Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Cas came home with a split lip, Dean was sitting on his porch drinking lemonade and struggling with his history homework.

He clocked Cas walking up the road, and noticed immediately that something was wrong. Cas was leaning heavier on his left leg than his right, limping slightly. His usual rock-steadiness, the firm lines of his body, were altered.

As Cas got closer, Dean sat up. The chair squeaked under him, wicker protesting his sudden movement. On Cas’ chin, running down from a swollen lip, was a streak of red.

In the balmy evening heat, with Cas’ face shadowed, the blood looked almost dashing, almost romantic. Dean got to his feet.

“What the hell happened to you?” he said.

Cas turned to look at him, and Dean felt the blow of the expression on his face like a physical force, gutting. Cas looked sharp and hard and confused. He said nothing at all.

Dean watched him walk up the steps to his porch, rigid, and slam the door to his house.

The balmy evening felt fractured, even though it looked the same, like a broken nose before the bruise forms. After a few minutes, Dean realised he was still standing ineffectually, his mouth slightly open.

It didn’t take him long to figure it out. Popular Michael and his gang had been side-eyeing Cas for a couple of weeks, now, saying things that turned Dean’s mouth sour - things about freaks, and weirdos, and - and worse words, too. Whether it was Michael who had actually given Cas the beat-down, or whether it was someone else looking to try to win his approval - it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that Cas now had a target on his back.

And it wasn’t as though he could be inconspicuous - he tended to stand out, looking like he did - so hiding at school wasn’t really going to be an option for him. Dean tried to go back to his homework, tried to focus.

He failed that history assignment, of course.

*

The second time that Cas came home with blood on his face, Dean called out to him from the porch again - sitting down, this time, to try to seem more casual and adult. He got the same level of response. A glare, and nothing more.

Dean sat completely still for several long seconds - and then smacked an open hand against the side of his chair, and closed his eyes.

"Shit," he said, with feeling.

"Dad'll kill you," said a voice from the doorway, a little diffidently.

Dean tried to relax back into his chair, loosen the strain in his face, as Sam appeared - his hair messy, his eyes big. He was growing into his limbs, recently, but he had a lot to catch up on.

"Sorry, Sammy."

“What’s up? Homework?”

“Nah. Cas.” Dean could only snip out his name, too worried to manage much more. Sam frowned.

"Why? What's up with him? Did he get another bite off a stray cat?"

"No," Dean said, and felt grateful for that, at least. Hiding that one from Cas' mother hadn't been a picnic. "No, he's just... having some trouble with the kids at school."

Sam wandered over, and took a sip of Dean's lemonade, and peered over his shoulder at the papers on the table.

"Shouldn't he talk to a teacher?"

"Nah," Dean said. "You know Cas."

Sam paused, and then accepted the point. Cas had never been one to run to authorities.

"Then... shouldn't you do something? He's our neighbour. Couldn't you tell those other kids to stop?" He was still reading Dean's homework. "That one's actually false." He pointed to one of the multiple choice questions on a sheet that Dean had checked as true.

"Damn it." Dean corrected it, trusting Sam without question. "I just... I know how these kids work. If I get involved, it looks like he's come running to me. He'll just have it even worse."

"Can't you be smart about it?" Sam said.

"Well, I am the smartest guy in the world," Dean said, reaching up to punch Sam in the arm, "so, I guess, yeah."

"That's false."

Dean looked up, his mouth falling open in feigned offense.

"Samuel, how dare you doubt..."

"I meant this answer," Sam said innocently, pointing to a mark on the sheet. Dean mock-shook a loose fist at Sam, and corrected it.

"You're an asshole," he said, as he did so. He was grateful, though. He needed all the help in History he could get, to raise his grade after last week.

"Mmm. I learned from the best," Sam said.

"I just don't want to get Cas into any more trouble than he's already in," said Dean distractedly. "But if I know Michael, once he's got his sights set, he doesn't blink. Cas won't get off the hook easy." He did a row of check marks on the page, in a fit of angry productivity. "I don't know what to do. I could get my friends together and we could - we could go and punch Michael's gang in their faces."

"And get suspended," Sam said, leaning over and correcting all but one of the check marks.

"And -" Dean said, one finger raised. The air went out of him. "And get suspended. And get all my friends suspended. Yeah." He sighed. "God, I don't know."

"Sam?" John's voice, not angry but definitely demanding, sounded from inside. Sam made a face, and Dean made one back.

"Just be smart," Sam said, and took a final gulp of lemonade, and left him to it.

"Sure, smart," Dean said. "Yeah, I can do that. Sure. I can do that."

Not sure you can, said a little voice inside him.

Privately, Dean agreed with it.

*

The third time that Cas came home with blood on his face, Dean saw him coming up their road - saw the telltale limp, even from a distance - and stood up, and went to stand by Cas’ gate.

“Cas,” he said. “Cas -”

Cas drew level with him, and didn’t meet his eye. The blood on his cheek was smeared, Dean saw, as though there had been an attempt to wipe it away - sure enough, there was red on Cas’ knuckles, too. He had a couple of drips on the front of his sweater, rusty dark against the black-blue material, almost blending in with the artful splatter of the design - an exploding skull, which grinned at Dean as though it knew something.

“Cas - wait -”

Cas wouldn’t look at him. He kept walking, going to push open his gate; Dean considered throwing out his arm to bar Cas’ entry, and made a movement as if to try - but aborted it at the last moment, figuring that the last thing Cas needed was to be touched against his own will.

“You’ve got to talk to me,” Dean said instead to Cas’ retreating back as the gate whined open, grating and thin, and Cas went through it. “Cas - come on, you can’t keep ignoring me. We need to talk -”

“About what?” Cas rapped out, facing towards his house. Dean hadn’t been expecting him to speak; his voice came as a shock. For a moment, Dean watched the tautness in his shoulders, the way his hair was shaved to soft shortness at the back of his neck, and the clench of his fists by his sides. The gate sighed shut between them.

“About…” Dean faltered, awkward. “You know - about - what’s happening.”

“What good would that do,” Cas said flatly.

“Well -”

“Nothing’s happening, anyway.”

On the side of Cas’ neck, Dean could see one of his many little tattoos - the stupid stick ‘n’ pokes he gave himself sometimes, this one a feather, the edges wispy. Soft , Dean thought. He’s never been so spiky. So harsh. He’s always been soft.

Or maybe, Dean added to himself, Cas had just always been soft with him, and now he was too angry to bother. Maybe Dean was just getting the same treatment as everyone else, now.

Dean gathered himself up, and pushed on.

“Cas, look, that’s just - it’s not true. Someone’s obviously doing this to you. And I want to help -”

Cas’ tight fists tightened harder, the knuckles whitening.

“You can’t,” Cas said. And then, “there’s nothing to help with. I’m fine .”

“Cas, for God’s sake,” Dean said impatiently.

Cas was silent. He didn't move; he looked like a statue, an effigy of himself. Dean chewed his lip, and spoke again.

“I’ve been thinking - I can fix this -”

“Dean...” Cas said, turning round, “Please.”

“But -”

“Dean. Nothing’s... broken.” His eyes were a pair of sudden casualties, heart attacks in blue, sad and deep enough to squeeze Dean’s chest to bursting.

“You’re lying,” Dean said, hearing himself distantly. “Tell me who did this to you.”

Cas said nothing. As though he were a dream-person, he turned away, and walked - ethereal in hurt - up his drive, and into his house.

Dean stood still, gazing around - at the empty street, at the porch of his own house, at the few wilting plants tucked under the living room window on the Novak’s front yard, as though hoping something would tell him what to do... how to act, how to successfully be, when something was so undeniably not right, and there was nothing he could seem to do about it.

His surroundings were silent, but for a few rustling leafy whispers. Dean realised his teeth were clenched. He hovered, his stomach churning. It didn’t feel right to just go home.

After a few minutes a song began to play upstairs, from Cas’ room. It wasn’t blaring, but it wasn’t quiet, either; Dean felt as though Cas wanted to play it loud enough to drown himself in the sound, without pulling anyone else into the water with him. As though he were trying to ease his pain, not advertise it.

Every day is so wonderful… and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe…

Dean closed his eyes. The song was outdated, not old enough to be a classic, an awkward in-between thing - and that would be exactly why Cas liked it, Dean knew.

You are beautiful, no matter what they say...

Cliché, a part of Dean thought, unbidden. And then he remembered the look in Cas’ eyes: the stinging, striking hurt.

Maybe - maybe pain always looked like a cliché from the outside, Dean thought, as he walked back to his own house, defeated. Maybe even from the inside, too. But that wouldn’t make it hurt any less.

