The days blur together into what Dean thinks must be a week. The first morning after Castiel thanked him on his doorstep with the blue gone cold in his eyes, Dean is so terrified that he vomits three times, bent miserably over the toilet, before he heads to work. But in the end it turns out he has nothing to fear. It's not awkward because Castiel doesn't even look at him.

Or he does, of course; he has to look at Dean in the most fundamental physical sense, but aside from that, he doesn't look at him, not even so much as a glance. Dean knows because there's such a difference. He knows how Castiel can look at people, how he's capable of an impossibly profound sort of hot molten starry-blue focus that digs into you and turning up your insides for inspection, so when Castiel's gaze just grazes and glances against him, flits miserably from place to place, nothing more than a shadow of blue, the briefest flush of attention before it flutters elsewhere, aimless and cooled, he knows that he's lost. He's lost it all and at lunch he heads straight for the bathroom and retches again.

But it gets easier. He's surprised (horrified) by how quickly he gets used to Castiel's withdrawal, the cool clipped quality of his words, the orderly measured paths of his hands, stripped of the reckless shivering quality for which he once prized the same long pale fingers. Once or twice Dean thinks he might try to reach him, maybe stir up the man who was his friend before his lover, but he fails before he can even form a single word, fails at the feel of just one hard shimmer of Castiel's regard falling impossibly heavy on his shoulders. It's brutal, and even though Dean knows he deserves the worst, he can't help feeling desperately lonely.

But Dean is excellent at getting used to things. In the end, he gets used to everything, and loneliness is no exception. He plays music loudly in the apartment to take the place of Castiel's sandpaper whisper in his ear, chase away the pale pathetic shadows left in the wake of the warm thunderous roll of his laugh. He polishes his car again and again. He visits Sam too often. He gets an extra cup of coffee at the diner and stays late talking to Ellen and Jo until they're almost frustrated. He even invites an astonished Bobby over to the apartment once or twice. He's looking for a distraction, of course. Nobody offers it to him.

"Why the long face, sugar?" asks Ellen as she pushes the coffee across the counter. Dean can't answer.

"You don't seem like yourself, boy," grunts Bobby as he tests his fork in the casserole Dean made from the recipe on the back of a soup can. "And I know you're a better cook than this."

Worst, of course, is the person who ought to have been his only true sanctuary in all this mess but who is of course the only one who knows the cause straight from the start: Sam.

"I'm worried about you, Dean," he says. All the time. It's constant. Dean is going to go insane from Sam's worry. "Tell me what happened."

"No," mumbles Dean. Always. He can't let himself say anything else. "It doesn't matter. You don't need to know. You're just a kid."

"I know it's with Cas." Sharp. Too sharp; Sam was always too smart, and for the first time in his life Dean's angry at him for being extraordinary. "Come on, Dean. I've never been just a kid to you. You're starting to scare me."

"I'm not acting any different," protests Dean every time. "It was a silly thing anyways. It was never going anywhere. I don't care about it. We were doomed from the start."

Then, cheek pressed into the swell of his hand, fork paused in twirling the ramen, Sam mutters, "But you loved him."

And Dean pretends that the syllables were too garbled to hear (how can he agree?) and begs Sam, downright begs him, to please just pass the salt already.

It's Saturday night and Dean has A Date. He met her at a bar last week. She's cute. She has long tan legs and pretty auburn curls that she wears over one shoulder. Her upper lip pulls up in one of those soft plump peaks that look so good on women. From the dip of her neckline he perceived full breasts that he knows would feel good in his hands. He's taking her for dinner and drinks. He picks her up a few minutes after seven o'clock and she giggles and shifts in the seat of the car so that her skirt rides up just a bit (just a slight purposeful bit) and he catches a glimpse of the caramel-colored slope of her thigh, and he knows he should feel warmer than he does.

