Chapter 8: A chance at happiness (part 1)
Suddenly, Dean realised he was still naked and he quickly put on his bathrobe. Despite not having eaten anything for almost two days, Dean felt that if he opened his mouth a week's worth of six course dinners would come out. For a moment he had thought the man was Richard. Anyone but Richard, he caught himself thinking, but it was just a random stranger. And it wasn't anyone but Richard that he wanted; it was no one but Castiel. What had he done?
'Did we have sex?' Dean asked. Maybe they hadn't had sex. He had been pretty wasted after all. The question was; did it matter? If you were in a serious, committed relationship you didn't bring some stranger home and slept in the same bed with him. One moment he had been thinking about living together with Castiel and the next he'd been with this other man. Dean was disgusted with himself.
'You were a little limp last night. But we could...' the man suggested and approached Dean. Dean took a huge step back.
'I'm sorry, but I'd appreciate it if you got dressed and left. Now,' he said and exited the bathroom. He sank into the couch and massaged his temples. The situation reminded him of one of those mythological stories that Castiel had once told him. One of the Greek ones. The one about the sirens. Luring men with their beauty and then letting them shipwreck.
That was exactly what he'd done with Castiel. The worst thing of it all was that Dean had known from the beginning. He'd told Jess that he was going to crush Castiel, but still he'd gone right ahead. Dean had tried his hand at a relationship and he had been happy while it lasted, but in the end he had failed miserably. Like he failed at pretty much everything always.
The man came out of the bathroom and went into the bedroom. Dean didn't so much as glance at him. He got all the information he wanted from the sound of his footsteps. The rustle of clothes being put on could be heard and then the sound of shoelaces being pulled tight and tied. The man entered the living room and Dean got up from the couch.
'I'm sorry about this,' Dean mumbled, but the man waved his apologies away.
'You've got a boyfriend or something?' he asked and Dean nodded. Had, he amended; after what I've done: had. Dean escorted the man to the door and opened it for him.
'We really didn't, you know. Merely some foreplay,' the man explained. Dean knew he was trying to make him feel better, despite essentially getting kicked out. However, every word just made him feel that much worse. The man tried to give him his phone number in case things with his boyfriend didn't work out, but Dean refused and shut the door. What the hell was he going to tell Castiel? Should he even tell him?
This was a great sequence of events. Castiel told him he loved him and he responded by jumping into bed with another man. All he could think about was the look on Castiel's face if he told him. It twisted him up inside in a way only the memory he had been trying like hell to avoid could. It made him want to curl up on the floor and die. It was over, wasn't it?
Instead of drinking anything alcoholic within reach like he wanted to do – which wasn't an option anyway, because he'd drank everything in the apartment already; that's why he'd gone out again – he went into his bedroom and got a cardboard box from the closet. He put it on the bed. The two empty bottles he took to the kitchen and put on the table. Trying to postpone the inevitable, he went to the bathroom and showered. Then he shaved, ignoring the fact that the other guy had been doing the exact same thing, and brushed his teeth.
In the bedroom, he glanced past the cardboard box while he dressed. He unearthed the vacuum from the living room closet. First he picked up the largest pieces of the lamp and vacuumed up the rest and finally he did the same in the kitchen and mopped up the little puddle.
There wasn't much left to mop up; most of it had seeped into the wooden floor planks leaving a light watermark. Also, he was relatively sure that he shouldn't use the vacuum to get rid of glass. That probably wasn't good for it, but who the fuck cared? The vacuum was a gift from Sam and Dean had affectionately called it 'the gift that kept on sucking.' Almost literally dragging his feet, he returned to the bedroom and the cardboard box.
From the nightstand: The Iliad and The Odyssey bound together in one volume. Castiel said it was the epitome of epic, whatever the hell that meant. A pair of reading glasses. In the box.
From the closet: a blue tie that matched Castiel's eyes. In the box.