*

The fourth time Cas came home with blood on his face, Dean didn’t ask where it had come from. He pretended not to see as Cas threw open the gate to his yard, strode quickly up the path, disappeared into his home, and crashed the door closed behind him.

Then, Dean quietly went upstairs, retrieved his first-aid things from his sports bag, and went next door. The walk round was drawn out by his nerves; when he reached Cas’ door - much mistreated, these days, with all the times Cas came home angry - he knocked on it softly, as though giving anyone inside the opportunity to pretend they hadn’t heard him, and not answer.

It was thrown open almost immediately. Dean wondered briefly whether Cas had seen him coming round from an upstairs window.

“Hey,” he said. Cas said nothing. Dean held up his first aid supplies. “I thought you might want…” He gestured vaguely with his index finger towards his own cheek; Cas put a hand up to cover the graze he had there, on the side of his face. “I didn’t know if you had antiseptic.”

Cas just glared at him. Every time Dean saw him, he looked a little more angry, a little less like the Cas who had been his neighbour since forever; overall, Dean thought, a little more like a stranger.

“Look - I’ve been trying to get everyone to back off,” he said. “I’m doing what I can, but -”

Cas snorted.

“You’re telling me you and your jock friends aren’t enjoying this?” he said. Dean felt the ground sway beneath his feet. He clenched his fist.

“You seriously think I like seeing you come home like this?”

Cas shrugged, his eyes flinty.

“I thought you popular people got off on it,” he said coldly. “You know, watching people who aren’t part of the super special sports teams getting torn to shreds. Isn’t that how you know you’re better than us? Doesn’t it help you to sleep at night?”

Dean gaped at him for a second. Cas stared back at him, chin up, his defiant expression looking fragile as paper.

Of course, thought Dean, with sudden clarity - or rather, sudden remembrance of a time when he, too, had been hurting. You’ve got to be angry.

It took time to learn how to turn pain into kindness. Dean’s mom had been long gone before he’d figured it out properly.

“You don’t mean that,” Dean said aloud. Cas looked as though he wanted to argue - and then something seemed to swing loose off its hinges inside him, and he shrugged.

“No,” he said. “Not about you, anyway.”

“Cas…” Dean said. “For God’s sake. I’m doing what I can. If you’d just stop - you could take those out…” He gestured to the earrings, the nose stud, the eyebrow piercing. His eyes flicked over the undercut, and the fluffy, deliberately mussed hair half-tinted blue on the other side, the roots dark and rich. He bit his lip.

“I won’t let them win,” Cas said. He sounded old - half defiant, half tired.

Dean nodded.

“I know,” he said. Something in his chest got caught on the way that Cas drew himself up a little at that; he looked like a king, weary and resigned, but brave. Still, always, brave.

“You don’t know anything about it,” Cas said, with a little more spirit, and Dean nodded. He knew some about a lot of things - but not about this.

“You should keep it clean, is all,” he said, and half-heartedly held out the first aid supplies again, incongruously cheerful-looking in their bright red bag. Cas looked at him for a long moment - not quite so angrily, this time, but just as though he was trying to figure Dean out. For a second, Dean saw a glimpse of the Cas that he knew; curious, intelligent, thoughtful. “Cas -”

Cas took the supplies out of Dean’s hand, and without another word, he slammed the door.

Chapter Text

The eleventh time that Cas came home with blood on his face, he didn’t even bother going to his own house first. He flung the gate to Dean’s house open, strode limpingly up the drive, and threw himself down into the seat opposite where Dean was lounging on the porch. He took a gulp of the lemonade that Dean had poured out for him, and sat there looking like a modern Achilles - tanned and wounded, blood on his lip, with his ripped jeans and his loose, long-sleeved sweater and his stupid undercut.

And the silent question in the curve of his body.

Help?

“Michael?” Dean said, pulling the first aid kit out from under his lounge chair. Cas shrugged. He leaned forwards, and let Dean begin dabbing at the blood on his face with an antiseptic wipe.

Cas’ closeness, Dean told himself firmly, was fine. The shape of his lips was fine. Not fine fine, just… fine. He was allowed to do this because Cas was hurt, that was all. He cleared his throat. “I’m going to run out of these, man.” It was true that his reserves of antiseptic supplies were running thin.

“I’ll get you some more. Can I have another one?” Cas said, and when Dean passed him a wipe, he pushed up the sleeve of his artfully torn light sweater and placed it over a new tattoo, which looked a little swollen. Dean swore.

“Cas, I’ve told you about that stick ‘n’ poke bullshit. If you get freaking septicemia…” He finished up Cas’ lip, and turned his attention instead to Cas’ arm. The tattoo, nestled in between the delicate intersections of other swirling designs, was a simple heart. Under it were written the words, I know.

“What’s that for,” Dean said, to make conversation, as he wiped at it - trying to be gentle, though his hands felt big and clumsy. The skin of Cas’ arm was soft; his fingers were loosely curled, close enough to Dean’s knee to make him wonder things that he didn’t usually allow himself to consider. “What’s it mean?”

Cas raised a shoulder.

“You know,” he said. Dean waited for more, but Cas didn’t look like he was in the mood for saying anything much else. He wondered if he was supposed to have understood already, or if Cas just didn’t want him to get it.

“So... Benny got kicked off the team,” Dean said, changing the subject. “Can you believe it? He’s been putting in hours of practice, Coach just turns around and says he’s gotta go. I try to say something - nada. He blanks me. I go to Benny and Benny tells me it’s for the best.”

“For the best?” Cas said. He was watching Dean work, the tip of his tongue poking out, warily feeling for the edges of his latest lip-split. Dean determinedly did not stare.

“Well, he’s got a bit of a temper sometimes, so what? Worst I’ve seen him do is punch a locker. He’s always fine on the field.” A sudden worry seized Dean. “Hey - Benny’s not the one who -” His eyes flicked to Cas’ lip, to the barely-healed bruise on his cheekbone, to the scratch on his hand.

“No,” Cas cut him off, his voice a little sharp, like it always was whenever Dean tried to talk about Cas’ so-called - “Accidents,” Cas said. “I’ve told you, they were just accidents.”

“Uh-huh. Nice party line. Does it make any difference that no one is buying it?”

“Teachers are. Parents are,” Cas said casually. Dean, who had elongated the process of cleaning up Cas’ wounds about as long as was respectable, sat back. His fingers still tingled with the sensation of having rested against Cas’ skin.

“Teachers and parents don’t count,” he said. Cas shook down the sleeve of his sweater, and sat back too. “Look, we’ve got to do something about this, man. It’s getting worse and more often. Don’t think I didn’t notice you’re limping more this time. And…” He narrowed his eyes, looking at the way Cas was holding himself. “Don’t tell me. Ribs, right?”

Cas looked down, and kept his eyes fixed on his lemonade.

“Yeah. Thought so.” Dean had fractured a rib in practice one time, falling awkwardly onto the upraised spiked boot of a teammate, and still remembered the grating ache of each breath.

Cas swallowed.

“It doesn’t hurt as much as getting a tattoo,” he said. Dean frowned.

“Is that why you keep doing them? What kind of backward-ass logic is that?”

“The kind where I don’t want the worst pain I’ve ever been through to be something as meaningless and stupid as being bullied.”

Cas said it forcefully. He didn’t meet Dean’s eye, too self-aware, taking the edge off the drama of the statement with a little wry twist to his mouth.

“Right... and drawing a little heart on your arm isn’t meaningless and stupid?” Dean said - but he said it with warmth, and was relieved to see Cas crack a small, unwilling smile. “You’re off the wall, you know that?”

“Probably,” Cas said. He sipped his lemonade, and winced as the sourness made his lip sting. “But it means something to me. It means I’m not letting them win.”

Dean sighed.

“I know,” he said.

Cas’ hand pressed over his tattoo.

*

The sixteenth time Cas came home with blood on his face, he didn’t walk angrily, and he didn’t come over to Dean’s. He shuffled all the way up the road, moving gingerly; he avoided all eye contact. He had a scarf pulled halfway up over his face, even though it was warm out, the breeze gentle. When he pushed open the gate to his front yard, it whined at a different pitch to usual, hinges grinding more slowly.

“Cas?” Dean could hear alarm bells ringing in his ears as he stood up. Cas began to move faster, obviously trying to make it to his front door. Dean began to move, jumping down the steps from his porch and heading to the fence that separated their front yards. When Cas didn’t look as though he was going to stop - when he kept limping for his door - Dean took a smooth couple of quick steps as a run-up, and vaulted the fence cleanly.

