A/N: Please accept my deepest apologies for taking so long to update. I've re-written this bit about three times, and I think this is the version I like the most, but I've got a temperature and am chock full of cold medicine, so I'm reluctant to totally trust my own judgement. Enough whining though; here it is. Hope I chose wisely.
SPOILERY TRIGGER WARNING: regretful feelings about making out that could feel like unsure consent.
Sam opened the door, his bored expression quickly turning transparent with joy when he saw who it was.
"Castiel! Oh my god, Cas! What are you doing here?"
Castiel found himself returning Sam's grin; it was impossible not to when someone was that happy to see you.
"I… came to return something of Dean's."
Okay, so he'd chickened out. He had taken the shirt to school, but during lunch break when he'd sought out its owner and found him surrounded by people, he couldn't do it. He couldn't just casually approach a group of people he never spoke to, many of whom he purposefully avoided sometimes. Even if he'd gotten past that obstacle, he'd then have had to speak to Dean.
In front of people.
"Something of Dean's?"
"Yes. Is he home?"
"Sorry. He's with Dad at the garage. What do you have of Dean's?"
Of course Sam would be confused, he was under the impression his brother and his ex-friend hadn't spoken properly for years. It might have been easier if that were still true – at least Castiel had known he could trust himself then.
He swung his bag off his back and pulled out blue flannel, offering it to Sam. "He left this at my house."
Sam looked at the shirt, then up at Cas from underneath raised eyebrows. "When was Dean at your house?"
"Last week. He was locked out. I believe he rang you first."
Sam frowned deeply, but nodded. "Yeah. I remember." He shifted his weight to his other foot, leaning on the door ponderously. Dean was right; he had grown recently.
Castiel's arm was starting to ache.
"Shall I just leave it with you, then?"
"Oh, right, yeah! Yeah, sure…"
Sam took the shirt. Finally.
"Hey, do you want to come in? Dean should be back soon. If you wanted to talk to him."
Castiel considered it. It could be good for him to clear the awkward feelings that lingered from their last conversation; to reassure himself that Dean was still Dean. The person that lived in his memories could be just under the surface – he didn't exist only through their shared secret. They'd never shared it anyway.
On the other hand, Castiel's insides were squirming just thinking about it.
No, I don't think so.
"Okay."
Damn it.
Sam smiled again. Enormously.
"Cool."
.:.
Sam had been distracting himself from homework by playing computer games when Castiel had interrupted him, so it was on the pause screen when they went inside. Sam asked if Cas wanted to play for a bit, and Cas thought what the hell.
After he'd got the hang of the format, he found he really quite enjoyed blowing the heads off zombies. And he was a very good aim, even if the maladroit controls made him miss a few times. They were both so caught up in Castiel's fight for survival against the hordes of the undead that they didn't notice the rumble that signalled the return of the Impala, nor did they hear the front door opening.
"Haha! Sam, I knew you wouldn't be able to… resist…"
On screen, a shambling grey figure burst out of its hiding place and began its slow attack. Castiel didn't even notice. He glanced up to see Dean blinking at him from the doorway.
"Hi, Dean." Sam said.
"Why are you here?" Dean said.
As he hadn't looked away from him yet, Castiel assumed Dean was referring to him. "I came to return your shirt. Sam invited me inside to shoot zombies."
"Oh right." His gaze flickered to Sam for a second, then he walked back the way he'd come and out of sight.
"Cas, you're about to get eaten."
Castiel turned back in time to see his onscreen self get their jugular torn out in a spatter of red pixels. Bloody text helpfully informed him 'You died'. He got to his feet. "Thank you, Sam, that was fun."
He thought he might find Dean in the kitchen, but the kitchen was empty. Well, he'd come here to return his shirt, and now Dean knew it was back, even if Castiel hadn't physically given it to him. That would do.
He walked past the bothersome item of clothing where Sam had draped it over the end of the banister in the hallway and reached for the front door, more than a little relieved to be making a getaway. But before he could turn the handle he happened to glimpse out of the nearest window. His hand hesitated.
Michael was chatting to a neighbour across the road, so there would be no way for Castiel to emerge from the Winchesters' without being seen. A voice at the back of his head murmured that he'd have to face up to this one day, but a much louder voice drowned it out by saying that day didn't have to come yet. Anyway, after this, why would he have any need to hide his meetings with Dean from Michael? There was no reason to see Dean again now that he'd given his shirt back, so there would be no meetings.
Castiel looked at the shirt.
It made no sense to take it away again. He told himself.
But he could at least get the most out of this excuse if it was going to be his last interaction with Dean for the foreseeable future.
