A/N: I am SO SORRY this took so long. I've been having a major shitstorm at uni and my mum just moved home which sucked & was sad so I had to head down to London to help her out. Anyway. Cambridge is fun but kinda balancing fun with being, like, fucking chaotic. I'm in a play though! And auditioned for another today but it went kinda shit. Anyway, I thought I'd just update you all on how it's going.
This was a sad chapter to write and I hope will be a sad chapter to read and you'll be able to figure out everyone's motivations knowing what you know as an audience, yet also understand why the characters act as they do only knowing what THEY know. That'll make sense. It's a huge shitstorm of a chapter and is VERY long but I didn't want to break it up. I hope it makes up for the slow update! I also hope it answers a lot of your questions about 'what EXACTLY happened those nine years ago?' Well. You're about to find out. Enjoy. (Rather, I hope you do).
I really don't feel as though I did the moment justice while writing it, so I hope you forgive me that sin.
Chapter 38 - It Wasn't Me it Was You
Monday, June 9th 2007 - Dean and Cas are 18
"So," Dean grins, both hands on the wheel of the Impala, "camping next week? You're up for it?"
"Of course, Dean," Castiel answers, unable to suppress his beam at the thought. "I can't wait."
"'Cause I get it if you feel like you're spending too much time with me—"
"You're my best friend—"
"And I get it if you want to be spending more time with Samandriel, what with you leaving in two weeks, and him being your boyfriend—"
"You're my best friend, Dean," Castiel repeats.
Dean glances over to him, eyebrows slanting upward sadly, happily, disbelievingly. It's night, although it doesn't look much like it, now; the sun has yet to set. They drive to Lisa's, who is hosting a post-graduation party while her parents are out of town. Streetlights flash past the window, the air is surprisingly cold, but still heavy, and something in the atmosphere promises bad weather ahead. The setting sun paints the sky in stripes of yellow and orange and gold, and further in, pink and coral. It makes Dean's features swim beautifully amid a haze of yellow, nostalgic light.
"But Samandriel—" Dean attempts to reason, but Castiel cuts him off.
"Best friend," He repeats. "You. Not anyone else. And unless you're getting sick of me—"
"I could never—" Dean shakes his head quickly.
"Then camping, next week, will be awesome," Castiel finishes. Dean smiles, obviously reassured.
"And you're still okay with me coming to say goodbye to you, at the airport?"
"Dean," Castiel laughs, "Who else, in the whole world, could I possibly want there?"
Dean smiles, but his lips twitch in such a way, that it seems insincere. Aiding this, in the next instant, Dean is frowning.
"But maybe—I don't know—you might want that time to be special—" He reasons, and, Castiel's heart is abraded by the sound, Dean's voice cracks in his throat, tearing and coming out limp and small and childish. "You—you might want to spend it with just you and your dad. Or just you and your dad, and Samandriel. He's your boyfriend, and I'm just—"
"Dean," Castiel says firmly, noting with a strange kind of melancholy the tears welling at Dean's eyes, "you're my best friend. I—obviously I'm gonna spend time with my dad at the airport, to say goodbye—he's my dad. But Samandriel… and don't tell him this, obviously… but if I had to choose between having you with me, before I flew to England, and him…" He laughs softly through his nose and looks down, licking his lips a moment and choosing his next words carefully. He can feel the heavy press of Dean's gaze on the side of his face all the while, but strangely, doesn't feel that there is an increased pressure to say the right thing, as a result of it. Dean is—scared? Sad, to see Castiel go? Well. Castiel feels honoured, because of it, and nothing more than unworthy of any of Dean's affection. "There's no competition," He says, looking up at Dean. "No competition," He repeats. Dean's jaw clenches, Castiel watches as he swallows thickly.
"What do you mean by that?" Dean asks. His words fall heavily between the pair of them, and Castiel cannot answer them honestly, and in doing so, pick them up. They imply too much, and Castiel's answer will inevitably mean too little, when it tumbles clumsily and insincerely from his lips, and once again Castiel is forced to lie—or at least, only speak in half-truths—to the boy of whom he believes, if soulmates existed, he would be bound to infinitely.
"I mean that you mean more to me," Castiel answers, looking out the window to avoid the serious press of Dean's gaze, "than a guy I've been dating for a handful of months. Are you surprised?"
Dean shrugs. His eyes return to the road.
"A little," He replies, as though this is half meant to be inflammatory, and half meant to be simply sincere.
"Oh," Castiel replies. His voice cracks at his throat, and Dean's answer hurts him unexpectedly. "Why?" He asks. "You shouldn't be."
"Shouldn't be?" Dean repeats, finally allowed to give Castiel more focus as they hit traffic.
"No," Castiel answers. "I've said. I've known you for years. What's surprising about you meaning so much to me?"
Dean doesn't answer.
There is a stillness in the car, and when the traffic moves forward, Dean does so, hesitantly, as though not wanting to reach their destination.
"How much?" He asks, finally.
"What?"
"You said I mean more to you, than…" He trails off. "But how much?"
Castiel rolls his eyes and rummages through Dean's collection of cassettes.
"You're asking me to quantify emotional attachment, Dean, which you know I can't do. I might as well ask, how much do I mean to you?"
"Everything," Dean replies, so surely and quickly and gently that Castiel looks up at him from where he bends down, rummaging in the glove compartment, and hits his head on the bottom of the dashboard.
"Ow," He rubs at the back of his head, where he can feel a bruise forming, frowning. But Dean doesn't laugh, like Castiel would expect him to. He only peers at Castiel, all seriousness, obviously waiting for a response. Which reminds Castiel of what it is Dean has just said. His hand falls back down to his side. "What?" He asks.
The look Dean gives him. The look, and Dean's voice, and the content of Dean's words, have made Castiel's heart flutter inside his chest, trembling with disbelief.
Dean shrugs minutely, lips pressed together, and turns back to the road, accelerating as the traffic begins to clear.
Castiel stares at him.
Everything.
Castiel means everything to Dean? Is that what he said?
And is that the answer of a friend, or something more?
Perhaps Dean misspoke. Perhaps Castiel misheard.
"You mean a lot to me, too, Dean," He replies, still staring at Dean, to which the green eyed boy snorts.
"Right, yeah. Of course. You were gonna put some music on?"
Castiel looks down to the pile of cassettes he's collected into his lap. He's too distracted to pay any attention to what he puts in. But then, when the music begins playing, he takes notice.
"Wait," He frowns, then smiles at the car radio as Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightens, a muscle in the sandy haired boy's jaw clenching, "this is my music."
Dean frowns at the stereo, feigning surprise, as the lyrics start up.
"You're a part time lover and a full time friend…"
"Uh, is it?" He asks distractedly. "Huh. That's funny."
"I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else, But you."
"It's The Moldy Peaches," Castiel states.
"I'll take your word for it."
"I kiss you on the brain in the shadow of a train
I kiss you all starry eyed, my body's swinging from side to side"
"You'll take my word for it?" Castiel repeats incredulously. "Dean, it's on your mix tape."
"I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you"
Dean flushes.
"So, I guess you've impacted my music taste, then. Are you surprised? I mean, I have known you for fourteen years."
"And I'm not forgetting them," Castiel frowns, "but you've never put my stuff on a cassette before."
"Your stuff?" Dean repeats. "So I can't like it, too?"
"The pebbles forgive me, the trees forgive me
So why can't you forgive me?
I don't see what anyone can see, in anyone else
But you"
"Well, you're always bitching about it," Castiel points out. Dean growls at the word.
"So maybe I thought I'd make a mixtape of it, 'cause I was gonna miss you, when you go? Why's everything gotta be—"
But Dean cuts himself off.
Castiel stares at him.
It's not the first time he's hoped beyond hope that Dean isn't straight, and it certainly won't be the last.
But this time, this time—does Castiel actually have grounds for his hope?
Maybe Dean isn't straight. Maybe—maybe—
But they've arrived.
Dean pulls into Lisa's driveway—boyfriend privileges, Castiel guesses, and kills the engine. The music cuts off. Castiel stares.
"What?" Dean asks, with a slightly unfriendly frown.
"Uh—I was—" Castiel fumbles for an answer, other than, I was just wondering, are you really straight? And if not, do you want to get coffee, some time? "Camping—"
"What about it?"
