Title: Think I Know Where You Belong
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Summary: "Castiel wishes he wasn't this excited, but it's the best part of his night when Dean Winchester gets home from baseball practice."
Length: 7k and change.
Warnings: She wears short skirts- he wears sneakers.
Notes: So, I have a sickness and can't stop listening to Taylor Swift. I was watching the video to "You Belong With Me" on repeat in a deranged haze and this happened. High School AU. Great thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rageprufrock, zoetrope, leupagus and mklutz for listening to me hiss about this for weeks as I became more and more psychotic, and great love and thanks to merelyn for the beta.
ETA: Short, PWPish sequel: here.
Castiel is fiddling with his post-it flags, wondering if he should mark the diagram or the text about separation of powers, when he sees a light turn on from the corner of his eye. He scrambles for the huge pad of paper and the thick sharpie he buys in five packs for just this reason, craning his neck around to take a look in the mirror hanging over his dresser- same inevitably messy dark hair, giant glasses and pale face as usual- but no pen on his face or stuff between his teeth or anything. Castiel wishes he wasn't this excited, but it's the best part of his night when Dean Winchester gets home from baseball practice.
Sure enough, Dean looks tired and sort of dirty and wonderful. He drops his glove and bat to the floor, using his now free hand to gesticulate wildly. Castiel realizes he has to be on the phone with Jo, because no one else makes Dean that upset. He averts his eyes, flicking the blue and pink tags spread over the edge of his textbook. He knows that just because Dean has his curtains open, it's not a free invitation into his life. Still, Castiel can't help but think sometimes, very quietly in the middle of the night, that there has to be a reason his family moved in next door to the Winchesters, and that Dean's window is right next to his.
Then again, Dean was Homecoming King and Castiel is first clarinet in the Concert Orchestra and pep band. They don't exactly have a lot in common. But when Dean smiles, Castiel can't breathe and when Dean laughs, silent through two panes of glass, Castiel would give anything to be the one who makes that happen.
So instead of finishing his homework, he sneaks another look across to see Dean flip his phone shut and throw it at his bed, running a hand through his hair. Castiel frowns and writes quickly.
Are you alright? he asks, holding up the artist's sketchpad. Dean flops down on his bed, and after a moment or two, when he looks over, grimaces slightly. Castiel is starting to think that finally, after three years, Dean has decided this thing- these notes they sort of pass- is too intrusive, too juvenile, too something, when Castiel realizes he's just writing back.
Jo is complaining about prom again is pushed up against the opposite window. Dean's handwriting, slanted and messy at the best of times, is near illegible, but Castiel has seen and heard enough of these arguments for a lifetime. Jo wants the picture book prom- the giant limo, the huge expensive dinner, the giant corsage, the after party, all of it. It's not that Dean wouldn't give it to her, it's just not what he wants to do. Jo has had to drag Dean to the last four dances, under increasing amounts of duress. Castiel has any number of sentiments about the situation- least of which being he would walk through hell with no shoes if he got to go to Prom with Dean- so instead he goes a more direct route.
:C Castiel quickly draws the frowning face. Dean smirks slightly and his shoulders move somewhere between a shrug and snort. He rolls his eyes as if to say 'tell me about it'. Castiel bites his lower lip, looking down at the paper, wondering what to write back that's true and not "I love you" written a hundred times all over the paper, but when he looks back up, the curtains are already closed. Castiel is still tapping his marker absently and sighing at the dark blue window across the way when he hears his door creak open.
"You know," Michael says, staring at the big :C across the paper, "They have these things called cell phones. You can use them to text each other." Michael sits on top of the dresser, shoving Castiel's backpack to the floor. "Although, you know, I take it back, don't, Castiel. Winchester is a moron." Castiel frowns deeply.
"Michael, Dean is perfect," Castiel replies stubbornly, because it's true. And not just because Dean is the captain of the baseball team, or the most popular boy in school or because he's honestly beautiful- but because he drives his brother Sam to school every day and is going to college entirely on scholarships he earned not just through sports, and in the winter, when it's too cold and icy to bike, Dean makes him get in the car, too. Dean is perfect because he's nice to little kids and animals even when other guys are looking, and he works a job he hates so he can do stuff like rent limos to take Jo to dances and buy her flowers on her birthday, even when he doesn't want to. Michael rolls his eyes.
"Castiel, it's adorable that you've been brainwashed by exposure into the world's most hideous man-crush, but Dean Winchester is so far from perfect I cannot even begin to describe all the ways he's inappropriate."
Castiel wishes Michael weren't home on spring break, but then takes it back immediately. After all, Michael is his older brother. And privately- since the only time Castiel brought it up Michael hadn't talked to him for a whole day- Castiel thinks Michael doesn't like Dean because they're so alike.
Castiel is sure his facial expression is some variety of stubborn and irritated, which explains why Michael rolls his eyes, but smiles and ruffles Castiel's hair.
"Okay, whatever, just do your homework," Michael instructs, walking out, leaving the door a hair ajar. Castiel sighs and attempts to fix his hair, which just makes it look even more bizarre and rumpled. He finally settles down to finishing his government reading. If the other curtain twitches open a couple of times to watch him read, Castiel doesn't notice.
The next day Castiel wakes up feeling inexplicably cheerful and reckless, so he doesn't wear a sweater over his button down shirt and soft old khakis. He just brings a windbreaker in case it rains, and laces his dark blue sneakers tightly before bolting out the door. The weather is beautiful and perfect, spring at its best, and Castiel knows today is going to be wonderful when he sees Dean tossing his backpack into the backseat of his car.
"You're early," Dean calls, and Castiel is awed at the implication that Dean Winchester has any idea, whatsoever, of his schedule.
"It's a nice day," Castiel replies, because one, it is, and two, it's better than saying something like, “Good morning, I love you.” Dean smiles and Castiel is overwhelmingly positive that this is maybe the single greatest day ever. And because today is the greatest day ever, Castiel hazards even more conversation. "How was your night?" Dean rolls his eyes.
"Had to read, like, all of Gilgamesh, I swear, Cas, my English teacher is a sadist," he protests, but there's still the hint of a smile that makes Castiel clutch the handle bars of his bike a little tighter. "But for real though, it wasn't so bad. There were battles and bros and prostitutes and stuff, I was pretty surprised." Castiel blinks for a moment, because he's heard Gilgamesh paraphrased before but that was rather- succinct, if vague.
"The epics were as entertainment for ancient cultures," Castiel finds himself saying. "I suppose tastes haven't changed much since then." Dean stares at him for a moment and Castiel is about to say something along the lines of 'not that there is anything wrong with that' when Dean just bursts out laughing. While Castiel doesn't understand what's so funny, he's happy, nonetheless, to make Dean laugh. Dean trails off finally and grins, wide and wonderful, and he leans slightly so his hip is pressed against the door of the car.
"Just, don't change, Cas. Ever," Dean says. Castiel has always wondered what exactly sets him apart- from his family, from his friends, what makes them pause a moment before responding- but this is the first time anyone has made him feel like maybe that's not a bad thing. Castiel feels warm down to his toes.
"I won't," he says, soft, a promise, because Dean asked. Dean looks like he's about to say something when Sam flies out the door trailing a messenger bag, a bagel and a coat.
"Hey, Cas, morning," Sam calls around the bagel, waving the hand not holding the coat. Castiel waves back, because Sam is three years younger than him but maybe one of the brightest, nicest people he's ever met and coincidentally already 3 inches taller than Castiel and still growing.
"Good morning, Sam," Castiel replies. Dean motions back and forth to Castiel and the car.
"You want a ride, Cas? I gotta drop Sammy off first, but you should come along," Dean offers. Castiel is possibly in another plane of happiness. "I don't have practice this afternoon, so I can drive you home, too." Castiel can hardly trust himself to talk, so he just nods and manages a 'thank you' as he puts his bike back in the garage.
The ride to drop Sam off at the middle school is uneventful, if uneventful covers five frantic text messages from Michael asking if he really just saw Castiel getting into Dean's car and three follow-up links to sex offender websites. Dean eyeballs him with a casual, “Your phone is blowing up, man,” and Castiel deletes them all with a smile. They circle around the front of Sandra Day O'Connor Middle School and drop Sam off. There are about fifteen 8th graders standing around in clumps, some waiting for Sam, but most of them look like they want nothing more than to be the person getting into the passenger seat of Dean's car, but today- today that's him.
"So, you're reading Gilgamesh," Castiel prompts, not because the silence is awkward- Castiel never thinks silence is awkward- but because he likes to hear Dean's opinions on things. Their conversations always lead somewhere unexpected and the insight they provide into the way Dean thinks is like a glimpse through a keyhole of a door he would like to open. Dean sort of smiles, just a quick hint of amusement.
"Yeah, we had a choice to read it or Beowulf, and I had to hear all about it last year to help Sam with this terrible art project of his. No way was I putting myself through that again," Dean says with an exaggerated eye roll. "Although no one told me it was a love story, god." Castiel blinks.
"What?" he asks delicately, because while he enjoys Dean's train of thought, he usually finds himself totally incapable of following it, much to his chagrin. Dean waves a hand loosely.
"You know. Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Like, there's bromance and then there's weeping for fifty pages that your boyfriend is dead. It was like Brokeback Mesopotamia," Dean argues. Really, Castiel has no idea what to even attempt to say, because he's still stuck on the fact that what Dean got out of the Epic of Gilgamesh was bros, battles, prostitutes and gay demi-gods. "It was still cool, though."
