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It’s a Thursday afternoon when Castiel first kisses Dean.
It’s shy, and tentative, and barely there in a sense where it totally is, and it’s almost so subtle to the point that it’s impossible to ignore without Dean looking like an ass. So, he doesn’t. He sinks into the feeling of the other man’s lips on his, and doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t retreat either. He stands there, comfortable and poised because this is Castiel, and even if Castiel is kissing him like Dean usually kisses girls, Castiel is his best friend and Dean would do anything for him.
He’s never thought about another man romantically. Sure, he can appreciate an attractive guy when he sees one, because Dean’s always been kind of fascinated by the physically fortunate people out there. Castiel is no exception.
He’s an attractive man, with unruly hair that looks like he just toppled out of bed–and more often than not, he usually has–and a square-cut jawline that somehow works on him in a way that wouldn’t work on anyone else. He has intense, azure-blue eyes that can focus on literally anything for any amount of time possible, and while he’s just about the weirdest person Dean’s ever known, he’s also one of the best, too.
They’re standing in Dean’s small, lofty dorm room when Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s, and he’s never thought of this before. He’s never thought of kissing another man, let alone Cas, but somehow it works and he’s not as repulsed by the idea–or the act–as he thought he would be.
He probably should be having some huge gay crisis right now, throwing words that he doesn’t mean and running because Dean’s always ran from his problems in the past. But, he doesn’t this time, and whether this is because he doesn’t see this as a problem or because he’s still in shock (less likely), well, he’s not willing to analyze that.
Cas pulls back a few seconds later, his blue eyes dark and clouded; searching. He licks his lips, catching the taste of Dean, and somehow Dean actually finds it kind of endearing.
“Dean,” he says, and he reaches up a hand that stalls awkwardly in the air, fingers twitching to touch, but he’s hesitant and unsure. “I’m in love with you.”
And Dean’s only a sophomore in college, hasn’t even figured out what he wants to major in, and he’s smelly during the best times, and drunk and dry at his worst, but he knows that Cas’ confession fills him with a warm feeling that he’s not really used to, but thinks he can get used to all of the same. If Castiel had somehow managed to fall in love with Dean, who is everything short of perfect and kind of a monumentally shitty person underneath his deflective exterior, then Dean thinks trying something with him wouldn’t be such a horrible idea.
*
They decide to stay friends, for the most part.
“I don’t want to do this if you don’t want to either,” Cas tells him, once they’ve pulled away from their kiss and Dean still hasn’t made a move.
Dean doesn’t know what to say; he’s never been more confused about what he wants in his life, and that includes the time when he and Sam got fantastically drunk and sat on their parents roof, looking up at the stars and arguing about the deep, metaphorical meaning of life–they always did stupid shit like that when Dean was a freshman in college, because it was nice to have that familiarity when everything was brand new. Now, Sam’s a junior in high school and has traded drunken nights with his brother with romantic nights with his girlfriend, Jess, and Dean’s always wanted to look at someone like his brother looks at her–like he would put himself through hell just to see them happy, even if it’s just for a flicker of a moment.
“I don’t know what I want,” Dean says, and it’s the truth. It’s always been hard to lie to Cas, even in the beginning, when he was the weird boy in Dean’s standard English class, the one who never asked questions with his mouth, but asked them with his eyes instead.
Castiel smiles, and it’s not sad, but it’s affectionate and just the right side of too kind. “I know,” he says. “But I’ll be here when you do.”
*
Dean grew up without a childhood, and learned from a young age that if your family was happy, then eventually you would be, too. He raised Sam from the time that the boy was five years old, practically, when his dad was too choked up on red-blooded anger and misplaced guilt to look after two growing boys that reminded him of his lost wife too much. When his father was home, Dean looked after him, too; he made sure his father always showered (at least once every few days), made sure his father always ate something, no matter how small, and when his father came home high on booze and remorse, he tucked him into bed with a kiss to the forehead and prayed.
He prayed for happiness and closure for his father, for great fortune and the childhood that never came for Dean; even though he was only nine, he felt like he was twenty years older. He never prayed for himself because he already had everything he needed, and everything he needed was in Sam.
When his father passed away when he was fifteen from liver failure, Dean would like to say he was surprised, but having spent one-too-many nights cleaning up dried bile and leftover bits of food from his fathers sheets, it was practically written in the stars.
*
Castiel lives in the dorm room across from Dean’s.