"Do you—do you have a camping stove? Or will we just light a fire?"
Dean grins, leaning back.
"So, we have tonnes of supplies—don't you remember? From when we used to go camping as kids?—But I think it'd also be pretty cool to cook food on a fire. Survival style, you know? So I'll bring all the stuff—like the little gas cooker, and all that shit—but you've gotta promise that at least one of the nights, we just make up a campfire, and cook all our shit on that. Okay?"
Castiel chuckles. His insides are so warm with affection that easily, he could bask in the light of Dean for days.
"Okay," He answers, nodding.
"I can't wait," Dean beams, ear to ear.
"No, me neither," Castiel agrees.
"Also, is it, like, outrageously cliché of me to want to bring a guitar?"
Castiel bubbles out into laughter.
"Bring a guitar, Dean," He nods, to which Dean's beam turns smug.
"Yeah?" He repeats.
"Yeah," Castiel confirms. "It'll be nice to have you to serenade me."
Dean snorts, and shoves Castiel playfully, ruffling at his hair. Castiel would swat him off, normally, but he doesn't, this time. He treasures the touch and tries not to stare at Dean in total wonderment.
"That's my job, Cas," Dean grins, undoing his seatbelt and getting out the car. Castiel does the same. He's reminded of Charlie's party, and the strange cocktail of misery it unknowingly caused him.
Maybe tonight will be the beginning of the repair to that damage.
Maybe. Hopefully.
It's loud, and busy—ridiculously so, already. Castiel frowns at the silhouettes of people in the windows of the house—all the windows of all the rooms. Dean glances over at him.
"Hey, if you wanna bail, we can bail," Dean reassures. "It's huge. So if you feel like—"
"It's okay," Castiel shakes his head, "this is your girlfriend's party, after all. You kind of have to be there."
"Yeah, but it looks like she invited the whole school," Dean rolls his eyes. "I don't think she's gonna miss me."
"I think she would," Castiel counters, tugging on Dean's brown, beaten leather jacket and walking up to the front door, "and I don't want to get you into trouble."
"I'm always in trouble, Cas," Dean counters with a grin, "it's why Lisa even went out with me. I'm irresistible."
"And humble," Castiel frowns thoughtfully. "Wow, you really are the whole package."
"Well, when you say it like that, it sounds sarcastic," Dean chuckles, and pushes open the door. "Also, who is choosing this music?" He wrinkles his nose in distaste at the heavy bass emerging from inside. "Shitty. They've got a shitty music taste."
They make their way down the hall, pushing past kids already drunk, stoned, and possibly both.
"You're pretentious."
"You're gonna study English at Cambridge," Dean points out. "That's, like, first place, gold medal levels of pretentious."
Castiel snorts, glancing away.
"You got me."
Lisa emerges from the kitchen, beaming at the sight of Dean.
"Hey, good lookin'" He greets, with a winning, casual grin as Lisa pulls him in for a tight hug, arms around his neck and shoulders. Castiel swallows and glances down as Lisa presses a soft kiss to Dean's lips by way of greeting. Dean smiles smugly, confidently, down at her, and Castiel's hopes of maybe he's not straight are, for the millionth time, dashed. When will he learn? "How's it going?"
"Good, thank you," Lisa stays wrapped up in the arm Dean slings around her waist. "I'm glad you're here."
"What, 'cause you want me to be around to kick people out by morning?" Dean asks with a grin. "'Cause that's not what I expected, when I agreed to become your boyfriend—"
"Agreed?" Lisa repeats, gasping melodramatically and pretending to be affronted even while she laughs musically.
"Yep," Dean confirms grimly, "you begged me to date you, and now that I've finally said yes—"
Lisa rolls her eyes and hits Dean lightly on the shoulder.
"You're a jerk," She comments, but she giggles and presses her lips together in a way that is calculatedly no way near as severe as she, again so calculatedly, is pretending to pretend to be.
"Guilty as charged," Dean bends down to bump his nose with Lisa's. Castiel looks away again, and as he does, he spots Samandriel coming down the stairs.
"Castiel!" He shouts excitedly, waving. Castiel waves back, not feeling any way near as enthusiastic as Samandriel, who practically bounces down the staircase to where Dean, Castiel and Lisa stand. "You're here!" He pulls Castiel in for a surprisingly sudden kiss which is pierced by the taste of spirits already staining Samandriel's tongue and infused into his breath.
"Hi, Samandriel," Castiel greets as his boyfriend pulls away, noting, not for the first time, that Dean refuses to look anywhere near his direction when Samandriel shows this kind of affection—or any, for that matter. But now, noting this doesn't fill him with untold pain—it fills him with untold hope.
Perhaps, Dean looks away, because he is queer. Perhaps, Dean feels the same way towards Castiel, as Castiel does to Dean. And when Dean looks at Castiel kissing Samandriel, he feels the same as Castiel feels, when Dean kisses Lisa. Could a friendship as complex and knotty and sticky and intimate as theirs ever be just platonic? Surely, Dean must feel something, too—they've shared a bed at least once a week for fourteen years, now—that can't be platonic. Which other guys, that Castiel knows, are that comfortable with their guy friends? Which other guys have nicknames for each other as endearing as Dean and Castiel? Dean calls Castiel Sunshine. Dean said Cas was his everything, not fifteen minutes ago… Doesn't that mean something? Doesn't it have to?
This is, of course, the vein along which the thoughts that were running through Castiel's head on the night of Charlie's party, before things crashed and burned so terribly, had taken. But what if Castiel misread that night?
What if Castiel misread that night, and every night and every fight with Dean, since then?
Perhaps, at Charlie's party, when Castiel kissed Samandriel—
"Cas, are you listening?" Dean raises his eyebrows at his friend, dragging Castiel away from his thoughts. The dark haired boy scarce jumps out of his skin, surprised by his own distractedness, which is ordinarily Dean's trait, and stares bewilderedly at his friend.
"What?" He asks. Dean rolls his eyes.
But there's affection in the gesture. And—more affection than there would be, reasonably, for someone who's just a friend. Maybe?
Castiel is, perhaps, once again grasping at straws. He'd been thinking this way on the night of Charlie's party; had been thinking and rethinking the entire day, his and Dean's relationship and whether or not it could be construed as strictly platonic, or perhaps… something more? But that a thing could be more than what it really was had proven to be an awful notion to conceive; Castiel had dressed in clothes he'd hoped Dean would like, had put on a mixtape filled with songs that reminded him of Dean, had been ready to, that night, not only come out to Dean, but tell him how he felt about Dean in particular, and not just guys in general.
And Dean had… shot him down. Before Castiel even broached the subject.
"Ah… Sorry, Charlie, but I can't really say he's my type… Think you know what I mean…"
"Dude," Dean laughs, waving his hand in front of Castiel's face, that he might restore his attention, yet again, "what's up? What's wrong with you?"
Castiel presses his lips together and shakes his head, even as the jade of Dean's eyes sets his head reeling with ideas that maybe, the owner of those eyes might love Castiel, too; that those eyes have rested upon Castiel's sleeping form and have itched at the desire to be closer; that they watch Castiel at moments when he is turned away and cannot see, in the same way Castiel watches Dean; that their corners crinkle up at the thought of Castiel's quirks and habits.
"I'm—" Castiel shakes his head, "—sorry—what were you saying? I'm sorry—"
"Hey, that's okay," Dean chuckles, but his hand closes around the top of Castiel's arm, and Castiel stares at it, heart soaring, though utterly bewildered, before glancing up and realising that Samandriel has noted the contact, also. "Jello shots," Dean leads his friend gently into the kitchen. Samandriel suggested jello shots."
"Oh…" Castiel murmurs, torn between looking back at Samandriel to check that he doesn't suspect anything, and staring down at the warm hand, roughened by guitar playing and working on the Impala and building things out of wood and metal in Dean's glimmers of spare time, wrapped around Castiel's arm. The ridges of his knuckles, and how perfect they look, especially now that they are so close, especially now that Dean's fingers touch Castiel. "That's… that's a good idea…"
Samandriel's hand closes around Castiel's other arm.
"Thanks, Cassie," He beams winningly, and, after glancing at Dean furtively, presses a kiss to Castiel's cheek.
Whether by coincidence, or wordless reprimand, Dean's hand slips off Castiel's arm.