“Cas - Cas, wait,” Dean said, striding towards him, putting his hand on Cas’ shoulder to turn him around. Thinly, quickly stifled, Cas let out a little groan of pain. “Cas - what the -”

Cas turned, and Dean went utterly still.

All down the side of Cas’ face was grazed, rubbed raw. His eye was swelling. He was holding himself all wrong, his arm hanging loose, his weight all on one leg.

“What the fuck happened,” Dean said, though he didn’t make it sound like a question. He already knew.

Cas only bit his lip, and stared at him. His eyes were deeper and darker and more hurt than Dean had ever seen them.

“Fuck,” Dean said, and slid his arms around Cas’ waist, and pulled him in close. He hugged Cas as fiercely as he dared without wanting to hurt him, his pulse racing. He fully expected to be pushed away - he’d never done this before, and Cas hated pity -

But instead, he felt Cas’ arms rise to hold him back.

His heart lurched in his chest. He let his chin rest on Cas’ shoulder, lightly, in case it hurt. Cas pressed his cheek up against the side of Dean’s head, and let out a little shaking breath.

They held onto each other. Cas’ sweater was soft, even though Dean knew it had Anarchy  written in big letters on the front.

“You’re OK,” Dean said. “It’s all OK. I’ve got you.”

Dean felt Cas’ hands clench on the back of his letterman jacket.

“Why do they hate me so much,” he said, strained, hopeless. “I’m sick of getting hurt - I’m sick of not knowing when they’re going to let me go. I’m sick of it all.”  He breathed out sharply. “I’m sick of having to watch where I go and sick of creeping around school. I want to run away, I’ve had enough…”

Dean - shyly, tentatively - rubbed his thumb in a circle on Cas’ back. Cas felt big and solid in his arms, at least; it was a comforting counterpoint to the thin weariness in his voice.

“I know,” he said. “I get that.” He sighed, and pulled back, wanting to see Cas’ face, wanting Cas to be able to see the reassurance in his own eyes. Somehow, without him choosing, he found that his hand drifted upwards - so that when they had a little space between them, he was cradling the back of Cas’ neck in a warm hold. For a moment, they were silent. Cas’ eyes were locked on his, hands loosely holding onto the front of Dean’s jacket, now.

Dean let out a breath. He moved his hand down to Cas’ shoulder, a safer place for it to rest. A place where it didn’t feel easy to pull Cas in closer, and -

He shook his head slightly, tried to focus.

“You gotta let me help you now. If you’d - you’d stay near me at school -”

Cas looked down, but he didn’t move away.

“You think I want this to happen to you, too?” he said. “Anyone associated with me is just going to get the same treatment.”

Dean shook his head. “But, Cas - look, I’ve been doing some thinking. I’m - you know, I’m popular, right? So maybe if you… I mean, things like this don’t happen to people like me.”

Cas’ eyes flicked in a way that might have been a half-hearted eye roll. “You think you’re untouchable?”

“I came out as bisexual last year, didn’t I?” Dean said, a little tightly. Bringing up the fact that he was into guys, right now, felt somehow dangerous. He pressed on. “And no one’s punching me.”

Cas looked back up at him for a second, a flicker of something slightly different in his eyes. Dean didn’t completely understand what it was. He licked his lips, and spoke again.

“I could - if you’d just let me, I could do something about this. I know we’ve never really run in the same circles at school-”

Cas snorted.

“I don’t have a circle,” he said. “I’m a circle of one.”

Determinedly so, Dean added to himself.

“Listen,” Dean carried on, regardless. “If you and me - if we were, you know - if you were, sort of, connected with me… maybe as a friend, maybe as -” He swallowed hard. Cas was frowning at him, now.

“What are you suggesting?” he said. “Are you asking me to be your…?” He broke off. Dean’s hand was still on his shoulder. Cas’ grip was still strong on the front of Dean’s jacket. They were still standing close, and the closeness was still comforting them both.

Dean bit his lip.

Did he dare?

“I’m suggesting…” he began. He met Cas’ gaze, strong and searching, weary and brave - and felt suddenly very stupid, and very young, and a little ridiculous. Just another boy with a stupid crush on someone way out of his league. There was no way Cas would take him seriously, no way that he felt the same as Dean.

He shrugged, trying to be offhand.

No. He didn’t dare.

But he could still help Cas.

“I’m suggesting that - why don’t we sort of, you know - pretend to be - something?” He almost choked on his own cowardice, but pressed through it. “If people think you’re, you know…” He smiled weakly, and gave Cas a little fake punch. “My boy, then people will leave you alone. And -”

Cas took a step back, his face twisted.

“I’m not your boy,” he said. “I don’t belong to anyone. People don’t belong to people.”

“Oh - wait,” Dean said, his expression falling. “I didn’t -”

“I don’t need your charitably-donated help for my cause. I don’t need you to strain yourself by forcing some kind of connection with me.”

“No, I didn’t mean - it wouldn’t be forcing - see, it’d just be pretend,” Dean said, a little desperately.

“I don’t want to pretend that,” Cas said harshly.

His tone sounded wrong, inordinately hard, as though Dean had done worse damage than he understood - worse than just suggesting a slightly bad idea. Dean gulped. He let his hands, which had been reaching out vaguely in Cas’ direction after he’d stepped away, fall back down to his sides.

“If it would help -”

“It wouldn’t,” Cas said. He seemed to gather himself. “I’m not getting you dragged into this too. Like you said, you managed to come out and not get any trouble for it. If people think we’re… if people…”

He shook his head, and turned away suddenly. He limped towards his front door.

Dean watched him go, feeling shame burn in his gut. Of course Cas didn’t want to pretend to have anything like that going on with Dean. Of course the idea would be horrible to him. And Dean had phrased it all wrong, too.

Later that night, too pent-up with hurt and worry to do nothing, Dean took round some antiseptic and some bandages.

Cas let him in.

Chapter Text

The next day, at school, Dean sat with his usual gang for lunch - Jo, her long blonde hair swinging as she laughed; Anna, chewing gum idly and painting her nails; Eliot Ness, scanning through a book on lacrosse plays; and Nick Munroe, telling a funny story, his movements big and expansive and confident. Dean sat at the edge of the group, eating his food.

It had roughly the same taste and texture in his mouth as he’d imagine cardboard would. He couldn’t get the image of Cas’ face out of his head - the way he’d looked at Dean, after that stupid suggestion to pretend to be together. Dean couldn’t decipher that expression, no matter how many times he replayed it in his mind. Repulsed? Offended?

The widening of the eyes - the mouth falling open - that angle of his chin...

Hurt, Dean thought. Hurt, or angry. Or maybe it really was just plain disgust. Or was it hurt pride?

With Cas, Dean thought moodily, it’s usually pride.

He picked up a french fry and ate it mechanically. His friends were all laughing, now; Jo nudged him, and Dean smiled at her, but didn’t enter their conversation.

So, Cas was too proud to accept his help. People don’t belong to people… Dean cringed. He hadn’t said that part right at all, knowing Cas as he did. If only he’d managed to put himself into words well enough, maybe Cas would be sitting over here with him now, made safe by the blanket of popularity, the impermeable shelter of general good opinion. Instead…

Dean couldn’t help it. He sent another glance over at where Cas was sitting, alone. He was in a corner, back to the wall, so that no one could sneak up on him from behind. He was watching his food, not making eye contact with anyone.

He was being smart, Dean thought. But not smart enough to keep himself out of trouble. The grazes on the side of his face were testament to that.

“Dean, for God’s sake,” Jo said, slapping him on the arm. “Could you take your eyes off Novak for one minute?”

Dean, smiling as good-naturedly as he could with a worry pain burning in his chest, shrugged lightly.

“You’ve been staring at him for days, honestly,” Anna said, observant as always. “I know you’re neighbours - don’t you get enough of each other at home?”

Nick laughed.

“People are going to start thinking you’re… you know... together,” he said.

And just like that, Dean was struck by it.

It came to him in a flash of brilliance, a sudden certainty. The potential of what he could do was suddenly dizzying. And he wouldn’t even have to go against Cas’ wishes, not technically...

Before he could think twice about it, before the moment passed, Dean said loudly,

“What? We are not together!”

His gang of friends looked taken aback. They stared at him, momentarily frozen, looking like a montage of surprised figures in a Renaissance painting. Around them, the general clatter of the cafeteria continued.

“Uhh…” said Jo.

“Why would you say that?” Dean demanded.

“Um, Dean... they were just teasing -” Eliot said uncertainly, folding his arms.

“Yeah, but why would you even think that we are?” Dean pressed, trying not to overplay it. “It’s not like I’m into him at all, so where did that even come from, you know?”