"I have never really thought about it from that perspective before," Castiel admits. Dean shrugs.
"God, Sam looked like I had punched thousands of years of established literary interpretation in the face when I said that. But then again, Sam still thinks Bert and Ernie are roommates," Dean says, rolling his eyes. Castiel frowns.
"Are they not?" he asks, because he's mostly certain they lived together. Dean stares at Castiel, which is somewhat concerning, considering he's still driving the car.
"Cas, they're gay, too," Dean insists. Castiel blinks. That puts an entirely new spin on Sesame Street.
"So you're saying that you believe Bert and Ernie to be lovers?" Castiel asks. He supposes they could be common law married, but they seemed to argue constantly about living conditions, which doesn't make for a solid foundation for a relationship- or so Dr. Phil claims. Dean is still staring at him, but at least they're at a stop light.
"Did you seriously just say 'lovers?" Dean demands of him, and Castiel nods. "Okay, but just... don't, because then I had to imagine muppet sex and oh, god, I just did it again." Castiel tilts his head to the side, but still can't picture it.
They pull into the parking lot at school, Dean slipping into his space smoothly. Castiel sort of wishes he had thought to have Dean drop him off somewhere else, but then he would have to explain that he's sort of worried he's going to get shoved every time someone throws up a hand for Dean to lazily high five as they walk in to school, Dean saying something about the fascist nature of the school parking system. Through some sort of cosmic sign, or possibly joke, Dean's locker is right next to Castiel's, across from the cafeteria.
"So any way the point is- see you in Physics, Cas," Dean says, only to be tackled back against his locker by a cloud of blond hair and perfume.
"You didn't call me back last night," Jo accuses, poking a finger into Dean's chest. Dean frowns.
"You told me not to, Jo, you said to call you on the fifth of never," Dean says. Castiel hides his face in his locker, trying to look like he's attempting to put his coat in, not eavesdropping shamelessly.
"Dean, I was upset. You were obviously supposed to call back," she insists. "But I forgive you." They're suddenly silent, so Castiel finally closes his locker and- oh. Jo has Dean pressed back against the locker and she's kissing him insistently. Castiel's good day has gone straight into the garbage so he just drops a quiet, "See you in Physics, Dean," and walks away toward his English class, clutching his copy of Beloved because he sort of feels sick to his stomach.
Castiel had a lot to say about traditional slave narratives and guilt and the supernatural, written in precise blue pen in the margins of the pages, but instead he sits quietly in the front row picking at a piece of tape shredded and stuck to the desk. 90 minutes goes slowly but way too fast. Castiel finds himself grabbing his bookbag and slipping through the hall to go sit behind the battered lab table in the science wing. When he'd walked into the classroom on the first day, Dean had waved him over to the table and gleefully pointed out, scratched into the surface, "Michael Meyer has Crabs.” Dean had chortled through most of the first class and Castiel still sighs over it. He keeps asking Michael why someone would have taken the time to scratch a claim that he has public lice into a desk, but he has never gotten a satisfactory answer.
"So, sorry about that, uh, earlier," Dean says, dropping heavily into the seat next to him. "Jo sometimes is uh..."
Castiel tries to be both helpful and tactful. "Tempestuous?" Castiel supplies. Dean raises his eyebrows.
"I was going to say 'a bitch', but that works too," Dean grins back. Castiel feels uncomfortable sharing in the joke, when in his more uncharitable moments he's thought similar things but without the raw current of fondness that underlies Dean's snipe. "She just- it's important to her, right? So it should matter to me, too, right?" Dean runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Castiel frowns.
"Dean, shouldn't the thing that is important to Jo be going with you, not how she goes?" Castiel asks quietly, trying to parse the surprised expression that appears on Dean's face.
"Thanks, Cas," Dean finally says, and then scrambles to pull his textbook and binder out as Dr. Singer walks in.
"You're welcome, Dean," Castiel replies in a whisper. They have a pop quiz which abruptly ends their conversation, but Dean seems thoughtful and withdrawn the rest of the class, heading out to lunch with a simple, “Meet you in the parking lot,” to reassure Castiel that he hasn't forgotten his offer to drive him home.
"I hope I didn't say anything that upset him," Castiel says, idly tapping his carrot stick against his Snapple. Gabriel stares at him.
"Castiel, seriously, he's not a unicorn. He's a dude. I think he can handle you giving him some actual good advice," Gabriel says, pulling out another pixy stick from the rapidly dwindling pack.
"You're going to get juvenile diabetes," Castiel says sadly. Anna snorts.
"He's going to get put back on Ritalin," she accuses fondly. "More importantly, Castiel, you said what was on your mind and you told the truth. You can't be a better friend than that." Gabriel shrugs.
"Well, you could push Jo down the stairs," Gabriel offers. Anna pinches him viciously because Castiel is still staring, horrified. "What?"
"Gabriel, I don't wish Jo any physical harm," Castiel says bleakly. Gabriel eyes Castiel with extreme prejudice.
"But you kind of wish all her hair would fall out of her head and she'd suddenly become a lesbian," Gabriel says. "By the way, I can make at least half of that happen. Just say the word, man." Anna pinches Gabriel even harder.
"Jesus Christ, Anna, quit it!" Gabriel whines, but he's been half a head shorter than Anna for two years despite his sullen assertions that he is still due another growth spurt. Castiel sighs.
"Look, he's still driving you home, right? If he's still in a funk, and it's really bothering you, just ask," Anna advises. Castiel smiles softly. Anna is always thoughtful and gives the best advice and Gabriel wouldn't offer to do terrible things if he didn't mean it- and he wouldn't mean it unless he cared.
"You're right, thank you, Anna," Castiel says and Gabriel rolls his eyes.
"Oh, nice, she gets the thank you for being Dear Abby and I get pin- Ow! An-na!" Gabriel hisses. Anna smiles at Gabriel sweetly.
"It wouldn't hurt so much if there wasn't so much of you to pinch," she replies breezily. Gabriel stares at her.
"So now you're calling me fat?" he demands. Castiel just smiles fondly as he finishes his lunch, feeling much more at ease with the world.
After lunch he cheerfully answers questions about judicial review and the branches of government, and when class is over he stops by his locker to grab his copy of Virgil before heading to Study Hall. He technically shares this class with Dean too, but more often than not Dean is nowhere to be found. However, today Dean is sitting right in the middle of the lecture hall, and when he sees Castiel walk in he motions toward the empty desk next to him. Bela Talbot gives him the mother of all dirty looks but he obediently takes the seat offered.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says quietly. He doesn't believe in talking in Study Hall but it's still five minutes until the hour. Class hasn't officially started yet. Castiel doesn't say, “I'm surprised to see you,” because that sounds sort of rude, like he expected Dean to skip class- although he usually does. Instead he places his book on the desk calmly.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says at his usual volume, which causes Bela to glare at Castiel again. "So, about what you said earlier." Dean trails off and then looks irritated. An apology is already forming behind Castiel's lips when Dean continues.
"Do you- should I say something to her?" Dean asks, still looking irritated, but there's a hint of a flush on his ears and neck and oh- he's embarrassed. Castiel has no idea why, but there it is.
"Dean, it seems to be a huge issue in your- relationship." Cas stumbles over the word, because the irony of the situation is overwhelming. He spends most of his time wishing there was no relationship, and here he seems to be helping Dean repair it. Dean rolls his eyes.
"I feel like a girl," Dean sighs. "I hate talking about this stuff and Sam never shuts up about it." Castiel blinks, as he hadn't thought Dean was displaying any feminine behavior, and tells him as much. Dean barks out a laugh, garnering a hissed "shut up" from Bela as Ms. Barnes walks in and parks herself in the front with a badly disguised romance novel.
Dean pulls out a piece of paper.
Anyway, so I saw you at lunch. Dean writes, handwriting familiar and terrible and dear. You're pretty close with Anna, huh? Castiel smiles, pulling out a sheet of paper himself.
Anna is a very good friend. Castiel writes, wondering absently where Dean was sitting, because he hadn't seen him at lunch.
So are you going to, I don't know... ask her to prom? Dean scratches out. Castiel blinks and stares at Dean, because a) Anna would laugh in his face, friend or no, and b) he had thought it was more than obvious that he was not interested in women.
I wasn't planning on it, no. he writes back carefully. Dean frowns.
Why not? It looks like she really likes you Dean scribbles out, lightning fast. Castiel raises both his eyebrows.
Dean, Anna knows I am a homosexual. I sincerely doubt that she is harboring any unrequited feelings for me. Castiel explains.
"What!?" Dean shouts. Ms. Barnes looks up quickly.
"I don't care how handsome you are, Dean, keep it zipped," she says, immediately putting her face back in her book. Dean blushes bright red, but instead writes WHAT???? in huge capitals, underlining it twice. Castiel feels like he's swallowing around a knot.
I have had 'homo' written on my locker several times, Dean. I would have thought you knew. Castiel writes, trying to stay calm and ignoring the slight tremor in the shape of his 'l's and 't's.
I thought that was just guys... messing around, I always took care of Dean pauses, knuckles white around the wood of the pencil. You should have told me. Castiel frowns.
I did not think my sexual orientation was any secret. he manages before Dean shakes his head violently.