Dean doesn't have any shots. The kitchen is bright with white, sterile light, but Castiel prefers it to the darkness and makeshift-party lighting of the rooms at the front of the house. Shot after shot, chased by lime, chased by salt, Lisa and Samandriel giggling and covering their hands with their mouths politely and Castiel wincing at the burn of spirits; until the bright light becomes aggressive and the music from the living room's heavy bass thrums at Castiel's core.
Shot after shot, but Dean doesn't have any. He stares at the tiled floor, freckled with a few red cups and spilled drinks, stares as though deep in thought, as he stands behind Lisa's chair with his hand curled around the pale wood of its back, tight enough that his hand begins to match its colour, save for the freckles spattered across Dean's knuckles. Castiel cannot help but mark him, even as he has more and more to drink with Samandriel, even as his surroundings become more difficult to recognise, even as Samandriel's tipsy hands begin to wander over Castiel's body, he watches Dean and wanders.
Dean glances up and catches him. Samandriel's hands are still wandering over Castiel's torso, but the dark haired boy pays his boyfriend no mind. Dean frowns inquisitively, expression still a little sad.
"You okay, buddy?" Dean asks. There is something in his gaze. Something that's always been there, Castiel's sure of it. Or—has it? Has Castiel only just noticed it? Is he wishing it? Is he too drunk, already, to recall Dean's gaze on any night other than this? Perhaps he imagines the tenderness, wishes it into being, that he sees in the reflections of jade and shattered gold of Dean's irises. Perhaps he has willed Dean's affection so hard, that the slope of Dean's eyebrows conveying so much concern and devotion is utterly figmental, nothing more than an embodiment of the ardent love Castiel feels toward his best friend, and he fears, always will?
But before Castiel can answer Dean, let alone the litany of questions reeling around his head, Samandriel tugs at Castiel's shoulder.
"Hey, babe," His fingers wander up to Castiel's neck, and begin to stroke. Castiel is torn between looking at Dean, with his rose lips and sandy hair, his understatedly feminine features and pretty jawline and loud laugh and bashful grins and terrible music taste, Dean—and Samandriel. It is Dean who turns his face away, lip trembling, hand gripping tighter at Lisa's chair, and Samandriel, who notices.
Any other month, Castiel would assume this was because his best friend still wasn't comfortable with being reminded of Castiel's queerness by Samandriel being so publicly affectionate.
But this isn't any other month.
This is Castiel's leaving month.
And how can he leave without telling Dean the truth?
Aside from his blind, wild hope that perhaps, Dean actually does like Castiel back, Castiel owes the truth to Dean. The truth of why he's been so pissy. The truth of why he was so hurt on the night of Charlie's party. Even if nothing can ever happen. Even though nothing will ever happen—Castiel has a boyfriend, Castiel is moving to England, Castiel—
"Castiel!" Samandriel tugs again, drunkenly, and a little too hard. Castiel turns, frowning, to see the brown haired boy looking upset. Castiel's frown fades; guilt overpowers it.
"Sorry—" Castiel murmurs, slipping his fingers in between Samandriel's and in so doing renewing his sense of emotional duty to the pretty, energetic boy that he agreed to date. "What's going on?"
"I want to go upstairs—or outside—or somewhere—anywhere, where we can be alone."
Castiel peers at his boyfriend. Samandriel's eyebrows slope upward with worry and his hands are tugged out of Castiel's to twist and fiddle with one another. A bitter cocktail of pity and guilt surge through the dark haired boy, and he stands, taking hold of Samandriel's hand again.
"Okay," He nods, "where do you want to go?"
"If you guys want some privacy to talk, my room is free," Lisa suggests. Castiel glances over at her. Dean doesn't look at any of them, he sits down heavily and begins to play with Lisa's hand. His expression is so distant that it could be light-years away.
"Thanks," Samandriel beams, though it is undeniably insincere, and in the next instant tugs Castiel up, out of his seat, with streamlined motion by the hand, and pulls him out the room.
Castiel looks back.
Dean sits in his chair and looks up at Castiel as he leaves.
Dean doesn't look. He stares.
And he must feel the same way.
Insides dissolving in acid, Castiel picks up a bottle of dark liquid someone has abandoned at the bottom of the stairs Samandriel drags him up.
"What's going on?" Castiel asks, as Samandriel turns left on the landing into Lisa's bedroom, kicking out its few inhabitants and closing the door behind them.
Castiel watches his boyfriend warily, who turns round to face Castiel, leaning back self-consciously against the white door of Lisa's bedroom.
"If you're wanting to make out," Castiel shuffles awkwardly, "I don't think Lisa's bedroom would be the best place—"
"I don't want to make out," Samandriel rolls his eyes, stepping forward. Castiel sits down worriedly on Lisa's bed, because he doesn't know what else to do, trying not to think of all the times Dean and Lisa have shared it.
"Then what—"
"I told Lisa that I wanted to talk to you tonight, and asked if there was someplace private we could do it," Samandriel makes his way over the thick cream-coloured carpet to Castiel. He stops in front of his boyfriend so that their toes are almost touching. Castiel looks up at him.
"Are you okay?" He asks, worrying at Lisa's lilac sheets between his fingertips in nervousness. Samandriel glances away, the smile lacing his pretty features tinged with the bitterness of veiled acidity.
"Uh," Samandriel falters. He swallows, Castiel watches the clench of his right fist and is reminded, of all things and at all times, of Dean. Yet, shocked by the press of tears that brand his boyfriend's eyes, Castiel gets up, taking hold of Samandriel's hands and grazing his thumbs over the boy's knuckles—the knuckles that, while they will never be Dean's, are still pretty and graceful and worthy of love, in themselves. Why should doubt sear at Castiel's heart, now, of all times? He and Dean are friends again, he moves to study in England in a matter of weeks, he and Samandriel are resolved to keep dating all through that. It is Castiel who is complicating things, albeit internally, and Castiel who has hurt his boyfriend in the process, by not giving Samandriel the love that he deserves, especially in light of what their relationship has become.
He squeezes the cold hands that rest between his fingers, looking down at them and marking their lines, the exact degrees of their curvature, the tone of peach and tan they match best. He thinks of all the nights he spent, lying awake, beside Samandriel, watching the thin, pale lips twitch in sleep, the fingers curl lightly into pillow, the pale skin stretched over chest swell and decline with breath like the tides on shore. How Castiel wanted to love Samandriel as he loved Dean—and certainly loved Samandriel, in some kind of way. In a way of quiet laughter and soft skin and smiling at excitability. In a way of learning, rather than finding.
Love, at the best of times, a strange and cruel beast that, Castiel believes, takes more than it gives the feeler, took a different path with Samandriel than with Dean.
Samandriel's eyes sing sadness.
Something in them is an echo of Dean, a broken inverted reflection that, in the image it reflects, is quite charming, can taste flawlessness. Perhaps, in this particular feature, Castiel was driven to kiss the brown haired boy. Mirrored imperfectly and nearly subverted, Samandriel became an imperfect substitute for the perfect and burning beauty of Dean's love—which, until today, Castiel had felt certain did not exist. But now he isn't sure.
"Samandriel," Castiel says softly. He pulls his boyfriend's right hand to his lips. "Are you okay?"
"I—" Samandriel's eyes eke timid tears. Castiel pulls him into a tight embrace and inhales his hair, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, Samandriel still in his arms, he looks about the minimalist bedroom of Lisa Braeden, such a stark contrast to the tomboyish clutter of Charlie; the room in which, of all places, Castiel had to see his best friend making out with another person.
But no—no. This is cruel. Castiel grounds his thoughts to Samandriel, bravely resting in his arms, Samandriel who is his boyfriend, who obviously adores Castiel and has remained constant and loyal and kind despite all of Castiel's peculiar idiosyncrasies.
"What's wrong?" Castiel asks, squeezing then letting go of Samandriel, who swallows, and sits down on the bed. Castiel follows suit.
"I love you," Samandriel says, looking up at Castiel with glittering eyes. Castiel falters, taken aback. His hand moves timidly to Samandriel's shoulder.
