Last chapter, folks. I know it's a tragedy, but have no fear! I've already got a potential sequel planned, and I'm also thinking of writing something which is basically the events of this story, but from Cas's point of view instead of Dean's. This time I'd like to give my amazing reviewers from Chapter Eight a special thank you: darkphoenix2345, No pen names left, Storm Gazer, andaere, cherishiskisa, justine82, My Dead Love, pappy, LunaTheGeek, dylaila, and BrokenDarkFire – y'all rock. :)


CHAPTER NINE

Later, Dean was completely unable to remember the drive home. Vague images came back to him––kissing Cas, of course, and stumbling towards the car while Cas half-held him up and then helped him into the passenger's seat––and then some soaring wild unidentifiable music from the radio as Cas drove and Dean dozed on and off, leaning on the window as the car thrummed beneath him. He didn't remember getting out of the car or into the house at all, but there was one more image he could recall: Cas's stressed expression and the closeness of his breathing as he maneuvered Dean into bed. Dean remembered mumbling proudly "Hey, you found my room" and Cas answering something in an irritated tone of voice that belied the gentleness with which he was removing Dean's shoes and jacket. He seemed to hover around Dean's bed for a bit longer, and Dean comfortably drifted into sleep with the distant pounding of drums and wailing of guitars still echoing in his head.

The next morning, of course, things were bad. And bright. And loud. Dean stuffed his head under his pillow and wished fervently for death to come, but it didn't oblige him. Finally becoming aware that he was still mostly dressed, Dean emerged unwillingly into the cruel world to find a glass of water on his bedside table. He grabbed it and drank the whole thing in one gulp, then experienced a wobbly moment where he didn't know if he was about to throw up or not. He didn't, though, and in a minute he even felt good enough to try standing up.

On his feet, Dean managed to remove his jeans and shirt before his legs decided to collapse, sending him sprawling back into bed again. He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute or two more, until the light from the window didn't feel quite so much like pure torture, and then opened them. The first thing he caught sight of was his jacket hanging on the bedpost and his flannel shirt folded neatly on the foot of the bed. When he sat up, he saw his shoes lined up at the side of his bed.

Dean lay back down and pulled the pillow over his head again so he could think. His brain wasn't working too well, but if he proceeded slowly and logically he was sure he could figure this out. Deduction number one: he never arranged his clothes that neatly. Two: therefore someone else must have done it. Three: his dad would've whupped his ass for being drunk, Sam wouldn't have been strong enough to lug him around, and his mom would have taken off his shirt and pants too, so it couldn't have been any of them. Four: therefore it must have been Cas. This was about when the memories of last night began slowly seeping up into his consciousness. Oh shit. Dean didn't want to think about that right now, but it was hard not to.

A few more deductions: Cas was not used to drinking, so the half-a-beer and gin-and-tonic he'd had last night must have gotten him pretty drunk as well. And yet, he had still managed to get Dean home, up the stairs and into bed, and partially undressed––and had even folded Dean's shirt. Which, Dean had to admit, was pretty amazing. Not to mention that, despite obviously having the hots for Dean, Cas had restrained himself from taking advantage of his drunken companion, and had even held back from undressing him completely. The more Dean thought about this, the more he realized that Cas was a damn cool guy.

Tentatively, Dean removed his pillow from his face and tried sitting up again. This time it worked much better. Staring at his neatly lined-up shoes, Dean finally let his mind tackle The Big Problem: last night he had kissed a guy. He waited for the horror to strike. After a minute, his stomach started rumbling, and he decided he could rustle up some breakfast while continuing to wait for the horror to strike. Because after all, it wasn't really worth panicking about what to do if the horror hadn't even struck him yet. Better to wait, and eat something in the meantime.

Downstairs he found a note from his mom:

Hey honey, we three are going to check out the town-wide yard sale that's happening today. You got home pretty late last night so we decided to let you sleep some more. We'll be back for lunch before going out again in the afternoon if you want to come along.
Love from Mom

Good. He really didn't feel like facing his family with a hangover, even if it was rapidly receding. The only thing Dean could ever eat on mornings after he'd drunk too much was Cheerios, so he made himself a bowl of them and began to eat. Then he suddenly had a thought: was Cas up yet? Despite being officially underage, Dean had dealt with a couple of hangovers before and knew how to handle it, but Cas had said last night that he 'didn't drink alcohol', so he probably had no idea what to do.

