Chapter 3: Dodging the Arrow

"I'm sorry, you want me to what?"

Believing his ears had deceived him, Castiel reiterated the question like he was going deaf. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if his face split into diamond shards; it would make more sense than the question pending for his approval.

The teen was on his way to owning every Green Arrow collectable known to nerd (unfortunately, he still didn't have Stephen Amell) when someone came from behind him, asking what the big hype about Marvel was. It was a legitimate question, one he still didn't possess the answer to after the third instillation of the Fantastic Four series, so he replied honestly. Then the guy started rambling about Thor, Captain America and even Hawkeye, saying that those were "concepts" he could definitely get behind.

The loudmouth was at Comic Con and didn't even know Marvel from DC—that was like not being able to explain a proctologist from a gynecologist. This only further excavated the one veracity he held to since he was five: it was hard living in a Marvel world.

Dean masticated his lower lip. He clearly wasn't acquainted with human interaction. Lucky for him, he had ascertained that fact yesterday. "A date with me," he said as if talking to a child, "tonight?"

"Am I missing something? Wait, I get it, there's a hidden camera behind me and you're waiting to yell Punk'd." He gestured the element of surprise with his hands outspread before puffing a quiet laugh. "Clever, but unless Ashton's in a stakeout van and he's waiting to ask me out, I think I'll pass. So if you'll excuse me…"

Cas stepped around him and earned Dean's hand on his wrist. Not even the thick green pleather he wore could protect him from the newfangled warmth penetrating through his skin. When he snapped his head to look at the person dissuading his escape, Cas found an undistinguishable urgency there.

"You can look around you all you want, be my guest. You won't find anything incriminating." His fingers traveled south until they were touching his by a hair's breadth. The action was enough to send a distress signal to his nether regions. "So I'll ask again, will you go on a date with me?"

Despite his better judgment, Cas probed, "Why?"

"You're plucky. And really hot… that costume is doing you some major favors…"

You will not turn pink on account of a petty comment from an even pettier guy. "But I hate you."

"I hate you too," he cooed. "Look at that, we already found something in common."

Cas took a step back, suddenly conscious of their proximity. He was surprised his quiver hadn't buckled under the pressure of the table he backed into. He'd be sure to send a satisfaction e-mail to the vender after he stirred from this harrowing nightmare and changed his underclothes. "But it's illegal," he sputtered unintelligibly.

"So's piracy, but it doesn't stop anyone from committing bigger felonies." Dean raised his arms above his chest, gesticulating to his entirety. "Besides, I'm famous."

The teen sighed, mostly to relieve the inconceivable compression forming in the front of his tights. "You're not actually—" gonna use that line. Just as Dean was about to instead say why yes, he was famous, how did you know? Cas agreed to one night of public mortification on one condition: the actor spared him from the current plight he was in. He won this round, but that didn't mean Cas wouldn't exact his revenge. He would make sure Dean Winchester added the Green Arrow to his to-do list before the end of the night.

~O~

The moon was parked analogous with the distant mountains by the time the eldest retreated to the quiet chamber that served as the brothers' backstage. Nighttime fell faster over large cityscapes despite the warmer climate, which had some truth behind it. Larger buildings surrounding the establishment bequeathed the sun the privilege to play a lonesome game of hide and seek, making for rather beautiful sunsets. Lonesome, Dean mused as he drummed on his dead microphone. That was a word he could get reestablished with right about now.

The last panel left everyone's crosshairs a tad more frayed than usual. With Zeddmore and Spengler's last minute cancellations along with Spruce, Corbett, and the rest of the cavalry, the Winchesters were left to guard the frontlines alone. Sam had to leave the stage an hour earlier than his brother due to a minor technicality (No, Sam, a sprained wrist does not classify as a sustained injury, just a hell of a grievance for everyone else, and certainly won't be covered under workman's compensation), therefore leaving Dean to run the three-ringed circus. (If that didn't land him an opening spot on Naked & Afraid, he lost all hope in his career.) When he went to talk to Michael on a break he theoretically wasn't admitted to, the manager just shrugged his shoulders and said it was better he was under the spotlight clearing his name after the little "publicity stunt" he pulled the day before.