"I know," He replies with a frown—and he does, so why does Samandriel say it now like it bears so much meaning? "And I love you. But what's wrong? You're crying, Sam—"
"You know?" Samandriel raises his eyebrows at Castiel. Lisa's blue lampshade washes Samandriel's face all the shades of sorrow. Castiel feels a little too drunk to be able to handle any of this appropriately, and yet, even now, there is an unspeakable tenderness in his heart for the boy with brown hair and a loud, excitable voice; the first boy Castiel ever kissed.
"Of course I know," Castiel confirms, squeezing at his boyfriend's shoulder. "And I love you, too."
"You mean that?" Samandriel asks. He looks up at Castiel earnestly with the pleading eyes of someone clinging onto a last hope. Castiel cannot for the life of him work out what this hope should be. "You really love me?"
Something in Samandriel's tone is evasive and fills Castiel with mistrust.
"Of course," Castiel replies slowly. "Of course…" He frowns uncertainly at his boyfriend. "Why do you ask?"
"You love me," Samandriel says, taking Castiel's hand from his shoulder and instead holding it in his own, "and I love you. You know that?"
"Yes."
"Then stay."
Two words. They're spoken candidly enough for Castiel to be confused, albeit momentarily.
"What?"
"Stay," Samandriel presses. His eyes are stung with more tears, he holds onto Castiel's hands with uncomfortable force. "I love you—stay with me."
"What do you mean?" Castiel asks, eyebrows knotted up, trying, however gently, to tug his hands away from Samandriel—but the brown haired boy's grasp does not give.
"I mean," Samandriel clings on all the tighter, a note of urgency slipping fretfully into his voice, "that I want you to stay. Stay. Stay in America."
What is Samandriel asking of him?
"Samandriel," Castiel tries, attempting once again to pull himself free, but now Samandriel holds on so tightly it actually hurts.
"I love you," Samandriel raises his voice over Castiel's confused protestations. "I love you, and you say you love me," There is acid in his voice, now as well as heartbreak and desperation, his manner is soured by something unspeakable and jealous and melancholic and undeniably possessive. "I love you, and you say you love me," He repeats, eyes burnt with tears and, now, a cruel kind of covetousness, "so stay in America. What we—we have something special, Cassie—"
"Samandriel," Castiel finally wrenches himself free, tempted to stand and leave, but not doing so. He nevertheless shuffles minutely away from the brown haired boy, glaring. "What are you asking of me?"
"I'm asking for loyalty—"
"That absolutely isn't what loyalty looks like—"
"It is!" Samandriel pleas. "You're leaving—"
"No," Castiel shakes his head, pressing a palm to Samandriel's cheek, "you're freaking out. Which is okay, that's fine—and I understand why—but I am going to England. I'm not leaving you—"
"You are—"
"For eight weeks!" Castiel protests. Samandriel closes his eyes and covers Castiel's hand with his own. "Semesters—terms, they call them—in Cambridge last only two months. Only two months at a time, and then I'll be back again—"
"But then you'll be leaving again—and I know what college is like—there'll be pretty guys there, you'll see them, you'll—"
"You think I'd cheat on you?" Castiel asks with an indignant glare. "When have I ever given you reason to—"
"Don't go, Cassie," Samandriel pleas again, taking Castiel's hand down off his face and holding it into his lap. He shuffles forward, closing the gap between them so that their knees are touching. "I love you—I love you—and not in some dumb, teenage way. I mean it—we could be something, you know? We could—"
"If you're so sure, why do you accuse me of something I'd never do?"
"I never accused you—"
"You said that I'd do it," Castiel opposes. "You said I'd cheat on you. Why do you doubt me so?"
"You're leaving me," Samandriel points out. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Leaving you?" Castiel asks, heatedly. "I'm leaving everything—my family, my home, my friends, my best—" But he stops himself. Not that it appears to be of any use; Samandriel's features are already soured by bitterness and resentment, and a kind of vindictive triumph, as if he has been waiting for Castiel to bring up Dean all this time.
But Castiel doesn't rise to it. He holds on tight to Samandriel's hands.
"This is my dream, Samandriel," He reasons. "I know you're sad about me going—and so am I, for what it's worth. I'll miss you terribly. You're kind and bubbly and sweet and, I believe, truly special and one in a million and rare in a way I think very few people are, but—" Castiel swallows, aware himself that he is ready to cry at any instant. "But I've dreamt of studying English, in the UK, in Oxford or Cambridge for so long—and it's such a privilege—"
"Study at Yale, or Harvard," Samandriel shakes his head. "Take a year out—you can apply to—"
"No, Samandriel," Castiel shakes his head defiantly. "You—you don't understand. And I know I shouldn't expect you to—" But even now, at the most inappropriate of times, Castiel is thinking of one who does understand, who understood immediately, who would always, will always understand Castiel and his strange and seemingly geometric but actually, fiercely complicated and vividly colourful and suppressed feelings.
Wide eyed, "You got a scholarship?", total awe, "you're going to Cambridge", at Castiel expressing anxiety, doubt, "You can't turn it down… This is your dream", at Castiel's fear, You have an amazing habit for overthinking things, Cas", in encouragement and total humility and kindness, "You were always gonna do big things, Cas… My music is nothing. Not on you. Not on what you can do. And not on what the world's got planned for you—", "Do it. Go. This is good, it's a good thing. It hurts for me because—well, you're my best friend. Of course it's gonna hurt. But I'm so happy for you, too. So ignore me if I get emotional. I'm proud of you."
Dean.
Beloved, Dean.
"I get that it's big, Castiel," Samandriel frowns, ripping Castiel away from the tenderness of his thoughts, "but don't you think this is kind of bigger?"
"This?" Castiel repeats, nonplussed, and still giddy from his thoughts of Dean.
"This," Samandriel repeats, frustrated, "us. People grow apart moving to different states, Castiel, what do you think's gonna happen when you go to another country? Another continent?"
"University is three years, in England," Castiel points out. "I don't know what you're complaining about—"
"You're insensitive," Samandriel shakes his head, looking away, renewed tears falling to his cheeks. "I always knew it—you're so—one minute you're so understanding, so empathetic, and the next—"
"Samandriel," Castiel reasons, "you're asking me to give up on something I've adored since infancy. Dean can attest to it—" But Samandriel's expression sours at the mention of this name. "I've been writing stories since I could write. I've been reading since I could—well, since before I could read, I'd sit and look through books. This is my life—I know you're sad, and I'm so so sorry, but it's been my dream since before I really knew you, like I do now—"
Samandriel looks up, something fierce and hard and grim set in the lines of his features. He doesn't look nearly so pretty now, cheeks wet, eyes red, features firm and unforgiving.
"If you loved me, you wouldn't go."
And this is it. This is where Samandriel goes too far.
Castiel rises, pulling himself away from his boyfriend.
"I've had enough," He shakes his head. "You know that isn't true. Fuck you, for being so manipulative—"
"Manipulative?!" Samandriel repeats, getting up after Castiel.
"What do you call it?" Castiel glares.
"Fine," Samandriel swallows, manner becoming suddenly proud. "If you go, I'll break up with you. I can't handle whatever—-whatever you being in England would involve. So if you leave, I leave. I think that's fair—"
"—I really don't—"
"—And if you stay," Samandriel speaks over Castiel, holding his head high and meeting Castiel's gaze with a new kind of fierceness, "then everything will be fine. We can stay together. No breaking up. We can see where this goes, and I really do think it'll go somewhere, Castiel."
"Oh, that's wonderfully charitable of you," Castiel rolls his eyes, "but I'm going to have to decline."
"You never loved me!"
Castiel has had enough. He's surprised by his own tears. He shakes his head and answers hollowly,
"I've lost a lot of things because of you, Samandriel. I'm not about to lose something else."
He steps toward the door.
"If you walk out this room, we're fin—"
"No," Castiel shakes his head, wiping his eyes with slightly drunken clumsiness, "we're finished now. Me leaving the room has nothing to do with it."
Samandriel stares.
Then he sits down, as if in slow motion, back onto the now-ruffled bed.
Castiel leaves, not closing the door after him. Glancing back only once, he sees Samandriel's hands clasped together as the boy sits, crying, with his head bowed to the floor.
And Castiel's heart is bruised with the surprise of its own breaking.
He practically crashes into Dean at the top of the stairs.
"Buddy," Dean holds onto Castiel's hands, to stop him losing balance, marking Castiel's tears with distress. "Are you okay? What's happened?"