The last sentence came out sounding like a complete lie without him even trying. Dean ignored that as best he could, the image of Cas’ repulsed face appearing in his mind again. Never gonna actually happen, Winchester.

“There’s no need to be so defensive,” Jo said, holding up her hands. Anna nodded, and Nick met her eyes across the table. “I mean, come on, we’re always joking that Anna’s getting off with Ruby when she’s clearly not.”

“Well, save your jokes for Anna, then,” Dean said.

“Why are you being so -”

“Because Cas and I aren’t together, alright?!”

He threw in the nickname, and it seemed to have the intended effect: eyebrows went up, significant looks were shared.

“What are you looking like that for?” he said, beginning to almost enjoy himself.

“Well,” Nick said, “... nothing.”

“The lady doth protest too much, ” Anna quoted, and Jo giggled, and then they both pulled solemn faces when Dean glared at them.

“Whatever,” he said. Some people were about to pass his table; he raised his voice. “Laugh it up. But I’m not with Cas, OK? Stop assuming I am!”

The people passing his table looked back at him - Ruby and Bela, Dean saw with satisfaction. Perfect.

Two hours later, as Dean walked past a group of freshmen in the corridors, they giggled loudly. He looked back at them, and they scattered quickly - and then Dean looked to his left, and saw Cas standing there quietly, leaning against a locker and absorbed in his phone.

Dean didn’t allow himself to crack a grin immediately, but he did permit himself go over and punch Cas lightly on the arm in a friendly manner - and only then beamed a radiant smile.

“Dean,” Cas said, looking as though he wanted to frown, but already half-smiling in response, as though he couldn’t resist being tugged upward by Dean’s happiness. The sight of it almost wiped clean the tape in Dean’s head that kept playing the conversation from the evening before on repeat. “You’re not supposed to be hanging out with me at school - you promised -”

“I know,” Dean said. He looked over Cas’ shoulder, and saw Michael and his friends down the other end of the corridor.

He met Michael’s eyes for a long second - and then Michael blinked, and turned away.

And Dean looked back at Cas, and said, “I’ll be going, then.”

That evening, Cas came home with no new blood. He sat on Dean’s porch and they did their homework together, and Dean made him laugh.

*

The thing was, Dean thought, that he couldn’t just let the ruse rest on the shoulders of that one piece of hearsay. He had to somehow keep it going. If people didn’t get any new evidence, if he and Cas were never seen together, then everyone would stop speculating. And that would mean that Cas would be vulnerable all over again, completely isolated again.

Dean had to give them something to go on. Something to keep the rumours alive, to connect him and Cas together.

Except Cas couldn’t suspect what he’d done, the game he was playing, because then he’d - he’d get hurt by it, offended.

Don’t you get it?  Dean had asked an imaginary Cas, inside his head, a hundred times over. I’m not doing this because I don’t respect you or I don’t think you can handle it. I’m not doing this because I think I own you or I’m better than you. I’m doing this because I know you could handle it, keep taking the punches all the way until we graduate, and I just don’t want you to have to. I just want to help. I know you’re out of my league in every fucking way, and this is the one thing I can do for you.

But he couldn’t tell Cas that, not aloud - because that conversation would inevitably end in more embarrassment, and Dean having to swear not to go through with the plan anymore.

And the plan needed to keep going through. It was working. He just needed to lay a few more elements into place.

And that was why he started buying coffee before school started, even though coffee had never been his favourite. He had to lay some groundwork in with the drink, he thought, before using it tactically. He bought it for three days, gulping it down and trying not to grimace, before he decided it was time. On Thursday, he put his plan into action.

He headed down the corridor towards his first class, History, his venti latte in his hand. Bag slung over his shoulder, aviators on his head, letterman jacket on, working his jock persona to the maximum, he walked like he owned the place - greeting people with casual smiles and nods. He looked good, he knew, when he wore his role like this, when he smiled like that, when he strode confidently. Sometimes that was exciting, but today it was functional. People were reacting to him just right, and he knew he was doing a good job, turning just enough heads. He gripped the coffee tightly, making sure that it didn’t spill in the hustle and bustle as everyone struggled to get to class. If he wasn’t wrong - he’d asked last night, to make sure - Cas had Art first, which meant he’d be just up the corridor.

And, sure enough, there he was - wearing a t-shirt that said Do I Feel Lucky? and a leather jacket with studs, slouching against the wall, hands in his pockets. He looked surly but not submissive, his bright blue eyes occasionally catching on passing students’ faces and giving them a glare.

Dean cut a casual course for him as the crowds began to thin out, the coffee warm in his hand - not too warm, he’d made sure, not boiling. He angled himself, trying to time it right. Cas was standing isolated, as usual, which made it easier - and there was a girl sitting about three feet away from him, with her legs stuck out. People were stepping over her as she ate an apple and read her book, headphones on.

Perfect.

Dean kept moving quickly, as though he was in a rush to get to class. He breezed forward - kept his eyes up, whilst clocking exactly where the girl was sat - and then, completely by accident, of course, he tripped wildly over her legs, took a couple of stumbling steps, and spilled his whole coffee over the side of Cas’ jacket.

Cas gave a little yelp - which Dean would definitely have teased him for, under other circumstances - and jerked away. Dean let the cup fall to the floor, pressing his hands to his mouth theatrically.

“Oh - oh, my god,” Dean said, trying to sound convincing. “What a terrible accident!”

“Dean?!” Cas said, holding his soaked arm away from his body, coffee dripping off the sleeve. “Why did you -”

“Hey, you could move your legs,” Dean said, turning around to remonstrate the girl, who was staring at them. “Honestly. This is how accidents happen,” he said, shaking his head sadly, hands on his hips. “Horrible, horrible accidents just like this one.”

“My jacket - my t-shirt,” Cas said, staring down at himself. Dean met his eyes.

“Hey, that was totally my fault,” he said. “I should’ve been looking. Ugh. And now you have to deal with wearing a wet t-shirt all day, and it’ll smell like latte, which, gross. I mean, not gross because I don’t like coffee, which I do, of course, because why would I have it if I didn’t like it? Just gross because - because no one likes to smell like cold coffee, right?”

“Well, I mean -” Cas said, looking bemused. “It wasn't... entirely your fault…”

“You're right,” Dean said loudly. “It really was entirely my fault.”

“No, I -”

“You know what,” Dean said, sounding for all the world as though the idea had just come to him. “I’m gonna do you a favour. I’m gonna let you wear my stuff instead.” He began taking off his letterman jacket, tugging at the sleeves. Cas was watching him with his eyes impossibly wide.

“What is happening right now,” he said. “What the -”

“It’s OK, I know it’s a lot for me to offer, but I can get it back from you tonight,” Dean said. “Uh, you know - because we’re neighbours!”

He heard the hiss of conversation starting around them, and determinedly did not meet anyone’s eyes but Cas’, who looked completely bemused. Dean had his jacket off, now, and was reaching for the back of his t-shirt when Cas reached out and put a hand on his arm to stop him. The amount of whispering increased.

“Dean,” he said. “What are you -”

“I’m giving you my top to wear... buddy,” Dean said, leaving a barely-noticeable but careful pause there, of which he was immediately rather proud.

“But I don’t -” Cas said, sounding lost. Around them, the conversation seemed to be definitely still centred on them, with people murmuring and giggling.

“Can’t a guy just give another guy his jacket and t-shirt to wear without all this wild speculation?” Dean said loudly, looking around at them all. “Bros don’t let bros wear coffee-stained clothes, do they?”

“Um…” Cas looked about as happy to be called a ‘bro’ as Dean could have expected. He repressed a teasing grin, and tried to look solemn.

“Look, it’s my fault you got soaked. I’m just doing what anyone would do.”

“But -”

Dean huffed.

“Stop making a big deal out of it, Novak. You’re making it weird.”

Cas glanced around at the people watching them; after a moment of wordless deliberation, he seemed to decide that the path of least resistance was just doing as Dean asked. He pulled off his jacket to general murmurs, and then - in one smooth pull - quickly took his t-shirt off, over the back of his head.

There were a few wolf whistles at the sight of his lean, tanned stomach. Before Dean had even thought about it, he was glaring at the culprits - and then he stopped himself too quickly, remembering he had no right to feel protective - and then let himself do it again, remembering that in his current acting role, he would be supposed to feel a little jealous in this situation.

His mind briefly reeled as he turned back to Cas, the layers of pretence suddenly slightly overwhelming. He realised that he was staring at Cas’ abs - his abs, Cas had abs - and jerked his eyes away. Cas was looking at him with a slight flush on his cheeks. Dean bit his lip.

Altogether, he was doing an excellent job of pretending to be attracted to Cas, Dean thought, and that was the important thing.