He has a single room, one he snatched up because he applied for room and board early and got lucky with his picks. Dean pretends he isn’t jealous, but they both know that isn’t true.
Dean’s roommate is off the rail and weird, but not in the same way that Cas is. He drinks too much, and is about three years older than Dean, but is still only a sophomore like him and Cas, and his beard is too long at times and too short at others. He’s nice, though, even if he mumbles in his sleep and steals Dean’s favorite pens from off of his desk. He’s bearable, he respects Dean–unless he’s drunk, but even then it’s blindly obvious that he tries–and he could have ended up with someone worse, someone like Gabriel, who is loud and obnoxious and Cas’ brother so Dean can’t help but love him.
Cas’ dorm is always clean and proper; the only parts of his room that are messy and have no order are his desk and his bookcase, but that’s just Cas, so Dean isn’t really surprised. It’s somehow incredibly cosy, and Dean finds himself spending more nights in Cas’ dorm than in his own.
Cas asks why this is one night when they’re studying f0r separate finals that are on the same day, and Dean shrugs his shoulders and says, “Chuck.”
Cas doesn’t call him out on the lie, and Dean knows that’s probably because he knows Dean doesn’t really have an answer.
It’s the middle of spring, where the grass is almost always dewy from the soft kiss of dawn, and the flowers are in full bloom; Dean hates to admit it, but it’s kind of breathtakingly beautiful in a way that is commonplace to him now. Spring semester is coming to a close, which means that Dean has approximately two months to choose a major or else he’s basically screwed.
“Have you figured out a major yet?”
“No.”
“You should probably get on that.”
Dean scoffs, and throws a pencil at his head. He ignores how he misses by a huge margin and instead throws another one. And ignores that one, too. “I have two months,” he retorts.
Castiel looks at him intently, his eyes boring holes into the side of Dean’s face. He’d find it unnerving if he wasn’t used to it already. He has two looks on autopilot almost always, and it’s either him being a particularly smug bastard, because he enjoys ruining Dean’s life, or it’s this pensive, searching look, caught somewhere between a dying puppy and newborn kitten. They’re both equally as frustrating.
*
One month after Castiel kisses Dean, Dean starts to notice the little things that he never picked up on before.
He starts to notice how whenever he calls Cas, he comes, and he doesn’t know if this has to do with Cas being in love with him and everything, but it’s unsettling, knowing that someone would be so willing to help Dean with absolutely anything. He knows he would, too, because that’s just Castiel, helpful and willing, all action and ask questions later kind of guy, but in the best possible way.
He starts to notice that the text messages he sends Dean aren’t usual between friends. How he will find magazine clippings out of Dean’s favorite muscle car magazine and will send them to him via picture message–and sometimes he’ll even clip them out and place them in an envelope, slipping it under Dean’s door. Sometimes he’ll hear someone mention pie, and will text Dean and tell him to have a good day, will you, and to try not to threaten anyone today, please.
He starts to notice how he does all of these, too, even if they’re sparse at first, but gradually they grow like the flowers in the spring, and Dean finds that he doesn’t mind all that much.
*
The Wednesday before spring break, Dean invites Cas to come back to Bobby’s house with him.
He doesn’t expect for him to say yes.
*
They’re on the road two days later, four packed bags in the backseat, with stolen beer and cheap junk food in the front. Metallica is blasting through the speakers of Dean’s baby, his 1967 Impala, the only girl he’s ever thought was worth keeping around. There’s a hint of a smile on Cas’ face that is beautiful and different all at once.
Dean doesn’t know what makes him do it, but without a second thought, he reaches over with his hand that’s not on the steering wheel and grasps one of the hands resting on Cas’ lap.
He doesn’t see the smile that takes over Castiel’s face, but he’s pretty sure he hears it, and that’s just as well, too.
*
“They’re kind of crazy, like serious-level, almost hospital-admittance crazy,” Dean warns, when they’re one hundred miles outside of Bobby’s rundown, two story house nestled in the South Dakota mountains.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Dean,” Cas says, and then adds, “I’m not exactly normal, either.” And Dean has to smile at him because Cas might not talk a lot, but when he does, it’s always something worth hearing.
“No,” Dean agrees, “I don’t suppose you are.”
Cas smiles at him, a slight quirk of the mouth that makes Dean’s smile broaden into a grin. “You are not either.”
“No,” Dean says, and rather than saying it, thinks, ‘I’m probably the weirdest of us all.’