Castiel has buried his face in Dean's neck without thinking, arms wrapping around his best friend with all the force in the world.
Dean falters, but hugs back.
And it's the only thing in world that could make Castiel feel anything resembling whole, at this time.
He hopes he has Dean present for every heartbreak. Every trial and sadness in life. He wants—he needs Dean there. Nobody else in the world could possibly compare. Certainly not Samandriel, now, and not Charlie, not Bela, not Sam nor Isaac, or Gabriel or Michael or even Jimmy.
Dean. Dean. Dean. To the thumping of his broken heart, it rings, like a bell or a drum or something more primal even yet than these. Dean, Dean, Dean, always Dean. It is—was—will always be Dean.
"You wanna go home?" Dean asks, and understands, it would seem, just like that—at the sight of brokenhearted Castiel and brokenhearted Samandriel down the corridor, Dean knows, and knows what Castiel needs.
"You should stay—" Castiel protests, shaking his head and pulling away slightly, but only to his wrists, because Dean holds on. "You should stay with your girlfriend—I can make my own way—"
"Lisa will get it," Dean shakes his head. "She'll get it," He repeats. He squeezes Castiel's arms. "And you're way more important than some dumb party."
Castiel hugs Dean again, pressing his face into Dean's shoulder.
"Thank—I—Dean—you—"
But he can't finish his sentence.
"I know," Dean replies, and squeezes tight. He pulls away, leading Castiel down the stairs, holding onto Castiel's hand—the dark haired boy's head is spinning at the touch even if his heart is raw with, of all things, a strange sense of betrayal at Samandriel and everything that has just passed between them.
Downstairs, in the swarm of music and people, Dean seeks out Lisa, still holding on to Cas's hand. It's when he finds her that he lets go.
"Babe," Dean draws close to Lisa and her sheet of long black hair, grazing the loose tendrils which fall onto her forehead and cheeks back with his thumb. Castiel looks away, throat constricting: he'd almost forgotten about Lisa, about how obviously in love with her Dean is; the tenderness that swims across his eyes when he touches her, is near her, as he is now. "I've gotta go," His palm cups Lisa's cheek, and she leans into it, smiling the serene smile of a teen girl slightly drunken, whose boyfriend is showing her all the affection any person could wish themselves. "Cas is—" Dean glances back at Castiel, and his hand slips off Lisa's cheek for a moment, Dean's forehead twisted up in that familiar, familial manner of concern, mouth open. No. Of course Dean doesn't love Castiel. It was stupid; foolishness, to hope so. "Well," Dean frowns, still looking at Castiel. Then he turns back to Lisa. His hand slips back into its neat place on Lisa's cheek. "He needs to go home."
Lisa smiles sadly.
"I get it," She nods. She goes up onto her tiptoes and kisses Dean on the lips—and Dean, Castiel nearly wretches, kisses Lisa like it's the last time he's going to get a chance to do so—to the extent that she hums happily against his mouth and his arms draw around her so tight it's as though he wants her body to become a part of his, and vice versa.
Dean pulls apart, looking sad to do so. Lisa gazes up at him in an expression of confused wonder.
"Thanks, babe," Dean squeezes Lisa. "I'll see you around."
"Tomorrow?" Lisa asks. "Will you come over?"
Dean is already making his way out, he glances back fleetingly, looking guilty.
"I'll call you," He promises. "We'll figure something out."
And Castiel follows after him, waving goodbye to Lisa.
"Goodbye, Castiel!" She calls at his receding back. "I hope you feel better!"
Castiel doubts he will.
But then Dean has taken hold of his hand again, and leads him in a winding path down the hall of Lisa's home, through drunken dancing teens who bump into Castiel and stumble and slur out sorries, Castiel blinking blearily and drawing a steadying breath. Loving Dean is an old feeling. He should be used to it. He should be over it. But one touch, one comment about how Dean is going to miss him, and Castiel is off again, loving and longing and hurting for Dean as though all the universe is subsumed by the boy with gently scintillating green eyes.
Dean opens the front door, to where their classmates have spilled out onto Lisa's—or, rather, Lisa's parent's—front lawn, sitting down, passed out, making out, looking up at the sky.
"You're sure you're okay with—"
"Dude," Dean cuts Castiel off, squeezing Castiel's hand. "Of course I'm okay with it. I said at the beginning of the night, didn't I? And I haven't had anything to drink, and you definitely have," A squeeze at Castiel's hand, "so I'm gonna make sure you actually make it home, and drive you there. How does that sound?" The dark haired boy looks down to where their skin meets. His is darker than Dean's, even in this light. It's not even remotely unclear where Dean's skin ends and Castiel's begins. Dean's glitters with freckles and tiny imperfections, even now. He works too hard on his car, plays too much guitar; it shows from the hardened tips of his fingers to the chipped shape of his knuckles.
But it's perfect, and he's perfect, and Castiel has never doubted this for a moment, even when he has been furious and miserable with Dean. And he knows where Dean's skin ends and Castiel's begins, and he never wants the place where they meet to fall apart.
But it will. And it does.
"Thank you…" Castiel murmurs, looking down, as Dean lets his hand fall and makes his way to the Impala. "It—you're so kind, Dean—"
Dean chuckles, opening Castiel's door for him.
"I think you're just a little bit drunk."
Castiel shakes his head but climbs in. Dean goes over to the driver's side and does the same, closing his door and starting the engine.
The music they had been listening to when they arrived starts up, and Dean reddens in the light flooding onto the lawn from Lisa's house.
The clumsy, charming guitar and vocals, the sincerity, the darkness—Castiel, more than ever, aches to kiss Dean now, of all moments, with his heart broken but not quite broken; with Dean, whose soul shimmers brighter than the lights of the party or the stars above their heads, outside the windows of the quietly intimate car.
Dean peers at Castiel, cheeks still pink.
Does he—could he?
"So what's up?"
Castiel blinks, confused.
"What?"
Dean sighs.
"Should I drive?" He asks. "Or do you want to talk about it?"
Castiel is still nonplussed.
"Talk about what?"
Dean rolls his eyes.
"Guess I'll drive then."
He pulls out of the driveway.
Streetlights pulse past the window and match Castiel's uncertain heartbeat.
Silence.
Music.
The music.
Dean must care—he's made this for Castiel, to remind him of Castiel, with music Castiel actually likes—
Another song starts up.
"You put all my music on this," Castiel comments, turning to Dean with misty eyes. Dean notes them, lips twitching a moment, tempted at mirth, but something in his features remains soft, softened with love? Castiel prays, prays that this is the case. "Why is that?"
Let's say sunshine for everyone
But as far as I can remember
The song is nostalgic and oscillates in a way that is both astrological and, if Castiel is honest, mawkish, but nothing could taste more appropriate than this when Castiel, caught between fluttering sadness and a desperate, crunching longing, looks at his best friend in the driver's seat of the car, who is totally unaware of just how much Castiel loves him.
Castiel loves him.
He loves him.
He should tell him.
He could touch it in the air, Castiel loves Dean so much.
We've been migratory animals
Living under changing weather
Dean glances at him and rolls his eyes.
"Because I'm gonna miss you, man," He answers, longsuffering, but with a flavour of affection in his tone. The pale moon is drowned in inky night above their head. The streetlights beat at the windscreen. "I've said, haven't I?"
Someday we will foresee obstacles
Through the blizzard, through the blizzard
"But why are you going to miss me?" Castiel asks, totally uncertain and utterly wishing for Dean to answer in the most perfect way imaginable. The shadows of suburban houses drift past their windows.
Today we will sell our uniform
And leave together, live together
Dean laughs, the sound blooming out into the warm night air between them. His hair is darker in this light—almost like Samandriel's, but softer, sweeter, even now more like a rich, dark caramel, stuck up at rebellious and awkward angles. Castiel's heart is raw.
"Because, Cas," Dean chuckles, shaking his head. "Why do you think?"
"I don't know," Castiel shakes his head. He stares at Dean. "Or, I want to hear you say it."
Dean's smile fades. The lights from the houses and the road wash his face orange, in fierce conflict with the white wash of the silvery moon. Dean glances at Castiel with his lips minutely parted, a single line traced between his brows.
"Say it?" Dean repeats.
