Waking up the next morning is… Disorienting, to say the least.
Instead of in his dingy apartment, in a room that's not quite his own, Dean wakes up burrowed in soft sheets, beneath a heavy blanket. His alarm wasn't set, but habit has him waking up as the sun starts to spill through the window in his bedroom.
His bedroom.
Dean takes a few minutes to wallow in it, wiggling deeper into the covers and thinking about the differences between this morning and the one yesterday. The difference between worrying how he's going to feed Sam and wondering about what to feed Sam, since they have so much at their disposal. The difference between wondering what he'll have to do today and wondering what he'll get to do today. Amazing.
It all comes down to one dark-haired, blue-eyed, totally off-limits thief.
Down boy, he tells his morning wood, which twitches and perks up at the thought of Castiel. As sexy as his savior is (and sweet Jesus), Dean can't ruin this good thing by thinking with his dick. He can't trash the chances that Cas has given Sam just because he wants the older man to fuck him until his vision is blurry and his mind is blank. Living up to the accusations that Sam hurled at him before Cas got here yesterday just isn't an option.
Not that Dean is under the impression that Cas would want him, anyway. Dean's aware that he's only sixteen, and that he has nothing to offer Cas, but it's a nice little fantasy to indulge while he's still mostly asleep and as comfortable as he can ever remember being.
When his bladder finally takes precedence over laziness, he rolls out of bed and throws on a pair of sleep pants that are so old they're almost transparent in places and hang low off of his hips. On his way to the bathroom, he bangs his fist on Sam's bedroom door. "Rise and shine, Sammy!"
There's an indistinct groan on the other side of the wood. It's just the first of at least three times Dean will have to try to rouse Sam, so the lack of response doesn't bother him. He goes to the bathroom, takes care of business, and brushes his teeth quickly. Once done, he goes into the kitchen to start breakfast.
Cas was right on the money when he said yesterday that there are only dry groceries in the apartment so far. But there's coffee, which is essential, and there's a box of muffins from a local bakery that are about the size of Dean's head, so at least Sam will be fed.
He starts the coffee brewing in the coffee maker (which is loads nicer and about ten years newer than the one they have at the old place), making it strong enough so the smell wafts through the apartment. He also sticks a couple of the muffins in the microwave for a few seconds to warm them up before going to bang on Sam's door again. "Sam!"
"Mffngh!"
"Right." Satisfied that Sam is slowly pulling himself from the depths of sleep, Dean moves into the living room. There's a little loveseat and a couple of chairs in here, as well as a low coffee table in the middle, on which rest a couple of remotes. Dean turns the TV on and switches the channel to a news station. It's something he vaguely remembers his mother doing before she died, watching the news while she got ready to greet the day. Dean started doing it around the time John checked out as a father, and now it's as deeply ingrained in his morning routine as the coffee is.
So he keeps an idle ear on the TV, listening to the newscaster's drone while he pours himself a cup of coffee and pulls the muffins out to put them on plates. He brings everything back to the living room, arranges it all on the coffee table, then goes to bang on Sam's door again.
"Sam! Last time! Ass outta bed, kid!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming," Sam grumbles, and Dean grins.
The younger man comes out in a t-shirt that's too small and pants that are too short, another reminder that he needs new clothes soon. His hair seems to be sticking straight up from his head, making Dean laugh as he pours Sam a cup of coffee and dumps a few spoonfuls of sugar into it. "Lookin' good, kiddo," he chuckles as he hands over the mug.
Sam squint-glares at him. "Shut up, jerk."
"Bitch," Dean returns automatically as they both move to the living room. Sam's eyes light up at the sight of the muffins, and he begins to devour it as soon as his butt hits the couch.
Dean waits to see if Sam will want another one before he eats his, purely so he won't have to get up again before he's ready. It's for naught, because as soon as Sam starts eyeing the second muffin predatorily, there's soft knock on the front door.
Dean pulls himself to his feet, leaving his coffee cup on the table with a sigh. He stretches as he walks to the door, reveling in the feeling of having gotten a good night's sleep. It's not something that happens very often in Dean's world.