He pulled off his t-shirt, remembering too late that he had aviators on his head, and having to catch them in the folds of t-shirt fabric so that they wouldn’t fall on the floor. He caught hold of them and pushed his shirt at Cas, who took it in hands that didn’t quite seem to know how to hold it.

“Put the thing on before you cut someone on your cold nipples,” Dean said, and grabbed Cas’ t-shirt in return, and pulled it on over his head.

It smelled a lot like coffee, and a little like Cas, and fitted snugly. He looked down at himself, assessing the look.

“What do you think - could I be punk?” he said, holding his hands out and looking at Cas, who just stared at him wordlessly. Dean grimaced. “I guess not, then, jeez. You know how to ruin a guy’s self-esteem, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows at a nearby junior in the gathering crowd, pushed his aviators back onto his head, and put his hands on his hips. “Mm? Good look?”

“Pretty good,” she said, blushing. Dean grinned easily, letting his charm roll him through.

“See,” he said to Cas, who pulled on Dean’s t-shirt - a plain white one. “Some people like it. Just Mr Grump here who doesn’t.” He shoved his letterman jacket towards Cas, who caught it, and passed his own studded leather affair back. Together, they pulled them on, and then took a longer look at each other.

Cas looked - well, Dean thought, Cas looked about exactly as good as any tall, tanned, muscular, tattooed guy would look in ripped skinny jeans, a tight white t-shirt, and his own letterman jacket.

Dean stared at him, and Cas stared back. Dean felt suddenly self-conscious in the studded jacket, collar popped up.

“Pretty good,” Cas said softly, and suddenly Dean was the one blushing - and that hadn’t been part of the plan, exactly, but he couldn’t bring himself to be mad about it.

“Well, uh, well,” he said, not having to act flustered. “Thanks. You, uh - yeah.”

Cas smiled in a way that was just for him - and then the bell rang.

They wore each other’s clothes all day. By the time the bell went for the last class, there wasn’t a kid in the school who wasn’t convinced that they were dating.

When Cas sat with Dean on his porch, that evening, there was no blood on his face - only the kind of soft, relaxed look that Dean hadn’t seen since before the first time he was beaten up.

“Cheek’s healing well,” Dean said casually, as they sipped lemonade.

“Yes,” Cas said. “You know, I think resilience might be winning out. They haven’t even looked at me twice in the last week. Something’s changed, somehow.”

Dean said nothing. He wasn’t sure whether to feel happy or proud or guilty; he settled for feeling a mixture of all three. And more besides, he thought, his gaze on Cas’ profile, the soft fall of his hair over one side, the brightness in his eyes.

He was still wearing Dean’s letterman jacket. He didn’t seem in any rush to give it back.

*

The plan was all completely in control, and not at all out of hand, until the party.

Dean figured he had it pretty much sorted. Everyone at school thought he and Cas were dating; he’d never once said that they actually were dating, so he hadn’t quite lied; and if anyone asked Cas whether they were really going out, his saying ‘no’ would probably only fuel the rumours, at this point.

Sorted.

Except for the fact that one evening, around two weeks into the plan - when Cas’ grazes were almost healed, and his sprained shoulder was almost better, and his bruises on his ribs were almost gone - Cas came to sit on Dean’s porch with an unusually excited air about him.

“What’s up?” Dean said, smiling before he even knew the answer, enjoying Cas’ refound access to better feelings - to excitement, to happiness.

“I got invited,” Cas said, sounding as though he was trying to be casual, “to a party.”

Dean blinked at him for a moment, letting the news sink in.

“You… what?”

“I know,” Cas said, nodding a little ruefully. “Believe me, I was also surprised. But your friend Anna Milton insisted that I should come.”

“Wait - Anna’s birthday party?” Dean said, trying not to sound panicked. Cas nodded.

“She said she thought that she should get to know me.” He frowned. “I’m not sure why that is, now of all times, after years of ignoring the fact that I exist, but…” Shrugging, he shook it off. “I’ll take it. It’ll be nice to hang out with some new people.”

“Uh huh,” Dean said absently, a filler, his mind racing. Pretending that he and Cas were together whilst insisting they were not together, whilst not giving Cas the impression that he was trying to pretend they were together - it was fairly easy at school, what with classes and societies and sports practices taking up most of their time. But at a party, where there was nothing to do but socialise…

“- have to get some new clothes. I want to look good. Maybe I should make my hair a different colour,” Cas was saying, when Dean emerged from the fug of his worry.

“No,” he blurted out stupidly. “I like you. I like the blue. I meant I like - the blue. Christ.” He covered his face. Cas, however, seemed to be in a good enough mood to ease them out of the awkwardness; he snorted, and put his feet up on the table, and said,

“Well, honey, you should have just said.”

“Shut up,” Dean said, bright red, without any venom.

Cas smirked - though there was a tinge of something strange in his eyes again. It was a kind of sadness that Dean didn’t understand, that only showed up every now and then, and looked deep and quiet.

Dean cleared his throat.

“So, anyway, party,” he said, and Cas breathed in sharply, as though pulled out of a reverie.

“Yes,” he said. “Party. You’ll be there too, right?”

“Can’t miss it,” Dean said, rueing that fact, now. He shouldn’t have RSVP’d so soon. Although he didn’t like the idea of Cas being left alone with his well-meaning but definitely inquisitive friend group, either. “Are you sure you’re not, you know, too cool for something like this? Wouldn’t you rather, uh, read Kafka and think about how life is meaningless?”

“Fuck you,” said Cas comfortably, clearly writing it up as teasing rather than a genuine and slightly desperate inquiry. Dean decided to let it die at that. There was no way he was going to be able to convince Cas not to come without saying something hurtful to put him off - and besides, Cas shouldn’t be barred from his first proper party, just because Dean had got himself into a situation that might, possibly, just barely be considered to be getting a little out of hand.

“There’ll be Michael there, maybe,” he tried anyway, one last-ditch effort. Cas frowned over at him.

“Anna said it was just going to be… uh, you, Jo, Eliot Ness, Nick Munroe, some girls from her cheer squad, some guys from the lacrosse team, and me,” he said, checking them off on his fingers. “Anyway, even if Michael did show up, I don’t think it would be so much of a problem anymore. He really doesn’t care about me, these days.”

Dean almost gnashed his teeth. His plan had worked too well.

“Well, I’m sure it’s gonna be a fun night,” he said, a little bleakly.

“Definitely,” Cas said. He took a sip of lemonade. Dean watched him do it, half of him panicking, and half of him wishing he could kiss the sourness off Cas’ lips and be done with the whole thing, just like that.

But Cas didn’t want to date him, Dean reminded himself, remembering Cas’ horrified reaction to the idea of even pretending. So he had to keep it up - the whole mess of liking Cas while pretending to like Cas while pretending not to like Cas.

His head hurt. He took a sip of lemonade, and tried not to think about Cas’ lips any more.

They looked better with no blood on them, he thought. That was why he had to keep going.

Chapter Text

The bass was thudding as Dean approached Anna’s house, his heart beating far too fast.

He glanced to his left; Cas, too, was looking nervous, though for a very different reason - his first high-school party, Dean thought. As often as Dean had invited him to other ones, Cas had always turned him down. But now, tonight, here they were together.

Here they were together together, in the eyes of pretty much everyone, except for Cas himself. He was oblivious, for now - but God only knew what he’d find out in the next few hours. Dean tried to summarise it to himself hopefully. He hadn’t exactly said anything to anyone… but he’d definitely implied, or rather not implied so deliberately that it was almost the same as having just said it outright, and if that got back to Cas - and if Cas even understood it - then Dean was going to end up in trouble.

Hope was definitely looking slender.

Dean took a few last moments to take Cas in now, before he was mad, before he found out. He looked good enough to make Dean’s stomach flip, his piercings glinting in the low half-light of the late evening, his t-shirt tight to his muscular arms, his jawline sharp and his eyes alight when he looked at Dean.

Before this had all started, they'd known each other well - but now, they were closer than they'd ever been. It was perfect and it was painful in roughly equal measure, when Cas looked at him like that. Dean thought he could almost hear his own heart shouting, a wordless intensity of feeling that threatened briefly to overspill, to make him say for the love of God, just kiss me, please, I’m begging you. It hurt.

He looked down, away from Cas. He looked at his shoes, his plain boring shoes and his plain old jeans and his plain blue t-shirt. He swallowed hard. He wasn’t really Cas’ boyfriend, or anything remotely close to it, and that was how Cas wanted it. He was here to do a job, he reminded himself. He was Cas’ friend, his protector. His secret fake boyfriend. If he acted stupidly now, then he couldn’t do that job, and Cas would end up worse off than ever before.