They eat. They drink. She's smart and charming, and when she laughs at Dean's joke it's not in that fake way, though not, he considers in some dark corner of his mind, in the same earnest way that Castiel had back before the blue in his eyes froze over. She doesn't twirl her hair on her fingers too much either, and she has a pretty good stomach for alcohol, which is a good thing because they are definitely planning to have First Date Sex later that night, but in the classy way because she is a definitely classy lady.

Dean's looking forwards to the First Date Sex until they're standing at her doorstep and he realizes with a miserable sick emptiness in the bottom half of his body, like something is gaping open deep inside of him, that he was making himself look forwards to the First Date Sex. She puts her delicate pretty hands on his shoulders and kisses him and he tastes that plump upturn of her lip. She's soft and pliable in his arms, and her body thrums with the pace of her heart, and he knows that between the sheets she could provide a few blurry moments of vague intangible ecstasy in which he might be able to forget.

She toys with his hand, trying to lead him inside, and he's about to follow before he realizes that he can't, he just can't, and stops her, and says he's so very sorry, and kisses her on the forehead, and goes back to his car and drives away. His hands, he realizes, are shaking on the steering wheel. She was sexy but his lap is cold. He comes to a halt at a red light and realizes that tears are streaking down his face. He inhales sloppily, throat catching wet and painful, and wipes at his eyes halfheartedly with the back of his wrist as the light turns.

As he parks the car and heads unsteadily up to the apartment, he imagines Castiel framed against the doorway, eyes breaking down and going cold, the fatal words still balanced on the curve of his lower lip. Dean feels their hot impact in his chest as though they had been freshly said. A fresh wave of tears; he hates himself for being so weak, and his only solace lies in that nobody can see him mop his face on a filthy dishtowel in front of the sink. He leans against the counter and tips his face towards the ceiling; for a long moment, the chipped stained plaster spins, and then he claps a hand over his eyes.

"Oh God," he groans. It's not really a surprise that he still loves Castiel. He knew it all along, even if he didn't really take a conscious approach to the miserable reality. But now he can't avoid it. He doesn't want to fuck some tawny-eyed pretty girl; he wants to press his face into Castiel's chest and smell the ink in the fringe of soft black hair at the nape of his neck. He wants Castiel so badly that it swells up in his chest and suffocates him. Gasping for air, he sinks to the floor, cradling his head in his hands.

Maybe, he thinks with a rush of panic, he'll always love Castiel. Maybe he'll never be able to shake all his mistakes away. He wants a beer more than anything, but when he gets up, the effort proves to have been in vain: the fridge is empty. He's frustrated and profoundly glad at the same time. He glances warily at his phone, poised to strike on the rickety kitchen table. In a haphazard fit of motion, he snatches it and dials Sam.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is framed against a backdrop of dulled music and conversation. "I thought you had a date tonight."

Dean suddenly can't say anything. Another thing occurs to him that he's known for a long time but only passively acknowledged: that Sam has a life of his own, a structure totally separated from Dean, a private construction that cannot be breached by any familial tie. He almost shuts the phone but then Sam keeps talking.

"Are you alright?"

The note of worry in his voice is infuriating and soothing. Dean clutches the phone. Then, without warning, Sam's voice goes soft, almost like a mother's.

"You've had to figure it out, haven't you?"

Dean nods slowly a few times, the back of his head grazing the cupboard under the sink, before he remembers that Sam can't see. Finally, with a voice that's hoarse and sounds curiously ancient, he whispers, "I'm still in love with him, damn it all."

"Well of course you are," says Sam. The note of exasperation in his voice is somehow at once tempered and illuminated by an overwhelming fondness. "Hold on. I'm coming over."

Dean tries to say no, but Sam hangs up. Later (the minutes blur together and a headache is blooming at Dean's temple) light from outside floods the far wall of the apartment and he hears the liquid purr of an engine. He blearily remembers that Sam's roommate is a kid from the nice part of town with unlimited access to any of his father's glistening smooth-flanked sports cars. The lights flare again and the engine roars, mingling with the sound of footsteps on the iron staircase outside. It's a sore reminder of how out of place they both are at that damn school.