The shirt was in his hand and he was halfway up the stairs before the thought had finished forming. He considered stopping when it sank in what he was doing, but he didn't. He kept going until he stood in front of a familiar door, the one furthest from the top of the stairs.
The last time Castiel had been here he'd been fourteen; he'd followed Dean upstairs while he was getting ready to go to the carnival with Lisa Braedon. Then Dean had gone and Castiel had returned home. If he'd known it would be his last visit he might not have left so easily.
It was very quiet up here, and shadowed; the window in the wrong place to catch the sinking sun. Maybe Dean was still downstairs after all.
His heartbeat was hammering in his ears and his palms were prickling. He could just hang the shirt on the door handle. That would make sense.
The door handle turned of its own accord.
Well, no, it didn't. Dean turned it from the other side, and then he was there instead of the painted wood, startled to a halt by Castiel's unannounced and unexpected presence.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, Castiel taking in well-worn work clothes and freckles that had been multiplied by specks of dirt and oil, all backlit by the low yellow sun as it flooded the room behind him. But what fixed his gaze were bright eyes, surprised and wary and focused solely on him. He felt a tug low in his belly, like there was a cord pulling him in, but outwardly he remained stock still.
Until fingers slid around his wrist and pulled; then he had no choice but to move.
He couldn't help it; he let out a yelp of shock as Dean yanked him through the door and closed it firmly behind him. All sorts of outcomes for such an abrupt introduction flooded his imagination, and a heatwave of tingling anticipation for what he knew was out of the question almost knocked him out. He concentrated on keeping his hand limp so it didn't grab Dean's wrist in return; tried to control his breathing so he wasn't actually panting, and hoped Dean hadn't noticed.
Thank God he wasn't looking at his face.
But Castiel quickly amended that sentiment when he was hit by another wave of shocking want, this time brought on by the way Dean was trailing his gaze from his toes to his torso. His eyes paused when they reached his mouth, but before Castiel could even process what he saw in them, they'd risen to meet his own in a kind of panic.
Dean threw his wrist away from him and took an uncoordinated step backwards. "Er, sorry…"
Castiel was confused. Why was he acting like this? Like… Like Castiel wanted him to act; had fantasised about him acting. It was hardly fair. And it didn't make sense in reality.
Had he just been impatient? Wanted Cas to say what he'd come to say and got irritated when he didn't immediately explain his being there?
"Why are you here, again?"
Dean's cheeks had flushed when they'd locked gazes but the colour was fading from them now. He was stood in the middle of the room, distracted by something on the wall to his left. Castiel followed his gaze to see what it was, and realised he was looking at his surroundings properly for the first time.
Dean's room looked exactly the same. The layout, the piled up junk, the broken cassette cases strewn across the carpet in the far corner. It did seem like he'd acquired a few more posters over the years, although the stylised black and white print of the Hindenburg disaster still had pride of place above his bed (something Cas had always found rather morbid).
Castiel may as well be in one of his own fantasies. His body had certainly decided to act like he was. "I came to return your shirt." He tried to explain.
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. Only for a moment, but Castiel had no idea what to make of it. He had no idea what to make of any of this interaction.
"Oh right, yeah." His voice was gruff, abrupt. "Thanks. Didn't even notice it was gone." He was acting the opposite to the irritatingly easy-going person that had barged his way into the house the other day.
It was most disheartening.
This should be the moment for Cas to just throw the shirt on the bed and leave; Dean was obviously being made uncomfortable by his presence. But for some reason he couldn't get his arm to do that; couldn't get any part of him to do what he wanted. Dean's eyes rolled sideways to meet his, and the breath-hitch that it prompted jolted him into action. Castiel turned away quickly, suddenly mortified on top of the confusion, which he should really have been from the beginning. He tried to smooth the folds out of the shirt and went to lay it rather sheepishly on the bed. This had been a bad idea.
Dean cut him off. One second Castiel had a clear path to the bed, and the next there were hands taking the shirt from him, nudging his own out of the way. He very nearly walked into him.
Dean stayed where he was for a long, unfathomable moment, but didn't look up. Then he was gone again, taking the shirt and stuffing it without ceremony into a random drawer, even though it undoubtedly needed a wash.
Castiel stared at his back; his beautiful back and shoulders, and the muscles in his arm as he ran his hand over his head, thick hairs springing back and glowing almost blond in the aura of setting sun light. Then Castiel lowered his gaze to where the hem of his faded black t-shirt skimmed his back pockets, and understood why God had created well-fitting jeans.
"I thought I'd dreamt it."