Because really, Dean just loves drawing attention to his reoccurring guest star fame.

The youngest apparently had the same inclination. He was currently catering to the party in his mouth while his fingers made sweet clicks with his keyboard. His wrist wasn't even wrapped.

"Oh, there you are, I was a click away from sending out an amber alert for a missing brother." Sam didn't move. How dare he not take fervor in his habitual conundrums; Dean was highly tempted to shove him off the horse he was sitting so precariously high and mighty on. "Hey," he barked, snapping his fingers a little too close to his face, "don't I get a proper hello?"

That wasn't enough to stir Sam from his enchantment, but he did reply, "Tell them we found a missing child."

"Better," he said, shrugging out of his sweat-stained, double-layered fleece and undershirt. San Diego—unlike his native (second to Lawrence) home where he didn't have many options other than bundling up or catching ammonia—was steadfast in the weather department, never swaying above or below lukewarm seventy. Inside nerd headquarters, however, was a different story. Between the barely-there AC, the significant weight of questions, and not to mention the overall density, Comic Con was one big human-sauna cesspool. "I don't see you complaining about your hand, so what's got your thong in a twist, Thelma?"

Sam stared above him to the open skylight where moonlight was flooding into the otherwise vacant quarters. Finally, after faint hesitation, he closed his PC, uncertainty thick in his tone. "Dad called."

Dean continued to divest his body of clothes despite the new pain in his ass. "What did he want?"

Sam shrugged, trying to discount the acidic tension lingering in the air. Dean caught this and something in the way his brother shifted in his seat that told him he wasn't going to like the riposte. He knew when his brother was telling the truth and when he was trying to protect him. "I don't know, I didn't answer."

"Got caught skimming from the commissary again, probably," he grumbled, carding a hand through his mocha hair. A shower would have probably been in his best interest had his blood stopped from running cold. He was midway through sliding the head of his zipper down the teeth when he unconsciously added, "Guy goes through money faster than you go through clothes."

Sam heaved a sigh, "Dean—"

"Don't." Dean said sternly, jaw tightening. He closed his eyes and did the same. "Just don't." The eldest disrobed entirely, save for his boxers. Usually, Sam would fill his annoying sibling quota by filing a complaint for "indecency" in the first degree, but at that given moment, he was less than content trading his opinions for silent oppression. "By the way, keep it up and you'll have carpal tunnel by college."

Sam stared at the carpet, mumbling, "You mean tunnel vision?"

"Hmm, I'm ninety-nine percent positive it's carpal tunnel." The youngest sat contemplating the term, unwittingly bringing his finger to his lip. Dean wore a devious smile. Sam's eyes went wide and just as he was seeking a loophole to validate his previous claim, he had a face full of jeans and an earful of bathroom door slamming shut. (Yeah, that's right; Dean did his research… when Uncle Bobby's little condition got the best of him.)

~O~

"Get the fuck out of here."

Cas delved into his angel hair soup, or the Creamy Italian Bouillon as the menu so righteously put it, after successfully evading an embarrassing snicker. "I swear on my grave, straight A's since kindergarten."

The place Dean handpicked was a quiet, antiquated hole in the wall bistro a couple blocks south of the big city. Better him than the junior picking out the joint, who, despite his recurrent visits to the mouth of California, didn't know a gas station from a local hospital. (Luckily, his transportation was his feet or he'd be totally screwed if he got mauled by a bear or someone equivalent in size.)

Though Cas wouldn't admit, he felt tempted to reach over and link his hand with Dean's on the manual transmission of his Chevy Impala (and he certainly wouldn't admit that he hadn't done so partly because he was intimidated by the size of his engine—ego, ego). He had to remember this was the same guy that thought he was living on Revlon and food stamps and then proceeded to insult him… and doesn't appreciate classic comics… or anything, really, for that matter.