And the earth around them grinds to a halt. The car, for all that it is worth, has stopped moving in Castiel's mind; the stars have stopped their shimmering; the moon has stopped its swimming in the sooty, velvety sky; all that remains is Dean, Castiel, the music, and the ether hovering between them.
Someday we will foresee obstacles
Through the blizzard, through the blizzard
"Yes," Castiel confirms, eyes caught on Dean's lips, which he licks once, ostensibly nervous. Dean's gaze flashes away momentarily—at what, Castiel has no idea.
Dean swallows.
The earth has stilled, though the green eyed boy still drives.
Today we will sell our uniform,
Leave together, live together
"What happened tonight?" Dean asks, instead of answering. His voice is quiet. A frown tugs at Castiel's brows in a short, soft, single jerk. "Did you… Why were you crying? Why was Samandriel crying?"
Castiel exhales so minutely he is only aware of it because of the warm air on his lips. He turns away and looks out at the road.
"It's a long story…" He murmurs. "I don't…"
He begins to fumble with his hands.
The Impala drifts soundlessly down the road. Dean's gaze rests heavily at Castiel's face.
When Castiel looks back, Dean is frowning, lips pressed together.
We played hide and seek in waterfalls,
We were younger, we were younger
"You don't want to tell me?"
Castiel's chest trembles.
"No—not like—" He cuts himself off. The music punctures the stilled, static atmosphere of their conversation. Castiel points at the stereo. "This is my music," He says again. "You—I never even knew you paid that much attention—"
"That a joke about my disability, Cas?" Dean half jokes, something in the looseness and reluctance of his smile insincere.
"It's not a disability, Dean," Castiel answers, eyebrows pinched together, "and no—I just—"
"I've known you for how long, exactly, buddy?" Dean asks. "A long time, I'll gamble. I know everything about you. Everything."
And there's that word again.
Everything.
What does it mean?
What does Dean mean?
We played hide and seek in waterfalls
We were younger, we were younger
Castiel stares, swallowing thickly. Dean's arms begin shaking with how tightly he grips the steering wheel. He stares at the road with a strange, forced attentiveness.
A white and faitly buzzing light has descended on everything.
Someday we will foresee obstacles
Through the blizzard, through the blizzard.
Castiel doesn't understand.
Mists have covered all his senses, silvery, lunar mists that smell faintly of sugar yet also ash.
La Vie En Rose begins to play, in French. Castiel frowns at the radio again. He doesn't understand, and is so bewildered he doesn't realise how close they are to home. Home—a thought which now breaks his heart at the potential for unfamiliarity in it: he cannot begin to expound thought upon how it will be to leave this place, this town, that he has spent so long in. A place, certainly, that broke his heart to move into, but now, with Dean—and since the moment Castiel met Dean—means more to him than language can either convey, or do justice.
The song shifts into English halfway through. Castiel wonders what version this is.
Swallowing as become painful, just as, with the constricting of Castiel's chest, breathing. He stares at Dean, at the houses around them, at the sky, at Dean's hands on the wheel, back at Dean.
When you kiss me, heaven sighs
And though I close my eyes
I see la vie en rose
When you press me to your heart
I'm in a world apart
A world where roses bloom
And when you speak, angels, sing from above
Everyday words seem
to turn into love songs
Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be
La vie en rose
Dean pulls up in front of Castiel's house.
Castiel stares at the boy with green eyes.
Nobody has understood him like Dean Winchester, the boy in the pretty small house across the street. Nobody has been so patient with him, so tolerant of all Castiel's quirks and anti-socialities. Dean is the lens through which Castiel can see and understand the world—he never talks of it, and avoids even thinking on it, but Dean came into Castiel's life just after it had seemed almost entirely uprooted… Castiel's mother had died, had taken herself out of the world for reasons Castiel can hardly bear to think upon and hopes he never has to fully understand; the more religious of their family—Zachariah—had shut the Novak side out completely; Michael was at college and Gabriel was depressed—Jimmy was… Well, Jimmy must have been depressed, too. He uprooted everything and moved a hundred miles south and had no friends in his new city and seemed, for whatever reason, relieved about that. He'd desired a fresh start. And Dean had given both him, and Castiel, just that.
Lunches and playdates and sleepovers and games of baseball, kindergarten and elementary school, middle school, teenage awkwardness and sixteenth birthday parties, building treehouses and complaining about acne and racing through the woods and wrestling and learning to drive together, and now, finally, leaving home.
Dean hears Castiel in his sighs, his cries—Dean has memorised all of Castiel's quirks and expressions and sorrows just so he can be a better friend to the boy with dark hair. How could Castiel ever begin to repay him? How could he begin to say thanks?
"You really don't look okay, you know," Dean says. His eyes are a cocktail of troubled, sad, and sympathetic. And—hopeful?
Castiel's breath is shallow and strangely brittle.
"Come inside?" He asks. His voice is hoarse.
Dean nods once and kills the engine. They get out at the same time, in the same movements, Castiel uncomfortably conscious of their synchronisation. The Impala's doors shutting echoes into the still night. Dean looks up at the sky and wrinkles his nose as they walk down the path to Castiel's front porch.
"Storm's comin'," He states, looking uneasy. Castiel lips are tugged upwards.
"You think so?" He asks, looking up, too. "I'm not so sure."
Dean pauses, halfway down the path, and chuckles.
"Nope," He shakes his head. "I can feel it."
"You're an old man, Dean," Castiel snorts, surprised by how quickly it is that Dean's company has improved his mood despite the fact that Castiel's boyfriend just threatened him with breaking up just because Castiel was going to college.
"Very old," Dean nods as Castiel climbs the porch steps, tugging out his keys from his right-hand pocket and fumbling with them a moment. "Here," Dean chuckles, taking the keys from Castiel's useless, tipsy hands, "let me."
His fingers graze against Castiel's and linger, it would seem, for a moment longer than necessary.
And not for the first time in Castiel's life, he looks at Dean in wonder.
"Thank you…" He murmurs. Dean snorts.
"No problem," Dean clicks the lock open, looking down at the keys with an affectionate smile.
"Can I have a copy of the mixtape you made?" Castiel asks. Dean pauses, not opening the door, and looks up at him.
"Uh…" Dean falters. "Sure." His cheeks are red in the pale moonlight. "Sure," He repeats, nodding. "No problem. It'll be like a—a going away present," He smiles. "Not goodbye, though," His smile broadens.
"Not goodbye," Castiel repeats, insides warmed by the innocent purity of Dean's expression. "Never goodbye."
Dean beams.
"Eight week semesters," He reminds, "and then you're back. That's no time at all."
Castiel smiles, but this time it is laced with sadness.
If only Samandriel had thought the same.
But no—'if only'?!—Castiel is, and always has been, in love with Dean, and to pretend otherwise would be cruel. He loved Samandriel in a strange, unexpected and ultimately endeared way, to be sure, by the very end… But Dean is a constant different; Dean is that which has redeemed Castiel's life, and nothing can distract him from it.
Dean has opened the door and makes his way inside. Castiel follows after him, taking his keys back when Dean offers them and closing the door behind them.
"Upstairs?" Dean asks, in the quiet stillness of Castiel's home at night. The walls, deceptively, appear a washed blue because of the cold, dark air outside.
"Upstairs," Castiel confirms, leading the way, his shoulder grazing Dean's as he passes the other boy. Past the photos, past the paintings, past the mirror with a single cracked line through it caused by none other than Castiel's very best friend in the whole world.
"Roof?"
"Roof," Castiel nods again, and, as they make their way into his room, Castiel picking up two bottles from behind his bed before pushing the big window up to open it and clambering out onto the roof of the front porch, Dean is so close that Castiel can feel the heat of his body.
"What's in the bottles?" Dean asks, gesturing to them as Castiel sits down on the middle of the porch, not with his back resting against the house, and not with his feet dangling over the edge. He tilts his head back, resting on the palms of his hands with his legs crossed beneath him, staring up at the sky.
"Rum," He answers, "and coke. You want some?"
"Gross," Dean wrinkles his nose. "You've just kept them by your bed?"
Castiel rolls his eyes and takes one of the bottles off Dean, but Dean takes it back.
"Nope," The green eyed boy shakes his head, "I think you've had enough."
"What?" Castiel replies, indignant.