NO NO did anyone Dean starts again, then scribbles it out. Has anyone ever messed with you Cas His pencil stays frozen over the paper for a moment. I mean, more than those assholes, no one's ever Dean runs a hand through his hair. You're okay, right?
Castiel blinks and looks at Dean, who looks stressed and angry and it feels like his chest is too tight because Dean is worried about him.
I am fine, Dean. Castiel writes, as reassuringly as he can, because there had been a moment of sheer terror when he realized Dean had honestly not known and his reaction could have been so- but Dean is concerned. Dean smiles, wide, relieved and it's like the sun parting the clouds after it rains. Castiel is not sure what to say, but Dean starts, like someone has jabbed him with a pin.
You're not Dean tries, hesitates, continues. You're not taking Gabriel to prom, are you? Castiel bites back a laugh, sudden and amused.
No, Dean. I am not. Castiel promises. Dean heaves a seemingly involuntary sigh of relief.
Good. he writes and Castiel has a moment of blind hope before Dean goes on. You could do so much better.
Castiel resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. It's not Dean's fault that Castiel is in love with him and has been for years, it's not Dean's fault that he likes women, it's not Dean's fault that Castiel cannot see past him to ever wanting anyone else. But it's still remarkably frustrating.
Thank you. Castiel finally writes when he realizes some sort of response other than lovelorn silence is probably required. Dean shrugs.
It's true, you're the nicest guy I know. Dean writes back, with the sort of lazy assurance that means he really thinks that and Castiel's heart aches. He wishes he could just be happy with this, with the warmth and weight of Dean's regard, and he's happy- he is- but it's just not enough.
Anyway. CRAP! Dean writes, hissing slightly under his breath. Coach assigned an emergency practice this afternoon, he thinks we're going to get our asses handed to us on Saturday otherwise. Dean rolls his eyes. If you want, I'll give you the keys to the Impala- you can drive yourself home, and I'll walk back. Castiel shakes his head, because there is no way he's making Dean walk home, exhausted, after practice. He would get hit by a truck.
No, it's fine, I can walk. Castiel writes, but Dean shakes his head.
No way, I offered you a ride this morning, I shouldn't bail on you. Dean explains. Castiel pauses.
Well, I could stay? he tries and vainly tries not to blush when Dean looks at him curiously. I could do my homework? Dean raises his eyebrows, but he's smiling.
You mean because I'm stopping you from getting it done now? he teases. Are you sure you don't mind? Castiel swallows against a suddenly dry throat at the thought of watching Dean practice in his tight baseball uniform.
I don't mind at all. Castiel writes and it's the honest truth. Dean shrugs.
Okay, it's going to be boring, though. Dean warns him. Castiel smiles weakly and taps against Virgil.
I will bring a book. he promises, although he doubts poor Virgil will be getting much, if any, of his attention this afternoon. Dean snorts.
Alright, maybe not compared to that. Dean says, and pulls out some Calculus homework. Castiel attempts to do some reading, but he cannot stop thinking about how Dean's first instinct was to protect him and that Dean thinks he deserves good things and he hopes no one notices he has not moved off of page 137 in half an hour.
When the bell finally rings, Castiel almost jumps as Dean slaps a companionable hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be in the bleachers, right?" Dean asks. Cas nods slightly, because he wouldn't miss this for the world. "Okay, see you there."
It's more or less as bad as he thought it would be. Dean is golden in the late spring sunlight, squinting into the sun under his cap, loose and pleased, shoving his teammates idly; skidding into bases with the same determined gracelessness he brings to everything, unpracticed and unaffected. Dean is himself because he doesn't know how to be anything else, and Castiel both envies and admires him for it.
He doesn't register the laughter for a long time, between watching Dean avidly behind Virgil and polishing his glasses, which seem impossibly smudged in the sunlight, but eventually he notices the two boys he thinks are sophomores sitting a few rows behind him. When Castiel turns to look at them they break off into smirks. While Castiel would never describe himself as an excellent judge of interpersonal behavior, there is something distinctly... unpleasant about the way they're looking at him that he has seen on playgrounds and in the back of study halls since he was a child.
He's not sure whether it will be better or worse if he just goes back to what he was doing, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. The moment his back is turned, the laughter starts again.
"Are you like, his cheerleader?"
"Are you guys going to get married in Canada?"
"Do you think he sucks Winchester's dick?"
"I bet he wants to."
It's not the worst he's ever heard. But there's something about them pulling Dean into it that creates a sick sweep of shame in his stomach. Castiel is not surprised that virtual strangers can tell what he feels for Dean is not strictly platonic, but he just wants to bury his face in his book and pretend he can't hear any of it.
"Well, do you, Meyer?" he hears louder, the clanging of feet over metal bleachers. "Do you suck his dick?" The taller of the two of them plops himself down next to Castiel.
"Aw, man, it's not nice to kiss and tell," the other one says, ensconcing himself on Castiel's other side. "You know Meyer here is a nice boy. I bet he doesn't even let a boy under his bra." There's nothing he can do but hope that if he doesn't respond they'll get bored and move on.
"C'mon, answer.” The one to his right elbows him, sharply, and Castiel is really not looking forward to where this seems to be going.
"You might want to get the fuck out of here before I bash in your skull with this bat, assholes."
Castiel's head snaps up. Dean is standing at the foot of the bleachers, his old wooden bat in one hand, the empty hand clenched tightly into a fist.
"My batting average is .349," Dean threatens, and the two of them scramble up and out, shoving each other in their haste. The moment they are careening toward the parking lot Dean lets out an angry exhale and slams his way up to where Castiel is still frozen in disbelief.
"What the hell, Cas?" Dean asks, dropping his bat with a clatter. He grabs Castiel's shoulders and gently moves his head side to side. "Did they hit you? I'll fucking kill them." Castiel blinks.
"You didn't need to do that, Dean," Castiel protests softly. It would have been fine, he's sure.
"Are you kidding me? Cas, you said people didn't mess with you," Dean argues. He still looks furious, but Castiel can see the concern behind it and all the tension floods out of him.
"It was fine," Castiel promises. Dean blows out a noisy, irritated exhale.
"Cas, you have got to be kidding me," Dean says, covering his face with his hands. "Alright. Come with me." Castiel raises both his eyebrows.
"Are we going home?" Castiel asks; looking around the field, apparently practice is over. Dean rolls his eyes.
"No. I'm going to teach you how to swing a baseball bat, because if I'm not around to deal with shitbags like that, I'm making sure you can take care of yourself." Dean stands up, brushing at his knees. "God, this is like when I had to teach Sammy how to punch." Castiel forebears mentioning that he's actually a brown belt in judo, because it seems that this will give Dean some sort of peace of mind, and he has no objections to that.
He allows himself to be drawn out on to the dusty diamond, the press of Dean's hand hot and slightly damp around his wrist. The last light is orange and hazy as Dean pushes the bat into his hands.
"Okay, show me your stance," Dean instructs, taking a few steps back. Castiel blinks, but grips low on the bat, fists apart around the cool wood. Dean shakes his head, but there's a smile finally playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," he says, but he's amused and loose again and Castiel smiles slightly at that himself. "Narrow your grip," Dean says, reaching out to correct when Castiel doesn't move immediately. Castiel doesn't have small hands, but Dean's press over his entirely, shifting them together. "Now, keep your hands about a foot from your body." Dean moves one hand to Castiel's shoulder, one over Castiel's hand, almost absently rubbing a thumb over his knuckles.
"Good, good, that's good," Dean murmurs, tilting so the bat goes to a 45 degree angle somewhere behind Castiel's head and then he slips behind Castiel, leveling his shoulders with a firm touch.
Castiel feels like all the air has been sucked out of him, but he doesn't dare to breathe. It's like if he moves on his own the spell will be broken and Dean has his hands all over him and he doesn't want it to stop. Dean presses a palm to Castiel's hip and he feels dizzy, lightheaded, like the moment after a long run where you feel like you're still moving forward even though you've come to a stop.
"Keep your feet shoulder-width apart." Dean says quietly, pressing harder. "No, wider." Castiel wonders, more desperately than ever, what it would be like to kiss Dean.
"Alright, take a deep breath," he says and Castiel obeys, shaky and frantic. "Exhale. Swing."
The movement is fierce, absolute and sharp.
"Good," Dean repeats in his ear. "Good." Castiel feels like every nerve ending in his body is on fire, and does not know how he can possibly be expected to get in a small, enclosed space with Dean and pretend that he's not insanely aroused. They stand like that for an eternity before Dean finally coughs and steps back quickly.
"Anyway, now you know and you can beat the crap out of assholes like those two morons," Dean stammers. "I'm going to go change and get my backpack, meet you in the parking lot?" He's already halfway to the locker room entrance by the time he finishes his sentence. It takes Castiel another long stunned moment to start moving toward the bleachers to get his books, still limply holding the bat.
The ride home is loud, Dean cranking up the stereo and rolling down the windows, thumbs restlessly tapping against the wheel. They say stilted goodbyes; something has changed and Castiel doesn't know what, but it feels like something is wrong.
He feels fretful and strange all evening, until he twitches his curtain aside to see a giant sign in the other window in front of the curtain in Dean's window.
STOP STUDYING GO TO BED NERD : )
Castiel takes a deep breath, smiles and turns out the light as he slips under the covers.