By Castiel’s eyebrow quirk, Dean almost believes that he somehow heard that too, the private thought hidden between all of the emotions that Dean shovels down and ignores. He’s not sure, but it’s a definite possibility; Cas has always known him better than most.
*
They arrive on a chilly, cold afternoon that’s bleeding into early evening. Cas sleeps most of the rest of the way, and Dean finds it hard to not glance over more often than not, admiring the soft, angelic like features that he barely gets to see so relaxed. Cas, Dean realizes, has always been beautiful, but he looks his best like this, pressed against his baby’s door, deep in sleep, curled in on himself with his one hand shoved between his face and the door, the other hand still clutching Dean’s tightly.
“We’re here,” Dean says, gently, shaking his fingers free of Cas’.
The other man stirs awake, slowly, eyes blinking open, unfocused and raw, blue almost entirely taking over black. “Dean?”
Dean nods, even though he’s pretty sure Cas can’t make out the movement, and gestures around him. “We’re here,” he repeats.
Cas blinks his eyes again, and they’re suddenly more focused and alert, and he nods, getting out of the car and retrieving his bags from the back. Dean does the same, and together they walk up to the house.
“My kid brother is going to be here,” Dean tells him; he probably should have told him sooner, but Dean’s always been dodgy on details, especially when they revolve around Sam. He doesn’t let himself think about how he’s never taken anyone to meet Bobby, or Sam, because they’ve never been important enough. But Cas; Cas is Cas, and he’s always been a little off-kilter, and for some reason, this is what his family’s drawn too. It’s a nice fit and he refuses to acknowledge what this says about their relationship, and instead barges into the house.
“Honey, I’m home,” he calls, meeting silence and an awkward shift of weight from foot-to-foot from Castiel.
Out of his peripheral vision he sees this mammoth like creature come up and ambush him from his right side, the side that Cas isn’t currently on, and before he can even process what exactly it is that he saw, he’s gathered up by his brother in a hug that squeezes the breath out of him.
Dean pats his back, once, says, “Stop being a girl, Sammy,” before he finally gives in and hugs his brother back. It’s been since Christmas since he’s last seen the kid, and since then he’s grown at least three inches and doesn’t appear to be stopping soon. “Stop growing, you’re making me look bad.”
Sam just grins, loose and familiar and Dean’s stuck with how glad he is to see him. He never thought it would be so hard to leave Sam, but then again, he never really pictured leaving him in the first place.
It’s then that Sam notices Castiel, who is rubbing his neck awkwardly and is staring at the floor like he is wishing upon a deity to make it possible for it to swallow him up. Sam lifts a curious eyebrow at Dean.
“Hello,” he says, to Castiel.
Cas looks up, politely, and holds out a hand that may or may not be shaking in the almost awkward silence. “Hello. You must be Sam,” he says, and by the look of surprise on Sam’s face, he wasn’t expecting such a gravelly voice to come out of someone so tiny. Dean was surprised, too, but it quickly became one of the things he liked the most about Cas. It’s soothing as much as it is grating, and Dean now finds it too easy to get carried away in the sound.
“I’m Castiel,” he offers, a moment later. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“Likewise,” Sam agrees, and then looks at Dean, silently asking ‘who the hell is he’ and ‘are you dating’ simultaneously.
Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead choosing to look at Cas, who is looking at Dean in return, kind of like a deer caught in headlights, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands that are laying limp awkwardly at his sides.
“Where’s Bobby?”
Sam grimaces. “Shopping,” he sighs. “Says we were running out of food. I’m dying, Dean. He can’t cook for the life of him and if I have to swallow down another burnt cheeseburger that looks more like a rotten liver, I’m going to be forced to move out. I miss your cooking.”
Dean blushes brightly, and before he can say anything, Cas looks at him curiously. “You can cook?”
“No,” Dean hisses at the same time Sam says, “He’s brilliant.” And seriously, fuck little brothers and their meddling ways.
“Interesting,” Castiel replies, looking at Dean with something in his eyes that he can’t quite identify.
“Anyway,” Dean says, quick to change the subject. “I’m going to go get settled in and let Cas do the same.”
Sam raises an eyebrow, makes a motion with his hands that is downright obscene and of course Dean’s forced to throw the nearest thing at his head. It happens to be the pillow that’s in his hand. “Bitch.”
