When Dean woke up, he knew instantly he was dreaming.
For one he wasn't in his bed—hell, he wasn't in a bed at all. He blinked at the sudden influx of light attacking his eyes. He adjusted, taking in his surrounding—a much too vivid blue sky, clouds hung too perfectly, a sparkling lake reaching as far as the eye could see. Yes, this was a dream. This was a painting he'd seen at a museum Sam had dragged him to once, a painting of a lonely man fishing on a dock on a beautiful summer day.
Fishing—yes the man had been fishing. That must have been why Dean found himself suddenly gripping tight on a pole of his own, a cast already thrown in to the water.
This wasn't such a bad dream. This was quite serene—it was a life he imagined he'd have when he was older, after he'd lived all of his dreams and did everything he thought he wanted. After he travelled around the country and back again behind the wheel of his car; after he fell in love and broke hearts and decided his heart belonged to the road above all else. He would settle somewhere quiet and away from it all—just him and his fishing pole and an endless blue sky.
The footsteps behind him were a surprise—he definitely didn't remember anyone else in that painting. They were heavy, making plenty of noise to alert Dean that he was not alone; it was like they weren't trying to hide.
When he turned his head, he was surprised to find a shadow had fallen over the figure, a dark cloud suddenly blocking out the bright sun—it was almost as if his dream had realized there was an intruder and it did its best to hide the figure's identity from him.
Dean couldn't quite make out who it could be; it wasn't anyone he recognized. He could see a long coat, a pair of black slacks and hands that hung by the figure's side absentmindedly. And that tie—backwards; like the damn fool didn't know how to properly tie one. The figure tried to say something but found that no words actually made it past his throat. He tried again, this time with more urgency, and Dean strained to hear it. He could see his name pass those lips, but he couldn't get his mind to focus on the figure—focuson trying to identify him. His mind wouldn't obey him. Everything was turning fuzzy around the edges; a loud ringing filled Dean's ears.
And then the figure half leaned, half fell forward; strong hands gripped on to his shoulders like his life depended on it. The figure silently screamed his name one more time and shook him almost violently before Dean finally looked in to his now completely unmasked face. He saw the mess of dark hair, the eyebrows furrowed in a constant curious expression. And he saw the eyes—
He knew them.
"Cas?"
Castiel woke an hour before his alarm, dripping with sweat and his heart racing. He stared at the ceiling as he raced to remember the dream. He barely clung to the fragments, trying to replay the scene over and over in his head to commit it to memory.
He saw a lake and a dock, but the image was distorted and hazy. He saw his hands—aged somewhat but still his, he knew—reach for a leather jacket. He saw the green eyes alight with recognition. He heard the name—Cas. Cas.
And who is Cas?
He mouthed the name to himself over and over again, feeling the tingle of familiarity on his lips.
Cas.
He sat up in his bed, his fingers ghosting across his mouth. Running a hand through his damp hair, he closed his eyes in concentration. He pressed his palms against his eye sockets, trying with all his might to not let go of the memory. There was someone he knew—someone he knew very well. Green eyes he thought he should know; a trembling hand turning in to a firm grip and pulling, pulling, lifting. Why couldn't he just remember? It was so close, like he was trying to grab hold and his fingertips barely brushed it. Cas, Cas—
And then it snapped back to him, hitting him like a tidal wave right in his chest. He whipped his hands away, his eyes as wide as they could possibly go. His heart sped up.
Cas.
Castiel.
"Son, you alright?"
No, Dean felt like shit.
He'd had a rough night of tossing and turning, only to find that when he did finally fall asleep he was plagued by a fitful dream. The dream was like a far off memory—scattered and in pieces and Dean couldn't even remember half of it. He'd woken up drenched in sweat and nauseated beyond belief. He spent the following hour hunched over the toilet vomiting in earnest. Every time he finished retching he would try to gather what little he did remember and try to engrave them in to his brain. But when he did so, he immediately felt the bile rise in his throat and he was puking again; like his body was physically trying to prevent him from piecing together that night. All that was left in his mind was a forgotten name on the tip of his tongue and a sickness in his stomach.
Needless to say, he was in a pretty shitty mood, and he was hungry as hell from the emptying of his stomach. He had tried to convince his mom that no, really, he was legitimately sick today—but no dice.
Dean blinked repeatedly at his eggs. "I—Yeah, just thinking about stuff."
"Don't hurt yourself," Sam snickered, taking a sip of his orange juice. Dean glared at him and flung a piece of sausage his way. Sam made a particularly girlish yelp that he would deny ever doing until the end of his days.
"Boys, stop bickering, it's too early for that," John sighed as both older brothers muttered 'yes, sir', returning to reading his paper and taking a large bite of toast. "I was asking you how school was going so far for you, Dean. I wanted to know how you are adjusting."
Dean laughed to himself. "Adjusting," he repeated.
"Have you made any friends?"
