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Dean's literally got his hands full, struggling to carry his laden lunch tray through the crowded cafeteria, when his phone rings in his pocket. It itches him not to answer, but he figures if it's something important, whoever-it-is will call back, and by the time he's navigated his way through the noise and crush to an outside table – left vacant only because the previous occupants were too goddamn lazy to clean up their trash – the ringing has stopped.
He pulls his now-silent phone out of his pocket, squinting at the screen. There's no caller ID, but that's no surprise; it's a new phone, a hand-me-down from one of Sam's friends, and so far, Dean's only programmed in Bobby's mobile and the landline for the garage, because those are the only numbers he's had to call since Monday. He shrugs, sets the phone down next to his Coke, and takes a bite of his burrito. Heavenly.
The phone buzzes, this time with a text message. Dean glares at it. Chews. Swallows. Considers taking another bite before picking up, just out of sheer contrary spite, but doesn't, on the offchance that it's Sam.
He taps the new message open, reads it twice, and freezes.
You've always been a good brother. This isn't your fault. I'm so sorry.
Dean's pulse starts to race, the single bite of burrito sitting heavy and cold in his stomach. He doesn't know Sam's number by heart, and he's only got one brother. Who the hell else would text him something like that?
Hands shaking, he calls the unknown number, panic ratcheting up with every unanswered ring. He knows Sam had his heart set on Stanford, even though they couldn't afford it; that however excited he was by the idea of being accepted to the same college as his big brother, it was always going to be a step down from his dreams. They're barely a month into first semester: prime breaking time for an overwhelmed freshman. He just saw Sammy on Monday, when he gave Dean the phone, but a lot can happen in three days, and maybe Dean's overreacting, reading too much into things, but god, if he's not –
The phone picks up, but nobody answers. All Dean can hear is breathing.
'Sammy?' he asks, heart in his throat. 'Sammy, are you okay?'
Silence.
Dean feels like he's going to be sick. 'Sammy, please, you gotta talk to me. If something's wrong –'
'I'm sorry,' says a choked, rough voice. The speaker is male, and definitely not his little brother. 'I'm not – I don't – Gabriel?'
'Gabriel?' Dean echoes, thoroughly confused. His mental gears spin for a full two seconds, then click into place. 'What, you mean Gabe?'
'Yes, I mean Gabe,' snaps the stranger. 'That's why I called him. Only he didn't pick up, presumably because some ass – ' he spits the word, '– has taken his phone and decided, for some unfathomable reason, to prank me back, and while I'd appreciate the hijinks any other time –'
'Whoah, whoah!' Dean holds up his free hand, even though the stranger can't possibly see it. 'Hey, listen, dude, you don't have a wrong number, but this isn't Gabe's phone any more, okay? He upgraded and gave me his old one as a favour to my brother.'
'Your brother?'
'Yeah, my brother,' says Dean, trying his best to speak calmly, because whoever this guy is – one of Gabe's many siblings, presumably – he sounds like he's about three seconds from total breakdown. 'Sam Winchester? Sammy? Which is who I thought was calling, given what your text said. Which is, uh. Which is kinda why I was calling, too.' Which is also why he's still on the line: Dean doesn't know this guy, but that text felt too much like a goodbye for comfort, and no way is he hanging up just because it's not his brother who sent it.
He can hear the stranger breathing, quick and heavy. There's wind in the background, too, a subtle rush that's almost like static. 'Oh,' he says, quietly. 'I... I forgot about that. Gabriel did tell me, I just –' He laughs, small and sad, and there's a hitch in his voice like he's trying not to cry. 'I'm sorry to have wasted your time.'
'Happens to the best of us,' Dean says, his light tone a contrast to his death-grip on the phone. 'So, let's start over. I'm Dean Winchester. Who are you?'
There's a pregnant pause. Dean shuts his eyes, praying the guy will go for it. Then:
'Castiel,' says the stranger, softly. The name is oddly familiar, but Dean can't think why. 'Castiel Novak.'
'Nice to meet you, Cas,' says Dean. It's a gamble, but the other man laughs again – weakly, yes, but Dean'll take it. He inhales, trying desperately to call up anything and everything Sam's ever told him about Gabe and his family, and finally comes up with, 'So, are you the lawyer, the architect or the artist?'