Under the bed: a beautiful chess set, in case they got bored of having sex, which hadn't happened as of yet. That was now never going to happen. In the box.
In the bathroom: SpongeBob Squarepants toothbrush and toothpaste, fancy razor, extra bathrobe. In the box.
From the medicine cabinet: baby aspirins, because Castiel couldn't swallow the bigger ones. That had led to many sexual innuendos. In the box.
In the kitchen on the table: copies of Man: Visible and Invisible and Thought Forms, Dean's key to Castiel's apartment. In the box.
From the fridge: a big melon. Something to do with staying healthy and eating fruit once in a while. In the box.
In his CD collection: Frank Sinatra, Engelbert Humperdinck, (who calls their kid that?) James Taylor, and Barbra fucking Streisand. In the box.
Hidden in the couch: a tattered copy of Eclipse by that hack Meyer. Sparkling vampires: whatever. Dean felt the brief urge to chuck it in the garbage, where it belonged, but reminded himself it was Castiel's property. In the box.
Next to the couch: a pair of woollen socks, unused, still balled up. It was usually Dean's job to keep Castiel's feet warm. In the box.
Leaning against the wall: a black umbrella. In the box.
On the coffee table: What the Dog Saw by Malcolm Gladwell. This made Dean sad. He had wanted to know what the dog had seen and he'd actually considered reading it. Yes Dean, that is what makes you sad about this exercise, he scoffed. In the box.
That was it. All the traces of Castiel having been in Dean's apartment, in his life, were in the box. He set the box down on the kitchen table. It was important to not get emotional now. He had done this. He had fucked this up. He didn't get to mourn anything. He hadn't lost Castiel; he'd practically thrown him away.
There was a soft, apologetic knock on the door. Dean glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little before nine. Wow, barely an hour ago he hadn't known he had managed to destroy the best thing that had ever happened to him. He reluctantly opened the door.
'Are you alright? You look awful. I've called you a dozen times and I came by yesterday. You had music on, but you didn't answer the door,' Castiel rambled. Dean stepped aside to let him in. Castiel's eyes fell on the box and its contents. An expression crossed his face and Dean found it hard to stomach.
'What's wrong?' Castiel asked and Dean beckoned for him to sit down at the kitchen table. The professor's movements were very sharply defined; Dean could see every hesitation, every glance at the box, every question burning in his eyes in high definition. He wished he couldn't see it. He wished he was anywhere but here. His throat was dry again, so he asked Castiel whether he wanted something to drink. Castiel declined and Dean grabbed a glass and held it under the tap. As he stepped back he heard glass crunch under the soles of his shoes and for a second he allowed himself to wish he wasn't wearing shoes.
'If this is about me telling you I love you... You don't have to say it back. It was too soon and I'm sorry. I just wanted to be honest. Let's forget about that,' Castiel offered. His voice was unsure and soft. He kept looking at Dean's face, as if all the answers were right there. Dean wanted to laugh, because he didn't have any answers. With some difficulty, because his body hurt all over, he sat down opposite from Castiel.
'James,' he said and Castiel knew. Not once had he called him James. James was for students and the mailman and colleagues and vague acquaintances. James was for everyone else. It created the distance that was necessary for Dean to say what he had to say, but it was cruel.
'I don't think this is going to work out,' he continued. He sipped his water. Castiel stared at him.
'Just like that?' Castiel asked. It came out in a strange, strangled voice. No, of course not just like that. Not with you, Dean thought, but he simply nodded. Castiel kept staring at him and Dean felt he needed to explain. It was not a matter of not wanting to explain, but a matter of being unable to. How do you explain something you don't understand yourself?
Dean had the nerve to feel glad when Castiel got up and lifted the box. It would be perfectly alright if he hit me, Dean thought. Or threw things at me. Or smashed things. Castiel whispered that he'd send over Dean's things and walked to the door. Very quietly, he opened and closed it. And he left behind an emptiness in Dean's apartment that had never been there before.