Sammy smiles, open and bright, even though Cas is there, and Dean thinks this might actually turn out to be okay. “Jerk.”
*
Dean and Cas end up sharing a room, not because they have to, but because he can tell Cas kind of wants to–not that he blames him, really–and Dean finds he doesn’t mind so much either.
“I’m sorry about my brother.”
“He’s very tall,” Castiel comments, in that off handed way that he’s so very good at. It startles a laugh out of Dean.
“He is.”
“He loves you very much,” Castiel says.
Dean feels a clenching in his chest, but manages to smile at Cas anyway. “I’d hope so.”
Castiel smiles at him, one of the rare, open mouthed smiles that he rarely gives anyone, but remarkably are all saved for Dean. “He does.”
*
When Bobby comes back from the store, the first thing he does is slap Dean across the back of his head.
“Hey!” Dean protests. “Don’t damage the goods.”
Sam snickers, holding his tongue on what is probably some snarky remark about how Dean’s goods are long dead, if they ever existed at all, or whatever else Sam feels like teasing him about this week. Castiel is straight-faced as always, but his eyes are laced with amusement, and Dean’s pretty sure that he’s enjoying himself.
He doesn’t know why, but it makes something warm settle and blossom in his chest, like he’s done something right.
The second thing Bobby does is offer his hand to Castiel, introducing himself as “Bobby” and offering him a look that takes a moment for Dean to recognize: acceptance.
“I was thinking,” Dean says quickly; the air is changing, he’s pretty sure it’s going in a direction that he doesn’t want to deal with right now; thick and full of emotion. “That I could cook breakfast tomorrow. You know, first day back here and all. And plus I know Sammy probably misses it.”
Bobby isn’t fooled. “Tryin’ to tell me that my cooking’s rotten, boy?”
Dean just smiles, and Bobby smiles back, and he can feel Castiel’s foot nudging his under the table, too, and Dean is blindsided by how happy he feels.
*
Bobby peels himself away from them, saying that he’s going to go work on a car in the salvage yard he’s been trying to fix up recently, so they’re left sitting in the kitchen. The air is a little awkward, but nothing that Dean can’t handle, and he looks at Cas and smiles, because he can.
Cas doesn’t smile back, but his eyes brighten considerably as he clears his throat. “Would I be able to take a shower?” he asks. “I don’t think being trapped in a car for so long agreed with my hygiene.”
Dean nods. “Sure,” he says, and shows him where everything is.
When he gets back, Sam looks at him with this face, one that Dean’s labelled as Sammy’s ‘I’ve-figured-it-all-out’ face. It’s infuriating, but that’s only because he usually hits the problem firmly on the head. He’s never been very good at it himself, but Sam makes it up enough for the both of them.
“So, you and Cas?” He asks.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “What?”
Sam sighs. “Don’t play stupid with me, Dean,” he says, throwing bitch face #5 on him, pursed lips and all.
“We’re just friends,” Dean admits; he learned early on that it’s better to just tell Sam than to let it marinate.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t seem like it. Pretty sure the poor bastard’s in love with you.”
“Yes,” Dean says, again; there’s no use in denying the truth.
Sam doesn’t look surprised that he knows. “You love him back.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” Sam says, completely unconvinced, tone drenching in ‘you’re an idiot’, “you should probably find out soon.”
Dean resists the urge to punch him and simply throws a “No shit, Sherlock,” over his shoulder.
*
Dean’s never been in love with anyone.
He doesn’t know how love is supposed to feel; he’s always been pretty reclusive with his feelings–though he definitely has them, despite popular belief–especially when it comes to sharing them with other people. He loves Sam, sure, and he knows that he loved his mom, and his father, when he wasn’t a piss-poor, deadbeat drunk that put too much on the shoulders of a little boy. He loves his car, and it’s arguable that Dean might just be in love with her, because, well, he doesn’t really need to explain that one; it’s obvious.
Even if he did end up falling for someone, he thought it’d be a pretty girl with the mouth of a sailor and a great affection for the Browning sisters, or maybe even someone more modern, like Pahlinuk. She’d like weird music and would dance in the middle of the kitchen while making eggs for breakfast, and would kiss his cheek whenever he did something worth praising for. Cas definitely isn’t a girl, and he’s never seen him pick up anything as crude as Fight Club–or at least modern and as crude as Fight Club. He likes old English poetry and reads novels more than he watches movies, or TV, and he has this strange fascination with everything around him.