Saturday morning is lazy and cheerful, even if Michael goes on at length about Castiel taking rides from low-class roadwhores. Castiel would be more bothered by it, but his father just hmms from behind his Wall Street Journal and Mother looks at Michael disapprovingly and talks about sending the Winchesters a seasonally appropriate fruit basket.
The weather is stereotypically beautiful spring, cloudless, pale blue skies and gentle breezes to ruffle the branches. Castiel retires to the hammock in the backyard with a battered copy of Metamorphosis as a break from all the Virgil he's been re-reading. He dozes off, waking up abruptly when he hears a car door slam. The quality of light suggests it's early in the afternoon. Castiel is still blinking the sleep out of his eyes when his mother opens the french doors with a soft smile and calls out that Castiel has a visitor. He hardly has time to sit up before she motions Dean out into the backyard.
Dean drops his bat bag and mitt at the base of one of the trees the hammock is attached to before throwing himself into the hammock with a groan, bouncing Castiel into the air briefly. There is red ocher all over the front of his white uniform, over the green script reading 'Firebirds' and smeared across the freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose.
"Are you alright, Dean?" Castiel asks immediately, because Dean has an arm flung over his face but Castiel can see the grimace clearly anyway. "Did you not win the game?" Dean sighs messily.
"No, we won, that's-" he says on an exhale. "So, I told Jo what you said, right, about if she wants to go with me, how the limo or whatever shouldn't matter, right?" Castiel nods solemnly before he realizes Dean cannot possibly see him through his arm. He ought to verbally answer the question, but apparently it is rhetorical because Dean continues anyway.
"Yeah, so we're sort of broken up," Dean mumbles and Castiel always expected he'd feel nothing but happiness if, when, Dean said those words, but instead he feels like the bottom of the hammock has just fallen out. Perhaps that's his stomach.
"I'm so sorry," Castiel says finally, and it's true. He is sorry that Dean feels terrible and that it was his advice that finally did it. He never wanted Jo and Dean to be together, but he didn't want them to break up if it meant Dean wallowing in misery on his hammock, either. Dean laughs, but it's not amused.
"Yeah. Well. It was coming, right? If I couldn't tell her what I really thought about the whole thing? If not taking her to prom, fucking prom, would make her dump me?" Dean gesticulates wildly in the air above him. "It's just- the worst thing about it?" Dean laughs humorlessly again. "I'm really not that upset. I'm relieved." Castiel has no idea what to do- touching Dean is totally out of the question, considering Dean's side is already pressed up against Castiel's hip- but he's never been good with verbal reassurances either. Dean flops his arm down to his side and opens his eyes.
"Does that make me a total douchebag? We've been dating for three years, and now I'm just... relieved?" Castiel bites his lip.
"Sometimes, people grow apart," he tries. "Holding on to them can hurt more than letting them go." Dean laughs, something more sincere about it, before he covers his face with his palms again.
"How do you always say what I want to hear, Cas?" Dean mumbles. "Seriously, for a guy I've never seen date, you give some zen advice." Castiel shrugs carefully, but the hammock still sways them strangely.
"I read a lot," Castiel offers. Jane Austen covered a lot of the basics of relationships. Dean snorts.
"Anyway, I didn't mean to dump on you. There's just no one else I can talk to about this, you know? You're a good listener." Dean says, running a hand through his hair, but then he pauses to look at Castiel seriously. "And if you- if you needed someone to talk to... I'm sure I give really shitty advice, but I would listen." Castiel stops himself from sucking in a breath, but just nods, feeling like he's going to burst. Dean makes a face.
"Also, sorry I bust up in here, I must reek," Dean says with a bark of laughter, launching himself out of the hammock. "It was a good game, man, you should come sometime." Castiel makes an impulsive, aborted hand motion toward Dean.
"Is everything okay?" Dean asks, looking slightly puzzled. Castiel makes another terrible, impulsive decision.
"I do have something- something to talk about," Castiel says, already wishing he had kept his mouth shut. "If you want to... listen. You don't have to." Dean shrugs.
"We're friends. That's what we do," Dean says, settling himself back into the hammock- or trying to, but they don't manage to distribute their weight evenly until Dean kicks off his cleats and they each sit with their back toward a tree, Castiel's bare feet next to Dean's dark green socks in the center. Castiel leans his chin on his knees, drawn up to his chest.
"So, spill," Dean prompts. Castiel picks at a rough patch on his khakis around the cuff.
"If there was someone I liked, a- a boy," Castiel says, hazarding a look up. Dean looks absolutely gobsmacked, so he backpedals frantically. "Not you, not anyone you know, I just, a boy. Ah, do you think- would he like me?"
Dean stares at him. Castiel feels utterly mortified beyond all belief and buries his face between his kneecaps.
He freezes when he feels a hand light gently on top of his head.
"Hey, Cas. Cas," Dean says quietly. "C'mon, look at me." Dean looks thoroughly uncomfortable but he's smiling, sort of. "Some guy, out there somewhere, would be lucky to have you. You're awesome." He makes a face. "And I've only ever said that to you and Sammy, and I only meant it with you." Dean shoves at Castiel's foot with one of his.
"So seriously, cheer up. You look like someone ran over your dog." Dean says. Castiel blinks.
"I don't have a dog," Castiel protests quietly. He wonders why that answer doesn't make him feel any better. Dean grins.
"That's the spirit, Cas," Dean tells him, then swings his feet out. "Seriously, I have to take a shower, I'm gross. But I'll be around tonight, chuck something at my window if you want to talk." Dean collects his things and hops the useless fence between their yards with a wave over his shoulder.
Castiel lies aimlessly in the hammock until his mother calls him in for dinner.
"Was Dean alright, dear?" Mother asks, the furrow of concern between her brows indicating she's contemplating upping the fruit basket to homemade cookies. His father raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything.
"He broke up with his girlfriend, Jo Harvelle," Castiel says, not sure if he's actually allowed to share the information. However, it's not as though his parents are going to tell anyone either. Plus, Castiel believes that his parents already know these kinds of things, even before he tells them. "They were having an argument about prom." Michael drops his fork with a clatter against his plate.
"He is not allowed to take you to prom," Michael says sharply. "Father, tell him Dean is not allowed to take him to prom." When Father just shakes his head with a smile, Michael lets loose a despairing wail. "70 percent of teenage pregnancies happen at prom! Father, do you want Castiel to become another statistic?" Mother tuts.
"Michael, Castiel knows about safe sex," she says, pouring herself another half glass of wine. "Our discussion when he was thirteen was extremely comprehensive." Michael frowns.
"You had the talk with me when I was ten," he protests. She smiles at him seraphically.
"You were an early bloomer, darling," Mother says with an airy wave of her free hand. "In any case, it would be a pity for the two of you to go alone when you could go together. The photographs would be charming." Michael claws at his face.
"Are you even hearing this?" Michael demands of their father. Father shrugs expressively. Mother pats Castiel on the hand.
"You should see if he's still going," she advises. Michael pantomimes slitting his wrists with a dinner knife as Castiel asks to be excused. He turns on the lights in his room and pulls open the curtains to see Dean lying in bed, tossing a baseball into the air over and over again. He raps loudly on his own window and Dean's head appears, tousled and with a smile.
What's up? Dean scribbles. Castiel digs out his notepad.
Do you think you'll still go to prom tomorrow? Dean blinks, but shrugs.
Nah. I told you, I hate dances. Really not my scene. Dean holds up a finger, while he writes something else. Are you?
Castiel forces a smile.
Not my scene. he writes back, and Dean laughs and nods.
Yeah, I'll probably just stay home and watch zombie movies. Dean scribbles. You should come over.
Castiel's not sure what it is, but something snaps. Before he knows it he's blowing past Sam in the Winchesters' entryway and opening the door to Dean's room.
"You know, when I said you should come over, I didn't necessarily mean right this second," Dean says faintly, still holding his marker and notepad. Castiel takes a deep breath.
"You would never have to take me to a dance. I don't like them and I don't even know how to dance. But I have loved you from the moment you moved in next door and if you would let me, I would make you happy, I promise," Castiel blurts out and he thinks he is having a heart attack. Dean stares at him for a moment, jaw slack.
"But you said- this afternoon- that it wasn't- you said you didn't like me!" Dean sputters. Castiel looks to a spot directly to the left of Dean's ear.
"It was hypothetical. If I liked someone," Castiel says on auto-pilot. Dean blinks.
"I was so angry when you said that, and I didn't even know why," Dean mutters. Castiel opens his mouth to say something, but Dean shushes him quickly, uncapping the marker and scribbling something on the paper. "Just-"
SHUT UP AND KISS ME is scrawled across the page in black and white.
Castiel takes a step toward him, but then the enormity of the whole situation comes crashing down around his ears and he's frozen to the floor. Dean rolls his eyes with a laugh, dropping the paper and standing up. He pulls Castiel in by his shoulders. "I can't believe I took dating advice from you," Dean says, but he's grinning, and Castiel knows because he can feel it against his mouth.
Castiel has thought about what it would be like to kiss Dean for three years and it's nothing compared to kissing him, nothing at all.
Mother is disappointed that they're missing the prom, but is slightly mollified that since Dean isn't getting Castiel a boutonniere, he's at least paying for the movie ticket.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Summary: "Castiel wishes he wasn't this excited, but it's the best part of his night when Dean Winchester gets home from baseball practice."
