Dean felt his heart buck and throttle like he'd never, ever experienced before. Everything about Castiel was suddenly different. The wrinkle of his shirt where his shoulders angled up, his arm curling off the side of the bed, the shadows casting half him in darkness... the flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "Dean?" His smile faded into thoughtfulness, then into concern. "You don't look well." He was just lying there, oblivious Dean had just rifled through his most personal creations. A tense nervousness crept over Dean. The graphite was still smudged all over his guilty fingertips.
"I-I-" Dean stammered. "Sorry, I'm just...I don't feel great is all." He shook his head. "H-How did the job interview go, anyway? Whose it with?"
"A paint shop. Color assigning and stacking shelves. I had to take a test, see how many colors I could register. I scored really well." He propped himself up on his elbow, looking over at Dean. "I think he's going to hire me." The rake of his eyes was heavier than it had been before. It took in the curve of his exposed calves, the crease in his boxers. Self-consciously, the green eyed boy tugged his shirt down over his exposed belly, looking away. "Dean." Cas pushed worriedly. "What's wrong, do you feel sick?"
Dean looked up and as their eyes locked, Castiel got the idea very faintly. "No, actually," Dean's voice was low and soft, as he tried to be gentle about this. He wanted the truth, not a big emotional argument. Those never ended the way he needed this to end. He didn't break eye contact. "I saw your drawings, Cas."
The bomb shell was dropped. In the long, shocked silence that followed, the shell whistled through the air. It cut through miles of atmosphere like nobody's business. And when it hit home, the noise was deafening - its blast radius upset thousands upon thousands of acres of Cas's consciousness
"You..." Cas floundered for words. His lips trembled. The implosion behind his eyes was obvious. He stared at Dean in monumental shame, the gravity of that comment crashing down over him like water breaking from a dam. "I..." He shook his head as if shaking loose reality. Then he lay back again, and looked at his desk instead of at Dean, pushing his hair off his forehead with a shaking hand. "Oh."
Dean cleared his throat. "I know I shouldn't have pried into your stuff. I invaded your privacy," he said shakily. "Really, I didn't meant to, Cas. But-"
"Dean," Cas interrupted, his voice almost strangled. "I am so sorry." Dean watched him, surprised, and sat up, looking over at him. Cas sat up slowly, as if dizzy, and leaned both his arms on the bed. "I should have stopped. Or told you, or something at least," he rattled on. "I just... I have a really hard time finding a muse, you know, something or someone to make me draw really well... like, like inspiration... I just didn't... I'm really sorry." Large amounts of emotional pain pierced his face, and Dean felt his heart melt.
"Cas, it's ok. Look, I like them. You're... Those pictures are amazing," he admitted. "I was just really surprised. I didn't think you thought of me like that - like a muse, or like..." he trailed off, Adams apple bobbing.
Their eyes met again. Cas's Adams apple leaped. "Like?"
"Like you like me like... that." Dean snapped, flustered now. "I guess."