Dean goes to the door and begrudgingly lets Sam in. He tells him it's only because there's a pizza balanced on his right hand, but really he's gladder than he can say. Mercifully, Sam doesn't head straight for the issue at hand. Instead he spreads the pizza on the kitchen table and gets two Pepsis out of the fridge. There's still no beer, but Dean could hardly expect Sam to remedy that much. Reluctantly grateful, Dean sinks into a chair and opens the soda, feeling the soft cool hiss of the can wet his fingertips. Sam sits down and hands him a slice of pizza. He eats. It's good and substantial, making a valiant effort to feel the emptiness that opened up in his stomach when he tried to kiss The Date.

For a while they eat in silence. After enough time, Dean puts down his pizza and gives a quiet sad laugh, shaking his head from side to side like he can't really believe something. He doesn't know what exactly. Sam is looking at him softly and he's a bit uncomfortable under his regard, gentle almost like a mother's, far too protective when Dean should be the one doing the protecting.

"God," he mumbles. "I guess I really did need this."

Sam nods like he knew it all along. "You need a lot of things, Dean. You just won't admit it."

At that, Dean risks a glance at his little brother, and is stunned to see the maturity in his eyes. He looks almost like an adult. A strange gentle kind of wisdom shapes the corners of his mouth and eyes and forms the crinkle of his brow, the shadow of his strong chin, the whisper of stubble at his jaw. He's really grown up. Dean doesn't quite know what to make of it yet.

"Where have I been," he moans, rolling his hands over his eyes and face again and again, not knowing quite what he means. Sam just smiles.

"Denial," he answers crisply, reaching for another slice of pizza. "It's okay, Dean. Hey, listen up. I want you to know something, okay?"

He waits until Dean puts his hands back in his lap and looks at him sideways over the rise of his chin. Then Sam leans forwards a bit and puts down the pizza and for the first time that night doesn't quite meet his eyes. His ears are a little flushed and Dean feels his heart skip a beat.

"It's okay, Dean," says Sam very quietly, "to think about yourself every once in a while. I know how much you've done for me, Dean, and you have no idea what it means to me. You're my big brother and I love you. But it's not just that. You're everything to me. More and more I've been realizing that you basically built me a life out of nothing by sacrificing everything that might have made you happy. I can never repay you for that. I don't even know how to tell you how grateful I am."

Dean clears his throat because his whole body feels thick and heavy and he doesn't know what else to do. "Jesus Christ, Sammy, you don't have to tell me anything. It's what any other brother would have done. It's nothing special."

"No, Dean," says Sam, and suddenly his voice has a harder edge, almost frustrated. "You're wrong. Any other brother wouldn't have worked himself sick just to send me to some nice academy. Any other brother wouldn't have given up everything he loves in the world just to make me a little bit happier. You're not just any other brother. You're amazing. You're amazing and if you don't admit that right now I'm…I don't know. I'm going to be really pissed off."

"Jesus, Sammy," says Dean, trying to be blasé when his heart is filling up his mouth and he can barely form words anymore. "I don't know what to say."

"Good thing I've got an idea, then," interjects Sam. "You're not going to say anything. Instead you're going to do something. For once in your life, Dean, you're going to do something that will make you happy. Here's how it's gonna be. You're going to stop making sacrifices. You're going to quit your job and start work as a mechanic. And then, after all that, you're going to go talk to Castiel and sweep him off his feet and take him up on his extremely generous offer, and in the end you're going to get him back and live happily ever after because I'd bet my life that he's still thinking about you, too."

For a long moment, Dean can only stare at Sam in astonishment. At long last, he chokes, "How can you possibly know about all of that?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Please. Gabriel is a very good friend of mine. He's as worried about Cas as I am about you. And that in and of itself means a lot, wouldn't you say?"

Dean's head feels foggy. The idea of Castiel pining strikes up something inside of him that he hasn't allowed himself to feel for a long time. Unwittingly, his eyes dart to the bookshelf in the other room, where the translation of La Vita Nuova is gathering dust, untouched since Castiel last stood on his doorstep with his eyes freezing over. Dean swallows thickly.