He cleared his throat, and smiled winningly at Cas.

“Ready to go in?” he said. Cas nodded, his eyes a little wide with nerves, and Dean felt his smile soften. He reached out and put his hand on Cas’ shoulder.

Outside, there were a couple of people smoking - lacrosse players, Dean thought - and one of them whistled.

“Come on,” Dean said hurriedly, before Cas could think about that too hard. “Let’s get inside.”

Anna’s house was a big, corpulent grandfather of a place, self-satisfied and spacious and built to look older than it was. The music inside was thudding, playing a house remix of a pop song. Dean led Cas through the crowds of people - Anna had invited more friends than he’d thought she would, or else it just felt like a lot in the narrow corridors. Just about every group that he passed gave him a significant look of some kind as he walked by them and they caught sight of Cas behind him; he tried to smile casually at them all, unconcerned.

“Hey Dean, how’s your friend Cas?” one of them called after him - a girl on the cheer team with a red cup in her hand. Dean raised an eyebrow. Anna’s parties had never had alcohol before - but he guessed that she’d wrangled some from her college-aged brother for her birthday party.

“Ask him yourself,” Dean called back, trying to sound pleasant, and led Cas onwards through the maze of people. There was the sound of laughter from behind them.

“Dean, why -” Cas began.

“Here’s Anna,” Dean said loudly, pulling Cas into the kitchen and cutting off his question. “Let’s see if we can get some snacks, huh?”

Anna turned around, a bowl of pretzels in each hand.

“Oh my God - Dean!” she said, putting the pretzels down on the counter island, her expression one of smoothed-over surprise. “Wow - hi!”

Dean, momentarily baffled, submitted to her hug. She smelled of expensive perfume and hairspray; when she let him go after a minute, she turned immediately to Cas and gave him a hug, too. Dean wiggled his eyebrows at Cas over her shoulder, and Cas’ fairly alarmed expression melted into a more usual glare at Dean’s irreverence.

Jo walked into the kitchen, wearing a shorter skirt than Dean had ever seen on her before, and took a moment to assess the situation.

“Oh my God, did you two even arrive together?” she said, and Anna turned to her, looking triumphant and nodding.

“They did! Just now!”

Jo laughed.

“Are you not even trying anymore, or what?”

“Uhhh…” Dean said, with absolutely no idea how to field this one. He hadn't even considered the implications of arriving at the same time - he'd assumed it would pass unnoticed.

“What?” Cas said, sounding confused. “Trying to what?”

“You know…” Jo said, hands on her hips. “Trying to hide the fact that you’re -”

“Thirsty!” said Dean, incredibly loudly, making everyone jump. “Super thirsty for some alcohol. Where’s the drink at, Josephine?”

“God, you're weird,” Anna said, at the same time as Jo said,

“Joanna!” She punched him in the arm, and led him out of the kitchen. “It’s Joanna, Dean, how long have you known me?”

“Whatever you say, Josephine.”

They threaded their way through a bunch of people dancing in the spacious, darkened living room, a couple of them holding glowsticks, most of them holding red cups. They were laughing and showing off together, flinging themselves around, looking good and carefree and bold. Dean spared a moment to think of the fantastic time he’d be having at this party, if he didn’t have to worry about the fact that his carefully-woven fiction might be about to crash down around his ears.

“Rum and coke?” Jo said, halting at a table overladen with bottles. Dean whistled. “I know. Anna’s brother scored it.”

“Maybe Lucifer has some redeeming features after all,” Dean said, accepting the red cup Jo proffered and taking a sip. “Cas, what’re you -” He turned, and found a space behind him where he’d expected Cas to be. He looked around, and could see no sign of blue hair.

“Guess Anna grabbed him,” Jo said. “We’re all super curious.” She winked at him. Dean groaned, and began to push his way back through the crowd of dancers. He couldn't leave Cas with Anna - she'd have him figured out in two minutes flat.

The dancers were like a pack, their intensity on the rise, shouts and wilder laughter threading through the overpowering music. Dean did his best to push his way through without catching anyone’s eye, on a mission -

“Hey, Dean!” said one of them, and Dean recognised Benny, who had his arms out and a grin on his face, looking like Dionysus welcoming him to the feast with a red cup spilling over in one hand.

“Benny, my man!” Dean said, unable to brush him off without being rude.

“Dance with us!” Benny said, waving his cup, slopping a little more over the edge. Dean grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. A tall, pretty girl was dancing close by, her eyes on Benny. Dean leaned in close to Benny’s ear.

“I think you’re doing fine for company!” he said, half-shouting over the music, and Benny laughed.

“You got that right! But, hey, hey, I wanna talk to you ‘bout that whole team thing, the thing with the thing,” he said, and leaned closer. Dean cast a look towards the kitchen door, seemingly miles away. To one side, he could see Jo dancing away, getting into the music. And Cas was somewhere...

“Thing with the thing?” Dean said tightly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, the thing with the off-the-team… thing,” Benny said.

“Ah, Benny, man, this can wait for when you’re not - when we’re not partying, yeah?” Dean said, making to move off, but Benny grabbed him by the shoulder. Dean looked over at the kitchen again; people were coming in and going out, but he couldn’t see if any of them were Cas.

“I just want you to know how much I appreciate all you did for me,” Benny said, yelling louder as the bass got thicker - it sounded as though someone had turned up the music. “I only got onto the team because of you puttin’ in a good word for me! I didn’t wanna let you down like this -”

“No, Benny, man,” Dean said, focusing back on his friend fully for a moment. Benny’s eyes were a little glazed with drink, Dean could see, but not too far gone. “Coach doesn’t know what he’s doing. You’ll be back on the team before you know it, alright, I’m gonna drill with you after school!”

Benny thumped Dean’s back with the flat of his hand, grinning.

“You’re the best, Dean,” he said. Dean grinned, and patted the side of his head.

“Now, dance, you idiot,” he said, spinning Benny towards the girl behind him, and detaching himself with as much grace as he could muster. Heading straight for the kitchen, he pushed open the door - and found himself confronted by Anna, and no one else.

“Looking for loverboy?” she said sweetly, and for a sudden, horrible moment, Dean thought that she knew he’d been pretending all along - but then she went on, “You can’t keep him to yourself all night, you know. He actually seems pretty cool. Bela took him to get a drink.”

Bela. The school’s primary source of information; the girl sure to be voted Most Likely to Screw Up Your Life for Her Own Idle Pleasure at the end of senior year - a category that they would create just for her.

“Shit,” said Dean, and took a large gulp of his rum and coke.

“Relax,” said Anna, chewing on a pretzel as she flicked off the kitchen light and opened the door to the living room, so that she could watch the progress of her party. “I told her to be nice.”

“Reassuring,” Dean said, coming to stand beside her. He took another gulp of drink. He’d have to head back over to the drinks table, and extract Cas. He wasn’t hugely keen, having only just battled his way through the teeming crowd once. “You know this is his first high-school party, right?”

Anna looked over at him, lit up in blue by the neon lamps she’d placed in the corners of the big living room.

“I know that you’re wound tighter than a freshman on first day,” she said, “and you wouldn’t normally care this much. Is this guy really that special, or something?”

Dean couldn’t meet her eyes; she’d see right through him to the truth - whatever that even was, Dean thought, a little desperately.

“He’s something,” he settled for saying, making to move off and find Bela - but at that moment, Cas appeared through the throng of dancers, being pushed from behind by a laughing Jo.

“Cas!” Dean said, and Cas, hearing his voice, looked like a ship’s captain in a storm spotting the harbour lights. He headed straight for Dean, and stood beside him for a moment in silence, his arm brushing Dean’s.

“You OK?” Dean said, and Cas nodded.

“I think I just got hit on by maybe three separate people,” Cas said, sounding as though he didn’t know entirely what to think of that.

“Oh,” said Dean - and then caught Anna’s narrow eyes, and remembered what he was here to do, and cleared his throat. “Well, you just tell them you’re not interested!” Cas turned to look at him, and Dean faltered. “Uh, if you want to,” he said, trying to sound more conciliatory. “Just - you know, offering you a possible… uh…”

He took a deep drink of his rum.

“I’m going to get some food,” Cas said, and disappeared past Dean into the kitchen.

There was a beat of silence, and then Anna said,

“You two act weird.”

Dean’s insides went cold.

“Weird how?” he said, as lightly as he could.

“Weird… like…” Anna seemed to be searching for the words. “You’re not… comfortable, or something. Like… unresolved.”

As always, Dean thought, Anna was completely too close to the mark.