He wanted to say he'd made kind of sort of maybe friends with a kid with messy black hair and an uncomfortable stare and shitty taste in music; that he was going to drive him from now on and that he was going to show him good fucking bands—but the sentence died before it reached his tongue.
"Yeah, his name is Connor. He invited me over to hang out this weekend."
"What? But that kid is an asshole!" Sam protested from across the table. "He was picking on Castiel and me!"
"Watch the language."
"That was a misunderstanding. It's been taken care of," Dean replied, attempting to dismiss the conversation all together.
"Bullshit," Sam muttered under his breath as he leaned back in his seat with a grunt.
"I said watch the language, Sam! Now, who is Castiel?"
"My friend," Sam spat. He frowned at Dean. "He's a junior and he's cool. He's coming over Friday so Dean and him and can work on a project. Also, we're going to be taking him to from school from now on."
John looked over at Dean, patting him on the shoulder. "That's good of you, Dean."
The elder brother snorted in response. "It's not a big deal. His parents make him walk every day."
Sam smirked. "His generosity may or may not have something to do with the fact that he almost ran Castiel over with the Impala."
"You did what?"
"Oh my God, Sam, I'm going to kill you," Dean snapped as he made a start for his younger brother, but John's glare made him pause.
"What did I tell you about pulling those kind of stunts, Dean?"
"No one got hurt, Dad. I was playing around."
"Cars are not for playing around!"
"Dad—" Dean started to groan before the house phone rang noisily on the wall behind him. He turned to face it, glad for the distraction. Mary, who had been listening to the conversation from the counter with her hands firmly on her hips glared at them all to stop the argument before answering "Winchester residence," sweetly in to the phone.
Dean was distracted by the footsteps approaching his side, and when he turned to see the source of the noise he was met with Adam leaning over his plate with an enormous magnifying glass in his hand.
"How many germs do you think are on your eggs?"
"Dude, that's gross, get off," Dean grunted, annoyed. He tried to push his youngest brother away from him but the young Winchester held strong.
"It's for class!"
"I don't care, those are my eggs man!"
"They came out of a chicken's butt you know!"
"Boys, that's enough" John said with finality in his voice that made the two brothers quiet quickly. "Come on Adam, leave your brother alone and let him have one meal where you don't make him worry about getting salmonella."
Suddenly a phone was being pushed in to Dean's face. He shooed is brother away with by pushing him away at the forehead and looked up to see his mother holding it out to him expectantly.
"It's Castiel," she said. Sam made a move to grab the phone, but she shook her head at him. "He asked for Dean. Go on," she added as she pushed it closer to him.
Dean looked from her to the phone and back again, hesitantly. He took the phone and stood from the table, walking to the farthest corner of the kitchen, away from his family.
He paused for a few seconds before bringing the cordless phone to his ear and saying more quietly than he had intended, "Castiel?"
The hitch of breath that came from the other end was a surprise.
"Hello, Dean."
"How did you get my number?" Dean asked, instantly regretting how grumpy it sounded.
"Student directory," came the simple reply. Dean made a sound in acknowledgement and then the line went silent for a few seconds. Dean rubbed the back of his head nervously.
"So uh—what's the word then? Something you need that couldn't wait until I picked you up?"
"I was calling to say that I changed my mind about the arrangement," Castiel said quietly. "I won't be needing you to drive me after all. My uh—my parents, they're going to take me from now on."
Dean could sense that lie from a mile away.
"Are you sure? It's not a problem, really," Dean replied a little too hastily. He should be happy, shouldn't he? He never really wanted to be the kid's chauffer anyway.
"Again I appreciate the offer, but I don't want to bother you. It won't be necessary."
Dean's heart sank the slightest bit.
"Alright, man. Well, I'll still see you in math then."
"I'm staying home today, I'm feeling…pretty ill."
The elder Winchester felt his stomach turn queasy instantly. "Yeah, I'm not feeling too hot either. Might be something going around," he laughed shakily, absentmindedly trying to keep the conversation from ending.
The awkward silence still fell upon them anyway. Dean looked up to see Mary pointing to her wristwatch, telling him to get a move on.
"I should let you go. I'll see you around Dean."
"Yeah, man. Still—" Dean coughed nervously. "Still on for Friday?"
The line was silent. Castiel sighed heavily. "Yes, Dean."
"That sounds—that sounds good. Yeah. See ya." He pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the disconnect button quickly before he tried to say anything else.
Fine.
What did Dean care? This arrangement had only lasted for a day, there was no reason to feel somewhat slighted. Sure, Dean had gone through the trouble of making a new mix tape just for Castiel to listen to on these rides to slowly ease him in to the joys of AC/DC and Metallica and Zep and, you know, all the good music. Really, what kind of human being would he be if he didn't show Castiel that joy in life?
Dean turned over the tape in his pocket absentmindedly.
Fine.
