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Dean usually had mixed feelings about parties. Though he was all set to head over to Crowley’s house after this football match and celebrate as long as they could make it with his football team and as many other students they could fit into the house.
It was a slight blur – their high school team hadn’t won the championship in a decade or so, and people were appropriately excited about this combo breaker. Just about the only thing important to him in his high school carrier was his football team. He was only ever going to end up in the family business anyway. But it had fucking paid off – he’d scored the last point, ball sailing beautifully over the bar and bringing their substantial audience into total hysteria.
After that, he’d been swept into the air and hadn’t touched solid ground again until he was dropped on a bench in the changing rooms. His team had paraded him up and down the bleachers before heeding coach Singer’s threats and getting off the field. Practically the whole school had been there, applauding and shouting. Except for one person Dean spotted. Some kid he recognised from his English class had just politely clapped his hands a few times and smiled pleasantly. It wasn’t a rude thing to do and Dean had no right to be thinking about him over and over.
He tore his locker open and stared into it a few seconds. He wasn’t paying much attention to the madness going on around him. If he wasn’t mistaken, Victor Henrickson was on the lockers somewhere behind him and Ash and Alistair were setting off firecrackers in the showers.
He only just managed to shower and change, still shrugging on his letterman jacket when Bobby came in screaming bloody murder if they didn’t get out soon.
It seemed that somehow, half the school had made their way over to Crowley’s house, where a parent-free environment and enough alcohol to drown a city in had been promised. Dean had been swept away by the team again, following them now, still awfully bothered by that unenthusiastic kid. He was certain his name was Casper or something similarly strange. He was relative new to his class – he must have skipped a year though because he most certainly did not look like a Senior.
“Our Hero!” Some guy he’s never talked to before hailed him, clapping his back as he walked past. He got a few more congratulations and a few girls gave him promising looks. The closer they got to Crowley’s home, the better Dean felt. Fuck that sad little kid. He’d deserved the applause today and he fucking deserved a good time now. He’d worked hard for this, along with the rest of his team and he certainly wasn’t going to let that Cas-something guy ruin his victory now.
Soon he was chasing team members around too, loudly shouting with everyone else and singing along hoarsely with the scratchy music being blasted from nearby cellphones.
They finally flooded into Crowley’s rather impressive house-verging-on-mansion, and split into large groups – some right to the kitchen to get started on drunken festivities and others fought over who’s ipod to plug into the speakers. Dean was lucky enough to claim a seat on the couch of the living room, before it was filled with excited gangs of people immediately setting up some kind of a dance party.
“That was fucking ace, man,” Adam, a newcomer to their team, sat himself on the armrest beside dean, handing him a cold beer. “It’s chaos in the kitchen. Could only grab two.” He shrugged.
“Thanks. You did a great job too – that last-second pass in the first half!” He grinned. Adam was likeable. He didn’t look the football type, but he was fast as hell. They clinked their bottles together before both taking a swig. They sat there a while in silence, watching people slowly turn the table into a second bar-slash-pedestal for some already-drunk chick to dance on. It was crowded and loud, and soon seated height was no longer comfortable. Adam got up and flicked his eyes over to the doorway. “Don’t go waiting for me later or anything – I think I found someone who caught on to my great passing skills.” Dean followed his eyes and saw a girl – the name Rachel came to mind – giving Adam the most intense stare ever.
“Good luck,” Dean laughed, getting up a few seconds later and pushing his way through the by-now intoxicated dancing mass. Somehow he made it to the kitchen, where girl and what seemed to be her boyfriend were doing a line of shots, dropping half of them and laughing drunkenly when they missed their mouths.
He spotted Ruby by the far counter, mixing something or another, and he scooted past the laughing couple to join her. “Hey there.” He said sliding in next to her and picking up the bottle she’d just set down. Vodka. He shrugged and picked a plastic cup from the stack by the side and filled it about a quarter.
“Hi,” she replied simply, offering him the carton of orange juice. He took it and topped up the cup. “Congrats on the game,” she nudged him with her elbow and gave a short laugh.
Dean had some of the vodka orange and glanced over to her. She was sat on the counter now, dangling her legs from it, sipping at her drink. “Thought you were more of a heavyweight.”
She shrugged in reply. “Crowley has a shit ton of free alcohol. You think I’m gonna pass up on that opportunity?”
Dean made no comment. Ruby was deadly serious in class. Though according to his football team she was not quite so serious outside of class, but just as deadly.