'I'm the failure,' Cas says, voice cracking. 'Christ, I couldn't even – I couldn't even do this much right, I should just –'
'Sunrises,' Dean blurts, suddenly remembering why he knows the name Castiel , 'you paint sunrises, right? I mean, not only sunrises, obviously, but you've painted at some, and the one I've seen, it's –' he gulps, completely out of his depth but unable to stop talking, '– it's really awesome, dude. Your brother gave it to my brother as a housewarming thing, and he's got it hanging over the couch, and I see it whenever I'm at his place, and it always makes me feel like, peaceful, you know? I mean, I don't really know a lot about art –' he winces, hating how tactless he sounds, '– but I, uh. I don't really sleep too well most nights, I mean, I kinda – whenever I stay with Sam, it's usually 'cos I've drunk too much or my apartment's too quiet and I can't turn my brain off, but that painting, I know this sounds kinda stupid, but that painting settles me.'
'I –' says Cas. He stops, starts again, clearly wrongfooted. 'I don't, ah. I don't know which picture – I mean, I'm flattered either way, obviously, I just –'
'It's over a lake,' Dean says. It's an easy image to call to mind; he's spent enough nights staring at it, the corner signed with Castiel's name. 'The water's still, and the sky is kind of purplish, all faded with clouds and stars, and there's this this streak of dark, bright gold at the edge of the water, right where the sun's coming up. It looks like, uh. It looks like the edge of the world, somehow. Like the horizon's a line, and the water's just pouring right over it, and there's all these dark trees and rocks to the side, and even though you can't see the sun yet, there's gold on them, too, like the light's kinda clinging to everything, and you stare at it, and the more you look, the more light there is, all these little flecks of gold and silver, and then you realise there's shapes in the clouds, really faint, but you can tell they're meant to be those big Japanese carp, I can't think what the name is –'
'Koi,' says Castiel. His voice is rough with tears. 'They're called koi.'
'Yeah, that's it,' says Dean, a lump in his throat. 'So there's koi in the clouds, and the sun's coming up, and there's dragon shapes in the mist by the trees, where the light hits the shadows, and like I said, I'm not good at art or symbolism or any of that, but one of the reasons I don't sleep so well is nightmares, you know, it's just – well, it's a thing with me, but that painting feels like the opposite, somehow, like bad dreams getting chased away, and I always –' he laughs, the sound reflexive and shy, '– I always say to Sammy now, you know, that I only like to sleep on his couch because of that stupid painting, and he thinks it's a joke, but it's really not.'
There's a tremulous silence; Dean feels like he's run a marathon, and not just because he meant every word of it.
'Thank you, Dean,' Cas whispers. 'I... thank you.'
'Hey, I should be thanking you. That painting's better than valium.'
Cas laughs, and this time, he almost sounds like he means it. 'I've never met Sam,' he says, 'but Gabriel did tell me he gave that painting to a new friend of his.'
'Your brother,' says Dean, 'is a compulsive gift-giver. Seriously; I think he'd known Sammy for all of two days at that point, and somehow they're instant BFFs? I mean, what the hell, right?'
'Gabriel's always been one to throw himself into friendships,' says Cas. He sounds steadier now, less frayed. 'It's either charming or infuriating, depending on the time of day.'
'That sounds about right,' says Dean. 'Sammy gets along with everyone; he's like a goddamn Labrador puppy. People just take to him. I mean, what kind of nerd makes friends at the library?'
'Our brothers met at the library?'
'That's what Sammy told me,' Dean says. 'God only knows why Gabe was there; he's not even a student.'
'He likes the barista at the café there,' says Cas, the barest trace of a smile in his voice. 'He's fussy about his mochas.'
Dean snorts. 'Mochas? Seriously?'
'I'm told there's an art to them.'
'Like hell there is. They're not even real coffee!'
'So I've told him,' Cas says, 'but thus far, he's yet to listen.'
There's a pause, less fraught than any of its predecessors. Dean takes a gamble, toying with the hem of his shirt. 'So, uh. Not to, like, pry into your business or anything, but you, um – is everything okay?'
'You already know it's not,' says Cas. He hesitates, then says, quietly, 'I'm not usually like this.'
'Like what?'
'Melodramatic.'
Dean sucks in breath. 'That's... not the word I'd use for it.'