So, Dean’s never been in love, it’s not like he’d be able to recognize the feeling, and that’s frightening, because he’s always classified his friendship with Cas as ‘normal’. He’s not quite so sure anymore.
Sam stares at him the rest of the day, with a look on his face that’s caught between annoyance and something that vaguely resembles pity, and Dean has to resist the urge to fucking punch him in the face. He doesn’t need pity, nor does he necessarily appreciate it, because it’s not like there’s anything that anyone needs to feel sorry for.
Dean leaves after dinner to go to the local bar–they’ll serve him even if he’s underage because he’s always been reckless and everyone seems to like him at the bar (“It’s because of your unfortunate good looks, kid,” Bobby said to him after it happened the first time. “Just don’t come home drunk, ya idjit.” Sometimes, Dean thought Bobby was more of a father than his dad every really was). He wants to invite Cas, but Sam has him in the living room, nerding out over some dead writer that has quote-unquote changed their lives and shaped their childhood.
He snorts loudly, throws a “See you guys later,” over his shoulder, and makes it out the door slow enough to hear Cas’ soft response of, “Goodbye, Dean.”
*
Dean wakes up slowly the next morning, his face cuddled into his pillow and the gentle morning air crisp and welcoming on his back. He blinks away the final shutters of sleep, looks around at the blurry edges of the room, and realizes that Cas is still in his bed, covers pulled over his head, breathing rasping through his nose. Dean doesn’t know why he smiles, but he does.
He stretches across the bed, feeling the lovely pull that always manages to wake him up, and he can’t help the cat-like purr that rumbles from his throat.
He looks across at the other bed where Castiel is sleeping, and sees a rustle of movement and then suddenly Cas' eyes are on Dean. He smiles, the soft quirk of his mouth that is open and honest in the dim light of Dean's old bedroom–when he lived here, anyway–it's so nice that Dean even lets himself smile back, too.
"Good morning," Dean rumbles, voice thick with sleep.
"Hello, Dean," Cas greets, like always. He gets out of bed, letting out a soft gasp of surprise once his feet touch the cold, tile floor. There is something adorable about Cas like this, when he's tired and vulnerable, doesn't let his usual stoic tendencies take control of his face. His hair is rumpled and sticking up in odd places, and there's a five o' clock shadow that's spread delightfully across his cheeks, but he's still the Cas that Dean has known since his freshman year of college.
It strikes him odd to find that thought so comforting, that the weird boy that he never thought he would connect with ended up being his best friend. He doesn't spend time trying to analyze it, as he's never been good at that anyway, and instead focuses on the bright, sculpted planes of Cas' naked chest.
He's never took the time to appreciate another man's physique like this before, especially not this close up. Cas is slender, but not too-skinny in the way that would suggest he's weak and brittle. His skin is pale porcelain, creamy and smooth. It's mesmerizing under the faint, yellow light seeping through the drapes.
"How did you sleep?" Dean asks, because he knows that if he spends anymore time staring at his chest, then he probably won't stop. He really doesn't want to open another door to Sam's teasing, especially not before breakfast.
Castiel nods. "Well," he says.
"I can go start on breakfast," he offers, "if you want. You can take a shower. . .or do whatever it is that you do in the morning," he adds on, awkwardly. And when did things get awkward between them?
Cas doesn't seem to notice though, anyway. "I would like that very much."
Dean grins, lecherous. "Well, knock yourself out," he says.
*
Dean cooks eggs, bacon, pancakes and biscuits and gravy–eggs and bacon for Sam, pancakes for Dean, and biscuits and gravy for Bobby; he makes a couple extra of everything because while Cas is Dean's best friend, he doesn't know what he prefers to eat in the morning, and thought it would be better safe than sorry.
Just as he's finished frying the bacon, Sam stumbles into the kitchen, murmuring something about coffee and how delicious the food smells, and thank god for small miracles such as Dean's cooking. Dean points him to where the general vicinity of the coffee maker is, like he doesn't already know. He tries to ignore the fact that his sixteen year old brother is already a coffee addict and instead focuses on not burning the bacon–even though he seriously could do this in his sleep.
"Where's Bobby?" Dean asks; usually the man is up and about by now. He sleeps even less than Dean, which is bad, because Dean barely sleeps.
"Think he went down to the salvage yard to work on one of the cars there. Or maybe he actually went into the shop today to take care of some orders."