Length: 7k and change.
Warnings: She wears short skirts- he wears sneakers.
Notes: So, I have a sickness and can't stop listening to Taylor Swift. I was watching the video to "You Belong With Me" on repeat in a deranged haze and this happened. High School AU. Great thanks to
rageprufrock, zoetrope, leupagus and mklutz for listening to me hiss about this for weeks as I became more and more psychotic, and great love and thanks to merelyn for the beta. ETA: Short, PWPish sequel: here.
Castiel is fiddling with his post-it flags, wondering if he should mark the diagram or the text about separation of powers, when he sees a light turn on from the corner of his eye. He scrambles for the huge pad of paper and the thick sharpie he buys in five packs for just this reason, craning his neck around to take a look in the mirror hanging over his dresser- same inevitably messy dark hair, giant glasses and pale face as usual- but no pen on his face or stuff between his teeth or anything. Castiel wishes he wasn't this excited, but it's the best part of his night when Dean Winchester gets home from baseball practice.
Sure enough, Dean looks tired and sort of dirty and wonderful. He drops his glove and bat to the floor, using his now free hand to gesticulate wildly. Castiel realizes he has to be on the phone with Jo, because no one else makes Dean that upset. He averts his eyes, flicking the blue and pink tags spread over the edge of his textbook. He knows that just because Dean has his curtains open, it's not a free invitation into his life. Still, Castiel can't help but think sometimes, very quietly in the middle of the night, that there has to be a reason his family moved in next door to the Winchesters, and that Dean's window is right next to his.
Then again, Dean was Homecoming King and Castiel is first clarinet in the Concert Orchestra and pep band. They don't exactly have a lot in common. But when Dean smiles, Castiel can't breathe and when Dean laughs, silent through two panes of glass, Castiel would give anything to be the one who makes that happen.
So instead of finishing his homework, he sneaks another look across to see Dean flip his phone shut and throw it at his bed, running a hand through his hair. Castiel frowns and writes quickly.
Are you alright? he asks, holding up the artist's sketchpad. Dean flops down on his bed, and after a moment or two, when he looks over, grimaces slightly. Castiel is starting to think that finally, after three years, Dean has decided this thing- these notes they sort of pass- is too intrusive, too juvenile, too something, when Castiel realizes he's just writing back.
Jo is complaining about prom again is pushed up against the opposite window. Dean's handwriting, slanted and messy at the best of times, is near illegible, but Castiel has seen and heard enough of these arguments for a lifetime. Jo wants the picture book prom- the giant limo, the huge expensive dinner, the giant corsage, the after party, all of it. It's not that Dean wouldn't give it to her, it's just not what he wants to do. Jo has had to drag Dean to the last four dances, under increasing amounts of duress. Castiel has any number of sentiments about the situation- least of which being he would walk through hell with no shoes if he got to go to Prom with Dean- so instead he goes a more direct route.
:C Castiel quickly draws the frowning face. Dean smirks slightly and his shoulders move somewhere between a shrug and snort. He rolls his eyes as if to say 'tell me about it'. Castiel bites his lower lip, looking down at the paper, wondering what to write back that's true and not "I love you" written a hundred times all over the paper, but when he looks back up, the curtains are already closed. Castiel is still tapping his marker absently and sighing at the dark blue window across the way when he hears his door creak open.
"You know," Michael says, staring at the big :C across the paper, "They have these things called cell phones. You can use them to text each other." Michael sits on top of the dresser, shoving Castiel's backpack to the floor. "Although, you know, I take it back, don't, Castiel. Winchester is a moron." Castiel frowns deeply.
"Michael, Dean is perfect," Castiel replies stubbornly, because it's true. And not just because Dean is the captain of the baseball team, or the most popular boy in school or because he's honestly beautiful- but because he drives his brother Sam to school every day and is going to college entirely on scholarships he earned not just through sports, and in the winter, when it's too cold and icy to bike, Dean makes him get in the car, too. Dean is perfect because he's nice to little kids and animals even when other guys are looking, and he works a job he hates so he can do stuff like rent limos to take Jo to dances and buy her flowers on her birthday, even when he doesn't want to. Michael rolls his eyes.
"Castiel, it's adorable that you've been brainwashed by exposure into the world's most hideous man-crush, but Dean Winchester is so far from perfect I cannot even begin to describe all the ways he's inappropriate."
Castiel wishes Michael weren't home on spring break, but then takes it back immediately. After all, Michael is his older brother. And privately- since the only time Castiel brought it up Michael hadn't talked to him for a whole day- Castiel thinks Michael doesn't like Dean because they're so alike.
Castiel is sure his facial expression is some variety of stubborn and irritated, which explains why Michael rolls his eyes, but smiles and ruffles Castiel's hair.
"Okay, whatever, just do your homework," Michael instructs, walking out, leaving the door a hair ajar. Castiel sighs and attempts to fix his hair, which just makes it look even more bizarre and rumpled. He finally settles down to finishing his government reading. If the other curtain twitches open a couple of times to watch him read, Castiel doesn't notice.
The next day Castiel wakes up feeling inexplicably cheerful and reckless, so he doesn't wear a sweater over his button down shirt and soft old khakis. He just brings a windbreaker in case it rains, and laces his dark blue sneakers tightly before bolting out the door. The weather is beautiful and perfect, spring at its best, and Castiel knows today is going to be wonderful when he sees Dean tossing his backpack into the backseat of his car.
"You're early," Dean calls, and Castiel is awed at the implication that Dean Winchester has any idea, whatsoever, of his schedule.
"It's a nice day," Castiel replies, because one, it is, and two, it's better than saying something like, “Good morning, I love you.” Dean smiles and Castiel is overwhelmingly positive that this is maybe the single greatest day ever. And because today is the greatest day ever, Castiel hazards even more conversation. "How was your night?" Dean rolls his eyes.
"Had to read, like, all of Gilgamesh, I swear, Cas, my English teacher is a sadist," he protests, but there's still the hint of a smile that makes Castiel clutch the handle bars of his bike a little tighter. "But for real though, it wasn't so bad. There were battles and bros and prostitutes and stuff, I was pretty surprised." Castiel blinks for a moment, because he's heard Gilgamesh paraphrased before but that was rather- succinct, if vague.
"The epics were as entertainment for ancient cultures," Castiel finds himself saying. "I suppose tastes haven't changed much since then." Dean stares at him for a moment and Castiel is about to say something along the lines of 'not that there is anything wrong with that' when Dean just bursts out laughing. While Castiel doesn't understand what's so funny, he's happy, nonetheless, to make Dean laugh. Dean trails off finally and grins, wide and wonderful, and he leans slightly so his hip is pressed against the door of the car.
"Just, don't change, Cas. Ever," Dean says. Castiel has always wondered what exactly sets him apart- from his family, from his friends, what makes them pause a moment before responding- but this is the first time anyone has made him feel like maybe that's not a bad thing. Castiel feels warm down to his toes.
"I won't," he says, soft, a promise, because Dean asked. Dean looks like he's about to say something when Sam flies out the door trailing a messenger bag, a bagel and a coat.
"Hey, Cas, morning," Sam calls around the bagel, waving the hand not holding the coat. Castiel waves back, because Sam is three years younger than him but maybe one of the brightest, nicest people he's ever met and coincidentally already 3 inches taller than Castiel and still growing.
"Good morning, Sam," Castiel replies. Dean motions back and forth to Castiel and the car.
"You want a ride, Cas? I gotta drop Sammy off first, but you should come along," Dean offers. Castiel is possibly in another plane of happiness. "I don't have practice this afternoon, so I can drive you home, too." Castiel can hardly trust himself to talk, so he just nods and manages a 'thank you' as he puts his bike back in the garage.
The ride to drop Sam off at the middle school is uneventful, if uneventful covers five frantic text messages from Michael asking if he really just saw Castiel getting into Dean's car and three follow-up links to sex offender websites. Dean eyeballs him with a casual, “Your phone is blowing up, man,” and Castiel deletes them all with a smile. They circle around the front of Sandra Day O'Connor Middle School and drop Sam off. There are about fifteen 8th graders standing around in clumps, some waiting for Sam, but most of them look like they want nothing more than to be the person getting into the passenger seat of Dean's car, but today- today that's him.
"So, you're reading Gilgamesh," Castiel prompts, not because the silence is awkward- Castiel never thinks silence is awkward- but because he likes to hear Dean's opinions on things. Their conversations always lead somewhere unexpected and the insight they provide into the way Dean thinks is like a glimpse through a keyhole of a door he would like to open. Dean sort of smiles, just a quick hint of amusement.
"Yeah, we had a choice to read it or Beowulf, and I had to hear all about it last year to help Sam with this terrible art project of his. No way was I putting myself through that again," Dean says with an exaggerated eye roll. "Although no one told me it was a love story, god." Castiel blinks.
"What?" he asks delicately, because while he enjoys Dean's train of thought, he usually finds himself totally incapable of following it, much to his chagrin. Dean waves a hand loosely.
"You know. Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Like, there's bromance and then there's weeping for fifty pages that your boyfriend is dead. It was like Brokeback Mesopotamia," Dean argues. Really, Castiel has no idea what to even attempt to say, because he's still stuck on the fact that what Dean got out of the Epic of Gilgamesh was bros, battles, prostitutes and gay demi-gods. "It was still cool, though."