'I had a moment,' Cas says, sharply. 'I had a, a – god, I don't know.' There's a rustling sound, like he's slumped against something, and then, in a rush, he says, 'My ex-boyfriend just outed me to my very homophobic parents, okay? He didn't mean to – he sent a love letter to my old address, and when I moved out, I hadn't signed my new lease, so I arranged for my mail to be redirected to the family home, and I didn't think – I mean, who even sends snail mail any more? – but I should've, I should've thought it through, Inias can be old-fashioned that way, it's exactly the sort of thing he'd think was romantic –' he breaks off suddenly, his inhale like a punctuation mark. 'Anyway, my father opened it. I was halfway to class when he called me, screaming about Leviticus and disinheritance and what a sordid, hateful disappointment I am –'
'Oh, dude –'
'– and I thought, all right, I can do this, I can – I can cope, they were always going to find out sooner or later, but then I got to school, and my mother called, and I think I'd hoped – I mean, she's often more moderate than my father, I thought perhaps she might be more accepting, but instead, she just –' he's crying again; Dean can hear it, if not see it, '– she said I couldn't come home again, not after what Inias put in the letter, and so I, I, I had to know what he'd said, I just – so I called him, and he was so excited, he thought I wanted to make up, he thought he'd won me back, and I didn't mean to yell, but it just came out, I was so – I was so angry, Dean, I was so hurt, and it wasn't his fault, but everyone on the quad was staring at me like I'd grown an extra head, and Inias was sobbing about how sorry he was, and I haven't sold a painting in months and I just, oh, god –'
'Cas –'
'– I can't do anything right, I didn't even remember that Gabriel switched numbers, and instead I've ruined your day –'
'You haven't ruined anything,' Dean says, heart twisting in his chest. 'Your parents are dicks, okay? I mean, when I came out to my dad, he wouldn't even believe me; he didn't think bisexuality was real, couldn't understand why I was pretending to like men when he knew damn well I liked women, and he never... I just, you need to know it's not your fault, all right? You haven't done anything wrong. And I mean, hell, I don't know how much you charge per painting, but if you've got another sunrise lying around, I'll take it off your hands.'
'I don't need a pity-sale –'
'Who said anything about pity?' says Dean. 'I like your art, dude, and as much as I love my brother, I'm getting pretty sick of sleeping on his couch. I want my own damn sunrise.'
'You want to buy a painting,' Cas says, like he can't quite believe it. 'You really... you actually mean that?'
'Of course I mean it,' says Dean. 'Hell, I'll come buy it right now. Where are you, anyway? I mean, you're here, right? UCLA?'
'I'm here,' says Cas. 'I'm, ah.' He takes a shaky breath. 'I'm on the roof of the Art Centre.'
Dean's chest tightens sharply. 'Come down,' he says, voice hoarse. Lunch completely forgotten, he gets up and starts to move. 'I'm walking there now, I'll meet you out front. I'm gonna stay on the line with you, but just – just come down, Cas, okay?'
'Okay,' says Cas, softly. And then, after a moment, 'Dean?'
'Yeah?'
'What do you look like?'
It's such a shy question, Dean laughs in pure relief. 'I'll be the blonde guy in the Zeppelin t-shirt carrying a leather bag that's literally held together with safety pins. How about you?'
'I'm, uh. I've got black hair and a blue Henley, and there's a bee tattoo on my hand.'
'You've got ink, huh?'
'Just a little,' Cas says. 'Do you?'
Dean grins. 'Nowhere that's visible during daylight hours.'
'If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were flirting with me.'
'And who says I'm not?' says Dean, the admission slipping out of its own accord.
'Uh, common sense,' says Cas, so flatly that Dean laughs again. 'I mean, not to impugn your taste in men, but I'm hardly on my game, here. For all you know, I could be hideous.'
'Are you hideous, Cas?'
'I haven't cracked any mirrors lately.'
'Good,' says Dean. 'That shit's bad luck, you know?'
This time, it's Cas who laughs. 'God, you're terrible.'
'I have my moments,' says Dean, and something in him sparks to think that this could be one of them.
In the time it takes him to reach the Art Centre, he makes Cas laugh three more times, the tension lifting with every step. But when he arrives, his heart starts to race again; he stops, scanning the grounds for Cas, not knowing what to look before beyond blue and bee.
'Dean?'
This time, the voice doesn't come from his phone. He stops, mouth dry, and turns around, eyes widening as he stares at Castiel Novak.
'Holy shit,' he whispers. 'Cas?'
They're both still clutching their phones, the call ongoing. Cas is lean and gorgeous, all tousled dark hair and wide blue eyes, the lids red-rimmed from crying. He's staring at Dean with his mouth half-open, and Dean doesn't even think: just crosses the last few steps between them and pulls Cas into a hug.
'Definitely not hideous,' he says, voice rough against Cas's shoulder. Castiel laughs and hugs him back, hard and tight, hands gripping the fabric of Dean's shirt.
'You're not so bad yourself,' he murmurs, and for a moment, they just stand like that, anchoring themselves.
And then, with no regard for timing, Cas's stomach rumbles.
Both of them tense – and then Dean snorts with laughter, stepping back to grin at the blush that races up Castiel's neck.
'I may have missed breakfast,' Cas admits, ducking his head. 'I, ah. Would you like to maybe get some lunch? There's a good place nearby.'
Dean smiles, wide and happy. 'I could eat,' he says.