. No trouble; no stress. I didn't wanna be another nerdy freshman who gets stuffed in their locker by the older kids."
Castiel smiles a little. "Like me, you mean?"
"Is that what they did to you?"
"Occasionally." He shrugs. "Knocking over my tray in the cafeteria was more their style. They rarely had the guts to lay their hands on me."
"Yeah, but still… that really sucks."
"Oh, it never bothered me. I knew it wasn't personal. The vast majority of bullies punish the people around them to distract themselves from their own insecurities." He flicks a glance at Dean. "If anything, I suppose they were envious of me."
"You think?"
"Well, I'm a generally happy person. On the surface, at least. Perhaps they were jealous of that happiness."
"Whaddya mean 'on the surface'?"
Castiel clasps his hands together and sighs. "You asked me why this tree means so much to me, why I'm trying so hard to protect it… Well, it's because we have a history."
"You and the tree?"
"Yes. I suppose you could say it's been my only friend over the past few years."
Dean screws up his face. "You have friends, Cas. I've seen you hanging out with Kevin Tran, and that cute redhead from computer club… Oh, that weird British guy with all the V-necks!"
"I've never spoken to Kevin or Charlie outside of school, and Balthazar is my cousin. I don't think any of them count as 'actual friends'."
"So, you have no one?"
"I have my parents. And my chickens. But that's about it."
"Cas, I…"
"It's sad, I know." He looks up at Dean, and his cheeks are slightly pink. "This tree has been my sanctuary on multiple occasions: when Michael and his gang used to chase me home after school; when I failed my first test, and needed somewhere to cry; when my homophobic aunt visited us last summer; when you stopped being my friend, and I had nowhere else to go…"
Dean looks away, ashamed. "I didn't know any of this. How come you didn't tell me?"
"You didn't want to hear it, Dean. Not after I kissed you."
"If I'd known it was this bad –"
"It wouldn't have made a difference," Castiel says. The sureness in his voice stings a little bit. But then a smile graces his lips, and his eyes turn soft again. "You were afraid back then, Dean. But you've changed."
"I-I have?"
"Yes." He tucks his left leg against his chest, so he can turn and face Dean completely. "I'm sure of it."
Dean scoffs. "I think you've got a little too much faith in me, man."
"I can't help it. I'm rooting for you."
"But, why?"
"I'm not sure. Old habits die hard, I suppose."
"I was always terrible to you."
"No, you weren't."
Dean hangs his head between his knees. "It never made sense, us being friends. You're so smart and kind, and I'm just… I'm a jerk, alright?" He looks up at Castiel. "But for some reason, you still wanna stick around. And, honestly? I'm okay with that."
"You mean, you do want to be friends again?"
"I wanna give it a shot, yeah."
Castiel's smile is sweet and gummy. "I'd like that very much, Dean."
"Awesome."
"I've missed you a lot."
"Yeah. Me, too." Dean swallows thickly, their eyes meeting with a sweet tingle of electricity. If this were a movie, Dean would probably lean forward and kiss him right now – his insecurities and self-loathing be damned. But, this is real life, so instead he just smiles and blushes like an idiot.
"I really missed you," Castiel says again, only there's an extra little something in his voice now.
Dean just nods. Because what else is he supposed to do?
"I've been so lonely."
"Not anymore."
Castiel jerks his head up. "You mean that?"
"Uh, duh." Dean grins, hoping to lighten the mood again. "You know you're stuck with me for good now, right?"
And just like that, Castiel kisses him.
For a moment, Dean forgets he isn't supposed to be enjoying this. His lips automatically move against Castiel's warm, pliant mouth, his hand clutching onto Castiel's shoulder. A happy sigh whines in the back of his throat, and he can feel Castiel smiling against his skin. It only lasts a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity – like a hazy, slow-motion snippet of a really, really good dream.
But then a hanging branch scratches against his arm, and reality comes swooping back in.
"Cas, wait!" He shoves him away, then touches his swollen lips. "W-We can't do this. I'm sorry, man. But no. This was a mistake."