Dean smirks. "He likes cars too much," he says, though there isn't any conviction in his voice.
Sam throws him a look. "Coming from the man who spent nearly a year fixing up his car," he snorts.
"Still the most beautiful girl in the world, too."
Sam shakes his head, like he doesn't believe that he's related to someone who is as obsessed with his car as Dean is, but Dean thinks it's better than being obsessed with something that can ruin your life, like drugs, or sex, or porn. He's a little alcohol-happy, but it's hard not to be, especially with his upbringing by a borderline-alcoholic father.
"You're ridiculous," Sam says, finally, and then sniffs the air in pure delight. "Is it almost ready?"
Dean nods. "Yeah," he says. "I'm going to run something out for Bobby," he adds on.
Sam quirks an eyebrow, but Dean doesn't have to explain himself. Dean's empathetic and sensitive to human needs when he wants to be, and he knows that Bobby doesn't eat nearly as much as he should, despite Dean and Sam's constant nagging about it. It's not that he's purposely hurtful towards himself, but he gets obsessive and compulsive about his cars, and the last thing on his mind usually is what's for dinner.
Dean would always run him out something small, even if it was an apple or a pack of crackers, because the way he saw it, Bobby was basically Dean's second father. He already lost one. He doesn't need to lose another.
They settle into a silence that's not awkward at all, nothing ever really is between them. Even when Sammy sat Dean down when he was twelve years old and told him that he didn't want to be a mechanic like Bobby, or dad, and instead wanted to be a lawyer–the kid was scared shitless and if Dean hadn't been so busy laughing hysterically, stomach in knots, he probably would have found it adorable.
Cas walks in a few moments later, and by the soft moan of surprise, he hadn't been expecting the smell. "Hello, Sam," Cas says, taking the proffered cup of coffee in Sam's hands gratefully.
Sam smiles at him, friendly and open. He doesn't know why, but it warms Dean's heart considerably. "Good morning, Castiel."
Castiel doesn't quite smile at him, because he doesn't quite smile at anyone unless it's Dean, but his eyes lighten in fondness and Dean can't help but think that they're going to get along fine. "What smells so good?"
Dean blushes. "Breakfast," he says.
Cas raises an eyebrow, his face otherwise impassive. "You really do cook.” It's not a question.
"I suppose–"
Sam cuts him off. "He's brilliant. He's always been shy about what he's good at because he's humble and modest and it's fucking annoying, but he's great and he's been cooking the family thanksgiving dinner since he was eleven." Sam doesn't mention how it was ramen noodles and poptarts up until Dean was sixteen, but he's glad he didn't.
"I'm not anything special," Dean says.
Castiel smiles at him with his eyes, earnest. "You are wrong, Dean."
Dean doesn't say anything, simply flushes redder at Castiel's confession that might mean more than Dean's willing to look into right now, and instead announces that breakfast is ready to be served, successfully changing the subject.
Sam levels a meaningful look at the side of Dean's face while they're eating; he's not fooled, and by how Cas is doing the same to the other side, he's probably not, either.
*
The rest of the day goes by slow after that, but Dean's grateful for it.
They're sitting in Bobby's library, just below the staircase in the front room, when Cas puts down 'Leaves of Grass' and stares intensely at the side of Dean's face.
He shifts under the gaze, and eventually when Cas doesn't look away, he's forced to look up. "Cas?"
Cas licks his lips, once. "You're an exceptional cook, Dean."
Dean blushes under the praise, and can't help but preen a little. "You think so?"
Cas nods. "I wouldn't say it if I had meant otherwise," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. And it probably is, but Dean's always been terribly oblivious.
"Thank you," he says, and doesn't say the 'it means a lot that you think that' that's hanging off the end, but he hopes Cas hears it anyway.
"Have you thought about culinary school?" Cas asks, after a few moments of silence.
Dean grapples for a moment in shock. "What?" He asks, dumbly.
"Culinary school, you know, where they work with food and sometimes they'll even let you make something called meals, we have them three times a–"
Dean cuts him off. "Very funny."
"You should think about it. I think you would like it." Castiel sounds so sure, positive that it's what Dean wants, and it kind of makes him fall quiet for a moment.
"I don't know," he says, "it's not like I can get actually make a life career out of it."
"Of course you can," Cas cuts in. "Why wouldn't you be able to?"
Dean shrugs. "Because I generally don't get lucky, in anything, but in that especially."
