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Dean was just nodding off on the couch when Michael entered the living room, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh. You’re here.”
He was wearing fuzzy pajama pants and a bathrobe, and for some reason this profoundly irritated Dean, who was just wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. “I live here,” Dean responded, his voice flat.
“So do I, and yet you’re rarely up and about this late.”
“I always am,” Dean corrected. “I just make sure nobody notices.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “Alright, creep. Whatever.”
Dean pretended not to be watching out of the corner of his eye as Michael stalked past him to the kitchen. He heard him rattling around, making far more noise than probably necessary for three in the morning, and a moment later he was surprised to see him return with a sandwich. He was even more surprised when the other boy sat down on the other end of the couch.
“What?” Michael said defensively, noticing the look on Dean’s face. “I’m hungry.”
Dean just rolled his eyes half-heartedly and went back to staring off into space, trying desperately to get into Cassie’s mind and figure out where she’d run off to. She’d developed a bad habit of doing this in the short time she’d been here, and every time it drove Dean absolutely out of his mind. Cassie was in over her head for sure, and for some reason, Dean felt an acute need to protect her and shield her, even though he knew it was too late for that.
“Well,” Michael’s voice cut into his thoughts. “I’m here now, so you can go to bed.”
Dean furrowed his eyebrows. “What?”
“Cassie Watch,” Michael said around a mouthful of sandwich, as if that explained anything. “She doesn’t need both of us waiting up for her.”
“So go to bed,” Dean deadpanned.
There was a twitch in Michael’s eyebrows, like he hadn’t been expecting Dean to resist. “Well, see, I’m up now.”
“So am I.”
“Well, she likes me more.”
“Debatable.”
“I understand her better.”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “Being able to read her emotions doesn’t mean you understand her.”
Michael set his sandwich down on the plate and let out an irritated huff. “Damn it, Dean, just go to bed.”
“Why? So you can try to get in her pants?”
This time, there was definitely an impressed twitch to Michael’s eyebrows. “That wasn’t the plan, but I like it, and I appreciate that you think I have a chance.”
“I didn’t say you had a chance,” Dean said tiredly, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “Since I don’t think you do.”
“And why, pray tell, don’t you think so?”
“Because you’re an asshole, for one,” Dean replied, too tired to filter himself properly. “And because Lia’s made it clear she has dibs.”
Michael waved a hand lazily. “She doesn’t have dibs. She knows it’s all just for fun.”
“Does she?” Dean asked, rounding on him. “Have you told her that? Because if you’re playing her, or stringing her along, I swear to God--”
“Save it,” Michael cut in, his voice surprisingly sharp. “She knows. As much as you might not believe it, Redding, I’m not as bad a guy as you think I am.”
He stood and carried his plate into the kitchen, leaving Dean feeling quietly ashamed. Now that he was a bit more awake, he felt guilty for the things he’d said to Michael, even though he’d meant most of them.
When Michael left the kitchen, he kept walking past the couch, heading for the hallway. Dean got to his feet without realizing it. “Michael, wait."
Michael did, but made a big show of being annoyed. “What?”
Dean waited until he held the other boy’s gaze. He’d been raised by a psychopath, sure, but a psychopath with good Southern manners, and Dean never made an insincere apology. “I’m sorry for insinuating that you don’t care about Lia, and that you just want to get into Cassie’s pants. You may not be my favorite guy, Townsend, but I know you’re not a bad guy.”
Michael was quiet, his face unreadable. Dean wished desperately to know what the tension in Michael’s mouth meant, and the unusual straightness to his spine. The longer Michael stayed silent, the more Dean felt the urge to fill the silence. “I’m not going to pretend to understand the Lia situation, because I don’t. I’ve never... had that kind of situation.”
Something in Michael’s face moved.
“And I don’t get why you want to mess around with Cassie when you’re already messing around with Lia,” Dean continued. “I won’t pretend to understand that, either. But I care about your happiness, too. Not just Cassie’s and Lia’s.”
Michael cocked his head to the side.
“I mean, I care about all of you,” Dean added, feeling flustered. His face felt warm. He wasn’t used to talking this much, and it made him feel as though he were laid bare in front of Michael, who didn’t need words to read a person. “The main point is I’m sorry, I was out of line, and I want you to do what makes you happy, whatever that may be. Now, if you could put me out of my misery and shut me up, that would be--”
He was cut off by Michael crossing the room in a few short strides and grabbing his face, and he had a moment of wild confusion before the other boy’s lips were meeting his own. He made a sound somewhere in his throat and felt his hands come up, instinctively ready to push Michael away, but then Michael gently took Dean’s bottom lip between his own, and Dean’s hands somehow ended up in Michael’s hair. The kiss was soft and slow and hesitant although their hands were not-- Michael’s hands were knotted in Dean’s t-shirt, probably stretching the fabric until it thinned, and Dean’s hands went from Michael’s hair to his neck to his waist, any surface he could touch. Dean’s head was spinning. Michael was kissing him. He was kissing Michael. He and Michael were kissing.
Suddenly a lot of things made sense.
He let Michael gently press him up against the wall, feeling soft and pliant, and wondered idly if this was what kissing was supposed to feel like. Kissing Cassie hadn’t felt anything like this. This was a hundred times better.
Michael kissed his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his ear, as though trying to kiss every part of Dean that was blushing. Dean felt his heart rattling in his chest, and against his cheek, Michael’s breath was shaky, too. “Hey,” Dean said, his voice low and rough. He took one of Michael’s hands in his own. “Are you okay?”
Michael pressed his face into Dean’s neck for a long moment, as though collecting himself, and Dean remained quiet. A beat later, Michael raised his head. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Okay.” Dean studied his face for a long moment, wishing again that he knew what he was feeling. “Do you-- should we--”
“I just had to know,” Michael cut in, as if he hadn’t even spoken. “I had to know if this was what I was feeling. I can read everyone else’s feelings, but never my own.”
Dean swallowed. “And was it? What you were feeling?”
Michael nodded once, then twice, a smile slowly spreading on his lips. “Yeah. It was.”
Dean felt his face grow warmer, a small smile of his own appearing on his face. Michael’s gaze flittered back to his lips, and this time, Dean was the one who leaned in.