"I have never really thought about it from that perspective before," Castiel admits. Dean shrugs.
"God, Sam looked like I had punched thousands of years of established literary interpretation in the face when I said that. But then again, Sam still thinks Bert and Ernie are roommates," Dean says, rolling his eyes. Castiel frowns.
"Are they not?" he asks, because he's mostly certain they lived together. Dean stares at Castiel, which is somewhat concerning, considering he's still driving the car.
"Cas, they're gay, too," Dean insists. Castiel blinks. That puts an entirely new spin on Sesame Street.
"So you're saying that you believe Bert and Ernie to be lovers?" Castiel asks. He supposes they could be common law married, but they seemed to argue constantly about living conditions, which doesn't make for a solid foundation for a relationship- or so Dr. Phil claims. Dean is still staring at him, but at least they're at a stop light.
"Did you seriously just say 'lovers?" Dean demands of him, and Castiel nods. "Okay, but just... don't, because then I had to imagine muppet sex and oh, god, I just did it again." Castiel tilts his head to the side, but still can't picture it.
They pull into the parking lot at school, Dean slipping into his space smoothly. Castiel sort of wishes he had thought to have Dean drop him off somewhere else, but then he would have to explain that he's sort of worried he's going to get shoved every time someone throws up a hand for Dean to lazily high five as they walk in to school, Dean saying something about the fascist nature of the school parking system. Through some sort of cosmic sign, or possibly joke, Dean's locker is right next to Castiel's, across from the cafeteria.
"So any way the point is- see you in Physics, Cas," Dean says, only to be tackled back against his locker by a cloud of blond hair and perfume.
"You didn't call me back last night," Jo accuses, poking a finger into Dean's chest. Dean frowns.
"You told me not to, Jo, you said to call you on the fifth of never," Dean says. Castiel hides his face in his locker, trying to look like he's attempting to put his coat in, not eavesdropping shamelessly.
"Dean, I was upset. You were obviously supposed to call back," she insists. "But I forgive you." They're suddenly silent, so Castiel finally closes his locker and- oh. Jo has Dean pressed back against the locker and she's kissing him insistently. Castiel's good day has gone straight into the garbage so he just drops a quiet, "See you in Physics, Dean," and walks away toward his English class, clutching his copy of Beloved because he sort of feels sick to his stomach.
Castiel had a lot to say about traditional slave narratives and guilt and the supernatural, written in precise blue pen in the margins of the pages, but instead he sits quietly in the front row picking at a piece of tape shredded and stuck to the desk. 90 minutes goes slowly but way too fast. Castiel finds himself grabbing his bookbag and slipping through the hall to go sit behind the battered lab table in the science wing. When he'd walked into the classroom on the first day, Dean had waved him over to the table and gleefully pointed out, scratched into the surface, "Michael Meyer has Crabs.” Dean had chortled through most of the first class and Castiel still sighs over it. He keeps asking Michael why someone would have taken the time to scratch a claim that he has public lice into a desk, but he has never gotten a satisfactory answer.
"So, sorry about that, uh, earlier," Dean says, dropping heavily into the seat next to him. "Jo sometimes is uh..."
Castiel tries to be both helpful and tactful. "Tempestuous?" Castiel supplies. Dean raises his eyebrows.
"I was going to say 'a bitch', but that works too," Dean grins back. Castiel feels uncomfortable sharing in the joke, when in his more uncharitable moments he's thought similar things but without the raw current of fondness that underlies Dean's snipe. "She just- it's important to her, right? So it should matter to me, too, right?" Dean runs a frustrated hand through his hair. Castiel frowns.
"Dean, shouldn't the thing that is important to Jo be going with you, not how she goes?" Castiel asks quietly, trying to parse the surprised expression that appears on Dean's face.
"Thanks, Cas," Dean finally says, and then scrambles to pull his textbook and binder out as Dr. Singer walks in.
"You're welcome, Dean," Castiel replies in a whisper. They have a pop quiz which abruptly ends their conversation, but Dean seems thoughtful and withdrawn the rest of the class, heading out to lunch with a simple, “Meet you in the parking lot,” to reassure Castiel that he hasn't forgotten his offer to drive him home.
"I hope I didn't say anything that upset him," Castiel says, idly tapping his carrot stick against his Snapple. Gabriel stares at him.
"Castiel, seriously, he's not a unicorn. He's a dude. I think he can handle you giving him some actual good advice," Gabriel says, pulling out another pixy stick from the rapidly dwindling pack.
"You're going to get juvenile diabetes," Castiel says sadly. Anna snorts.
"He's going to get put back on Ritalin," she accuses fondly. "More importantly, Castiel, you said what was on your mind and you told the truth. You can't be a better friend than that." Gabriel shrugs.
"Well, you could push Jo down the stairs," Gabriel offers. Anna pinches him viciously because Castiel is still staring, horrified. "What?"
"Gabriel, I don't wish Jo any physical harm," Castiel says bleakly. Gabriel eyes Castiel with extreme prejudice.
"But you kind of wish all her hair would fall out of her head and she'd suddenly become a lesbian," Gabriel says. "By the way, I can make at least half of that happen. Just say the word, man." Anna pinches Gabriel even harder.
"Jesus Christ, Anna, quit it!" Gabriel whines, but he's been half a head shorter than Anna for two years despite his sullen assertions that he is still due another growth spurt. Castiel sighs.
"Look, he's still driving you home, right? If he's still in a funk, and it's really bothering you, just ask," Anna advises. Castiel smiles softly. Anna is always thoughtful and gives the best advice and Gabriel wouldn't offer to do terrible things if he didn't mean it- and he wouldn't mean it unless he cared.
"You're right, thank you, Anna," Castiel says and Gabriel rolls his eyes.
"Oh, nice, she gets the thank you for being Dear Abby and I get pin- Ow! An-na!" Gabriel hisses. Anna smiles at Gabriel sweetly.
"It wouldn't hurt so much if there wasn't so much of you to pinch," she replies breezily. Gabriel stares at her.
"So now you're calling me fat?" he demands. Castiel just smiles fondly as he finishes his lunch, feeling much more at ease with the world.
After lunch he cheerfully answers questions about judicial review and the branches of government, and when class is over he stops by his locker to grab his copy of Virgil before heading to Study Hall. He technically shares this class with Dean too, but more often than not Dean is nowhere to be found. However, today Dean is sitting right in the middle of the lecture hall, and when he sees Castiel walk in he motions toward the empty desk next to him. Bela Talbot gives him the mother of all dirty looks but he obediently takes the seat offered.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says quietly. He doesn't believe in talking in Study Hall but it's still five minutes until the hour. Class hasn't officially started yet. Castiel doesn't say, “I'm surprised to see you,” because that sounds sort of rude, like he expected Dean to skip class- although he usually does. Instead he places his book on the desk calmly.
"Hey, Cas," Dean says at his usual volume, which causes Bela to glare at Castiel again. "So, about what you said earlier." Dean trails off and then looks irritated. An apology is already forming behind Castiel's lips when Dean continues.
"Do you- should I say something to her?" Dean asks, still looking irritated, but there's a hint of a flush on his ears and neck and oh- he's embarrassed. Castiel has no idea why, but there it is.
"Dean, it seems to be a huge issue in your- relationship." Cas stumbles over the word, because the irony of the situation is overwhelming. He spends most of his time wishing there was no relationship, and here he seems to be helping Dean repair it. Dean rolls his eyes.
"I feel like a girl," Dean sighs. "I hate talking about this stuff and Sam never shuts up about it." Castiel blinks, as he hadn't thought Dean was displaying any feminine behavior, and tells him as much. Dean barks out a laugh, garnering a hissed "shut up" from Bela as Ms. Barnes walks in and parks herself in the front with a badly disguised romance novel.
Dean pulls out a piece of paper.
Anyway, so I saw you at lunch. Dean writes, handwriting familiar and terrible and dear. You're pretty close with Anna, huh? Castiel smiles, pulling out a sheet of paper himself.
Anna is a very good friend. Castiel writes, wondering absently where Dean was sitting, because he hadn't seen him at lunch.
So are you going to, I don't know... ask her to prom? Dean scratches out. Castiel blinks and stares at Dean, because a) Anna would laugh in his face, friend or no, and b) he had thought it was more than obvious that he was not interested in women.
I wasn't planning on it, no. he writes back carefully. Dean frowns.
Why not? It looks like she really likes you Dean scribbles out, lightning fast. Castiel raises both his eyebrows.
Dean, Anna knows I am a homosexual. I sincerely doubt that she is harboring any unrequited feelings for me. Castiel explains.
"What!?" Dean shouts. Ms. Barnes looks up quickly.
"I don't care how handsome you are, Dean, keep it zipped," she says, immediately putting her face back in her book. Dean blushes bright red, but instead writes WHAT???? in huge capitals, underlining it twice. Castiel feels like he's swallowing around a knot.
I have had 'homo' written on my locker several times, Dean. I would have thought you knew. Castiel writes, trying to stay calm and ignoring the slight tremor in the shape of his 'l's and 't's.
I thought that was just guys... messing around, I always took care of Dean pauses, knuckles white around the wood of the pencil. You should have told me. Castiel frowns.
I did not think my sexual orientation was any secret. he manages before Dean shakes his head violently.
