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Castiel had been content to spend the weekend in his dorm room with a stack of books, an internet connection, and two-and-a-half days of solitude. Balth went home to visit his parents, again, which meant that, bathroom visits aside, Castiel wouldn’t have to see another living person until Monday morning for his 8:30 comparative lit class.
That he’s standing on the first floor of the chem frat (in a conversation with an intoxicated chem major who is insisting that Agatha Christie is not only still living but still writing) is Charlie Bradbury’s doing.
"This will be good for you," she sighed and tugged him out the door by the tie he’d only started to put on. He tied it while they walked, so it’s backwards. He’s awkward and all wrong, coat gaping open at his ankles—no one else is wearing a coat; where did they put them?—holding a plastic cup of something green that tastes too sweet and too strong, and Charlie is nowhere in sight.
He should have pretended to be in the library.
The room is dark and crowded with cologne-heavy students stumbling around to music Castiel would never select. It sounds like an animal moaning, the vocals overpowering the background melody, if it’s fair to call this a melody. It’s tragic, is what it is, but it gives him an excuse to get away. He extracts himself from the chem major, shouting, “I have to find my friend.” The chem major sways in the door and slurs something that might be a request for Castiel’s number. Castiel ignores him and sips the punch.
The noise is coming from the basement, rising into a howl as he starts down the stairs. He grips his coat tightly around his body as sweaty coeds with gummy smiles dart past him in what is surely a sexual frenzy. The basement is finished, strobing with colored lights. It smells like people have been dancing. He grimaces, holds his breath, and very nearly climbs back up the stairs when his eyes fall on the performer.
He is roughly Castiel’s age, perhaps a year or two younger, in a hooded-sweatshirt unzipped to his navel. Nothing underneath. His hair clings to his forehead, which shines with perspiration as he belts out lyrics that go fuzzy in Castiel’s ears. He has never seen a smile that radiant, as if it pours from his very soul, one that launches not a thousand ships but a million, and begs sonnets. Novels.
People bump into Castiel, but he is unfazed, staring with an open mouth at the Adonis crooning into a microphone. He is saddened that they will never meet, never speak; unreasonably envious of the husky, wolfish man grinning at him from beneath a Greek fisherman’s cap. He inches toward the speaker setup, until he is close enough to see a smattering of freckles across the man’s nose and cheekbones. He catches Castiel’s eye and licks his lips, almost obscenely so, and Castiel is suddenly on fire, his cheeks flushing hot. He drinks from his plastic cup and lets it cool him.
It has the opposite effect. He moves closer. He doesn’t understand why he is moving closer, legs moving of their own accord, but within minutes he is only a foot from the microphone, reaching out a hand to wrap it around the stand. This is not a good idea, his brain tells him, but he ignores his brain. The man appears intrigued. He finishes the song staring at Castiel’s mouth, then hands the microphone to the wolf and mops the sweat from his forehead.
"Hey," he says.
"Hello," says Castiel.
+
Castiel is never drinking again.
He’s furious with himself and banishes the tie to the back of his closet, still feels the way Dean tugged it as they kissed. That was his name, Dean. Castiel had repeated it over and over into his mouth as he held Dean against the wall and worshiped him.
"You are exquisite," he promised, which made Dean frown and look away. He clamped a hand on his shoulder, so tightly Dean winced. "You don’t think you deserve praise," Castiel murmured into his ear, sucking at the skin underneath it, "but I would sacrifice armies in your name."
He stumbled alone back to his dorm, fell into bed still wearing his coat, and woke up sick a little after five. He hadn’t even gotten Dean’s number.
He shakes with nausea all day, ignores Charlie’s messages, manages broth by seven o’clock, and drinks coffee to stay awake until after midnight finishing his reading assignments, despite the pounding in his temples. At least he has read The Odyssey before. That’s something.
He drags himself to class—Balth still isn’t home, which is typical—cursing the overhead fluorescent bulbs, cursing his own lack of self-control. He loops a scarf around his neck to hide the evidence of Saturday night. There is little chance he will encounter Dean on campus. He probably takes mostly science classes, and it’s not often to find a non-major interested in modern-day interpretations of Homer through women’s poetry.
Castiel is first to arrive, falling into his usual seat in the front row and burying his head in his arms. At least the room is warm. He groans.
"Man, you alright?" someone asks. That someone sits next to him, which Castiel finds rude—there are other available seats, there is no reason for this person to violate his personal space. He is tired and angry with himself, and nearly opens his mouth to demand, "Sit somewhere else." But he opens his eyes first.
In full light, Dean’s eyes are verdant green against a galaxy of freckles. He’s dressed simply: a red t-shirt and olive jacket, black cord disappearing into his neckline. The skin beneath his ear is marred with red and purple bruises in the shape of Castiel’s mouth and teeth. He holds Castiel’s gaze for a beat before his face blooms into recognition.
"Should’ve known you were an English major, the way you were talking."
Castiel is mortified. He blushes furiously and closes his eyes, like it might will Dean away.
"I’m sorry," he mutters, remembering the flood of absurdities he’d lavished on him.
"Hey," Dean says kindly. "It’s cool. Made my weekend. Do you care if I sit here?"
Castiel wants to tell him to get up and go away. He doesn’t like feeling out of control, but he shrugs and takes out a pen, tries to ignore the burning in his cheeks. There’s still time to drop this class without the penalty of a withdrawal on his transcript. He’s never cared much for Homer, anyway.
"So," Dean says, slouching in his chair. Castiel sits up straighter. "I was pretty bummed out to find you were gone."
"Can we please not talk about it?" Castiel hisses.
"Sure," Dean says sullenly. Castiel is relieved when the professor enters and promptly begins lecture.
+
"Listen." Dean catches him by the sleeve before Castiel is able to stand up. Castiel shoots him a dark look and tucks his book and pen in his bag, zips it almost violently, tightens his scarf into a choke-hold. "Can I get your number?"
“Why?” Castiel challenges.
"You were the only one who appreciated my rendition of Bon Jovi," Dean tells him. Castiel levels him with a sour expression.
"I dunno," Dean continues. "You’re hot. You’ve had your tongue in my mouth. Thought you might let me buy you lunch."
"Lunch."
"Yeah, you know. That thing where people sit together, order food, around lunchtime."
"It’s ten in the morning," Castiel informs him.
"Breakfast, then," Dean suggests.
Castiel hesitates. He should feel out of place, like a badly cut suit, but even with Dean staring at him so intently, he simply feels…fine. He feels fine. Breakfast would be nice, a chance to talk quietly, get to know one another. There’s no harm in it. If it ends badly, it’ll make good writing material. And Dean is so beautiful.
Castiel wets his lips and swallows, feels the scarf loosen, absently rubs the marks that fit Dean’s mouth. Says, “Alright.”