Then Dean opened the door for him on the way in and no, Cas wasn't smitten. Just because no one's ever performed the gesture for him doesn't mean he owes the guy his heart. It was a courteous exploit that everyone should be inclined to do, regardless if they were on a date or not. And as for Ellen's, who he presumed was the owner of the diner, underhand comment to the eldest boy about his new 'friend' ("Honey, if you wore those heart eyes any bigger I'd have to kick you out for public indecency."), she was just going to have to face the reality that her second son was just that phenomenal of an actor.

But as the pendulum swung and Cas was sitting across from James Dean, he found that he wouldn't mind so much if he was. Whenever Cas talks, Dean listens. Whenever he's musing over a fond memory, he chews his lip and smiles, like they're in a mind meld and he's evoking the same memory. Whenever he stifles a laugh, he looks like he's about to burst at the seams if he doesn't finish for him. No one's ever taken an immediate interest in him romantically, and it actually felt kind of good. (And, let's face it, Dean is massively attractive with his masculine face is all scrunched up, trying to circumvent the fact that he's being defeated by a sixteen-year-old in a stonewashed, three-piece prom suit.)

"Okay, I'll give you kindergarten," he digressed, "that's a cakewalk."

Cas hid his face in his porcelain bowl. "And preschool…"

"My God," he gasped, "you really are a nerd." Cas threw his napkin at him. He probably should have been acting more civil, especially on a first date in an unknown restaurant, but he figured he was doing Ellen a favor. Dean recoiled and set the fabric aside. "No, seriously, I think it's cool you're really… invested in school."

Now it was Cas's turn to gasp. "Big word for a high school dropout," he teased, restoring relations between his mouth and his spoon once more. "You sound like you're speaking for someone else."

"My brother," he replied through a mouth packed at the sides with red meat, green eyes shining, "hmm, you saw him behind me a couple days ago, can't keep his mouth shut." Like someone I know, Cas almost added as a side note. "He finished early so he could start looking into colleges. He digs the whole Hollywood scene more than most of us, but he's still set on Stanford Law. He got offered a full ride a couple weeks ago."

Cas nearly choked on his pasta. "That's awesome. I guess good looks and brains run in the Winchester bloodline."

"Nah, I wouldn't say I'm smart, not like Sammy." The fondness in the petname made his lips turn up.

"Hey, give yourself some credit. You may not be the nicest, sweetest, most selfless or romantic person—"

"Are you getting to a point or filling out a dossier?"

"—but you do know your way around a decent insult," he finished firmly, stealing one of his fries, "which is pretty hot." Dean turned slightly pink, which in turn made the teen smile. If he didn't know better he thought he'd never been complimented, or taken a compliment, at least. Because how could a guy rich in both his (God-awful flannel) pockets and his looks have not been praised before? Now, flattered, that was a different story. He looked like a kid who got caught with his pants down on the playground. "Can I ask you something…why me?"

Dean eyed him curiously, replying, "Why not?"

"Well, I mean, you have the world in the palm of your hand," he clarified, "and yet here you are, on a date with the same reckless kid that almost sullied your reputation. And don't say it's because of those tights because plenty of guys wear tights."

The other man laughed, "Oh really? Please, enlighten me."

"Christopher Reeve, Jared Leto…every football or basketball player ever…"

"Are you seriously suggesting guys who play with rubber balls are real men?"

"Alright, alright, don't get your pantyhose in a wad," Cas conceded, blushing profusely at the distinct comment. "You still haven't answered my question. You're famous. You have the best job in the world and get paid big bacon to be worshipped by millions of people. The way I see it, you have everything."