He hung the phone back up on the wall with more force than really necessary and grabbed his keys. "C'mon Sammy, let's go," he called gruffly as he grabbed his bag.
"What did Castiel want?" His brother asked as he followed.
Dean gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek and a nod at his father before walking out in to the garage. He opened the door to his car and turned the engine on quickly. Sam cautiously followed him, wary of the angry vibe his older brother was giving off.
"Dean?" he asked slowly as he shut the passenger door.
"We're not picking him up anymore, his parents are taking him from now on."
"Wha—Castiel?" Sam asked, and then his face immediately fell in to bitchface #79, it was one of his favorites to use. "Dean, what did you do?"
"I didn't do shit!" Dean bit back. "It's not a big deal, Sam. You'll still see him every day at school."
"Seems like it's a big deal to you," Sam mumbled under his breath, staring out of his window even as Dean shot him a look.
"Well it's not."
"Sure, now who's gonna listen to your stupid mix tape?"
Dean whipped the tape out from his pocket slammed it in to the tape player. "You," he answered with a hiss as he turned the volume up all the way, ignoring the epic tantrum Sam was throwing next to him.
Castiel stayed lying in his bed, his head at the footboard, for two hours after he hung up with Dean. His parents hadn't asked if he was staying home, nor had they come up to check on him before leaving for work, but Castiel hadn't really wanted to explain it to them anyways. He kept the phone clutched in his hand, the student directory laying open at Sam Winchester's contact information as he stared up at the ceiling of his room, jumping from thought to thought as he fought to quell the uneasy feeling in his stomach.
He finally rolled out of bed to go to the bathroom and attempt lunch despite the sick feeling. He made it four bites in to his turkey and lettuce sandwich before he gave up and tossed it in the fridge for later.
When he'd called the Winchester residence, his plan was to talk to Sam, explain that his parents had decided to take him instead (which was an obvious lie, but he hoped no one would notice), and then let that be the end of it.
Instead, when Mary Winchester, a woman whom Castiel had never met but he already liked her from her kind voice alone, asked who Castiel was calling for he found himself blurting out Dean before he could stop himself. And when he tried to change his mind and ask for Sam instead, Mary was already handing the phone over.
And when Castiel heard Dean answer with his name, Castiel's stomach did a flip and he instantly felt the bile rise in his throat. He tried to push the sick feeling down and attempt a normal conversation with the boy. He'd barely succeeded in not stumbling over words and not thinking about how Dean's voice sounded eerily similar to the voice in the dream. The voice was an octave or so lower for sure, like the man in his dream was quite a bit older, but it had a similarity all the same—and that made Castiel wary. And worst of all, he thought, he didn't know why. Why did it make him wary?
Castiel shook his head at the thought and sat on his bed.
Eventually he decided it was best to distract himself during the lonely day with schoolwork. Perhaps he could work on the math paper, he suggested to himself, as he pulled out his math notebook. If he finished most of it now, he wouldn't have to spend much time working on it Friday at the Winchester household. Castiel really didn't think it a good idea to be around them right now, not with that dream still hanging in his mind. He needed a few days to think. He needed a few days to put himself back together.
Castiel ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach. He had liked the rides in Dean's car. He didn't know exactly how to describe the feeling it gave him besides that he felt so, so… at home in that car. It was more of a home than this own ever was, and he'd lived here his entire life. And he felt silly for even thinking that too—he'd taken two or three rides in that car at most, right? But the feeling was unshakeable; and maybe that was part of the reason Castiel felt wary around the brothers. It was that feeling of why is this so important to me when there was no reason to feel an attachment at all.
But calling to cancel the carpooling felt like the only solution to the growing worry pounding at the back of Castiel's head. He didn't like the idea, but he felt it was what was best. He couldn't understand the fire beginning to catch within him, so instead he decided to stamp it out.
Castiel shook his head once more and sat all of his books out on his mattress. He opened up his notebook and began work on the report.
Euclid. What did he know about Euclid?
He wrote for a solid thirty minutes straight, looking through his textbook for any information he thought would go well with the paper. He fingered through most of the book, finding little of what he needed. On his bookshelf sat a set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, a gift his parents had sent to him for Christmas while they spent the holiday in Africa travelling. Castiel stood and headed for the shelf, careful to avoid some of the knick knacks from his parents' travels that he had set on the edges of some of the shelves. He found the volume he was looking for and pulled it out gingerly, cursing when his wrist brushed against a wooden carving of a tribal warrior. He attempted to catch it with his free hand, but it fell through his clumsy fingers and hit the ground, bouncing twice before rolling right underneath his bed.
Castiel let out an exasperated sigh and set the large book on his bed. The floorboard beneath him creaked slightly as he bent over on his hands and knees, trying to eye how far under his bed the object had rolled. The underbelly of his bed was littered with boxes of school work from years previous and misplaced socks and a jacket he had been searching at least a year for. There was his flute that he had played in middle school and given up on fairly quickly, and an old baseball bat from the sport he had given up on even quicker. He spotted where the mini statue had stopped its journey towards the far wall, in between two boxes both labeled Castiel, fifth grade.