The idea came immediately, and Dean didn't let himself second-guess it. Cas had done enough nice things for Dean; now it was time for Dean to return the favor. Dean didn't think he'd be comfortable digging around in Cas's kitchen, so he grabbed a big plastic bag and threw in the box of Cheerios, a half-pint of milk, a bowl, and a spoon. Then he headed next door.

He'd forgotten to check what time it was, but it felt like late morning. Dean knocked on the front door and rang the bell, but nobody answered. When he tried the handle, it was unlocked. Not a surprise––few people around here bothered locking their doors. He pushed it open and softly called "Hello?" No answer. Taking a deep breath, Dean stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.

He was already up the stairs and halfway down the corridor to the right before he realized that he didn't know where Cas's bedroom was. The room with the piano hadn't had a bed, and Dean realized he was simply assuming that Cas's bedroom was next to it. What if he was wrong? He didn't feel comfortable sneaking through the whole house. In fact, he was already quickly reaching the limits of his comfort zone, as he remembered that he hadn't even met the dad yet.

There was one door at the end of the corridor beyond the piano room, but it was locked. Dean sighed, and turned to look back down the hall, his spirits rapidly falling. This was starting to feel like a really stupid idea. Why on earth had he thought it would be okay to practically break into Castiel's house just to bring him breakfast?

While Dean was berating himself, he suddenly noticed that the door to a room about halfway along the corridor was a crack open. He wasn't sure why, but he tiptoed up to it and gently pushed it a bit wider.

"Jackpot," Dean whispered to himself, unable to restrain a grin as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark room and he was able to make out a dark-haired figure mostly covered with rumpled blankets. He could tell from the size that it was too small to be Mike. Dean pushed the door a bit wider and stepped in, not bothering to walk particularly quietly. He didn't want to spook the guy, after all. But Cas didn't wake up, only tucked himself tighter into his blanket-cocoon with a low rumble of displeasure.

Dean smiled, put down his bag, and made his way through the dark room to the window, which had heavy curtains drawn across it. Slowly, Dean pushed one to one side, and then the other. Turning around again, he took stock of the room. It was small and slightly musty, with soft surfaces everywhere––a thick shag rug, a medieval-looking tapestry hanging on one wall, the dark paisley-patterned curtains, and of course the piles of comforters on the bed, from which a long reluctant groan now came.

"Rise and shine, sonny," Dean announced, in slightly softer tones than usual. "How you feelin'?"

A dramatic sigh floated up from the blankets, and they puffed and billowed as Cas turned over, cracking open one large blue eye to balefully regard the intruder. "WrrrrrggghhDean?"

"Yup," Dean confirmed. "I brought you breakfast. Come on, it's already..." he approached the bed so he could read the face of the clock on the bedside table. "...almost eleven. Don't want to let the morning pass you by!"

Cas pulled the blankets up over his head. "I want to let life pass me by," came a distinct but muffled voice from under the covers.

"Aw, c'mon, it can't be that bad," Dean coaxed. "If you tell me where the aspirin is, I'll go get you some."

"I don't want aspirin." Finally, Cas pushed the blankets down and sat up in bed. He was utterly rumpled, hair sticking up every which way, eyes squinting rebelliously against the light, shirtless and in wrinkled pajama bottoms.

Dean froze for a second, staring at the glaring tousled mess in front of him, thinking I kissed him last night. But then he pulled himself together and dug the supplies he'd brought out of the bag. "Here we go: Cheerios, food of the gods. Try some, seriously. Your opinion of life may rapidly improve."

Cas obediently held out his hands to receive the bowl, and watched blinking as Dean poured cereal and then milk into it. Finally he stuck in the spoon and said encouragingly "Go on, take a bite."