Three more drinks later (and he wasn’t really sure of what was in the third one) Dean Winchester was doing shot-line races with Lisa and two of her friends. Somewhere along the line Andy – a nerdy kid from his maths class – joined in and the kitchen went to absolute hell, with people slipping on the drink-flooded tiles and uncontrollable giggling from one of the more severely drunk girls. She’s already been on the floor twice, and the third time she started retching. At that point, the kitchen emptied out and Dean was absolutely done in. He somehow got to the garden, where someone had lit up a flower patch, and others were in the small pool – some fully clothed, some not at all.
That’s when his eyes fell on the guy from before. Castiel – that was his name. He was innocently sat in a circle with Michael, the bully of the football team of all people, and other people Dean didn’t know, playing card games. It made Dean angry somehow – he hated this Cas guy so much. He frowned at him and hoped the stupid guy in his slacks and ugly sweater would feel the glare and feel guilty. For what, Dean couldn’t imagine. He just wanted him to be sorry. To cheer for Dean like everyone else had. None of the other’s congratulations had meant much but damn if this guy was going to sit there contently and leave Dean so painfully unacknowledged.
He wanted Cas’ attention, goddammit, wanted him to look up to Dean, cheer and celebrate him. That’s when Dean placed Cas – he was that annoyingly smart guy with the adorable hair that sat in front of Dean in English. He swore loudly into the noisy night and made a promise to talk to Castiel later in the night and set things right. He stumbled off again with no clue where he was going.
There was a stage at which he was on the pedestal in the living room, accepting more offered drinks and congratulations from people and grinding with some ginger chick he’d never seen before. Only he got bored real fast when he spotted Castiel pass by the window outside and all he could then think about was Cas, and combining that with an impromptu make-out session with this stranger was one of the weirdest things Dean had ever done. It scared him how surprisingly okay he was with it, and as a result decided he needed another drink.
Next thing he remembered he was sat in a circle in the dining room, taking part in a chugging competition, with Meg cheering him on. Soon after he was clutching at his stomach and doing his best not to throw up, while Meg patted his back and told him he’d be okay, slurring her words.
Time was passing weirdly and the next time he was aware of what was going on, he was in an upstairs bathroom, patting Andy’s back and telling him everyone threw up at some point, making sure to say “I almost did before!”
People were beginning to clear out – or pass out on various surfaces across the house and garden, and Dean was wandering aimlessly until he found a group of people that looked vaguely familiar sprawled across Crowley’s couch. Most of his teammates were there, along with their host and plenty of girls Dean should be able to remember the names of. Meg and Anna were ones that came to mind easily. The ginger chick from before was leaning against Victor, half asleep.
They’d formed something resembling a circle and were getting louder by the second, so Dean dropped himself between two of them and asked what they were doing. Only then did he spot an ugly as fuck sweater in the corner of his eye, where Castiel was sat next to Anna. His grin dropped off his face and he glared right at Castiel.
“Seven minutes in heaven, so get outta the circle if you’re not up to it,” Crowley replied, drawing Dean’s eyes away from Castiel, who looked pleasingly scared now.
Dean rolled his eyes dramatically and shuffled forward a little. A tiny cheer erupted from somewhere but with his mind spinning all over the fucking place he had no clue who it was.
Three rounds in, Ginger and Adam were just stumbling out of the tiny wardrobe Crowley had directed them to and Dean was finishing some really sweet drink he couldn’t remember accepting from anyone. Bela was inching closer and closer to Dean every second, and anytime soon she’d be on his fucking lap, and he was just too damn busy staring Castiel in the eyes in what he hoped was threateningly to pay her the attention she wanted.
Then the typical applause and “ooooooh”s sounded and the bottle had landed on someone again. Then Bela was pushing at him and beaming, repeating his name. He was going to give in and shove the annoying bitch off, when he spotted the bottle. The neck was pointed at him. He’d almost forgotten they were playing this. He dragged himself up onto his stiff legs and did his best to spin the bottle without falling right over. He’d miscalculated and set it flying into a wide spinning arc, almost knocking it into surrounding people’s knees. Then as Dean is slowly straightening up, thinking to himself that he’d love to be at home again right now and just sleep, there’s howling laughter going around. Of all people, Castiel is getting up, bottle pointed towards him, brushing off his disgusting sweater and looking Dean into the eye, haughty as ever.
Dean swears to himself he is going to set that kid straight now, talk him down and put him in his place, but goddammit first of all he needs to tear that ugly as fuck sweater off that scrawny body first and make sure he never has to see it again. He balls his fist to send that message to the jeering group and they seem to get the message, at least slightly, when they go back to the usual drunken chatter they descend into when people leave for the wardrobe.