Grunting, he laid down on his stomach and reached his hand out as far as it would go, not even coming close to the object. He pushed around some of the boxes and pulled himself forward even more, the top half of his body now underneath the bed.
His fingers brushed over the statue and he made a grab for it, but the motion pushed it back even further. Castiel sighed again and grit his teeth in frustration as he pushed aside more boxes.
And that's when he saw it.
There was a glimmer of silver that caught his eye. The object was mostly hidden under a pile of socks, but the boy could barely see the pointed edge of what looked like a knife.
He quickly grabbed the statue and tossed it behind him before pulling himself under the bed once more with both of his arms. Intrigued, he began pulling the socks from the pile to unearth the mysterious object. He was fairly sure he'd never left anything like that underneath his bed.
When he finally grasped the object and pulled it free, he backed his way out from under the bed, hitting his head on the frame but largely ignoring it. He rubbed the sore spot on his skull absentmindedly as he stared at the object now resting in his hand.
It was a blade of some manner—the handle and sharp edge, all of it, was bright silver. It was longer than a simple kitchen knife; it seemed more like a short sword than anything. He tossed it ever so slightly in his palm, feeling the weight of it. It felt so—so natural in his grasp, much more natural than the flute or the baseball bat had ever felt. There was something very regal about the look of the weapon, or so Castiel thought; it must have been a weapon of some kind, the way it was shaped and smooth and devoid of any kind of decoration.
But it also felt very, very ominous in a way. Castiel felt a great wariness wash over him as he switched the blade from one hand to the other. He sat on the ground with the object held in his grasp, his attention focused on it for what seemed like an hour.
When had he acquired this thing? Perhaps it was a gift from his parents; maybe they had bought it while on their trip in Africa and he didn't remember getting it. Then again, how would be forget receiving something like this? It could have been a tribal weapon, a sacrificial blade of some kind from the beauty of it. It was no ordinary weapon of battle, that much he could tell. It was sort of...terrifyingly beautiful.
He turned it over and over again in his hands, trying to find some kind of serial number or manufacturer on it. Nothing.
Castiel stood up and walked over to the dresser, opening one of the drawers and placed the blade inside. It fit snugly in the compartment and he shut it carefully. The feeling of uneasiness immediately drained from him, and he almost doubled over with the strange relief he felt. He'd find a place to display it later, he thought to himself as he picked up the wooden statue from where he'd tossed it on the floor and placed it back on his shelf.
Despite still feeling sick, Castiel decided the next morning when he woke up that it was best not to miss another day of school. Thankfully his night had stayed relatively dreamless and for that he was thankful. If he kept his head down and stayed quiet the day could pass relatively fast for him.
On his walk to school he took the slightly longer way around to avoid possibly being seen by Dean again on the sidewalk by the road. This path involved walking through the wooded area between his house and the park that lay right next to the school, but he felt it was a small price to pay to reach school with twigs in your hair and mud caked on to your shoes.
When the bell for first period rang, Castiel was already in the class room with his book open and his homework on Mr. Schwartz's desk. He rested his chin in his hand and stared out of the window, consciously choosing to avoid the stream of students that filed in. Girls were chatting and giggling loudly to each other and the boys talked about a big party this weekend, and Castiel just wanted to bury his face in his arms and fall asleep. In fact, when he made the move to do just that, he felt a hand place firmly on his shoulder and it made him tense in a knee jerk reaction. He knew exactly whose hand it was.
"Hello, Dean," he murmured without looking up. He felt the grip tighten the very smallest amount before letting go. It made his heart flutter.
"Hey," Dean replied quietly. "Hope you're feeling better, man."
Castiel finally looked up at him. "Same to you, Dean."
"You alright?"
Castiel shrugged. "Bad morning."
"Ah."
Dean stood there for a few moments, both of the boys silent and avoiding eye contact. The older boy shifted on his feet a few times before clearing his throat. "So tomorrow, since you're coming over to my place—that uh, that is still going on right?" Dean asked, and he almost sighed with relief when Castiel nodded his head. He thankfully stopped himself. "Since you're coming over to my place, am I gonna drive you from here or are your parents bringing you?"
"I can ride with you," the younger boy replied before hastily adding, "if that's alright with…you."
Dean shot him a lopsided smirk. Castiel noticed how Dean's smile made his nose peppered with freckles wrinkle ever so slightly.
Freckles. He'd never noticed Dean had freckles before. He must not have been looking all that well. No, wait. There was a reason for that; there is no reason to know whether or not someone has freckles. They're damn freckles. Castiel blinked, trying to focus his attention somewhere else.
Dean clapped him on the back once, but his hand still lingered. "Of course. Just meet up with Sam after school in the senior lot. Cool?"