Castiel snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Dean's voice. The statement had been said so simply and casually that it took a second for Castiel's otherwise occupied brain to process it. He'd thought he'd dreamt what? The shirt?
"You were pissed at me for forgetting, weren't you?" He turned around just as cold realisation sank to the bottom of Castiel's stomach, dragging his lungs with it. Dean shrugged. "You can't blame a guy. It was pretty unreal…"
The kiss. He was talking about it. They weren't supposed to talk about it.
"You looked like you'd swallowed a sock when I left you. Then I realised what you'd meant."
They weren't supposed to speak like this. Dean wasn't supposed to know what Castiel was thinking.
This was why he'd been acting oddly; he knew.
He was leaning back against the chest of drawers with his arms folded over his chest; suddenly the very picture of ease. Too perfect. "I guess 'cause we never mentioned it again and pretended it didn't happen, I must have started to think it really didn't." Castiel shifted back towards the door, mind momentarily dead, and saw him straighten up out of the corner of his eye.
He couldn't look back to his face. His entire body was suddenly gripped with very real panic as everything cleared, and the extreme urge to run tightened his calf muscles as he finally started to walk.
"Where're you going?"
Castiel paused in his escape. "I'm…" As he began to speak, Dean started walking forwards, a look on his face that somehow made Castiel think of a freight train barrelling towards him. "I came to return your shirt and now I've returned your-" Castiel's eyes flew wide and his words sped up the nearer Dean got, until he was cut off by a firm hand covering his mouth and chin. Even then the freight train comparison continued to apply, because Dean didn't stop once he reached him, he kept going, forcing Castiel to match his step in reverse.
His back hit the door with a startlingly loud bang.
Just for a split second, Cas was fourteen again, hiding from Michael in a closet. And wasn't that an appropriate metaphor.
Dean's hand was strong and warm and his skin smelled of car grease and metal. "You can't leave. I'm not done yet."
To Castiel's never ending humiliation, he actually whimpered. The noise broke Dean's expression; his hard mask fracturing around the mouth and something pulsing through his eyes that made Castiel's hands clutch against the door's flat surface behind him.
"Dean! What was that noise?"
They both flinched at the shout from downstairs. There was a strained pause, and then Dean suddenly released all the tension in his muscles, until he was draped delightfully against Castiel. He turned his face into the side of his neck, but kept his hand in place over his mouth.
Castiel closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Hard.
He had no idea what had prompted this physical contact or how it was actually happening, but God, he'd wanted it so badly for so long. There was no hope in heaven of him retaining any self control while at this proximity to the person he'd been in love with since before he hit double figures, and who'd driven him wild a thousand times in his head.
"Nothing, Dad! Something fell over!" His breath was warm; his voice close and loud and deep and vibrating right out of his chest and into Castiel's. Castiel instinctively leaned into him, lifting his body away from the door while his shoulders were held in place by Dean's weight. His hands stayed clawed against the flat wood, however much they twitched to be moved; to be pressed into thick muscle through soft cotton. But he couldn't touch him; he couldn't touch Dean.
"As long as you haven't broken anything!"
Dean didn't reply any more, he was too busy using his mouth to push hot kisses into hotter skin, working his way up from collar bone to jaw line. Castiel's eyes popped right open.
What the hell was going on? He'd certainly fantasised about activities very similar to this, many times, but during all of those times the imaginary-him had a much better idea of why it was happening.
Castiel had taken a risk being the one to deliberately induce a meeting between him and Dean for the first time since they'd stopped being friends; he wasn't sure whether this decision had sparked the best moment of his life, or something rushed and disastrous with consequences that would kill him inside. His mind wanted him to run away, just break away and get out of there, now, but putting anything of the sort into practise was proving impossible.
What was he doing? This was Dean. These were Dean's lips covering his skin with hot tingles. This was Dean's bedroom. Where had this come from? He spent a few seconds trying to recall the last thing that had felt like reality, but then Dean's hand lifted away from his mouth and gave him a chance to drag in the lungfuls of air he'd been craving. Yes, there was no other word for it but panting.
This is real. The kisses reached his chin, then the corner of his mouth. This can't be real. Then swapped to the other corner of his mouth before hitting the centre; one quick peck and then another that didn't stop, that pushed hard enough to force them both back into the door. Dean made a noise in his throat, and Cas forgot who he even was for a moment, creating the perfect opportunity for his self control to fly right out the window.
Dean was the only person who Castiel had ever been kissed by, and he wouldn't mind if it stayed that way. He didn't want to kiss anyone else. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone else. And this was the best one yet.
