Chapter 28

"This is the coolest ever," Dean beams up at a canopy of trees over their heads, leaves nothing but black silhouettes in the darknesses that has grown around them.

"Mmh," Castiel hums in agreement. They have carelessly whittled away hours and hours chattering happily as the twilight has waned and turned from evening into night, dusk into dark.

"We should do this loads," Dean beams. "Any holiday. Every holiday."

Castiel smiles, a little sleepily, at the branches entangled above them.

"Yes," He agrees again, "I'd like that."

They're lying on the wooden floor of the treehouse and the stars overhead peep out between the weaving skeletons of the trees around them. The moon is a sliver in the sky to their left, a fingernail against the velvet of dark.

"And maybe we could camp even further away from home. Like, we could go on a hiking trip, be proper explorers—"

Castiel beams.

"And what if we got lost?" He asks.

Dean shrugs carelessly, hardly taking the point into account.

"It'd be so much fun," He continues, before registering Castiel's question. "Getting lost?" He repeats. "That'd—we'd bring loads of food. And our walkie-talkies. And maybe a phone? I don't know. Does it really matter?"

"Getting lost?" Castiel says again. "I think it'd matter a little—"

"Nah," Dean shakes his head. "We'd be together, as long as we didn't get separated, I wouldn't mind. Remember when we were kids, and we always talked about being adventurers and explorers? It'd be just like that. We'd be fine."

"We still are kids, Dean," Castiel points out.

"I'm eleven, Cas, and so are you," Dean counters. "We're nearly old enough to vote—"

"Seven years away," Castiel frowns. "That's not 'nearly', not in my book."

"Screw your book," Dean rolls his eyes. "I know I'm mature. I'm playing football: by High School, I'm gonna be captain—you'll see—"

"I never said you wouldn't," The dark haired boy reminds, but Dean is too distracted to pay attention.

"We're out here, camping on our own—I know I'm mature—I'm the fastest kid in our grade, I'm the best drummer, even though I've only been playing for a year, and there are kids who've been learning since they were five; I'm better at math than anybody when I try, it's just that I don't bother trying, 'cause it's boring and our teacher is cruddy—"

"But what does that have to do with your maturity?" Castiel asks with a frown. Dean hesitates, his stupor interrupted, and his gaze flickers from the sky, to his hands, to Castiel.

"Uh—" He frowns. "I can't—what were we talking about?"

Castiel's lips twitch upwards, heart blossoming with affection and exasperated sentimentality.

"Have you taken your meds today, Dean?" He asks. Dean closes his mouth, which turns downward with guilt and resentment.

"No," He admits, "but I don't like to. And it's not a school day. So what's the problem?"

Castiel shrugs.

"I'm not an expert, but—"

"And why do they give them to me, anyway? Why should I be more like other kids? Other kids are boring—except you. Of course. Except you. But I don't want to be like the rest of them. Why should I?"

"To help you focus?" Castiel suggests.

"Boring," Dean repeats. "I know you don't agree, and we'll probably fight about this, but the way I see it, I'm just different. Why do they have to work so hard to try and make me like everyone else?"

"Charlie takes her meds—"

"Yeah, okay, and Charlie's pretty cool—"

"She's one of your best friends," Castiel points out.

"True—hey, do you think she'd want to go camping with us?" Dean asks, suddenly distracted and excited by this idea. "We could get a whole gang to go, it'd be so fun—"

Castiel smiles affectionately.

Dean is particularly distractible today, flitting from subject to subject like an insect from flower to flower, never lingering, never dwelling, ever changing and turning through the air.

"That does sound fun," He admits. "Who else would go?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugs. "Do you remember when you first met Charlie? You were so scared of her!"

"I wasn't scared of her," Castiel protests with a frown. "And you didn't help it by saying she was probably in love with me—"

"Only a total moron would've actually believed me."

"You think I'd have to be a moron to believe someone could have a crush on me?"

"No, not like that—I mean—Charlie's Charlie. She wouldn't have crushes on a boy. She's too cool for that. That's all I mean. Obviously—well, loads of people would have crushes on you—I'm sure loads of people do—"

Dean's cheeks have darkened in the lambent moonlight.

"Who?" Castiel asks.

Dean glowers.

"Heck, do I know? I'm not keeping a record, Cas, I'm just saying I'm sure lots of people—some people—do. Do, y'know, have crushes on you. Or whatever," Dean finishes, exasperated.