Cas made a complaining noise, but after a few seconds he seemed to remember how to use a spoon, and began to eat the cereal. After a few bites he stopped and looked up to meet Dean's eyes, mumbling "Thank you, Dean" before continuing to eat. Dean thought of his own bowl of Cheerios, left half-eaten and forgotten on his own kitchen table. Oh well. He settled down on the foot of the bed and watched Cas eat, squashing the wave of nervousness that wanted to rise up inside him. Why did the other boy's every motion suddenly seem so momentous? Dean couldn't stop himself from noticing the way Cas balanced the bowl on his knees, the way his fingers handled the spoon, the way his lips daintily sucked the milk from the spoon... Goddamnit, Dean mentally swore. Had Cas infected him with the gay virus or something? A door slammed somewhere in the other end of the house, startling him.

Cas seemed to sense the turbulence of Dean's thoughts, for when he'd finished his cereal, he said without looking up, "I suppose you want to talk. May I at least shower first?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah, I guess. I don't know. I mean, of course you can shower, I just... don't know... if there's anything to talk about."

Cas got to his feet and stretched, long and sinuous like a cat. "There usually is. Excuse me for a minute." He took some clothes out of a dresser drawer and left Dean alone in the room. Realizing he was still hungry, Dean decided to have some more Cheerios himself. He hadn't brought an extra bowl and spoon, but whatever, he'd just use the same ones. While eating, he spent the entire time trying not to think about the fact that this same spoon had just been in Cas's mouth, and so of course that ended up being the only thing he could think about.

When Cas returned, freshly showered with wet hair and shining eyes, Dean looked up at him entering the room and found himself thinking, unable to reach his mind's pause button in time: Shit. He's beautiful.

As if Cas could hear his thoughts, he tipped his head a bit to one side and regarded Dean curiously. There was a short silence. "What would you like to say, Dean?" Cas finally asked, very softly.

"I, uh..." Dean's mind was a blank, but he was speaking anyway. "I kissed you. I mean, you kissed me. But I let you. And I keep thinking I'm gonna freak out about it, but I haven't yet. It––I actually liked it. But, but I don't know why we're doing this. I mean, we barely even know each other. How––how can that become anything?"

"Dean, I am attracted to you. That happens sometimes," Cas said loftily. "Even when you don't know another person very well. As for what you are feeling, I can't advise you there, because I can't see inside your mind. Are you attracted to me as well?"

Dean stared. At Cas, and then at nothing, and then at his hands. "I don't know. I guess, maybe? A little bit? But I'm not gay, though! So I can't be!"

Cas padded closer and sat down on the bed next to him. "Dean, 'gay' is not an all-or-nothing scenario. If you don't want to be gay, you can be straight and make exceptions. Like, for me, maybe," he added in a barely-there voice, and Dean could feel those blue eyes on him.

"I can't be with you," Dean said, and impulsively stood up and started pacing up and down. "I––you––you're too nice. You're always doing things for me. Like, you baked me petits fours. And found the hammock frame. And got those tickets to see my favorite band. And introduced me to Schubert and Schumann and Lapsang Souchong. And last night I got totally smashed and you brought me home and took care of me, even though you were pretty drunk too. I've had girlfriends, but none of them ever did all that stuff for me. I can't––I can't go gay just because you're nicer to me than any girl ever was!"

Cas frowned. "Dean. I'm not asking you to 'go gay'. And anyway, you can't, there's no such thing. You are who you are. Sexuality is a moot point, and it doesn't have much to do with this in any case. You only have to decide who you want to spend your time with. What you do during that time is nobody else's business, and you don't have to plan it all out in advance. You can just invent it as you go along, and forget all those silly names like 'friendship' and 'relationship' and 'romance'. In the end, all that matters is this: do you want to spend your time with me?"

Dean stopped pacing and looked at the ground, and then at nothing, and then at Cas. "Well, when you put it like that... yeah, I do."

"Splendid." A radiant smile broke out on Cas's face. "Now, tell me, Dean: have you ever had scrambled eggs with turmeric? It sounds strange, but it's really quite delicious. Come on, let's go downstairs and make some."

Dean dithered for the briefest of moments, then gave up and followed Castiel––his boyfriend, he thought; he could call him that in his head without telling anyone else––out the bedroom door.

~ fin ~