Despite himself, he's started to feel a little bit hopeful.

"I can't just do that, Sam," he says. Immediate despair is his most trustworthy defense mechanism. "I can't ask Castiel to do all that for me. I can't do that to you."

"Yes you can," says Sam adamantly. "Dean. I want you to. I won't be happy until you do."

Dean looks at him sharply. "Don't lie to me."

Sam throws his hands in the air. "Why would I lie about this? Don't you think that your happiness mattes to me, too? I've done nothing all my life but watch you suffer for me. Castiel made you happy and I want you to be happy. I want you to be happy more than anything in the whole world, Dean. Right now, without Cas, you're definitely not happy. I don't like this. I want to change this. I have to change this."

Dean looks at him for a long time. "Jesus, Sammy." He tries to wipe his eyes discreetly but he's pretty sure Sam notices. Whatever. "But how am I supposed to do that? You didn't see the way he looked at me when I told him we had to split up. It's not going to be as easy as one little apology. Cas isn't some cheap girl. Even if he wants to more than anything, he won't just come running back into my arms right away. I have to deserve him."

As Dean thinks aloud, much to his horror, his breath is already hitching in the back of his throat and his pulse is already picking up just at the mere idea of Castiel still loving him, at the possibility that Castiel might ever be able to love him again, even if only in the remotest corner of his heart. Worse still, the prospect of restoring the color to those eyes makes his head swim, and his hands end up fastening hard onto the arms of the chair to keep him grounded to the reality of his filthy apartment. For his part, Sam only shrugs and takes another slice of pizza.

"I'm not a matchmaker. That's for you to figure out." He takes a long drag of Pepsi and that seems to be the end of it. "Hey, it's Saturday. Can I stay over?"

Dean nods blearily. In a dreamlike state, he folds out the sofa and gets some extra pillows and blankets from the closet. At first he clambers into bed with Sam, vaguely soothed by the familiarity of his brother's awkward gangly body spread out beside his, and thinks he might get to sleep. But the moment Sam's breathing evens out and the darkness thickens, broken only by the dull haze of the streetlights that filters in through the window, Dean is wide awake, lost in thoughts of Castiel and forgiveness and bright blue eyes.

He doesn't get a wink of sleep that night, but by the time the dawn hits the window crusty and golden, he has a plan.

Dean goes to work for the rest of the week and doesn't change a thing. Castiel is as civil and cold as ever, and Dean manages to disguise his agitation. Over the weekend, he bribes Gabriel into parking in Castiel's spot and on Wednesday morning bursts into the classroom with an air of bravado that seems to have been sorely missed on part of his students, judging by the awed and vaguely overjoyed response he receives from his suddenly-captive audience. All the kids sort of lean forwards in their desks as he takes center stage at the front of the room, framed by the blackboard and spreading his hands on Castiel's desk, trying not to think of all the nights the man must have spent in the same spot bent over exams, brow furrowed, lamplight cast in the creases on his face, fingertips so stained with ink it might as well have been a part of his skin.

"Class," he says, and his voice comes out stronger than he feels. "Break out your notes. It's about time you knew something about me. But first things first: would anybody care to take a guess?"

Silence. Shining eyes. Dean clears his throat.

"Make sure to write this down, now."

The students wait with baited breath. He pauses. And then he can't help it. He breaks into a grin.

"I am madly, helplessly, irrevocably in love with Professor Novak."

After the initial pandemonium, he explains the whole affair (excepting a few choice details, of course, even though it's hard to resist the ravenous delight shining in their eyes) and his current predicament. The class reels with poorly-concealed delight when he scandalously refers to himself as probably the greatest asshole who ever walked this sweet earth, and listens intently as he outlines the plan quickly but firmly. By the end of the lesson, despite whispers and raised eyebrows, they're all on his side. Dean has to admit that it's a good feeling to know that so many people believe in him.

In fact, he's almost starting to think he can really do this.

AN: Next week is the last chapter! Thanks so much for your love and support :)