They’re by the wardrobe in the corridor in seconds, and Dean wastes no time in angrily shoving Castiel inside, door banging sharply behind them, hurting his eardrums. In utter darkness, Castiel protests. “What the hell is with you today, Winchester?”
Dean can only growl in response, hands fisted in the soft sweater material and considering whether to punch him first or to shout at him. He strikes the middle somewhere – not exactly where he wanted to though. He slams his palm into the back of the wooden space and hisses at Castiel. Only it comes out as a horribly pathetic “You didn’t even fucking cheer for me today,” and he doesn’t even know this kid – why would it bother him so much? The extent of their interactions have been freaky as fuck staring competitions across the lunchhall and Dean flicking things into his hair during English, only afterwards being tempted to pick them out and smooth down the messy hair when Castiel looked so fucking sorry for himself.
There’s a silent pause between them, only Dean’s heavy drunken breaths sounding, and Castiel gives out a little laugh, which Dean blinks at incredulously. “Well done in the game, Dean.” He begins to pry the fingers off his sweater with cold hands. Something drops in Dean’s stomach when Castiel says his name like that – it’s almost a fond laugh and the slight hint of praise in there. Dean finds it much harder to balance here in the dark. Holding on to Castiel seems to help though.
Castiel makes an uncomfortable sound and shifts against Dean. The wardrobe is tiny and Dean has their bodies practically aligned against the back. “You can – let go now, Dean.”
Only Dean’s mind is back to when he’d been dancing with the ginger girl, and the way his mind was solely fixated on Cas – Cas’ stupid hair, ugly sweater, chapped lips. In the complete darkness, he feels Cas’ somewhat quickened breath brushing over his neck and Dean is so fucking angry at himself for having had so much to drink and feeling so very confused right now.
He’s aware of Castiel speaking, and even more aware of how the heat was radiating off the smaller boy, and how tightly pressed together they were. Cas quietens soon, and they’re frozen in place inside the stuffy wardrobe. They breathe too loudly for a few more seconds.
“Okay, De-” Castiel begins.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas,” Dean just hears the words leave his mouth. He’d have tipped right over then and there if it weren’t for the confined space and his hands in a vice grip on the fabric of the sweater. He hears Cas draw in a breath, probably to start talking – ‘my name isn’t ‘Cas’’, or something equally as Cas-like. Dean beats him to talking though, and gasps out, “You’re so fucking distracting – ” and that’s the highest compliment his liquor-swamped brain can churn out right now and Cas seems to know it.
There’s a tiny snort from Castiel’s direction and an almost silent, “Look who’s talking.” With that, Cas has somehow turned the tides, and he’s pushing against Dean, his mouth having found Dean’s in the dark, god knows how. Dean’s first instinct is to shove at him and shout bloody murder, but somewhere in his hazy mind something settles down as if finally relieved. Cas’ lips are soft of his and after the initial disbelief, Dean shoves at Castiel as if to push to him through the back of the wardrobe, pushing their mouths together so hard he can feel the teeth behind them.
Dean’s not sure at all who’s gasping into whose mouth but he really couldn’t care less, but he vaguely registers a leg slipping between his and sparks going off somewhere in the pit of his stomach. He’s pretty sure a really embarrassing moan escapes him, though it’s mostly blocked out by Cas fucking taking him apart with only his tongue.
“Fuck – ” Dean manages, before delving right in and doing his drunken best to hold his place. He is not being undone by Cas, of all people. His hand has snuck somewhere to waistband level of Cas’ trousers and suddenly there are calls of “Seven minutes, seven minutes!” outside.
Once again, he blinks in surprise, remembering it’s this dumb game they’ve been playing. The annoyed sigh coming from Castiel’s direction is reassuring though, and he feels a hand he hadn’t even been aware of leaving his hair. Dean kicks the door behind him open and steps out, veering to the side a second and catching himself on a nearby hat stand.
They return to the circle separately, Castiel characteristically shy and small and Dean with all the drunken bravado he can muster. The game seems forgotten and half the survivors of the party have fallen asleep, with Crowley having given up on waking them and asking them to sleep at their own houses. They go unnoticed as they sit down again, which Dean is very much thankful for.
On one hand he’s terrified of what he’ll think of himself once he’s sober, but that’s greatly outweighed by the shy smile Cas is aiming at him and how it makes Dean’s heart swell weirdly.
He stares a second too long, but no one else is paying attention so he returns the smile, and it’s one of promise, and will hopefully still be there the next day, when he’s not three minutes away from dropping dead on Crowley’s already overcrowded couch.