The sky grew dark above him. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Castiel distinctly remembered the weatherman on Channel 9 reporting that there was going to be a thunder storm. He kicked himself for forgetting his umbrella at home. His fist hovering the door, he peered through the alabaster door window, watching as Mr. Winchester's shadow passed him. He had snuck out of the house as soon as Gabriel left for basketball practice. Raphael was in in the living room, watching a recording of last night's episode of Empire, as he usually would on a Thursday afternoon whenever MUN was cancelled. After spending two weeks cooped up in the house, lying in his mattress while heavy bags of ice cubes rested on his stomach, Castiel decided he was done reading the same book and watching the same channels.

Cars purred behind him as they drove by. He drew in a deep breath as he brought his knuckle to the door and knocked. He immediately snatched it back and stepped away, prepared to bolt. He had convinced himself that the only reason why he was here was because he wanted to be courteous, check on his teacher because of his stomach flu. Balthazar had reported to him—no, complained to him—that Mr. Dobesh had taken over for him for the past two weeks.

Through the pane, he could see a shadow enlarging as Dean approached the door. He drew out a breath. The door yawned open. Dean Winchester stood before him, dressed in a worn black tee and a pair of grey sweatpants.

"Cas? How did you find me here?"

Castiel looked down and picked at his fingernails, his teeth scraping his lower lip.

"I, um…I found you on WhitePages Premium."

The older man folded his arms across his chest.

"How'd you pay for it?"

Castiel shook his head and shrugged.

"Used my dad's credit card."

"Ah. So, what brings you here? You're supposed to be resting."

"Resting?"

"After that kid beat you up?"

"How did you…?"

"Word travels."

"Ah."

"What are you doing here?

"I wanted to see if you were.., cool."

"I'm always cool."

"No, I mean," he squinted as he tried to remember what he was going to say, "I mean, you said you had the stomach flu. I was just wondering if you were okay."

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "Would you like to come inside?" He stepped aside, allowing Castiel to brush past him. The foyer was huge. His eyes traveled across the polished cherry wood floors and up the carpeted white treads. He unbuttoned his coat and handed it to Mr. Winchester, who was shutting the door behind them. The walls were painted a soft yellow, like the color of a banana once you peeled off the skin. He ventured into the hallway that led to a kitchen. The kitchen was even more beautiful—chrome and glass cabinets, stainless steel appliances, a black granite counter, and a round kitchen table with a glass tabletop and a vase of daisies as its centerpiece.

"Nice place you got here."

"Thanks. Make yourself at home."

Castiel sat in one of the kitchen chairs and turned to look around the kitchen again. Dean took a seat next to him and pointed over Castiel's shoulder at the living room.

"You know, you should probably rest on the couch over there, considering your ribs are still healing."

Castiel shook his head.

"Nah. I needed to walk around for a little bit. Can't be lying in bed for two weeks."

Dean shrugged.

"Whatever, man." He got up and walked over to the fridge. Castiel noted how tight his pants fit around his ass. He could feel his blood migrating south. He pushed his legs together and gulped as his teacher leaned into the fridge, the cotton fabric stretching over his toned ass and thighs.

"Want something to drink, Cas?"

"Huh?"

His face felt flushed, and his throat felt drier than the Sahara Desert. Yeah, he definitely needed a drink.

"Oh, um..." He scratched his head. "Just some water."

"Okay."

His teacher pulled out a pitcher of water and a jar of pickles.

"Sorry, I was hungry. You eat anything?"

He set down both objects. His muscles rippled under his short sleeves as he unscrewed the lid of the pickle jar. Castiel gulped and looked down at the floor. This wasn't right. This was his teacher. He couldn't be feeling like this. He took a deep breath, inhaling the lemon-scented air, before looking back up at his teacher who was now walking over to him, glass of water in one hand and an open jar of pickles in the other.

"You okay?"

"What?" He inspected himself quickly. "Oh, no, I'm fine."

Dean quirked an eyebrow.

"You sure?" He sat down across from Castiel. "You look a little flushed." Castiel took the glass from him and sipped. The drink soothed the dryness in his throat for the most part. He took a long pull, chugging it until the glass was empty before setting it down on the table.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Dean stared at him warily.

"Okay, then."

He pulled a pickle out and took a bite out of it. Castiel glanced out through the double-paned window above Dean's head. Raindrops started to patter against it. He swirled his finger around the rim of the glass. The air was thick with silence. He could hear the pickle rolling and crunching between Dean's teeth.

"I'm being rude. Are you hungry?"