Hand's stroked up his sides, from his hips up to his chest, as he found his mouth being kissed apart. Fingers tangled into his hair on either side of his head, making his scalp tingle and his pulse flutter. And Castiel knew there were so many reasons why this shouldn't be happening, but the only thing he could use his cloudy brain for at the moment was returning the kiss with as much fervour as he could muster. Which, considering the eons of longing and wishing and imagining, was a hell of a lot.
Dean's mouth was hot and deep and delicious, and it was so much, assaulting his senses with the full pressure of his lips and the taste of his tongue. His hands dragged through his hair carelessly, just the journey on the way to bracing his forearms against the door.
Castiel was pretty sure his own hands had a mind of their own, because without him telling them to they'd been trailing all over Dean's back, desperate to feel every bit of warmth and to pull him in as close as possible. And now they seemed to be migrating south, on a path towards the seat of those jeans Castiel's eyes had already been admiring. They crept down over his belt, traced over the shape of pockets and gently squeezed. All without him consciously allowing it.
Dean let out a low moan, swaying forwards away from the touch and into Castiel, and this time Castiel couldn't stop a sound escaping from his own throat. It was embarrassingly loud. He wasn't sure who broke the kiss, but Dean pulled him by his collar so their heads were side by side and their entire torsos were flush together, from collar bone to juddering hips.
Cas was left staring straight over Dean's shoulder and out of the window on the other side of the room; eyes like saucers. The air felt cool as it dried the hot moisture on and around is mouth.
Dean chuckled, and the sound caused Castiel's mouth to snap shut. He swallowed, muscles that had turned to putty wrenching taut.
"What are you trying to do, Cas?" His voice was thick, threaded through with teasing.
The question destroyed the last of the warm hazy atmosphere with a flood of ice.
Dean's hands loosened their grip on his collar and began their stroking journey back down the front of his chest. They reached his waist and slipped under the hem of his sweater and t-shirt, so they were touching bare skin. Castiel's breathing somehow managed to falter, even though its pattern had pretty much diminished to a series of hitches already.
"Is this why you really came to see me?"
No. He'd only come here to return the damned shirt. Maybe it had been a good excuse to get closer to Dean, but he'd never expected to get this close. He had got a game of zombie-killing with Sam in the bargain. Sam had made him feel like he'd arrived home. Dean had made him feel like…
"What's… happening here?" The words felt strange coming out of his mouth.
He wasn't sure he liked this. Things were becoming too real too fast. And Dean was… wrong. Cas pressed his lips together, focused intently on a smudge of clear sky amongst the clouds outside.
Fingers curled over the top of his waistband. He swallowed dryly.
"Shh…" Dean returned his mouth to the sensitive zone beneath his ear.
And that wasn't fair. Castiel wanted to be in control, desperately. He wanted to know what this was; whether it meant the same to both parties. He wished he could master his own emotions; stop them from leaking out all over the place and embarrassing him.
But he'd got what he wanted, hadn't he? So why didn't it feel right? Why did Dean sound like he was finding this whole thing funny? Like he was just doing it for amusement?
Like he could tell how Castiel felt about him and was enjoying the power trip.
That's what this was. Dean was using him for entertainment. He'd realised how Castiel felt when he'd remembered that kiss, and he liked being able to control him.
Cas shoved him off, and he staggered from the force of it.
Just a glimpse of a surprised expression, of eyes heady with lust, and then Castiel whirled on the spot to wrench the door open. He'd come here to uncover what was under the surface; to find the Dean he remembered beneath the person he saw every day at school. He'd been correct that there was more to him; more than that troublemaker that girls were crazy for and who was crazy for girls in return. But Castiel didn't like what he'd uncovered. He didn't like this Dean; this Dean who was confident enough to take what he wanted and used to getting much more than just a kiss.
A clumsy kiss in a dark wardrobe.
("You're supposed to like getting kissed, Cas.")
This wasn't his Dean. This was someone else. Someone intimidating and who'd grown up without him.
Seconds later, Castiel was tumbling into the evening. It was cooler out here with the sunset hidden behind the houses, and the air stung his fiery cheeks. Muscle memory took him to a gap in the hedge between their front lawns, a path both of them had frequented when visiting each other's houses, but it had more or less grown over now and the scratchy twigs caught at his clothes and hands.
What are you trying to do, Cas?
He forced himself to swallow the taste in his mouth.
A/N: Reviewers (aka awesome folk) get a game of Resident Evil with Sam. Yeah that's right, this is set in real Winchester age time. You didn't know that? Well you're currently in 1996, the year the first horror computer game came out. (I totally researched it. In great detail.) I thought it was fitting.