Castiel couldn't help the breathy laugh that escaped him. "Cool," he replied.
At that moment Mr. Schwartz walked in through the door, his tie loose and his dress shirt wrinkled something awful.
"Yes, yes, I'm late. Everyone in your seats and shut up, open your books to unit two," he grumbled as he began writing down problems on the board.
Castiel managed to get halfway through the class before giving in to the urge to steal one glance at his friend—friend? Was Dean a friend?—in the back of the class. To his surprise, as soon as he turned around he found Dean staring straight back at him, almost as if he was in a trance and had no idea where he was looking.
Both of their gazes widened at the eye contact and they both looked away quickly.
Castiel felt his cheeks begin to catch fire, and he buried his hand in his arm, completely ignoring Mr. Schwartz's glare from the board. He knew this stupid feeling; he knew what this was the beginning symptom of. And he didn't like it. He wouldn't allow it.
He steeled himself and looked back up at the board in earnest, trying his damndest to pay attention and ignore the sharpness in his chest and the shaking of his fingers.
Nope, he told himself, not going to happen.
A crush.
Castiel could have punched himself. He shifted his books to his other hand as he made his way down the locker hall.
A crush. Castiel didn't get crushes. He didn't even like people most of the time. The only crushes he'd ever had was once in third grade on a pretty blonde girl named Darla who was his partner in the spelling bee, and then again in seventh grade on the gym teacher. Both of those were squashed fairly quickly because Castiel simply did not get crushes. They were a waste of time and only distracted him at the worst of times. Like today, he couldn't even recall what the math lesson had really been about.
It had to have been that stupid dream—it was making him think things about Dean Winchester that he never would have thought otherwise.
Why did his mind have to do this to him every time he found someone he halfway didn't despise? Alright, despise is a bit dramatic—but it's not like people made much of an effort to befriend Castiel either.
Castiel angrily yanked open his locker and threw his English textbook in with little care. He stared down at the chemistry book like he was daring it to upset him in any way.
"Cassie."
Castiel felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He tensed but grabbed his chemistry textbook anyway in an attempt to ignore the familiar person behind him.
"Hey," the voice hissed again, and instantly Castiel's book was smacked right out of his hand. "I'm talking to you, faggot."
Castiel stood and turned around to face the voice, his shoulders squared and his glare venomous.
"I'm not in the mood right now, Connor."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Connor sneered, his hands going up in mock surrender. "Didn't mean to bother the princess."
"What do you want? I'm not in the mood to indulge you in your gay panic today," Castiel deadpanned, leaning over to pick up his book without making eye contact.
"The fuck did you just say to me?"
Castiel gave him the tiniest hint of a smirk. "I said—"
Connor's hands shot out and grabbed him by the collar, roughly shoving him against the lockers.
"I know what you just fucking said, you waste of fucking space," he whispered, his face inches from Castiel's, who didn't flinch.
"I'm not sure if you know how this works," Castiel began slowly, "but to intimidate someone you have to actually be intimidating, and I'm not afraid of you, Connor."
"No?" Connor's lips curled in to a wicked smile. "How easily I could change that."
Castiel's eyes narrowed. It was all the opening that Connor needed to pull a fist back and land a punch straight in to Castiel's stomach.
The air rushed out of Castiel's lungs and he doubled over as far as he could while still pinned by Connor. There were a few collective gasps from the crowd in the hallway and one cheer for a fight, but those noises were drowned out as another punch was landed to Castiel's right ear and his brain was filled with a ringing noise as he hit the ground face first. He could feel the flow of blood leave his nose, but he still looked surprised when he wiped at it and saw it on his hand.
He was quickly on his feet, his gaze holding steady as he wiped at his bleeding nose again. It was all over his sweater and neck now. The smirk on Connor's face made him see red.
He really liked that sweater, too.
The shock on Connor's face as Castiel's fist connected with his jaw was something the junior would never forget, and the surprise made Connor fall back. The bully barely caught himself on the lockers behind him. Castiel gripped his collar and pulled him back, only to slam him in to the lockers like he'd just been minutes before.
"I said I wasn't in the mood."
"You faggot, get the hell off of me," Connor growled as he grabbed Castiel's collar as well and slammed his forehead as hard as he could against the junior's. Castiel grunted in pain and stumbled back, but was able to land an elbow right to Connor's nose that connected with a satisfying crack. Connor yelped in pain and blindly grabbed for Castiel, finding his hair and yanking him to the ground in front of him.
Both of Connor's hands grabbed around Castiel's neck and he squeezed hard, his face nearly going purple with rage. He was leaning over Castiel, who was now kneeling with his hands on the ones around his neck, grunting for breath and gritting his teeth. He felt the hands push his face in to the lockers, and Castiel felt one of the locks tear his skin right on his cheek. The impact disoriented him, and it gave Connor enough time to slam his face back in to the lockers once more before Castiel started to see stars. Castiel knew that somehow eventually this is how it would end—in a hallway surrounded by a bunch of bloodthirsty teenagers cheering a fight on and an angry hormonal kid, who may or may not be having a sexual identity crisis, beating the ever loving shit out of him. This wasn't so unexpected; he'd just wished it'd been a little more original.