"Okay, alright, I get it," Castiel allays. "Well, I'm sure lots of people have crushes on you, too," He returns the compliment that was so grudgingly and clumsily given to him. Dean's scowl grows a little more across his features.

"Yeah, right," He rolls his eyes. "Who?"

"Like I'm keeping track?!" Castiel sighs, frustrated.

"Right, right, sorry," Dean swallows, and his expression shifts seamlessly from a scowl into one of guilt.

"That's okay."

"No, I'm sorry for being annoying," Dean looks down, expression still guilt-ridden. "I'm being stupid—"

Castiel slips his hand into Dean's. He rarely does this, anymore—not unless the two of them are alone, he's learnt that Dean can get a little embarrassed by it, despite how much the contact seems to comfort him—though when they were children, they did it all the time.

"Is something wrong?" Castiel asks.

"What do you mean?"

"You seem like you want to be distracted by something. What do you want to be distracted from?"

"Aren't people just allowed to feel down?"

"People are allowed to feel down," Castiel concedes, "I'd just rather that you didn't have to."

Dean's lips twitch upwards.

"That's nice of you."

"I mean it."

"People feel sad," Dean points out, "that's unavoidable."

"Okay, but maybe there's a point where people feel as happy as they possibly can. I want you to be at that point, as often as possible."

"Right back at ya."

"Have you brought your walkman?"

"D'you wanna listen to some songs?"

"Only good stuff."

"You know I only have good stuff," Dean grins, and sits up to rummage in his bag, before pulling out his walkman and headphones. He lies back down next to Castiel and moves close enough to him that they can both share an ear of his headphones. Dean's breathing slows, the twitching of his hands stills a little.

"Music really calms you down, doesn't it?" Castiel asks. Dean chuckles gently into the cooling air.

"Yeah," He admits, "but you don't have to be a genius to work that out. I get it, which is more than I can say for, like, anything else."

"You get me," Castiel points out with a small smile. Dean chuckles again.

"I don't think anyone could ever get you, Cas."

Castiel snorts and hits Dean gently. Dean smiles vaguely up at the inky sky.

"You know people make mixtapes for each other?" Dean asks. Castiel nods. "When I learn how to drive, we should do that. Put all our favourite songs on mixtapes, and jam out to them together. We could make each other mixes for our birthdays, for bad days, all of that. You know? That sound cool?"

"That sounds like a good idea," Castiel nods. "You're already planning on what's going to happen when you can drive?"

"Of course," Dean grins. "You know me, Cas—I've been playin' with cars since I could crawl. I can't wait to play around with a real one."

"I hope you're not actually going to be 'playing around' with it—"

"You know what I mean," Dean smiles wistfully. "And I'll drive us around loads'a places. Up and down the country. We can go on road trips. We can go anywhere! How does that sound?"

"Great, Dean. It sounds great."

"It's getting cold," Dean states, pausing the music and getting up to pull the tarpaulin they use as the treehouse's roof over all four of its walls. He pulls out his sleeping bag and torch and hangs the latter up on a hook in the far corner of the treehouse from a loop of string at its handle. Castiel follows suit and gets into his sleeping bag, rubbing his eyes a little sleepily.

"Do you think it'll get much colder?" Castiel asks. Dean pulls a thoughtful face, lips moving down.

"Sun's already set, but it'll still probably get a bit colder. We can stay close together for warmth. Plus, I've got a hoodie. Have you got one?"

"I've got two," Castiel answers, "because I thought you might forget yours."

Dean grins.

"You're a good friend."

"Thanks."

"You got any stories?"

Castiel smiles knowingly, complimented, as ever, by Dean's interest in his writing.

"A few," He confirms, and pulls his notepad out from his own rucksack.

"Any I haven't heard before?" Dean asks.

"A few," Castiel repeats. He pulls the torch down from the hook it hangs on, and opens the pad to its most recent story. Dean beams and pulls his sleeping bag up around himself, the effect of which is deliberately comical, and Castiel loses concentration for a few moments attempting to stifle his laughter. Dean looks delighted. "Okay," Castiel resumes, gaining control again, "here we go."

"What's it about?"

"I guess you won't find out if you don't listen," Castiel points out. Dean laughs.

"Ouch."

Castiel ignores him with little more than a smirk, and begins. Green eyes that are reflected, almost eerily, in the torchlight, remain trained on him all the while.