He takes a look through the peephole before unlocking the door, because he's not an idiot. When he sees wild black hair and a white dress shirt, he doesn't hesitate to pull the chain and open the door eagerly.
As soon as Cas' eyes land on him, Dean remembers that he's shirtless, his own hair is still a mess, and the pants he's wearing are only staying up by the grace of God.
Smooth, Winchester.
Dean Winchester is trying to kill him. It's the only explanation Castiel can come up with on the spot, and he's rather impressed with himself for coming up with even that much in the face of a very rumpled, very shirtless (read: half-naked, dear God he's half-naked) Dean. He had hoped, in what he now knows was in vain, that sleep would lessen the effect that the teenager has on him.
This is not the case.
The expanse of flesh available to Castiel's eyes should be more illegal than anything he's ever done in his life. Dean's chest is all tan skin, trim waist, broad shoulders, pink nipples, and smooth. He's going to be devastating once he fills out, as if he's not bad enough for Castiel's peace of mind now. There's a pair of threadbare sweats hanging off of those lovely hips, and Castiel wants to mark the skin up there, leave dark marks along the boy's waist, lay claim to him visibly.
He takes all of this in in the space of just a moment before he looks into Dean's eyes. Once his gaze is settled on the younger man's face, Castiel feels a bit more like he has control of himself.
Until he sees the lovely blush that blooms high on Dean's cheeks, slowly travelling down his neck.
"Uh… Mornin', Cas," Dean says shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Good morning, Dean." Dear God, when did his voice get that low? Is it always like that? The way Dean's eyes widen fractionally indicate that it is not. "I hope you and Sam have settled in satisfactorily."
"Oh, uh, yeah. The place is real nice. Thank you. Again." Though Dean is stuttering a bit, earnest sincerity is shining in his eyes.
Yes, the only explanation is that Dean is trying to kill him.
Castiel clears his throat. "You're very welcome, Dean. I was wondering when the two of you will be ready to go grocery shopping?" Thinking of how thin the pants that Dean has on are, "We'll get the both of you clothes, too, if you don't mind doing it all in one day."
Dean frowns. "Clothes?"
Ah. Castiel tries to be delicate here. "One of the reasons we're able to live here and do our work uninhibited is because we blend in. Which means that we have to dress a certain way, at a certain… Level of quality, if you will, so that we don't stick out. I'll need you and Sam to do the same."
The frown is deepening on Dean's face. "Uh, I mean, you'll have to give me a few days to come up with the money for new duds. It looks like it might rain today, I can hit the stre-" A deeper red blush stains Dean's face. "I mean, I can come up with the cash if you give me some time."
Something hot and angry twists in Castiel's stomach, though he's careful to make sure nothing of the sort shows on his face. He knows that Dean is planning on prostituting himself for money, and he knows it's none of his business, but it infuriates him, though for a different reason than it did yesterday.
Yesterday, it was possessiveness, plain and simple. Castiel wants to be the only one who has access to Dean's body, the only one Dean is writhing in pleasure under. He wants him moaning Castiel's name and begging for any number of delicious activities while Castiel and Castiel alone teases him.
It has been, however, one hell of a few hours.
Now, standing here looking at Dean, who's still sleep rumpled and warm, it's protectiveness that makes Castiel burn in fury. How dare their father leave Dean to this? What person in their right mind could look at Dean and not see someone who needs to be protected, someone who needs to be cherished? It is so incredibly obvious to Castiel that Dean is special, it baffles him that anyone could treat him so callously.
He reaches out to hold the back of Dean's neck again (this is becoming a habit stop it right now), his fingers brushing the tips of Dean's as the boy puts his own hand down at his side. He aches to press his forehead to Dean's, to get up in his space, to breathe the same air the boy is, but he holds himself back. Inappropriate, uncalled for, you shouldn't be touching him at all, you pervert.