Cas narrows his eyes at him, pursing his lips. "That's not true," he says. "You're very lucky.”
"After all," he says after a moment, when Dean doesn't say anything else. "You met me, didn't you?"
Dean doesn't dignify that with a response and instead throws the nearest paperback at Castiel's head, but he's smiling wide while he does it.
*
The next couple of days fly by in a blur, where Dean's not sure what exactly is going on, but he enjoys it all of the same. They take Cas out to the salvage yard and watch as he tries–and epically fails–to fix up one of the cars in Bobby's yard; they're actually sure he's only managed to make it worse. But Dean can't let himself regret it when they come home and Cas smells like sweat, and sweet, thick motor oil, with his skin glistening and kind of red from the constant beat of the sun on his back.
Cas is some brand of genius that Dean's never encountered before, one that makes him fly through books like they're thirty minute long TV shows instead of five-hundred pages of novels with encrypted metaphorical language that he can't even begin to understand. So, Cas reads faster than anyone he's ever known, and he's halfway through Bobby's library before they're even there for five days.
He doesn't know why he finds it enamoring, but he does.
They're sitting huddled together on Dean's bed now, clutching the neck of a tequila bottle and passing it back and forth as they both take long swigs. Dean's feeling fuzzy around the edges already, but Cas looks collected and his eyes might be slightly dilated, but he's nowhere near drunk. They've done this so many times that it almost feels like home, and he likes it too much not to sink into it.
"Tell me something, Cas," he slurs, after half of the bottle is gone, empty beer bottles cluttering the floor. They may have gone a little crazy with the alcohol, but they're young and reckless, and Dean can't imagine doing this with anyone but Cas, anyway.
"What do you want to know?" he asks.
Dean shrugs. "Whatever you wanna tell me," Dean says.
Cas is quiet for a long time. Dean feels himself drifting from where his head is back against the wall, his body spread out on the bed, knee aimlessly bumping into Cas' every once in a while. The contact always fills him with a content heat that Dean probably would have minded if he were sober, but he's not, so he doesn't worry. He's quiet for so long that Dean almost thinks that he's fallen asleep or is simply choosing to ignore Dean–it wouldn't be the first time, either; Dean says stupid things when he's drunk.
"What do you think about mythology, Dean?" He asks.
Dean opens his eyes into slits, and stars at the outline of Cas' profile in the dim light of Dean's–their–room. "What?"
"Mythology," he clarifies. "What do you think about it? Do you think there's any truth to it, or do you think it's all purely fictional?"
Dean thinks for a long time, and when he finally looks up, Cas is still looking at him. "I think there's a truth to everything," he stumbles over his words slightly, but he knows Cas understands.
Castiel always understands.
"Even with something as broad as mythology?"
Dean nods. "Of course," he replies. "Especially when it comes to mythology."
Castiel smiles at him, and Dean wishes he was sober enough to actually see it. "That's why I decided to major in it."
Dean shoots him a confused look. "You chose to major in it because of what I think?"
He actually breathes out a laugh at that, and shakes his head. "No, Dean," he says. "Because I think there's a truth to it, and I think it wants to be discovered."
Dean might be drunk, but he's pretty sure that this conversation is one of the most important they've ever had. He only wishes he was able to appreciate it.
*
The night before they’re about to leave, they’re sitting on Bobby’s back porch, looking up at the stars.
“I’ve never been happier,” Dean says.
Cas looks over at him. “Pardon?”
“When I’m cooking,” he clarifies. “I can’t really explain it. But it makes me happy like nothing else can.”
Castiel smiles at him. “I think you did just fine,” Cas says.
They’re quiet for a long moment, but it’s something that Dean can get used to, spending quiet moments with Cas, not talking, but instead just surrounding each other with their company.
“What do you want, Dean?”
“What do you mean?”
Castiel’s eyes get impossibly bluer. “What do you want? What would make you happy?”
“I am happy,” he clarifies, even though they both know it’s a lie. He’s content at best, and remorseful at worst, but he doesn’t think that’s so bad when he could be miserable all the time.
“What would make you happy?” Cas repeats, in a ‘if you dodge the question again I will do something horrible to you in your sleep in retaliation’ sort of tone.
Dean doesn’t answer for a while, simply stares into the side of Castiel’s face, because he can, because he’s there, and no one’s really asked him this question before.