The hands grabbing on to Connor were a surprise, though.
"Get off of him!" Castiel recognized Sam's voice instantly, even if he couldn't exactly see him through the black spots clogging his vision.
He was able to make out Sam grabbing on to him and pulling him away from the bully and a pair of large hands pushing Connor in to the lockers with a force that even made Castiel wince.
"The fuck, Winchester!" Connor barked, his hands going up subconsciously in surrender before he could stop them.
"The hell is wrong with you man?" Castiel could hear Dean's voice hiss as he slammed Connor against the lockers once more for good measure. "What the hell did he do to you?"
"I told you, dude, he's a fucking faggot!"
"SO?" Dean replied, shoving Connor to the ground with a grunt.
"Hey, you alright?" Sam asked him worriedly, placing one hand on the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Castiel attempted to nod, but the action made him feel dizzy and he immediately began shaking his head instead. With help from Sam he made it to his feet and wiped an arm across his face experimentally, wincing at the amount of blood that rubbed off.
"C'mon, let's get you to the nurse," Sam said soothingly as he began leading Castiel away from the lockers."
"The nurse ain't going to do shit, Sammy," Dean said, dragging Connor to his feet again by the collar. "I'm going to take him home."
"But school—"
"Not the time Sammy! If the teachers find him like this they'll suspend him. Now let's go." Dean let go of Connor and the bully stumbled a bit before finding his footing and glaring up at the elder Winchester.
"What the fuck is your problem, Winchester? You outta your mind?"
Dean grabbed him and pulled his face close, his eyes lit with rage. "You stay the fuck away from him. You stay away from him, from my brother, and from me." He pushed him back and grabbed Castiel's forgotten chemistry book on the floor. "If I catch you bothering him again I'll come after you Wachowski, mark my words."
"What the fuck ever man, I won't touch your boyfriend again. Didn't realize you swung that way—" Connor's comment was cut off when Dean landed a fist to his eye socket and knocked him back against the lockers. Without another word Dean nodded to Sam, who flung Castiel's arm around him and began helping him along towards the exist.
"You're uninvited to that party Winchester!" Connor wailed after him, holding a hand to his face. Dean only rolled his eyes.
Once out in the parking lot, Castiel's head had cleared significantly and he was able to walk mostly on his own without becoming too dizzy.
"Put him shotgun," Dean said to Sam as he unlocked the doors and Sam complied. "Now go back inside and get all of our things, and I'll pick you up at the end of the day."
"What? No, Dean, I'm coming with you guys—"
"Sam, he's going to need his stuff and you have his combination. Plus, if mom finds out you skipped school she'll have a fit," he said sternly as he shoved the chemistry book in to his younger brother's empty hand.
"But you're skipping!"
"Mom expects that! Now just do as I say Sam, I'll pick you up after school. Wachowski won't bother you anymore, but watch your back anyway, you hear me?" Dean barked at his younger brother. Sam huffed and eased Castiel in to the front seat, glaring at Dean the whole time.
He patted Castiel on the shoulder. "Hope you're alright, buddy," he said as he shut the door and headed back towards the school. Castiel nodded in response and Dean slid in to the driver's seat.
Castiel coughed, trying to dislodge some of the blood that had trickled down his throat. His lip was split and his cheek had a gash, but his nose was the injury still bleeding profusely. Dean reached behind the passenger seat and found an old shirt he wore while working on the Impala and handed it to him. Castiel nodded in thanks and leaned his head back, putting the shirt up to his nose to stifle the blood flow.
"You okay, man?" Dean said as he started the engine. He pulled out of the parking lot before any administration could come out to stop him.
Castiel nodded, blinking slowly. His vision was back to normal now. "You don't have to help me, you know."
"Dude, I wasn't going to let you just get beat on by that dumbass," he snorted.
Castiel smirked. "I can handle him, really. He just got in a good shot."
Dean eyed him. "Yeah, I saw. You held your own pretty well."
"You seem surprised."
"Just didn't peg you for the brawling type," Dean chuckled, turning on to the main road. Castiel just shrugged. "I'm going to take you back to your place and get you cleaned up. Cool?"
Castiel leaned his head against the window and didn't respond. This was exactly what he didn't need—right when he realized he had a crush Dean freaking Winchester had to come in and save him like a messed up knight in shining armor. He really could have handled it; he didn't need Dean's help.
He nodded anyway.
The drive to Castiel's house was short, and Castiel fully expected his parents not to be home when he got there. In fact—he expected that if the school called about his absence his parents probably wouldn't care if they bothered to answer the phone at all. It made him bristle with anger as the adrenaline still pumped through his veins. Dean pulled in to the driveway and turned off the engine. Before Castiel could stop him the passenger door was opening and Dean was pulling him out, flinging Castiel's arm over his shoulder.