"Little one," he says firmly, and he does take one small step closer to Dean, a compromise between what is right and the urge to sweep Dean into his arms. "I cannot tell you what to do with the time you are not training with me. If that… Profession is something you'd like to continue to pursue, I will not stand in your way. However, you and your brother are my charges now, and it is my responsibility alone to provide the two of you with whatever you may need. If you feel that you must, for whatever reason, seek out money on your own, I won't lift a finger to stop you." He smiles a bit, watches Dean's green eyes go wider and wider. "However, today you start training for a much more lucrative profession, and I hope it will make it unnecessary to continue the other." Castiel has to force the next words out, because he is so uncharacteristically uncertain that he will be able to keep his emotions hidden. "Please," he says softly. "Let me take care of you, Dean."
The silence stretches between them for a few incredibly long moments. Dean's eyes are flashing with emotion, making no attempt to hide the way he's feeling. Surprise, suspicion, awe, and gratitude shine in those green eyes, and it makes Castiel want to fall to his knees and beg Dean to let him touch him, to let Castiel take him, have him.
The boy is driving me insane.
When Dean speaks, it's soft, almost like a secret, and the words hit Castiel square in the heart.
"Okay… I mean, yeah. Uh…" Dean takes a deep breath. "Yes, sir."
Dear God.
Okay, Cas is trying to kill him. Dean doesn't know why, but it's the only thing that makes sense.
First, it was that… Moment they had at Dean's front door, which will still turn his insides into mush if he thinks about the way Cas looked at him, the feel of Cas' fingers against his own.
Then there was clothes shopping. During which, Dean followed Sam around to make sure everything fit, even made sure that everything was a little too bit so that Sam has room to grow into them. While Dean was doing that, Cas was following him, making sure that, piece for piece, Dean got just as many clothes as Sam did. It was… Unnerving. Dean's used to just wearing whatever he can get his hands on. He's never had to worry about color or fabric or fit, not for himself, anyway.
But there was Cas, making sure that Dean's clothes hugged him the right way, or commenting that a dark green Henley brought out the green in his eyes, or suggesting that Dean look at getting himself a new leather jacket. Dean protested a lot of the purchases Cas made, especially the jacket, but Cas just ignored his objections and decked Dean out like a king. As uncomfortable as it made him, there's a pit of warmth in Dean's stomach that won't go away no matter how much he tells himself that Cas does this for all of his "charges."
After they hauled all of the clothes back to Cas' car (and the amount of bags that are his simultaneously boggle Dean's mind and make him blush profusely), the older man suggested they go to lunch before they grocery shop. Dean was worried, because Sam is a damn garbage disposal these days, and Cas took them to a mid-range restaurant, which usually translates to "completely out of Dean's range." Cas didn't bat an eye, though, when Sam basically inhaled twice as much food as he or Dean did, he just slipped a credit card into the little leather folder that the waitress left on the table, and from what Dean managed to peek at, left her with a generous tip.
Now they're in a farmer's market, which is like Sam's wet dream. Cas gave Sam a wad of cash and said, in that serious voice of his, "I trust your judgment, Sam." Which, in Cas speak (which Dean is quickly becoming fluent in) means, "Go crazy, kid." So Sam's darting from booth to booth, trying to look discerning as he selects fruits and vegetables to buy. Dean thinks the kid's probably mostly full of shit, but he looks so happy that Dean just shoves his hands into the pockets of his new leather coat and walks next to Cas as they follow at a much more leisurely pace.
"He seems… Excited."
Dean chuckles. "Yeah, he probably is. He's kind of a health freak. They made him take this nutrition class last year and he started in on me about 'we don't eat enough vegetables, Dean' and 'we should go for runs, Dean.'" Dean drops his voice down from the falsetto he was using to imitate Sam and scoffs. "Like I had time to go for runs even if I did I want to, which I didn't, because I love myself. And the eating better thing…" He shrugs. "Dunno, that shit's expensive. I mean, I did what I could when I had the money, but I just… Couldn't always get the stuff Sam wanted."