His life has been a constant flurry of huge, idiotic little brother who was fussy as a child and was far too brilliant for his own good. If Dean’s honest with himself, he never wanted to go to college, but did because he knew if Dean didn’t, then Sam probably wouldn’t either, and he wants success so bad for Sam that sometimes it honestly scares him. His father was a good man before the fire, and an acceptable one after it. He was honest and kind of deadbeat in a way that makes it impossible for Dean to hate him, no matter how hard he tries–he can’t hate something that simply fell off the tracks, that lost sight of life and gave into the pain that was eating him alive.
Dean’s always been there for Sam, through thick and thin, through screaming matches and bullies that were too rough on a boy that shone brighter than the sun. Dean came home and fixed him dinner and cleaned his scratches, helped him with his homework and read him disgustingly sappy stories that made Sammy smile at him like he was the only person in the world. Dean would do anything for his brother. Their relationship might be a little co-dependant but he’s always thought that’s what made them different from the rest, in the best possible way.
He’s never done anything for himself, even when he was younger. He’d turn down his father’s offers to take him to ballgames or the local zoo and told him to take Sam instead, because Dean wasn’t interested much–even though he was, he really was, but he didn’t find it too important back then–and it made Sammy giggly and that’s the look Dean liked on his brother best.
“Cooking,” he whispers, finally, so soft that he’s not sure Castiel hears it. “I like knowing that I’m–it’s stupid, but I like knowing I might make someone happy, even if it’s only for a moment, because they’re eating something nice.”
“That’s not stupid at all,” Cas clarifies. “I think it’s great. I think you’re talented and you deserve to be happy, and if that means dropping out of college and pursuing your cooking career, then you should do it, Dean.”
“Why?” Dean asks.
Castiel smiles at him. “Because, you deserve it. You deserve to be happy, Dean.”
Dean doesn’t quite believe him, but for a moment, he lets himself and sinks, sinks, sinks.
*
“Don’t forget to call me,” Sam whispers into his ear, and the fucking prick is spreading tears along his neck.
“No chick flick moments, bitch,” Dean says, and they both know it’s the only promise that Dean’s going to give him.
Sam smiles, though it’s wobbly at best; he knows how hard it is for Sam to watch him go, how hard it is on them both, but Sammy is more selfless than Dean is, and would never ask him to stay–they both know Dean would say yes, and they’re both too cautious to even go near the possibility.
“Jerk,” Sam mumbles, and then turns to Cas, who is watching the exchange with a half smile on his face. “It was very nice to meet you.”
Sam holds out a hand, and surprisingly Cas pulls him in a hug, it’s awkward and stilted at best but it makes the three of them smile. “You as well, Sam,” Castiel says, with his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Bobby sighs. “Go on, ya idjits, before I have no choice but to strap ya’ to the posts here,” he calls out, but Dean knows that he’s just as upset as Sam is, and can’t help but smile anyway.
“He’s not kidding,” Dean tells Cas, who nods in return.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Singer,” Cas says, because he’s polite and kind of misguided and doesn’t know that Bobby hates it when stuff like that comes out of people’s mouths.
Instead of getting riled up, he simply slaps Cas on the back and says, “It’s Bobby to you, boy.”
And it doesn’t make sense, but it hits him so tenderly, that Dean almost falls to the ground with it, knees shaking, but in that moment, watching Cas interact with the two people that mean everything to him, he realizes that he’s in love with him. So much that it physically hurts.
*
Dean doesn’t have some big chaotic epiphany.
He doesn’t freak out or panic or go into attack mode. He simply looks over at Cas, when they’re caught somewhere between Iowa and Indiana, and smiles, radiant and so very honest, that it ends up shocking them both.
“Hey, Cas?”
“Mmmm?”
“I’m in love with you,” he says, because he’s never been in love before this, but it feels pretty damn great, and the fact that he can feel this good when he’s simply just riding in a car with his best friend, is pretty fucking damn nice.
Cas looks up at him with shock, either because Dean’s finally honest with his feelings, or at the fact that he even has those feelings to begin with. He almost thinks he screwed up, that maybe somewhere between spending too much time with Dean and his crazy, splintered family that he somehow fell out of love with him, but then Cas grins at him. He grins at him broad and pretty and the hand that encloses over his is warm with promise.
Cas doesn’t say anything back; he doesn’t have to, doesn’t need to, because his smile says it all and Dean knows they’ll be okay.
He’s never been so sure about anything in his life.
*