"I'm fine, really, I can walk," Castiel protested, pulling the shirt away from his nose that was now clotted enough not to bleed.
"Just being safe, dude," Dean replied gruffly. Castiel shook his head and fished around in his pocket for his keys and handed them to the older boy. Dean unlocked the door and pushed it open with his foot.
Dean let out a low whistle. "Damn, Castiel, you've got a nice place here," he commented as he looked around the open floor plan and up at the small chandelier hanging above the front door.
Castiel shrugged. "Doesn't count for much if you're the only one in it."
Dean's eyebrows furrowed. "Parents not home much?" The junior nodded in response. "So then how are they driving you?"
Castiel froze. He'd been caught. "They—they uh—"
"Dude, whatever, you don't have to lie to me. If you don't want a ride just say so."
The younger boy winced at the hurt tone and he hastily tried to cover himself. "It's not that. Really." Dean brought him in to the kitchen and set him down on one of the chairs at the dining table. He was about to say something else when Dean interrupted him.
"Where's your first aid kit?"
Castiel's head snapped up. "I—I've got it from here, really. You don't have to stay."
"You're not getting rid of me that easily," Dean smirked, grabbing the bloody shirt from Castiel's hands. "Now where is it?"
Castiel closed his eyes. "Under the sink."
Dean turned to the kitchen and opened the cupboard below the main sink, rummaging around for the kit. Castiel sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hand, grimacing at the situation he'd gotten himself in to.
He heard Dean make a triumphant noise as he saw the older teen pull out the emergency kit from the cupboard and stand back up, turning it over in his hands. He opened it on the table and began rummaging through the contents.
"So what's the deal with you and Wachowski, huh? You guys got some serious bad blood between each other."
Castiel shrugged. "There was an…incident. A while ago. I think you remember me talking about it."
Dean nodded. "Something about a janitor's closet."
"Right. Well, Connor and I used to be friends, you know. We played on the baseball team together very briefly."
"Oh, you like baseball?"
Castiel chuckled. "Not very good at it. Anyways, so one day Connor asked me if I was gay—and I asked him why he wanted to know," Castiel continued as Dean pulled out a bottle of peroxide. Dean paused and looked at him, his eyes questioning.
"Are you?"
Castiel stared at him for a few seconds, his eyes narrowed slightly. Sensing only curiosity in Dean's voice, he shrugged. "I've found myself liking people of both genders, so I don't really know. I don't tend to think about it." He watched Dean's reaction carefully, inwardly sighing with relief when Dean didn't punch him. It was a reaction he was used to expecting.
Dean nodded in response, biting his lower lip slightly as he poured some peroxide on a wad of cotton. "So then what happened?"
"He told me he was having…thoughts. About me. Thoughts that he normally only had about girls." Castiel hissed quietly as Dean pressed the cotton to the cut on his cheek. "We were in seventh grade, so I just thought he was being curious. I told him that I only thought of him as a friend, but if he needed to talk to me about it he could."
"I'm going to go ahead and guess that that didn't work out so well," Dean laughed half-heartedly as he pulled out another ball of cotton and poured peroxide over it. He pressed this one to Castiel's busted lip. Castiel backed away from the touch ever so slightly, hoping that Dean thought it was from the pain and not from the shock of Dean's knuckles brushing his mouth. His heart fluttered in his chest and he could feel his cheeks starting to warm.
Dammit.
This was absolutely the last thing he needed right now. He coughed and turned his attention back to the story. "No, not at all. He kept trying to get me alone in the locker room or in the hallway and ask me things or put his hands on me. I didn't like it, but I decided not to say anything. One day he got fed up, I suppose, because he asked me to meet him by the lockers after school. And against my better judgment, I said okay."
Dean nodded and put the bloody cotton ball aside, handing Castiel a wipe to clean the blood off of his face with. Castiel obliged and wiped all over his face and neck, wincing when he brushed over the cut on his cheek.
"So I meet him there, and he tries to put his hands on places I was less than comfortable with. I might have overreacted, but I pushed him away and told him to keep his hands off of me, and that I didn't like him like that. He got annoyed very quickly and pushed me towards the janitor's closet nearest us. I fought with him, but admittedly pretty half-heartedly; he was my friend, and I didn't want to hurt him, and I thought I could still talk with him. When we got inside he tried to force me to touch him and I punched him in the face, sort of as a knee jerk reaction. He fell away and I escaped, and told the first teacher I saw. I still feel bad about it, I still think I could have talked him out of it."
Dean was now applying gauze and surgical tape to the gash on Castiel's face, and Castiel found himself leaning in to the touch ever so slightly against his will.
"So then what?"