He sees Cas stiffen up subtly out of the corner of his eye, and Dean immediately begins to berate himself. Dammit. He doesn't want Cas to pity he and Sam. Yeah, it was bad, but Dean's kind of proud of the way he got them through it. Maybe he did some shady things, but Sam never had to do a damn thing, and the kid was always fed and clothed, even if he wasn't eating "farm fresh vegetables" or wearing name brand clothes.
Before he can work himself up into indignation, however, Cas speaks.
"Dean," he says, his rumbly voice low so it doesn't carry, "I haven't said it yet, but what you have done for your brother is exceptionally admirable. There are not many people in the world who would so thoroughly put their own interests aside to care for another. It's remarkable."
He just knows that his face is glowing bright red. "It's nothing," he says softly.
Cas just hums. "It's clearly not."
And while they follow Sam around as he becomes more and more weighed down with bags and packages, if maybe Dean walks a little closer to Cas so that their shoulders brush and bump against each other… Well, maybe Dean's all right with that.
Castiel knows that he's going to hell for the way he thinks of Dean, and after just twenty-four hours of knowing the boy, he also knows that he's all right with that.
He knows, he knows that he acted inappropriately at the clothing store. Maybe Dean didn't notice, being as flustered as the teenager was at having any attention at all directed at him, but Castiel knew he was going overboard, and from the knowing looks the shop assistant was shooting him, he was being transparent. Luckily, Sam and Dean were too distracted to see anything amiss.
It is impossible, though, to ignore the way clothes look on Dean. It would have taken a stronger man than Castiel is to not want to drape Dean in good fabrics in shades that show off Dean's own glorious coloring. He never stood a chance.
Now, as he strides to the shared apartment to join the crew for Dean's first day of training, he wonders if he will ever stand a chance against Dean.
When he gets to the apartment and opens the door, Dean is already there in the kitchen with Benny. Castiel can't help but notice that Dean is wearing clothes he got today, a dark pair of jeans and a black Henley. The sleeves are pushed up, where his arms are crossed against his chest, and he's laughing at something that Benny's said. It speaks to the long practice Castiel has had making sure his emotions don't dictate his actions that he doesn't stumble and fall flat on his face at the sight.
Garth is sitting on the couch in the living room, his nose buried in a comic book. Upon Castiel's arrival, he looks up and grins. "Heya, boss," he says easily.
"Hello, Garth." At the sound of his voice, Benny and Dean turn to look at him. Castiel gives them a perfunctory nod. "Dean. Benny."
"What's up?" Benny asks.
"I believe it's time to begin Dean's training."
Garth hops to his feet. "I'll start up Jeff."
Benny heads toward the door. "I'll go get Kevin."
Dean is frowning as the other boys flee the room. "Who the hell is Jeff?"
Castiel chuckles. "You'll see."
They watch in silence as Garth goes to each room of the shared apartment and pulls what looks like random pieces of abstract art from the walls and into the living room. Once he has all of the pieces there, he begins to assemble them, clicking them into place next to one another. After a few minutes, and after Kevin and Benny have joined them and are also watching Garth work, a mannequin with a blank face, about as tall as Castiel himself, is standing in the living room, facing them.
"Holy shit," Dean says softly, eyebrows raised.
Kevin has a bundle of clothes in his arms, and with Garth's help, they dress the mannequin quickly in boxers, a pair of slacks, a button-up shirt, and a zip-up hoodie. He also has a hat on, which does nothing for Castiel's purposes, but it seems to amuse Garth and Benny, so he lets it slide.
"Dean," Kevin says proudly. "This is Jeff."
"And Jeff is the mark," Garth says, holding his hand out to Castiel.
From his pocket, Castiel produces a long strand of string with bells tied on at seemingly random intervals. He hands it to Garth, who begins winding the string around Jeff strategically, the way Castiel showed him months and months ago.
Once he's wrapped, Jeff looks like a normal mannequin, who happens to also be covered in string.
Dean's green eyes are sharp with interest, and there's a subtle tension in his spine that Castiel knows well. It's hunger.
Oh, yes, you will be amazing.
