"…I'm so scared, but I don't show it - I can't figure it out, it's bringing me down, I know I've got to let it go… and just enjoy The Show…" The credits for Money Ball rolled and Dean was in the back of the class with his arms crossed, entirely paying attention for once in Economics. His professor began a lecture on the significance of statistics and its predictions in the economy and he tuned out. So far, no one else in their building, or in their classes, had made any strange comments about him and Castiel. They spent every waking moment together. He hadn't laid a single girl here – even though he could. He was sure Cas could too if he wanted. He's a looker. But they hooked fingers sometimes, if they walked to class or to the café together. They didn't do PDA. No kissing, or cuddling, or anything gushy in public. They figured that as long as they didn't make anyone uncomfortable that their public secret would be kept safe. As long as no one on their floor found out they were sleeping feet from a gay couple.
It made Dean clench his jaw and look at the backs of all the heads of the guys in the class. There was Garth, who was a ditz in clothes that hung on his scrawny shoulders, who roomed with Benny, a thick rugby jock with blue eyes who never looked amused at anything he said. They were buddies, though. Dean could tell by the way Benny let Garth do anything stupid in class; smacking paper airplanes out of his hands, scolding him. They lived a few doors down. Would they be cruel to him? Dismiss them both? Dean looked away. Him and Benny were pals, too. They complained about homework together and sometimes had lunch in the café when there was no one else to talk to. They were friends. What would he think? Garth, he was a push over. He'd probably make some awkward jokes all the time, but he'd be all right with it eventually.
The professor released them. Dean shuffled to his next class, with his favorite professor, Bobby. His last name was something like Singer. But no one ever called him that, he didn't like it. He was the history teacher – in Dean's favorite class. Ancient history. As he sat in his usual seat up front, in the center, he leaned back and watched Bobby shuffle with papers and grumble about computers. What would he think? What did he think, if he even knew? Was he grossed out? Disappointed? Or was he just in shock? Dean rubbed his face. He was gonna go nuts thinking about this all the time. Half these people probably had no idea he was in the process of banging another dude. And what did it matter anyway? Well... it did. It mattered to Dean. It mattered how they would be treated when – if – it became public.
Zoning in on the History lecture, Dean took notes and examined them and organized everything in his notebook before the class was over. When everyone else was shuffling out, he zipped up his backpack and went over to Bobby, hovering by his desk. "Sir?" He spoke up, and the man looked up curiously.
"Dean. Good to see you enjoying class again. No one did their homework without you to compete with," he joked, and Dean grinned.
"It's good to be back. Is there anything else you need me to do, to catch up?"
"Well, not that I can think of. A paper on what you missed might help you recover from those pop quizzes I made void. Three pages, works cited." Bobby paused, looking up at him. "You've got a lot of color in you lately, son, and you looked a little… anxious earlier. I'm glad you're better so quick, but… Everything going all right?" Your roomie keeping you on your toes? Dean nodded tightly.
"Yeah, I uh… I'm just chasing my tail, getting back in the swing. I feel better. I just…" He bit his tongue. Did he almost…? The thought of coming out to his favorite gruff professor was humiliating. It hurt him physically, like a blow to the chest. This wasn't what he should be doing. He needed to just live with it. Not let what anybody thought kill him inside. Here he was, a man, in front of this older man he admired, and he was ashamed of what he was. Who he loved – who he wanted.
He saw those blue eyes in his head and the worry in his eyes when he said his name, and the love in his hands when he touched him, and the scorn they faced if they came out publically. The hatred in the eyes of the other guys. The judgment he himself was guilty of. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes so quickly that it was astonishing. He shook his head, but when he glanced up Bobby looked shocked. "It's nothing. I better get going, I have another class." Dean faked a smile and made for the door, vanishing before Bobby could protest.
He'd never gotten like this before. His head was collapsing, and his heart was wrenched in two. It was overwhelming. He ran into the library, which was between his two classes, and locked himself in the bathroom. His backpack fell to the floor. Leaning on the sink, he wept roughly, rubbing at his cheeks to push the tears away, as if he could push off this feeling – this shame. His shoulders were so heavy and his knees were so weak. It was like an attack.
He was ashamed to be ashamed. There was nothing wrong with him. Nothing wrong with why he loved Castiel. Why did it feel wrong? Why did he hate himself? Why was it so… strange, taboo? It was just love. He was just in love. So what if Cas wasn't a girl? He couldn't help it. Why couldn't he just tell someone? He was too scared. Too scared no one would understand. His knees buckled. He sank to his knees, folding his arms on the bathroom counter and rubbed at his cheeks and groaned with pain that was not physical. His sorrow echoed satisfyingly against the cold white walls and through the stalls and along the pipework. It slid under the door and pressed at the ears of nosy eaves droppers. He imagined their alarm, their disgust, and it fueled his tears. He was sure everyone could hear his shame. And it made him feel so much worse. Worse enough to help him let it out.
When it was over, he sat on the floor against the wall, a roll of paper towels in his lap. He scrubbed his nose and cheeks and put his head back, trying to calm down. His body was exhausted with crying. He wasn't going to art class. He was going back to the room and going to bed. This was all too much. This attack of shame had hit him like a train out of the fog. You knew it was coming, you could hear it and feel it deep down inside your bones, but you never knew when it was going to strike. All you saw were blinding headlights – and all you could do was go on, trying not to get hit, until it was too late.
Eventually he got the strength to rise. He put aside the half empty roll of paper towels. He grabbed his backpack and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes and nose were red and puffy. His face was splotched, as if he were sick, and he felt three times as bad as he looked. Rubbing his nose one last time, he pushed out of the bathroom and went down a back staircase, and crossed the empty street to his sidewalk and stalked alongside the lake until he was back in his building, back in his room. He threw his things aside and collapsed onto the bed and buried his face in the pillow and wallowed in the deep chasm of his heartache.
Castiel came back from printing something in the library to find Dean, boots and all, curled up in bed at lunchtime. He put his things away and went to him at once. He rubbed his shoulder and murmured gentle worries into his ear, and Dean turned to face him. He still looked rough, like he'd torn himself up crying, and it made Cas white as a ghost. "Dean," he whispered in alarm. "Dean, what…?"
"Not right now," Dean said shakily, reaching out heavy arms. "I just… I love you. Please, come here." At once, Cas gathered Dean in his arms, tightly, iron-like, and rocked him steadily with his nose in his shoulder. "I love you," Dean repeated, in a heart-crushing whisper. "I love you so much." He touched every vulnerable place on Castiel's lanky body and gave him salty kisses on his full lips, heavy with shed tears, and ran his hands through his thick dark hair. He kissed every bit of exposed skin he could find, and let his hands map out the solid form clinging to him. His belly and his chest and his arms and God, was he sexy. Every inch of him. He drank it in, hands gripping and pressing with desperate need, which began to scare Cas. But Dean was gentle still. He lifted Cas's shirt and kissed his stomach, and the center of his chest. He then promptly lowered his shirt back down and buried himself in Cas's chest and fell asleep, completely exhausted. A very pale Castiel stroked his dusty brown hair and felt the rise and fall of his uneven breath - and the knot in his chest got tighter and tighter with every tick of Dean's watch. His eyes bore holes in the wall. His beautiful, perfect, broken lover slept soundly in protective arms.
It's the most amazing thing to write Dean prostrate. I would love to hear your thoughts on the matter, especially story suggestions. I plan for this to be a very long fic and I'd love help