"His parents were called, and I had to tell a school board all about what happened. They suspended him for a week but he didn't come back to school until the next year. As far as I know he was homeschooled until the summer when he was sent away to camp." Castiel's gaze hardened. "That kind of camp where the motto is 'We can pray the gay away', if you catch my drift."
"Ouch," Dean whispered, shaking his head. He moved to grab the Neosporin in the box. "So he came back the next year healed with Jesus' love and very, very bitter, I'm guessing."
Castiel nodded. "Pretty much, the whole school knew about what he did. I tried to talk to him, tell him I was sorry for what had happened, but all he did was call me a fag and pick fights with me. Eventually he upgraded to calling me a fag as well. I was pretty upset about it for a while."
"I'm sorry man, that sucks," Dean said, his voice low with genuine sympathy. "Hold still for a sec."
Castiel did as he was told, but his eyes went wide when he saw Dean squeeze some Neosporin out of the tube on to his thumb and reach for Castiel's face. His gaze never left the thumb as it brushed across the split part of his lip, rubbing the gel gently over it. He could feel himself stop breathing. Dean's eyes were half closed, staring down at his own hand as he applied the gel. Once he finished, Castiel's heart seemed to stop as the thumb still lingered, ghosting across his mouth.
He reached his own hand up to his lip, muttering much too late, "I—I can do that."
Dean blinked rapidly, like he was being pulled out of his thoughts and he immediately pulled his hand away.
"Y-yeah," he stammered, looking away and wiping his hand on his jeans. He immediately busied himself with packing up the kit. "You hurt anywhere else?"
"Just bruised, I'll be fine."
Dean nodded and slipped on closing the kit twice. Castiel eyed him warily.
"You should change out of that and wash it," Dean suddenly said, pointing at Castiel's bloody sweater.
"It's ruined by now, no reason to worry about it," the younger teen replied.
Dean shook his head. "Fill the sink up with peroxide and water and soak it for a few minutes, then rub the spot in the peroxide until it's mostly out. The washer will do the rest."
Castiel looked up, meeting his eye. "How do you know that?" He smirked.
"Look, this isn't my first fight, alright? After the third or fourth my mother told me that I'd have to start getting the blood out myself," he laughed, crossing his arms.
Castiel chuckled as well, and before he could stop himself he was instinctively grabbing and pulling his sweater over his head. He was only halfway through pulling it off that he realized how stupid could he be to pull off his clothes in front of Dean freaking Winchester, that kid he had a stupid crush (maybe crush, he reminded himself angrily) on. But by then the sweater was stuck on his head, and the harder he pulled the more the sweater seemed to tighten around his skull. When he finally pulled it free he winced as it slid over his cuts and shook his head to dislodge his hair from the garment. He immediately made a grab for the peroxide and pulled the sweater to his chest like an embarrassed girl.
Stop, you're making it worse, Castiel. Stop this.
He heard Dean swallow and it made him look up and meet Dean's gaze. The older teen was staring at him, his gaze wide but his green eyes lit up with a fire Castiel had not seen on anyone before. It only lasted a long second before Dean was clearing his throat and looking away, rubbing the back of his head nervously and tapping his foot.
"You seem good now, so I think I'm gonna go," Dean said hoarsely, not looking back at Castiel.
The junior wanted to ask him to stay, wanted to thank him for the help and for, well, caring, but his words were lost and all he managed to get out in reply was, "Yeah, sounds… sounds cool. Goodbye, Dean."
Dean ran a hand over his face and turned around, walking back towards the front door before he stopped and turned back to face Castiel again. "I'll see you around, rest up and stay out of trouble, Cas."
Castiel froze; his veins filled with ice and he dropped the peroxide bottle on to the tile of the kitchen. Dean seemed to freeze up as well, his eyes bulging and his hand twitching as he stared at the floor like it had just grown six heads.
Dean looked up at him quickly, his eyes bearing in to him like he was trying to find an answer as to why he had just said that in Castiel's gaze. His face was contorting with so many expressions all at once that Castiel might have found it somewhat comical in any other situation. Dean opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, closed it, then opened and closed it once more before he turned right on his heel, muttered an very incoherent goodbye and half-ran out of the front door, closing it behind him with a frantic slam. Castiel flinched at the noise but otherwise made no other move until he heard the Impala come to life and pull out of the driveway with a loud squeal.
Castiel looked around the room in shock, trying to find his breath again and calm his heart as it beat rapidly in his chest. He reached down and picked up the peroxide bottle and set it and his sweater on the table.
That was the voice in his dream. He remembered it. Sure Dean's was a little higher, but it was the voice all the same. He was sure of it. He said that name the same way too, with that tiny inflection and that slight whistle on the s. He name Castiel knew belonged to him even though no one had ever called him it before in his life. Dean and the man in his dream were the only ones to ever say it.
Cas.
Author's Note: Thank you all who have been reading this so far. :) I'm really excited for some of the upcoming chapters of this story. And thank you so much for the reviews! They mean a LOT to me.