Castiel blinks. "You kissed me back."
"Yeah, I know I did. But I shouldn'thave. It was just instinct, you know?"
"Instinct?" Castiel blinks again – a little faster this time – and Dean can see the tears springing to life in the corner of his eyes. "That wasn't instinct, Dean. Why are you lying to yourself?"
"This can't happen, Cas."
"Why not?"
"I said I wanted to be your friend, not your boyfriend!"
"Oh, so this is my fault?" Castiel cries, his voice cracking on the 'my'. He stares at Dean in silence for a moment, then presses his chin against his chest. It's like his head is suddenly too heavy for him to hold up. A horrible choking noise wrenches out of him, and then he says, "Of course this is my fault. I've clearly misread the situation. God, it's like that summer all over again." He grabs a fistful of his hair and shudders. "Why can't I just move on from you?"
Dean thumbs the corner of his mouth, his heart pounding with the realisation that Castiel has been pining for him this entire time. "You didn't misread anything," he says. "You know I like you, Cas. But that doesn't mean this can happen."
"I don't understand."
"I'm not good enough for you. Never have been."
Castiel rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Spare me the made-up excuses, Dean."
"That's not what this is."
"You're too ashamed to be seen with me. That's what this is."
"What? No!"
"Just have the decency to admit it, Dean. Don't try and sell me some sad story about your low self-esteem. It's insulting."
Dean shakes his head. "I just don't wanna put you through my crap. You deserve better than that."
"So, you're doing this for me? How selfless."
"Please, Cas. You've gotta understand –"
"Oh, I understand perfectly now," he says with a sour twist of his mouth. "Your ego and reputation will always come first. That's the way it's always been." A lump bulges in his throat. "I guess I was just seeing what I wanted to see."
"Cas, please –"
"Just go, Dean. I'm too tired for this."
"You shouldn't be alone tonight."
"I'll be fine."
"You're upset."
"Why do you care?"
Dean opens his mouth, but no words come out. How can he explain how much he cares without making things worse?
"Don't worry," Castiel says. "I don't expect some grand apology. I just want to be alone for a while."
"But, what about us?"
"Us?"
"Yeah, I mean… We can still be friends, right?"
Castiel barks a bitter laugh, then rolls his eyes up to the sky. He really does look tired. "I just need some time to think," he says, his voice a croak, "but I can't do that while you're around."
"Cas…"
"Please, Dean. Leave me alone. And take your things."
"You don't want them?"
"Not right now."
"Oh." He hesitates for a moment, then shoves his blanket-bundle of crappy, childhood knickknacks back into his bag. "I'm gonna leave you the book, in case you get bored."
Castiel doesn't say anything.
"Okay. I, um… I guess I'll just go then."
Silence.
"I really am sorry."
Castiel squeezes his eyes shut. "Just go, Dean."
"Alright." He slings his bag over his shoulder and scrambles clumsily down the tree, chafing his palms on the rough bark along the way. He skips the last few branches, and a sharp pain jolts up his legs when his feet hit the ground, but he doesn't care. He barely even notices.
Castiel has turned the other way again, so all he can see is the back of his head and the rumpled lapels of his trenchcoat dangling over the edge of the branch. He wants to say something – to call out and make everything right with a witty one-liner – but every part of him feels empty, like there isn't a shred of anything beyond this aching feeling left inside of him.
Is aching a feeling, or is it the absence of feeling? He's not sure. But whatever it is, it sucks hard.
When he's back in his room, Dean sits at the desk facing the tree and waits for the beam of torchlight to come slicing through his window, just like it did the night he gave Castiel his copy of Slaughterhouse-Five. He waits for almost an hour, but nothing happens. Castiel just sits there in the darkness, and Dean keeps on aching. After a while, he rests his head on top of his folded arms and lets his eyes slip closed. His cheeks are wet, and his shoulders are shaking, but he doesn't make a sound.
And the light never comes.