NO NO did anyone Dean starts again, then scribbles it out. Has anyone ever messed with you Cas His pencil stays frozen over the paper for a moment. I mean, more than those assholes, no one's ever Dean runs a hand through his hair. You're okay, right?
Castiel blinks and looks at Dean, who looks stressed and angry and it feels like his chest is too tight because Dean is worried about him.
I am fine, Dean. Castiel writes, as reassuringly as he can, because there had been a moment of sheer terror when he realized Dean had honestly not known and his reaction could have been so- but Dean is concerned. Dean smiles, wide, relieved and it's like the sun parting the clouds after it rains. Castiel is not sure what to say, but Dean starts, like someone has jabbed him with a pin.
You're not Dean tries, hesitates, continues. You're not taking Gabriel to prom, are you? Castiel bites back a laugh, sudden and amused.
No, Dean. I am not. Castiel promises. Dean heaves a seemingly involuntary sigh of relief.
Good. he writes and Castiel has a moment of blind hope before Dean goes on. You could do so much better.
Castiel resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. It's not Dean's fault that Castiel is in love with him and has been for years, it's not Dean's fault that he likes women, it's not Dean's fault that Castiel cannot see past him to ever wanting anyone else. But it's still remarkably frustrating.
Thank you. Castiel finally writes when he realizes some sort of response other than lovelorn silence is probably required. Dean shrugs.
It's true, you're the nicest guy I know. Dean writes back, with the sort of lazy assurance that means he really thinks that and Castiel's heart aches. He wishes he could just be happy with this, with the warmth and weight of Dean's regard, and he's happy- he is- but it's just not enough.
Anyway. CRAP! Dean writes, hissing slightly under his breath. Coach assigned an emergency practice this afternoon, he thinks we're going to get our asses handed to us on Saturday otherwise. Dean rolls his eyes. If you want, I'll give you the keys to the Impala- you can drive yourself home, and I'll walk back. Castiel shakes his head, because there is no way he's making Dean walk home, exhausted, after practice. He would get hit by a truck.
No, it's fine, I can walk. Castiel writes, but Dean shakes his head.
No way, I offered you a ride this morning, I shouldn't bail on you. Dean explains. Castiel pauses.
Well, I could stay? he tries and vainly tries not to blush when Dean looks at him curiously. I could do my homework? Dean raises his eyebrows, but he's smiling.
You mean because I'm stopping you from getting it done now? he teases. Are you sure you don't mind? Castiel swallows against a suddenly dry throat at the thought of watching Dean practice in his tight baseball uniform.
I don't mind at all. Castiel writes and it's the honest truth. Dean shrugs.
Okay, it's going to be boring, though. Dean warns him. Castiel smiles weakly and taps against Virgil.
I will bring a book. he promises, although he doubts poor Virgil will be getting much, if any, of his attention this afternoon. Dean snorts.
Alright, maybe not compared to that. Dean says, and pulls out some Calculus homework. Castiel attempts to do some reading, but he cannot stop thinking about how Dean's first instinct was to protect him and that Dean thinks he deserves good things and he hopes no one notices he has not moved off of page 137 in half an hour.
When the bell finally rings, Castiel almost jumps as Dean slaps a companionable hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be in the bleachers, right?" Dean asks. Cas nods slightly, because he wouldn't miss this for the world. "Okay, see you there."
It's more or less as bad as he thought it would be. Dean is golden in the late spring sunlight, squinting into the sun under his cap, loose and pleased, shoving his teammates idly; skidding into bases with the same determined gracelessness he brings to everything, unpracticed and unaffected. Dean is himself because he doesn't know how to be anything else, and Castiel both envies and admires him for it.
He doesn't register the laughter for a long time, between watching Dean avidly behind Virgil and polishing his glasses, which seem impossibly smudged in the sunlight, but eventually he notices the two boys he thinks are sophomores sitting a few rows behind him. When Castiel turns to look at them they break off into smirks. While Castiel would never describe himself as an excellent judge of interpersonal behavior, there is something distinctly... unpleasant about the way they're looking at him that he has seen on playgrounds and in the back of study halls since he was a child.
He's not sure whether it will be better or worse if he just goes back to what he was doing, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. The moment his back is turned, the laughter starts again.
"Are you like, his cheerleader?"
"Are you guys going to get married in Canada?"
"Do you think he sucks Winchester's dick?"
"I bet he wants to."
It's not the worst he's ever heard. But there's something about them pulling Dean into it that creates a sick sweep of shame in his stomach. Castiel is not surprised that virtual strangers can tell what he feels for Dean is not strictly platonic, but he just wants to bury his face in his book and pretend he can't hear any of it.
"Well, do you, Meyer?" he hears louder, the clanging of feet over metal bleachers. "Do you suck his dick?" The taller of the two of them plops himself down next to Castiel.
"Aw, man, it's not nice to kiss and tell," the other one says, ensconcing himself on Castiel's other side. "You know Meyer here is a nice boy. I bet he doesn't even let a boy under his bra." There's nothing he can do but hope that if he doesn't respond they'll get bored and move on.
"C'mon, answer.” The one to his right elbows him, sharply, and Castiel is really not looking forward to where this seems to be going.
"You might want to get the fuck out of here before I bash in your skull with this bat, assholes."
Castiel's head snaps up. Dean is standing at the foot of the bleachers, his old wooden bat in one hand, the empty hand clenched tightly into a fist.
"My batting average is .349," Dean threatens, and the two of them scramble up and out, shoving each other in their haste. The moment they are careening toward the parking lot Dean lets out an angry exhale and slams his way up to where Castiel is still frozen in disbelief.
"What the hell, Cas?" Dean asks, dropping his bat with a clatter. He grabs Castiel's shoulders and gently moves his head side to side. "Did they hit you? I'll fucking kill them." Castiel blinks.
"You didn't need to do that, Dean," Castiel protests softly. It would have been fine, he's sure.
"Are you kidding me? Cas, you said people didn't mess with you," Dean argues. He still looks furious, but Castiel can see the concern behind it and all the tension floods out of him.
"It was fine," Castiel promises. Dean blows out a noisy, irritated exhale.
"Cas, you have got to be kidding me," Dean says, covering his face with his hands. "Alright. Come with me." Castiel raises both his eyebrows.
"Are we going home?" Castiel asks; looking around the field, apparently practice is over. Dean rolls his eyes.
"No. I'm going to teach you how to swing a baseball bat, because if I'm not around to deal with shitbags like that, I'm making sure you can take care of yourself." Dean stands up, brushing at his knees. "God, this is like when I had to teach Sammy how to punch." Castiel forebears mentioning that he's actually a brown belt in judo, because it seems that this will give Dean some sort of peace of mind, and he has no objections to that.
He allows himself to be drawn out on to the dusty diamond, the press of Dean's hand hot and slightly damp around his wrist. The last light is orange and hazy as Dean pushes the bat into his hands.
"Okay, show me your stance," Dean instructs, taking a few steps back. Castiel blinks, but grips low on the bat, fists apart around the cool wood. Dean shakes his head, but there's a smile finally playing around the corners of his mouth.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong," he says, but he's amused and loose again and Castiel smiles slightly at that himself. "Narrow your grip," Dean says, reaching out to correct when Castiel doesn't move immediately. Castiel doesn't have small hands, but Dean's press over his entirely, shifting them together. "Now, keep your hands about a foot from your body." Dean moves one hand to Castiel's shoulder, one over Castiel's hand, almost absently rubbing a thumb over his knuckles.
"Good, good, that's good," Dean murmurs, tilting so the bat goes to a 45 degree angle somewhere behind Castiel's head and then he slips behind Castiel, leveling his shoulders with a firm touch.
Castiel feels like all the air has been sucked out of him, but he doesn't dare to breathe. It's like if he moves on his own the spell will be broken and Dean has his hands all over him and he doesn't want it to stop. Dean presses a palm to Castiel's hip and he feels dizzy, lightheaded, like the moment after a long run where you feel like you're still moving forward even though you've come to a stop.
"Keep your feet shoulder-width apart." Dean says quietly, pressing harder. "No, wider." Castiel wonders, more desperately than ever, what it would be like to kiss Dean.
"Alright, take a deep breath," he says and Castiel obeys, shaky and frantic. "Exhale. Swing."
The movement is fierce, absolute and sharp.
"Good," Dean repeats in his ear. "Good." Castiel feels like every nerve ending in his body is on fire, and does not know how he can possibly be expected to get in a small, enclosed space with Dean and pretend that he's not insanely aroused. They stand like that for an eternity before Dean finally coughs and steps back quickly.
"Anyway, now you know and you can beat the crap out of assholes like those two morons," Dean stammers. "I'm going to go change and get my backpack, meet you in the parking lot?" He's already halfway to the locker room entrance by the time he finishes his sentence. It takes Castiel another long stunned moment to start moving toward the bleachers to get his books, still limply holding the bat.
The ride home is loud, Dean cranking up the stereo and rolling down the windows, thumbs restlessly tapping against the wheel. They say stilted goodbyes; something has changed and Castiel doesn't know what, but it feels like something is wrong.
He feels fretful and strange all evening, until he twitches his curtain aside to see a giant sign in the other window in front of the curtain in Dean's window.
STOP STUDYING GO TO BED NERD : )
Castiel takes a deep breath, smiles and turns out the light as he slips under the covers.