"You need to tell me what's wrong," Dean says, and stares intently at Castiel. The navy sky behind him seems to ripple in the night. The branches of trees that stretch above and around Castiel's home sway minutely in a cool lick of breeze.
Castiel presses his lips together and glares—but he can't hold it. He looks down, and Dean sits beside him, a hand slipping onto Castiel's shoulder. The dark haired boy doesn't think before leaning into it.
"It's—stupid," He murmurs, "and I shouldn't… I don't know—now that I think about it, I shouldn't even be upset… But it hurts, and I don't know why, and it got me thinking…"
He trails off, and Dean stares at him, obviously perplexed.
"I'm sorry, Cas," He says, eventually, "but I'm gonna need a little more context than just that."
Castiel looks down, drawing a steady gush of cold air into his lungs. It tastes faintly of the dew that promises to be lining the leaves and grass. The way Dean looks at him—it's not the way Dean looks, it's the way Dean looks at him—it undoes Castiel completely. He's crying before he even realises it.
"Cas, woah," Dean's hands move to cup at Castiel's face, and this is—is this? Straight friends don't do this for each other. Just friends don't do this. Castiel is certain of it. Or, hopes he is; and loves Dean so much any trace of hope is all the evidence in the world. "Are you okay?" Dean's voice rings with concern, as does the press of his warm, calloused hands against Castiel's cheeks. "Please, Cas—"
Cas.
A nickname that, strangely, has forged so much of Castiel's identity; and all of it in relation to Dean.
Cas.
If he plays it just right in his mind, Castiel can hear all the love and tenderness and devotion in the world poured like faintly sugared, molten gold into that one syllable; that one syllable formed because Dean's infant mouth and missing front teeth couldn't quite wrap themselves around Castiel. And Dean wanted to make a friend. And Castiel needed a friend. And Dean was that friend. And Castiel prays Dean will always be that friend, and the more that 'Cas' has always promised, the more that all those tender touches and amused looks and soft smiles and long conversations and words left unsaid have always, with all their being, promised.
"I'm," Castiel touches Dean's hand, watches attentively as Dean falters, confused, eyes widening imperceptibly, "I'm fine—I—sorry," He shakes his head, but then Dean clasps Castiel's hands in his own; and, sitting here, on the roof of Castiel's home at the dead of night with his very best friend in all the gaping universe and with the stars weeping into the sky above their heads, this is where Castiel is sure of it. Dean loves Castiel, too. He must do. He must do.
And Castiel is going to tell Dean how he feels.
"You don't need to be sorry," Dean shakes his head so softly the movement is hardly there at all. His lips are just parted, and the most perfect shade of rose that it is all Castiel can do to contain himself from leaning forward, closing the gap between them and sealing his mouth to the other boy's. The way Dean stares at him, Castiel wonders if the green eyed boy, more than anything else right now, really wants him to.
"Samandriel broke up with me," Castiel says, instead of kissing his best friend and potentially fucking up everything good and unblemished, because he couldn't tell the difference between platonic concern and romantic involvement.
Dean draws back.
"What?" He asks.
Castiel can practically see the cogs in Dean's mind turning.
A light turns on in Dean's house across the road, but Dean doesn't notice.
"Why?" The green eyed boy asks. His face, not committing to a frown, moves in slow fluid motion in which his mouth twitches wider open, before closing, Dean swallowing thickly. Is he nervous?
"Well," Castiel amends, "I broke up with him, I suppose, but only at his threatening to break up with me."
"Why did he threaten to break up with you?" Dean asks.
The light from the green house across the street swims through the night air, shining like a light between two oceans and washing the sky around it gray.
Castiel falters. He looks down, and is surprised to see his fingers still tangled with Dean's. He would move them, play with them, but is concerned that if he does, Dean will realise that they are still touching, too, and pull away. And the last thing Castiel wants is Dean pulled away.
"Because," Castiel begins slowly, "he… I guess… He didn't want me to go to England…"
Dean frowns, lips pursed together, pressing for Castiel to continue.
"He, uh—he said that if I really loved him, I'd—" Castiel swallows around the lump caught in his throat. "He conflated me leaving for university with me being disloyal, I think," Castiel nods slowly, more to himself than to Dean, avoiding eye contact with the sandy haired boy as he reasons it out, slowly. But Dean squeezes at Castiel's hand to regain his attention, and holds on tightly, and—oh. Dean is definitely aware of how he and Castiel are touching, right now. And he's not only instigated it, but is maintaining it.
"That's bullshit," Dean glares. "He said—what?—Finish your sentence. He said if you really loved him—? What, that you'd stay?"
Castiel stares at the ground.
"That was the… The essence of it, I suppose…" He answers reluctantly. Dean's indignance radiates into the night air.
"Bullshit!" He snaps out. "That's a total pisstake—Cas, you know that, right? How could he even say that? If he cared—"
Castiel gazes back up at Dean.
Dean must love him.
And how could Dean not know, now, after all this time?
Fourteen years.
Castiel has been utterly lost to Dean Winchester for fourteen years. Samandriel never had a chance. Nobody ever had a chance. It was Dean. It was always Dean. Dean, Castiel's glasses to the world, his friend, companion, family, constant security and understanding, Castiel's home. It's always been Dean. And no one else.
"He was right," Castiel says, quietly. Dean looks up at him, frowning heavily.
"No," Dean shakes his head, "don't tell yourself that. Don't let him make you feel that way. Anyone who loved you—they'd let you go—it's your dream, Cas, and has been since forever. I know that. How could he not know that? And if he did know it, how could he ignore it? It's your everything—anyone who loved you would want you to go—that's what you do—if he loved you, really, properly, he'd—"
"He was right," Castiel says again, louder, and cutting through Dean's words as though they are mist. Dean looks at him hard, confused and frustrated. "He was right," Castiel repeats, nodding and looking down, ruminating slowly over his words, and his relationship with Dean, and whether or not he's misread everything, and Dean sees him nothing more as a kind-of brother.
But that can't be it.
Castiel swallows, looking up.
"I'd stay for a person I loved, I think," Castiel says, slowly. "And Samandriel was right, and I think he knew he was right, but I don't think… I don't think he wanted to be right."
Dean stares at Castiel, eyebrows pinched together, the movement behind his eyes timid and measured and pricked with a scent of the curiously withdrawn.
"I don't understand," Dean shakes his head, his voice quiet and weathered like old stone.
"I think Samandriel asked me to stay, because he wanted to be wrong about…" Castiel trails off. Who knew confessing love to your best friend could be so tedious? "Wanted to be wrong about—" But the words aren't coming. They aren't coming. Why can't they come? Castiel wants to be a writer, Castiel spends all his time reading, why can't he say it?
"About what?" Dean asks. He's closer than he was before.
How much I love you.
"My commitment to him," Castiel answers, glancing away for half a second. "He knew—well, obviously—going to Cambridge means a lot to me, and he knew it meant more than him—"
"But when you say it like that," Dean shakes his head, "it sounds mean. Which it wasn't. It was never like that—it's just that this is your dream, and he was your high school boyfriend, and you can't just ask someone to give up on something that big, that they've been planning for so long, just because it hurts you. That's selfishness. He's selfish—and hell, you've even got your plane tickets booked! You were gonna go to Cambridge before you and Samandriel even got together—"
"Dean," Castiel tries, but Dean is riling himself up, and ignores him. The light from Dean's house is still on.
"If he really cared about you, he'd want you to go, he'd want you to be happy!" Dean exclaims. "I know I do!"
Castiel is taken aback, but Dean doesn't seem to realise what he's said.
"He—he's demanding so much sacrifice from you, and not sacrificing anything himself! You're not engaged to him, so what does he expect? You're eighteen, you've got your whole life ahead of you, Cas, and he's just… It's not right—if you love someone, you let them go. They're a part of you, anyway, right? If you love someone deep enough, then they're a part of you, of who you are, and them leaving doesn't change that, even…" Dean trails off and stops, drawing in a trembling breath, eyes sliding back into the present as he regains himself, the runaway train of his thought slowing down. His lips are parted, his eyes glittering. "Even if it hurts…" Dean finishes. "And sometimes it does," He looks down. "Even if it destroys you."
Castiel stares at Dean.
Oh, and love doesn't even do it justice, any more.
"Dean," Castiel says quietly. Dean looks up. His eyes are swimming with a strange amount of hope.