“Yeah, no, don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said breezily, and when Cas returned, he smiled warmly, trying to give off a resolved kind of vibe.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, and Cas blinked at him, and then turned his attention back to his pretzels. “Don’t you think it’s a great party? Anna really put in the effort on this one, huh?” He tried to sound familiar and relaxed and couple-y. “I know this is your first party, but come on, you’ve got to admit that even with no comparison to work off, this is a good one, right? I mean, the lights, the music, the drinks, the dancing…”

“Dean,” Cas said, “why do you have your arm round my shoulders?”

Crap.

Dean, who had hoped that his casual movement would go unremarked, attempted a smile at Cas and then at Anna, both of whom were looking equally narrow-eyed with suspicion.

“Uh…” he said. “You know, just… steadying you? Yeah, man. Take it easy. You seem, uh, pretty drunk. Better take away that red cup...”

“This is orange juice,” Cas said flatly.

Dean swallowed.

“Oh, well,” he managed, trying for indignant. “My bad for caring, I’m sure.” He pulled his arm away. Somewhere inside him, he was condensing embarrassment into its purest form; superficially, he played it as cool as he could.

“By the way,” Cas said, “there was a girl over there who said you looked good tonight, I overheard her.”

“Ah,” Dean said, and whilst this information would once have been of some interest, he had very different things on his mind, lately. Anna was silent, listening. “Well… does that… bother you?”

Cas paused, and then turned to look at him as though he was crazy.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. Go ask her to dance, if you want.”

Dean heard Anna make a little noise.

“Uh. Wow!” he said, pulling a shocked face. Shit.

“Damn, Cas,” Anna said.

“Yeah, damn, Cas,” Dean echoed. Somewhere underneath it all, he was trying to figure out how he really felt about Cas telling him to go dance with someone else. The general consensus his feelings report seemed to be giving him was not great, around 0.1% good, mostly bad. He cleared his throat and grabbed Cas’ shoulder in a hand that wanted to fall surely, but felt tentative. “You sure are being - uh - supportive!” he said. “And not jealous! That’s really big of you! But don’t worry, I’m not interested in dancing with her!”

He realised his grin was becoming a little maniacal, and eased off on it. Anna, in her typical way, was sure to be scenting a rat. Dean was almost tempted to give up on the whole thing, come clean, leave the party in disgrace, and possibly book plane tickets to deepest Tibet or some similarly isolated location when he got home.

But then -

“So dance with me instead,” Cas said, and Dean almost spilled his rum and coke.

“What?” he said, completely forgetting that, as Cas’ supposed boyfriend, he shouldn’t be surprised by this request.

Cas looked over at him, his eyes a little hard with a challenge.

“Dance with me,” he said. “If you want to.”

Dean felt stripped by that look, all his layers and his acting torn away, and he was laid bare. He swallowed, and then swallowed again. Cas was watching him, his expression slowly shifting from excitement to something darker, something more like resignation - like he was about to dryly say I was just joking - this is how jokes work, isn’t it? I fool you, and then laugh at you?

So before he could get to that, Dean let himself say,

“Yes. I want to.”

Cas’ face hit a few notes of surprise, before settling into a steadier, more intense happiness. He didn’t smile, exactly - he just seemed to light up from within, as suddenly and intensely as a lighthouse turning on, and Dean could only blink in response. He waited for everyone else in the room to notice, but not even Anna was looking at Cas twice.

Dean could only stare.

“So let’s go,” Cas said.

Dean handed his cup to Anna, who took it without a word. Cas set his own cup down on a nearby side-table, and then headed towards the dancers - out of the comparative quiet of the almost-kitchen, and into the ring where the music ran deep and electric, swaying people’s bodies for them.

Cas was not holding Dean’s hand, but was somehow definitely leading him all the same - with the shape of his body, the way that he walked, as though completely focused on Dean being near. There was something about that which made Dean shiver with happiness - that out of all of the people here, Cas was silently and solely focused on him.

Dean allowed himself to be walked through to the centre of the dancing group, keeping his eyes on the back of Cas’ head and ignoring the buffeting of the other dancers - and then Cas turned to look at him, his eyes bright. For a moment, they just stared at each other. And then Cas leaned in a little, and -

“Now what?” he said, and Dean laughed, louder than he normally would have done, but the music still stole the sound.

“Now we dance,” he replied, stepping in closer to Cas so that he could be heard, half-shouting the words over Cas’ shoulder.

Cas raised both shoulders.

“I’ve never danced,” he said, exaggerating the words so that Dean could read his lips.

“Hey - you asked me!” Dean said, though he was grinning. “You tricked me here!”

Cas had the grace to look sheepish. Dean, made bold by the loud thudding of the music, by the darkness, and by the incendiary sensation of standing close to Cas, leaned in again.

“I’ll teach you!” he said, and then slid his hands to rest on Cas’ hips. Beneath his palms, they felt strong. “Side to side, yeah? In time with the beat…”

He began to rock his own body to the heavy rhythm, standing close enough to Cas to push at his hips with both hands, guiding them. “Smooth…” he said, as Cas began to jerk one way and then the other. He reached out, and took Cas’ hands, and put them on his own hips. “Like this,” he said, rolling his hips to the side and back.

He didn’t usually let himself dance like that. There was a part of him that was frowning, that was telling him to teach Cas how to two-step awkwardly with a drink in his hand, and be done with it - but God, Dean only had to look into Cas’ eyes and the thought was a lost, grey dream. He had blue light playing over his skin, he was tall and strong and met Dean’s eyes like a challenge; he was a king underground, magnetic as iron in a crown, irresistible.

Dean replaced his hands on Cas’ hips, his palms tingling, his body buzzing with a need that was centred nowhere but warmed him, quickened him. Cas’ muscles loosened under his touch; Dean smiled as Cas began to shift in time with the beat, his movements unschooled but smooth and steady. And Dean knew that this was the time when he should be taking his hands away, and letting Cas do his thing on his own - but Cas wasn’t letting go of Dean’s hips, either…

Cas, who had been looking down at his own body to make sure he was doing it right, suddenly flicked his eyes back up, and met Dean’s gaze.

And suddenly, instead of dancing in front of each other, they were dancing together.

Dean matched his movements to Cas’, synchronising them. Without his remembering the choice to do so, his hands moved up to hold Cas’ sides more firmly, fingers splayed, while Cas’ fingers slipped into his belt loops, and pulled him in a little closer. The music was still pounding, but all Dean could focus on was the movement of Cas’ hips, the little ways that their bodies brushed and coalesced before falling apart again, on a rhythm; he looked down, watching Cas and himself as they moved against each other. They looked good, they looked right; they looked like two bodies that belonged, fluid and unafraid and bold. He met Cas’ eyes. Cas looked almost frighteningly alive, intense as white fire. Dean smiled at him, and Cas tilted his head - for a wild second, Dean thought he was about to be kissed -

And then Cas was pulling back slightly. Not too far, but far enough that they were dancing like friends, and not like - like they were both being driven by the same hot, clean ache that Dean felt in the middle of his stomach.

Not like they wanted each other.

Dean felt the loss of the moment, even as he closed his eyes for a second, trying to imprint it forever on his memory. The feeling of - the way that Cas had - God, but Dean wanted him.

They danced on.

Cas’ hips were moving just fine without assistance, now. In the dark, with the heavy music in his ears, everything seemed to slow and ease; sights and sounds felt disconnected, and Dean himself felt a little out of his own body. He was nostalgic for the current moment, seeing events unfold in images rather than continuous flow, as though he was remembering what was right in front of him. He was laughing and clapping, almost unheard, as Cas grew bolder and threw his arms into the air. Cas was smiling at him and saying something that Dean didn’t quite catch, and Dean was laughing anyway. Dean was shimmying his shoulders, and Cas was trying to copy and getting it all wrong. Dancing without the press of their bodies wasn’t the same, exactly, but it was still fun, and Dean threw himself into it - pulling out old moves to make Cas laugh, letting himself be carried away by the music. His eyes fell closed. He rolled his hips, imagining having Cas pushed up against him again, a solidity, a weight that he wanted.

A shout caught his attention, starting at the far corner of the room and making its way through the tumult of dancers, a blur of words at first. Dean snapped his eyes open as the roar caught on, and he met Cas’ eyes as he finally managed to pick out what they were saying.

“Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven! Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven! Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven!”

The feeling of unreality was gone; the strident voices all around him brought him back, settled him. Dean smiled and began to join in with the calling, clapping his hands. The dancers were falling still, shouting along.

Cas looked bewildered.

“Seven minutes in heaven?” Cas turned to Dean and shouted, over the raucous yelling. Dean nodded, and put a hand on Cas’ arm.

