Castiel didn't mind the company as much as he had thought he would. Maybe it was that, as introspective an activity as his piano time was for him, listening in seemed to be an equally personal experience for Dean. He was definitely focusing; Castiel could tell from his posture and facial expressions that every note was being absorbed. Dean never spoke aloud while Castiel played, though. He didn't cough, yawn, shift his body, or do anything else that might have altered the tone of the shared experience into that of a performance for an audience. This was no performance. Castiel mused that, in a strange way, it felt more akin to a benediction. The slightly blasphemous thought would have made him smirk, had he not felt so tired.

It had been a wretched day, and he desperately needed something to take his mind away for a while, just help him stop thinking so much. Ordinarily, running his fingers over the keys and seeing what sounds decided to emerge would have at least removed the sharp edges from his need. He usually made it a point to reflect as little as possible on what he was playing or what notes might come next; he preferred to let his mind wander, allowing muscle memory and daydreams to pull from his subconscious whatever was roiling under the surface. Sometimes he surprised even himself, such as once when a long-forgotten lullaby arose in the middle of a sultry variation on "Round Midnight."

Tonight, however, there were no lullabies coming through, and his hands felt reluctant to act as his surrogate brain. Everything he played carried every bit of the frustration and tension he was fighting to erase, with the effect of causing him to ruminate even harder on how much he felt like breaking things.

Castiel dropped his hands into his lap, rolling his shoulders forward and bowing his head. After a few minutes of breathing slowly and trying to unclench his jaw, he was startled by the small cough from the corner. Looking up quickly, he winced at the look of concern on Dean's face.

"You finishing up early tonight? I mean, it's fine if you need to – if you're tired, you're tired," Dean said, sounding a little hesitant. "If you just want to stop playing, that's cool, too. Didn't seem like it was doing it for you tonight, anyway." He lifted his eyebrow slightly, visibly cautious in his attempt to avoid the unspoken boundary they'd maintained since their first meeting. Neither of them had shared the roots of his troubled sleep or his deeper reasons for being there in the lounge at night. They shared the pretense of simply enjoying the music, no discussion necessary or wanted. Now Dean looked uncomfortable, hinting at his concerns rather than asking questions. Castiel found himself feeling irrationally guilty about causing that worry.

"No, it wasn't, I suppose," he said. "Maybe It's the difference between playing past either generalized irritation or something…a bit less chronic, let's say." Dean looked confused, and Castiel, huffing, gave up attempts to be vague. "Business economics. I've never been so badly tempted to run out of a lecture hall screaming, possibly setting the room on fire as I left."

"Ouch," Dean said, wincing. "That bad, huh?"

"The professor spoke to me after class and suggested that I should save myself the tuition money if I wasn't going to take the course seriously."

"What a dick!" Dean leaned his forearms against his knees, wide-eyed in angry sympathy. "What, like being an asshole is going to help somebody who's having a hard time with a class? Your arson plan sounds justified to me, Cas."

Castiel chuckled humorlessly. "Perhaps I'll save it for a last resort. But he wasn't entirely wrong, in that particular respect. I am not taking the class seriously. I'm being entirely, stupidly petty about it. I am failing not because I cannot grasp the material and do the work, but because I don't want to." The admission came through gritted teeth. "This is the most soulless, tedious, miserable class I've ever had to take, and it's just possible that my bad attitude is getting in the way of my academic success." In his rising ire, he slipped into a long-broken habit of using his fingers to frame in actual air quotes the phrases his smarmy professor had spoken so condescendingly.

"Okay, just coming at this from the perspective of a total outsider, and everybody's different, but Cas? Doesn't sound like you're not taking it seriously. Sounds like you just plain hate it. I think I'd worry less about academic success and more about not going murderously insane." He shook his head in bewilderment. "Why are you taking something you hate that much? You never told me what major you're doing. Is it a required class?"

"Not only required, but a prerequisite for about half my other required courses. I'm doing business administration." Castiel bit off the words, suddenly feeling chilled. This discussion was heading toward his red zone. He squared his shoulders and spun back around on the bench. Throwing his hands at the keys on autopilot, he was surprised to find himself plunging into a basic scale drill. Oh, perfect, he thought. Now I've developed a tell, and it's dexterity exercises.

"Okay, I didn't see that coming," Dean muttered. Castiel couldn't muster annoyance that Dean was talking over the music; he was too aggravated with himself at present to spare any ire for anyone else. He also realized it was patently obvious that he was only playing right now so he wouldn't have to talk, the equivalent of shoving his fingers in his ears and chanting "La-la-la." He could hardly blame Dean for brushing past the tactic, walking across the room to stand beside the piano.

"Nothing wrong with business," Dean said with a shrug. "I probably would have pegged you for something a little less practical, I guess, but whatever makes you happy. Just…does it? If half your courses are going to be like this one, only even more so..." He shook his head. "I'm not your advisor, but it doesn't sound to me like an awesome fit."