"Cas?"
"Samandriel was right," Castiel nods, speech thoughtful and deliberate like the treading out of uncertain steps, "and I don't care anymore, anyway. But he was right, and I'm not angry at him, I don't think."
"I don't get it," Dean's eyebrows twitch marginally.
"I'd stay for someone I loved," Castiel answers. "Someone I really loved."
Dean pauses.
The cogs behind his eyes continue to turn.
"I don't—" Dean stammers, but a light flickers in his features, his hands begin to shake. "Cas?"
The darkness around them is enveloping.
"Not Samandriel," Castiel says again, but Dean shakes his head.
"I don't think you understand what you're saying—"
"Really?" Castiel asks with a frown.
This, the roof that they have spent so much precious time together on, alone; it is right that Castiel should tell him here. It is good.
"How could you not know?" Castiel asks, the most earnestly he's asked anything. He shakes his head. His eyes glitter with tears. Do—Do Dean's eyes glitter, too?
"Cas…" The other boy says, slowly, hoarsely, something in his gaze moving a mile a minute, something else in it completely static.
Dean. Dean Winchester. Love of Castiel's life.
"I'd—Dean," Castiel laughs, "how could you not know?" He asks again. "I—everything—the night of Charlie's party, I—I wanted to impress you, I wanted to dance with you, I wanted—I—not Samandriel," Castiel draws in a sharp breath. Dean seems to do the same. His expression is worried. "All of it's for you, Dean, all of it. I—I'd stay for you, Dean—how could you not know that? I love you—"
"Cas," Dean tries, shaking his head. "Don't say… I don't…" He, glances out onto the street, back to his house, frowning, and pushes himself away, but Castiel leans forward and closes the gap between them, finally, at long last, in an instant; after fourteen years, after aching, longing, wishing, needing—he kisses Dean. Hand in Dean's hair, pulling him close, Dean's soft sandy hair that isn't as soft as it could be, because, wonderful idiot that Dean is, he only washes it with soap and will condition only when he stays round at Cas's; other hand on Dean's back, trailing up, trailing down, Dean's sweet breath against his, Dean's lips against his… Chapped and sweet, Dean is chapped and sweet, his lips are chapped and sweet, all of him is chapped and sweet.
And Dean, Dean, they've kissed for half a second, only, Dean taught and frightened, suddenly softens and is, must be, kissing back, tentative like Castiel cannot believe, like Dean cannot believe Castiel is kissing him. He's in love, he's in love with his best friend and fuck England, Castiel would stay in America for his best friend, and Dean suddenly surges forward, and—
Pushes Castiel away.
Nearly violent.
Dean's eyes are stung with tears.
His expression has turned sour.
Castiel flinches.
"Dean—"
"What the hell?" Dean manages to gasp out. He still trembles. He begins crying in earnest. "What was that?"
"Dean," Castiel tries, suddenly terrified.
Oh no.
What's happening?
"Don't say my name like that—" Dean shakes his head, moving away from Castiel. "Why did you—what are you doing? Why did you do that? I'm with Lisa—"
Castiel tries to swallow, but it doesn't work.
"I'm sorry," He shakes his head. "I—I thought—" But he can't. "Dean, I love you."
Dean wipes his hands frantically on his jeans, like he's trying to wipe away Castiel.
"I got that," Dean shakes his head, apparently unable to look at Castiel, "but you fucking kissed me."
"I thought—you loved—"
Dean's gaze snaps back up to Castiel.
"You thought I loved you," Dean says, lip curling. Castiel shakes his head, bunching his hands worriedly together.
"I'm sorry—"
"I'm—" Dean tears his gaze away from Castiel and looks out onto the street, apparently aware of the light on in his house, now. He stares at it. "I'm straight, Cas, how many times have I got to say it?! You know I'm straight—why would you do that?"
Castiel shakes his head, his mind unable to keep up with what is happening, yet somehow racing a thousand light years ahead of the conversation. What's happening? What's going to happen?
"I'm sorry," He says again, "I must've—I thought, after everything you've been saying tonight—that maybe you felt the same—but I guess I was wrong—"
"You guess?"
"I was wrong," Castiel corrects, feeling small and stupid and incredibly insignificant. His heart trembles and cracks and begins to flake apart. "I really thought, after everything you were saying—"
"How long?" Dean asks. He looks up at Castiel with trembling seriousness. Something new is in his eyes, akin to hunger.
"What?" Castiel asks.
"How long have you felt like this?" Dean asks. "Only tonight, right? It's only 'cause you're sad about Samandriel, and scared of moving—"
"No, it's not that, Dean," Castiel frowns and shakes his head.
How could Castiel have misread so terribly? Have misread everything?
"No, it must be," Dean's lip curls. "You like Samandriel, not me, and now you're feeling heartbroken—"
"Yes, heartbroken," Castiel agrees, "but over you, not him—I've loved you, since—well," He swallows, "since we first met, I'm sure of it—"
"Bullshit," Dean bites.
"No, Dean, I mean it," Castiel glares. "Maybe I didn't know what it was, and didn't know what to call it—but I realised, I think, when we were fourteen, and you were—"
Dean has stood up in disgust. His nose wrinkles faintly, his lips are curled, his eyes are stung with tears.
"This is gross, Cas," Dean shakes his head. Castiel stands after him, offended.
"Gross?" He repeats. Dean pushes him away again, apparently uncomfortable with how closely to him Castiel had been standing.
"Yeah, gross," Dean repeats. "You're—you're telling me all this shit, I don't know what to do with it, how to process it, why're you telling me now? I don't get it—"
"You feel the same," Castiel shakes his head slowly, catching something sad in Dean's eyes and chasing it like the golden thread that it promises to be. "You must do—even if you didn't realise how I felt—you know now, and you feel the same," Castiel shakes his head, but Dean does the same, looking afraid. "You kissed me, you kissed me back, I felt you kiss me back—straight or not—"
"You kissed me—"
"But you—" Castiel fumbles, fumbles like sand more precious than stardust is slipping through his fingertips, "you kissed back—I felt it—I'd do anything for you, Dean, and I know you'd do the same for me—you do, don't lie, I've seen it, I've seen it. Why would you lie? Why do you lie, now? I know—I have to know—We've shared the same bed, we spend all our time together, you said I was everything, you—"
"God, Cas!" Dean shouts, shoving at Castiel again. Castiel stops, hands shaking. He stares at Dean, terrified for what's coming next. "It's wrong," Dean shakes his head, "you're wrong, and I could never—I don't feel that way about you—I couldn't—" Dean balls his fists. "You're not—I'm not like that, Castiel, I never—"
"But you—"
"You're wishing for things that aren't there, man," Dean bites out. He glares. "They never will be. You're wrong."
Castiel steps forward again, thinking, for a fleeting moment, that if he kisses Dean again, the other boy will admit it, but once more, Dean shoves him back.
"Go to England," Dean shakes his head, tears streaming onto his cheeks. "Go to England. You—you're wanted there. You should be there. Not here. And not with me—never with me—never like that." He swallows. "I'm not sorry. Don't bring it up again."
"Dean," Castiel's hands shake, he wipes at his tears with his sleeve. "I'm sorry, then—but don't talk like that—you're my best friend, and I—I misread, I misread—"
"It doesn't matter," Dean shakes his head, making his way to the edge of the roof to climb down, like he always does. "Nothing matters… None of it… Go to Cambridge… Leave me, leave, leave… Go…"
"Dean—"
"Fuck you!" Dean spits, turning around. Castiel's heart has broken beyond repair inside his chest, everything is numb. His eyes and nose stream, he can hardly see, but he can make out the hurt and disgust and bitterness and resentment in Dean's eyes. "It's not gonna happen, Castiel! It never could! I'm—I'm not—" He looks down at the garden below. Then, without another word, he half-jumps, half clambers down from the roof of the porch roof. And Castiel watches him go, too numb to sob.
But when Dean is inside his own house, and Castiel watches Dean's curtains close, whipped shut without so much as a look outside, and it begins to rain, thundering down in earnest just like Dean promised it would, Castiel's sobs rack through his body until the world is nothing but dark, cold water. He shivers alone in the night, drenched, drenched and alone and forgotten, feeling a sorrow he never knew existed.
And the world, cruelly, continues to turn.