The Treehouse—Chapter Two
Castiel avoided Dean for the next few days. That was one of his skills - he'd been practicing it for sixteen years now. The only good thing that has come out of all of this is that Castiel doesn't have to worry about what's in his locker today.
Today was no different for Cas: taking different ways to class, being nearly late to all of them. He spent the long day doodling in his notebooks, staring out the windows, and just wishing the day would be over already. He hated being at school. Not because he hated learning; he loved to learn. But everything was too easy and nothing was interesting - no one even talked to him.
As he closed his locker at the end of the day, phone in hand, he was surprised to see Dean leaning against the lockers. Castiel just quickly glanced up, saying nothing. Dean cleared his throat. "Are you gonna say hi?"
Castiel shook his head and turned to leave, reading the text from his mom telling him to pick up milk on the way home. Dean started following him and Castiel sighed, cursing under his breath. Can't he just leave me alone?
Dean caught up to him and matched his steps. "I apologized, man. Will you at least talk to me?"
This made Castiel stop. "No, Dean. One apology isn't going to make up for four months of torture, okay?" With his face now in a grimace, he pushed past Dean hitting his shoulder. He figured that would really piss Dean off.
Dean grabbed his arm. Castiel tried to rip his arm from his tight grip, but failed. "Don't touch me."
Dean sighed and dropped his hand to his side. "Fine. All I'm trying to do is be your friend, Cas."
Castiel rolled his eyes. Oh really now? "I thought you had your precious reputation to uphold." It was harsher than he'd intended, but he wasn't going to apologize.
Dean furrowed his brow and kicked his foot out. "Yeah, I do… but screw my friends."
Surprised, Castiel just stared at him, unsure of what to say. The first thing that came out was, "You don't mean that. You don't know anything about me."
Dean sighed and kicked his foot out a little again. Castiel had never seen him this vulnerable before. It was like Castiel was making him nervous. Making Dean Winchester, the guy who wasn't scared of anything, nervous. "Well that's kind of the point of wanting to be your friend. To get to know you."
Castiel thought about "The Breakfast Club" for a moment, about the basketcase and the princess and how things had gone. "You'd just blow me off in front of your friends."
Dean frowned, knowing he was right.
When Dean didn't say anything for a bit, Castiel rolled his eyes. "Of course. Nothing to say."
Before Castiel could react, Dean reached out and took his phone from his hand. Castiel yelled, "Hey! What are you doing?!" He tried to reach for it, but Dean turned his body so that Castiel couldn't get it back.
When he'd finished whatever he was doing, he handed Castiel his phone back. "You can text me if you want."
Castiel looked at the new contact listing on his phone, then scoffed. "Yeah, like I'd want to talk to you."
And that was the end of the conversation, cut off when Castiel turned away from Dean and stormed out to the student parking lot. He murmured under his breath, "Asshole…"
Castiel spent the rest of his afternoon and evening in a rage. How could anybody be that stupid and rude?! He could have just asked for my number instead of ripping my phone out of my hands.
He barely remembered to pick up the milk before he came home, almost driving past the store in his anger. But he couldn't figure out why he was so angry. Dean was only trying to be nice. Probably because if I came up to him in front of his friends, he would blow me off. He hadn't even tried to deny it.
When Castiel came home, he set the milk down on the counter a little more loudly than necessary and went into his bedroom; the door slammed shut behind him. As he paced the room, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, spinning it in his hand. Should I text him or not? Maybe I shouldn't. He just gave me his number today. Wait. Why am I even considering texting him? He's an asshole and I don't need his sympathy.
He set his phone down on the table and planted face first onto his bed, laying there for thirty minutes. Not about to let Dean affect his ability to do homework, he forced himself out of bed to sit at his desk and do his homework. Occasionally, he'd look over at his phone for a moment; each time, he'd shut his mind down with a firm no. But his phone seemed to be screaming, enticing him to text Dean.
Finally, when it grew too much to bear, he put his pencil down and picked up his phone, typing in, "Hey Dean. It's Castiel."