Castiel refused to meet his gaze, flattening his lips into a line. Abruptly stopping in the middle of a scale, he hid his clenched fists under the keyboard. "You're right, you're not my advisor."

"Cas."

"No, this is not helping," Castiel said, sharper now. He should never have started talking about this. "I was angry because my professor is correct, and I was feeling ashamed." I have the ability; I'm just being weak. "Now I'll have to work extra hard to catch up, if it's even possible." Hours of extra work, cramming for a subject that's nothing I ever wanted to do. "Selfishness has consequences, and these are mine now."

Dean looked even more baffled. "I don't get how not being a fan of economics translates into selfishness, but…whatever. You choose your own path." When Castiel rolled his eyes, Dean held up his hands in placation. "But I do have a different idea, if you'll hear me out? Is this Thursday afternoon business econ? With Professor Morrison?" Castiel nodded. "I think my little brother, Sam, and one of his roommates might be in your class. Sammy's not a business major, but he's a genius. Want me to introduce you guys? Could do an in-house study group."

Dean looked so hopeful that Castiel would have been hard-pressed to shut him down a second time, no matter how much the idea of making plans to bond with strangers over the loathed subject made him cringe. And perhaps Sam would have his older brother's knack for making Castiel feel a little less hollow. Jimmy would have told him to go. "That would be fine, Dean. Thank you."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you're feeling more comfortable in your school environment," the grey-haired counselor said, smiling. "Getting the degree is only part of the puzzle for you. I don't think there was ever any real concern about your ability to do that." Dean would have scoffed or rolled his eyes, but Dr. Cain had long since made it clear that self-contempt was not allowed during their sessions. Perhaps the doctor had been confident in Dean's success, but Dean certainly had his doubts.

"I am a little concerned about your worries over your friend, though," Dr. Cain went on, tapping a pen against his chin. "You aren't in his shoes, and he sounds as though he prefers keeping his privacy. His choices are his own. You did a good thing by introducing him to Sam, so why are you still unhappy?"

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "What, a guy can't worry about his friends?"

"Certainly, that's normal and healthy. But it perhaps bears examination for you, in light of your own history and the circumstances that brought you here from the beginning." The doctor leaned forward slightly, light-colored eyes peering intently in the way that never failed to make Dean feel completely exposed. After nearly a year of regular visits, though, Dean had adjusted to the feeling. In a way, he appreciated it; having a doctor who could guess what he was feeling made it easier to handle painful discussions.

Sam had been thrilled to make the acquaintance of his fellow classmate, and he was eager to "divide and conquer," as he said. He and Kevin had started meeting with Cas a couple of times a week, and things seemed to be going well. Even so, Dean couldn't shake his unease about the things Cas had said that night in the lounge. Selfishness has consequences? And the bleak expression in Cas's eyes had been painful to see.

"We've spent a lot of time exploring your tendencies to take on other people's burdens," Dr. Cain was saying. "You're a very caring person, which is a positive attribute. The danger, as you know, rises when you begin sacrificing your own needs to help others, or when you start judging your own self-worth on whether you are able to 'fix' someone – someone who might not even need fixing." With a shrewd look, the doctor added, "You know you can't rescue everyone, Dean."

"I know." This was the sticking point; nearly every bad decision he'd made or heartbreak he'd ever suffered came down to that. Dean knew he had come a long way from being the teenager who had nearly chosen to drop out of high school to work and care for his sick dad, but it had been a rocky path. He'd nearly been broken completely by that lesson, quite literally, when he had held his fellow soldier and friend in his arms and watched the light die from his eyes for the last time. I couldn't save him, but other people are still working to save me. "I'm not trying to fix Cas, I promise."

"Good," Dr. Cain said. "Just be his friend. You're a good friend to have."

Leaving the counselor's office, Dean zipped his jacket to his chin as the late fall wind bit through the fabric. He usually left his doctor feeling more contemplative that when he had arrived. It was validating to hear that the nightmares triggered by his insensitive history professor were not something he should be trying to ignore; the doctor had given him suggestions for how to approach the teacher, explain what was happening, and request a bit of "extra sensitivity." Dean was grateful for the stock phrases and literature provided by the office; he didn't think he could have delivered that request with a straight face otherwise.

After stopping by the grocery and grabbing an armload of whatever snacks looked furthest removed from nature, he drove back over to Sam's dorm, ready to feed the starving masses. "Remembered the Red Vines this time," he joked as he dropped the payload on the floor.

"And that's why we let you keep coming here," Ash said, grinning and grabbing for a bag. Everyone else rose from their positions on the floor, stretching and groaning. Cas had been glaring fiercely at the mess of papers surrounding him when Dean entered, but his brow smoothed a bit when he lifted his eyes and met Dean's.

"Our savior bearing sugar," he said dryly. "We may yet survive, thanks to you."

"Anytime, Cas," Dean said with a smile. "Just doing what I can."