"Jeff has a wallet in his front right pocket, one in his back pocket, and one in the left pocket of his hoodie," Castiel says seriously. "Your job is to take one of these. Any of them, for now, it's your choice. There's only one caveat, which I'm sure you can guess."
"Gonna go out on a limb and say it's 'don't ring the bell,'" Dean says dryly.
"Very good." Castiel nods to Kevin. "A demonstration, please."
Kevin nods and starts at the other end of the room. He meanders forward, pulling his phone out of his pocket, looking for all the world like a normal teenager, and not one of the most gifted pickpockets Castiel has ever had the pleasure of watching work. He comes to stand next to Jeff, eyes still on his phone. There's seemingly no action, then Kevin walks away, as if he was waiting at a crosswalk and just got the signal that he could go.
Now, of course, he drops character, grins smugly, and waves the wallet he took from Jeff's pocket.
Castiel smiles back. "Well done, Kevin."
"Holy shit," Dean says again, suitably impressed.
"Indeed." Castiel waves his hand. "Now, Dean, I'd like you to attempt to do the same."
There is no declaration of surprise, or protest that he doesn't want to train in front of the rest of the boys. Dean just nods, that glint in his eyes, and takes his position where Kevin started.
It's clear from the beginning that he's tense, too wired to be successful. There's a sort of nervous energy floating around him, but he's also determined, steady in his desire to prove himself. He stands next to Jeff, one hand casually in his pocket, the other tapping his thigh in a random staccato. Castile sees his hand move toward the mannequin's pocket, but Dean is fast as he takes the wallet. Unbelievably fast. How the hell did Castiel feel him in his own coat pocket before Dean got away yesterday? You're going to be better than I am, even. Regardless of how fast he is, four bells ring.
Four bells.
Only four bells.
The reason the mannequin, the clothes, the string, and the bells are set up the way they are is deliberate and well thought out. It's Castiel's own design, built to let the bells ring at the slightest movement, the slightest provocation. It builds skill, it makes the practice tense enough to pay attention, but the sound is light enough that it doesn't induce panic. It took him a year to perfect it, and when he showed it to Cain, he was well rewarded.
So the fact that Dean set only four bells off on his first try is making Castiel's head spin with possibilities. Dear Christ, he isn't going to be good, he's going to be great. Castiel knew, of course, he has these instincts for a reason, but for the first time, he thinks that maybe he won't be the best person to train Dean.
"Dammit." The spat word brings him from his reverie enough to see Dean frowning down at the wallet in his hand.
"That was amazing," Benny says with feeling.
Dean looks up and frowns at the Cajun. "But… I mean, the bells rang."
"Only four," Garth is ever cheerful. "That's still less than I ring when I practice with Jeff."
Kevin is nodding. "That's true. That was really impressive, Dean."
Dean turns a calculating eye onto the mannequin. "Yeah," he says, clearly distracted. "Yeah."
And here, here is why Castiel should be training Dean. Dean needs reassurance. Dean does not believe he is good enough, or that he will be good enough. Dean needs someone he trusts to say the words.
"It was well done," he says simply.
Green eyes snap up to his own, and a genuine smile graces Dean's lovely face, and Castiel is doomed.
"Thanks, sir."
The same abstract art that makes up Jeff is featured in each apartment on the floor that Castiel owns. Once Garth shows him how to disassemble and reassemble the mannequin, Dean seems to settle into his own thoughts. He listens to the rule about the mannequin not being assembled after he goes to bed (if the only incriminating evidence is art on the walls, the police can't claim anything untoward is happening), then quietly helps Benny with dinner for the team. When Sam gets back from school, he and Kevin go to the end of the table and start talking about something that Castiel cannot for the life of him follow.
Dean is soft-spoken all through dinner.
That night, Castiel goes to sleep to the faint sound of bells ringing over and over again, late into the night.
- Feedback, it gets me hot.
- Also, fuck this chapter, because I struggled with it and rewrote it for a week before posting it, so just... Fuck this chapter. If you hated it, tell me so we can gossip about it behind its back.