The actor's face turned sour, undistinguishable. He skirted around eye contact and stared out the window to a moderately busy thoroughfare. Cas was expecting something more along the lines of maybe I like reckless or you're not the first, but instead received an answer far exceeding the boundaries of liberal conversation they've had so far, "Guess it seems that way when you're an orphan." He took a pause, letting that sink in. "My mom passed a few months after Sam was born and my dad's in a penitentiary for killing the guy responsible."

Cas jumped at the clatter the silverware he made against his bowl. He never felt his heart swell three times normal size before—wasn't pleasant, not recommended. This was his fault. He knew he shouldn't have asked. If he hadn't have brought the question up, Dean wouldn't have had to rehash the past and it would have spared him the heartache for another night. Cas didn't know what it was like to lose someone, but he did know how it felt being alone, running scared. No wonder he naturally came off as an asshole—it was easier than facing the truth.

"Anything else for you, sweetheart?" chimed an older woman from what felt like a distance. Ellen eyeballed his bowl, where only a measly noodle string remained floating in an endless sea of tomato broth. Before Cas could rejoin properly, Dean reached for his wallet, slid out a crisp twenty, and filed out of the booth. A few pending patrons gaped at the star hurdling toward the exit; some even snapped pictures until he was completely out of sight.

Cas smiled kindly at the owner and thanked her for her service before scurrying out the door just as fast.

~O~

Leaning against the side of the establishment with a cigarette flaccid from his mouth was Dean Winchester, reviving the memories of nights like these. Before Uncle Bobby, there was the orphanage—a grimy little institute submerged in rows of interminable crop fields and corroding from the inside out. It felt like a prison most of the time, save for when he saw his brother. Sam was put into a different unit because, according to some provisional psychiatrist, their relationship was a little too "codependent."

Meanwhile, Sam came running to Dean in the middle of the night with contusions on his face the size of golf balls. Codependency may have been a bitch of a disease, but it was the only thing two penniless and parentless brothers had ever known, next to each other.

He'd like to think Sam was born the fortunate son, as John Fogerty had put it in his father's generation. Yeah, he still had to deal with excessive traveling and a work schedule that would be considered immoral for a sixteen-year-old in the real world, but he was spared from being medicated and labeled in society as another hopeless case. Sam turned out better. He found compassion in those who far from deserved it and saw a light at the end of the ugly-ass tunnel. Dean knew it was because he was stronger, but he liked to think he had some role in shaping him into the man he wanted to be for both of them.

"Am I interrupting something?" stirred a certain young boy, stepping a little too into his personal boundaries. The only light illuminating him now was from a streetlamp a few feet away—that was his spotlight.

Instead of a proper riposte, Dean exhaled composted nicotine into the dank atmosphere. He was about to mumble something about the bipolar weather when suddenly, the air around him felt asphyxiating. It surmounted every muscle in his body and, for the first time in a while, he was completely inebriated. Taking a painstaking glance below him, he rested his eyes on a familiar sight pressing against him and sliding a hand into the front of his jeans.

He stilled it where it was, using Dean's breathy submission as license to pursue his course of action. The actor rammed his head into the brick slab behind him; his fingers were pushing and pulling in a way that should have been criminal. Because of the passing cars and the occasional passersby, he had to do without giving into the licentious moans obstructing his vocal chords. He waited with gated breath as Castiel's lips nimbly ghosted over the bare skin of his neck…

Then their foreheads were clashing together and neither of them abstained from capturing the other's lips. Dean had to refrain from laughing in his already restricted responses; he tasted impeccably of tomatoes and spicy sausage. The younger boy succumbed to him like a cat when Dean's own fingers found his posterior. Chafing him just underneath his crotch with his knee, Dean found that, between his mouth and his unwavering hand, Cas was moving in perfect synchronization. Dean tore at his lips until there was a small ruddy abrasion bubbling on the surface—

Their decadence was cut short by a plethora of arresting lights. Cas was the first to turn around. Then, before either of them had time to think, he sprinted in the opposite direction, leaving Dean idling on the curb with a raging hard-on and a dozen meddlesome photographers.