Saturday morning is lazy and cheerful, even if Michael goes on at length about Castiel taking rides from low-class roadwhores. Castiel would be more bothered by it, but his father just hmms from behind his Wall Street Journal and Mother looks at Michael disapprovingly and talks about sending the Winchesters a seasonally appropriate fruit basket.
The weather is stereotypically beautiful spring, cloudless, pale blue skies and gentle breezes to ruffle the branches. Castiel retires to the hammock in the backyard with a battered copy of Metamorphosis as a break from all the Virgil he's been re-reading. He dozes off, waking up abruptly when he hears a car door slam. The quality of light suggests it's early in the afternoon. Castiel is still blinking the sleep out of his eyes when his mother opens the french doors with a soft smile and calls out that Castiel has a visitor. He hardly has time to sit up before she motions Dean out into the backyard.
Dean drops his bat bag and mitt at the base of one of the trees the hammock is attached to before throwing himself into the hammock with a groan, bouncing Castiel into the air briefly. There is red ocher all over the front of his white uniform, over the green script reading 'Firebirds' and smeared across the freckles on the bridge of Dean's nose.
"Are you alright, Dean?" Castiel asks immediately, because Dean has an arm flung over his face but Castiel can see the grimace clearly anyway. "Did you not win the game?" Dean sighs messily.
"No, we won, that's-" he says on an exhale. "So, I told Jo what you said, right, about if she wants to go with me, how the limo or whatever shouldn't matter, right?" Castiel nods solemnly before he realizes Dean cannot possibly see him through his arm. He ought to verbally answer the question, but apparently it is rhetorical because Dean continues anyway.
"Yeah, so we're sort of broken up," Dean mumbles and Castiel always expected he'd feel nothing but happiness if, when, Dean said those words, but instead he feels like the bottom of the hammock has just fallen out. Perhaps that's his stomach.
"I'm so sorry," Castiel says finally, and it's true. He is sorry that Dean feels terrible and that it was his advice that finally did it. He never wanted Jo and Dean to be together, but he didn't want them to break up if it meant Dean wallowing in misery on his hammock, either. Dean laughs, but it's not amused.
"Yeah. Well. It was coming, right? If I couldn't tell her what I really thought about the whole thing? If not taking her to prom, fucking prom, would make her dump me?" Dean gesticulates wildly in the air above him. "It's just- the worst thing about it?" Dean laughs humorlessly again. "I'm really not that upset. I'm relieved." Castiel has no idea what to do- touching Dean is totally out of the question, considering Dean's side is already pressed up against Castiel's hip- but he's never been good with verbal reassurances either. Dean flops his arm down to his side and opens his eyes.
"Does that make me a total douchebag? We've been dating for three years, and now I'm just... relieved?" Castiel bites his lip.
"Sometimes, people grow apart," he tries. "Holding on to them can hurt more than letting them go." Dean laughs, something more sincere about it, before he covers his face with his palms again.
"How do you always say what I want to hear, Cas?" Dean mumbles. "Seriously, for a guy I've never seen date, you give some zen advice." Castiel shrugs carefully, but the hammock still sways them strangely.
"I read a lot," Castiel offers. Jane Austen covered a lot of the basics of relationships. Dean snorts.
"Anyway, I didn't mean to dump on you. There's just no one else I can talk to about this, you know? You're a good listener." Dean says, running a hand through his hair, but then he pauses to look at Castiel seriously. "And if you- if you needed someone to talk to... I'm sure I give really shitty advice, but I would listen." Castiel stops himself from sucking in a breath, but just nods, feeling like he's going to burst. Dean makes a face.
"Also, sorry I bust up in here, I must reek," Dean says with a bark of laughter, launching himself out of the hammock. "It was a good game, man, you should come sometime." Castiel makes an impulsive, aborted hand motion toward Dean.
"Is everything okay?" Dean asks, looking slightly puzzled. Castiel makes another terrible, impulsive decision.
"I do have something- something to talk about," Castiel says, already wishing he had kept his mouth shut. "If you want to... listen. You don't have to." Dean shrugs.
"We're friends. That's what we do," Dean says, settling himself back into the hammock- or trying to, but they don't manage to distribute their weight evenly until Dean kicks off his cleats and they each sit with their back toward a tree, Castiel's bare feet next to Dean's dark green socks in the center. Castiel leans his chin on his knees, drawn up to his chest.
"So, spill," Dean prompts. Castiel picks at a rough patch on his khakis around the cuff.
"If there was someone I liked, a- a boy," Castiel says, hazarding a look up. Dean looks absolutely gobsmacked, so he backpedals frantically. "Not you, not anyone you know, I just, a boy. Ah, do you think- would he like me?"
Dean stares at him. Castiel feels utterly mortified beyond all belief and buries his face between his kneecaps.
He freezes when he feels a hand light gently on top of his head.
"Hey, Cas. Cas," Dean says quietly. "C'mon, look at me." Dean looks thoroughly uncomfortable but he's smiling, sort of. "Some guy, out there somewhere, would be lucky to have you. You're awesome." He makes a face. "And I've only ever said that to you and Sammy, and I only meant it with you." Dean shoves at Castiel's foot with one of his.
"So seriously, cheer up. You look like someone ran over your dog." Dean says. Castiel blinks.
"I don't have a dog," Castiel protests quietly. He wonders why that answer doesn't make him feel any better. Dean grins.
"That's the spirit, Cas," Dean tells him, then swings his feet out. "Seriously, I have to take a shower, I'm gross. But I'll be around tonight, chuck something at my window if you want to talk." Dean collects his things and hops the useless fence between their yards with a wave over his shoulder.
Castiel lies aimlessly in the hammock until his mother calls him in for dinner.
"Was Dean alright, dear?" Mother asks, the furrow of concern between her brows indicating she's contemplating upping the fruit basket to homemade cookies. His father raises his eyebrows but doesn't say anything.
"He broke up with his girlfriend, Jo Harvelle," Castiel says, not sure if he's actually allowed to share the information. However, it's not as though his parents are going to tell anyone either. Plus, Castiel believes that his parents already know these kinds of things, even before he tells them. "They were having an argument about prom." Michael drops his fork with a clatter against his plate.
"He is not allowed to take you to prom," Michael says sharply. "Father, tell him Dean is not allowed to take him to prom." When Father just shakes his head with a smile, Michael lets loose a despairing wail. "70 percent of teenage pregnancies happen at prom! Father, do you want Castiel to become another statistic?" Mother tuts.
"Michael, Castiel knows about safe sex," she says, pouring herself another half glass of wine. "Our discussion when he was thirteen was extremely comprehensive." Michael frowns.
"You had the talk with me when I was ten," he protests. She smiles at him seraphically.
"You were an early bloomer, darling," Mother says with an airy wave of her free hand. "In any case, it would be a pity for the two of you to go alone when you could go together. The photographs would be charming." Michael claws at his face.
"Are you even hearing this?" Michael demands of their father. Father shrugs expressively. Mother pats Castiel on the hand.
"You should see if he's still going," she advises. Michael pantomimes slitting his wrists with a dinner knife as Castiel asks to be excused. He turns on the lights in his room and pulls open the curtains to see Dean lying in bed, tossing a baseball into the air over and over again. He raps loudly on his own window and Dean's head appears, tousled and with a smile.
What's up? Dean scribbles. Castiel digs out his notepad.
Do you think you'll still go to prom tomorrow? Dean blinks, but shrugs.
Nah. I told you, I hate dances. Really not my scene. Dean holds up a finger, while he writes something else. Are you?
Castiel forces a smile.
Not my scene. he writes back, and Dean laughs and nods.
Yeah, I'll probably just stay home and watch zombie movies. Dean scribbles. You should come over.
Castiel's not sure what it is, but something snaps. Before he knows it he's blowing past Sam in the Winchesters' entryway and opening the door to Dean's room.
"You know, when I said you should come over, I didn't necessarily mean right this second," Dean says faintly, still holding his marker and notepad. Castiel takes a deep breath.
"You would never have to take me to a dance. I don't like them and I don't even know how to dance. But I have loved you from the moment you moved in next door and if you would let me, I would make you happy, I promise," Castiel blurts out and he thinks he is having a heart attack. Dean stares at him for a moment, jaw slack.
"But you said- this afternoon- that it wasn't- you said you didn't like me!" Dean sputters. Castiel looks to a spot directly to the left of Dean's ear.
"It was hypothetical. If I liked someone," Castiel says on auto-pilot. Dean blinks.
"I was so angry when you said that, and I didn't even know why," Dean mutters. Castiel opens his mouth to say something, but Dean shushes him quickly, uncapping the marker and scribbling something on the paper. "Just-"
SHUT UP AND KISS ME is scrawled across the page in black and white.
Castiel takes a step toward him, but then the enormity of the whole situation comes crashing down around his ears and he's frozen to the floor. Dean rolls his eyes with a laugh, dropping the paper and standing up. He pulls Castiel in by his shoulders. "I can't believe I took dating advice from you," Dean says, but he's grinning, and Castiel knows because he can feel it against his mouth.
Castiel has thought about what it would be like to kiss Dean for three years and it's nothing compared to kissing him, nothing at all.
Mother is disappointed that they're missing the prom, but is slightly mollified that since Dean isn't getting Castiel a boutonniere, he's at least paying for the movie ticket.
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