“Just a game,” he called back. “It always happens at Anna’s parties. And at Jo’s. Actually, just, like, all our parties...”

Cas was frowning, watching Dean's lips so that he could understand over the ruckus. Dean found himself wanting to keep talking, so that Cas wouldn’t look away - and he was too buzzed with dancing and energy and boisterousness to deny the impulse.

“I once had to do it with Anna,” he said. “Only time I ever got picked. Anna told me she didn’t want to kiss me and I asked why, and she said it was because she liked me OK, but she really only wanted to kiss girls. This was a few years back.”

“Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven!” roared the crowd.

“What did you say?” Cas said. The yelling around them wasn’t letting up.

“I said I liked girls too,” Dean said. “And boys as well. And I said we could tell everyone we kissed, and she said alright, but we weren’t going to say that we frenched.”

“Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven! Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven!”

Cas was still looking confused.

“But why would you have to…?” he began. “How do you even play -”

“Seven! Minutes! In! Heaven! SEVEN! MINUTES! IN! HEAVEN!”

“Dean!” said a triumphant, familiar voice, scissoring sharp and clear through the air, as the music was suddenly lowered. “And Cas!”

Dean’s insides went cold. He swivelled, to see the birthday girl herself - Anna, bright-eyed and beaming - pointing right at him from across the room.

Chapter Text

There were cheers and whoops, and some uglier catcalls that washed over Dean like a tsunami as he stood, still, frozen by the moment.

“No,” he said, too softly to even be heard - but as one, obeying the law of host decides, the partygoers mobbed Dean and Cas, pushing and shoving them in a vaguely friendly way towards the closet under Anna’s stairs.

“No, hey, wait!” Dean said, as hands pressed at his back, at his shoulders - someone grabbed for his ass, and he flinched away. “Wait, Anna, you can’t - we’re not - for God’s sake, we’re not together! You gotta pick someone else!”

“Sure, you’re not together, right,” said a sceptical voice, close enough to Dean’s ear that he could hear it over the general exuberance of the crowd around him. Cas was nowhere to be seen or heard.

“Aw, yeah, it’ll be so awkward for friends to have to do this,” one girl said, giving Dean an extra-hard push. He tried to turn and shoot her a filthy look, almost falling over; they were almost at the closet, now, and he still couldn’t see Cas anywhere -

“He looks like he’s going to be sick!” someone shouted, and Dean couldn’t tell if it was about him or not - until he heard Anna yelling,

“Relax, Cas, it’s not like this is going to be anything new for you two!”

Dean withered inside.

“Anna, for God’s sake, let me talk to you for a second before you - Christ!” Dean said, as someone caught him with their elbow. “Put on a few pounds before you do that again, huh?”

The guy stuck his middle finger up at Dean pleasantly - and then, next thing Dean knew, he was being pushed in through a low door. Dean managed to turn around in time to see Cas being shoved in after him - he caught Cas in his arms, steadying his weight - and then the door was slammed violently closed.

“Make out, don’t fake out!” someone yelled, and thudded with their fist on the door.

And then there was relative quiet. The music turned back on, outside. Dean, standing still with Cas’ hunched form in his arms, let out a shaky breath.

He reached out to his left, struck lucky, and switched on the light.

The closet was tiny, with barely enough room for them both to be standing up inside it next to the boxes, the vacuum cleaner, and the sad-looking mop inside. Dean let go of Cas, his thoughts racing.

Okay. Okay. I’ll just tell him that there are a few rumours going around, and that’s why we got chosen to play the game, but the rumours aren’t anything to do with me, and we don’t actually have to kiss because no one will know, and - and it’ll all be fine, Dean thought to himself, trying not to notice the edge of mania in his thought voice.

Cas was still silent, his shoulders bent over. Knowing what he had to do, Dean reached out and squeezed Cas’ arm, and pushed him upright.

Cas’ face put all other worries out of Dean’s mind. He was white as a sheet, his lips pinched; he looked right through Dean as though he wasn’t even there, as though Dean were invisible and the only things in the closet were the boxes and the vacuum cleaner and the mop, and the spiderwebs.

“Cas,” Dean said, grabbing for his arm. “You alright, man? Breathe, OK?”

Cas met his eyes, vaguely. He looked like he wasn’t clocked in; Dean snapped his fingers in front of Cas’ face. It did very little.

“Cas!” Dean said loudly. “What’s up with you? Zone in!”

Cas blinked. His eyes focused.

“Is it over?” he said. “Are they going to come back? Are they just keeping us here for later?”

“For later,” Dean repeated, bemused. “What do you mean? They’re going to let us out, it’s only for seven minutes.” He let out a breath. Time to put his plan into action. “Look, this is only happening because there are some rumours -”

“Seven minutes? And then what happens? Or is this the worst part?” Cas took in a breath. “Are you supposed to hurt me now?”

The question, so flatly spoken, took the breath out of Dean’s lungs. He took a step back in surprise, and hit his head on the low ceiling.

“Shit - what the hell, Cas, no? No one’s hurting anybody, this isn’t like that at all -”

“But they pushed us…” Cas said. He sounded quiet and remote, still, as though he’d pulled himself out of his own body. “Was it because they saw us dancing? I knew that I shouldn’t have done that, I thought I stopped soon enough... I told you that you’d get dragged into it if we -”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted. “What the -?”

“They’re going to beat us up,” Cas said. “Listen, even with two of us I don’t think we can fight them all, and when I used to fight it always lasted longer. So if you just go still and don’t say anything, maybe they’ll let you go sooner. I’ll cause a scene and they’ll pay attention to me instead.” Cas sounded distant, horrifically so, in a way that made a lie out of their bodies - their physical proximity. Dean grabbed his arm.

“Cas -”

“Don’t argue. It’s happened to me before enough times and I know how to get through it. You don’t. And you can try to get out the door while they’re distracted. If I’m not out in two minutes, call the police.”

“But -”

“No, I know what you’re thinking. But if we call the police now, you’ll never get back into the popular group, will you? They’ll hate you. You’ll be like me forever. But if you can take the punches without calling for help, maybe they’ll respect you enough to let you back in.”

“No -”

“So maybe don’t even call the police from outside. I’ll be OK. And I’ll just never talk to you again at school, and I won’t come to parties, and -”

“Cas, for God’s sake,” Dean said, “would you shut up trying to save me from something that isn’t even happening? They’re not going to hurt us, OK?!”

Cas looked taken aback.

“So... you are supposed to hurt me now, in here?”

“What the hell, Cas, no, just listen to me for a second, I’m not gonna do anything to -”

“If it’s the only way to get out, then it’s OK. Aim for my cheek. It’ll hurt your hand the least to punch if you get it in the soft part. And maybe my mouth, that makes a lot of blood and they’ll see it and be satisfied. Can you get a good punch in when it’s so cramped in here?”

Dean let out a long breath.

“Cas,” he said softly, and reached up, and put his hand over Cas’ mouth. “No.”

“Dmm,” Cas said, muffled.

“No, listen to me,” Dean said.

Cas went still under his hand. His eyes flicked over Dean’s face. Dean took a moment to let his heart squeeze over the matter-of-fact way Cas spoke about being hurt, about knowing what to do to get through it, about calling the police.

No one should have to know that, Dean thought, furiously. No one should have to know how to go dead-eyed and silent so that they didn’t get their ribs fractured or their shoulder dislocated. No one should have to know that it wasn’t for certain that they’d be allowed to get away - to live through the night - without the police intervening. No one should have to face up to the fear of violence like that, so unflinchingly, so resignedly. So bravely.

Dean looked at him, at Cas, at a person who so matter-of-factly dealt with danger, now. A person who treated violence against him as an inevitability, nothing surprising. Dean looked at Cas, and he saw - in this tiny, cobwebby closet, next to the sad mop and the boxes - a king.

Cas tried to say something else through Dean’s hand. Dean shook his head, and swallowed.

He couldn’t repay bravery with lies.

He had to come clean. The boy - the man Dean saw standing before him, blue hair falling over one side, cobwebs on his sweater - was a man who deserved the truth.

“Cas,” he said quietly. “They didn’t put us in here to fight. They put us in here to kiss.”

There was a moment of silence - and then Cas’ tense, wound-up body went suddenly slack. He blinked, a whole lot slower, and Dean released his hold over Cas’ mouth.

He did his best to forget the shape of the imprint of Cas’ lips on his palm. They had felt soft.

“Are you… joking with me? Just - to kiss?” Cas said incredulously, warily. “But -”

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Dean said, starting with something factual, “is a game where two people are shoved into a closet by their friends and get told to make out for seven minutes. That’s all. No punching involved. No one’s mad at us. We aren’t in danger.”

Cas was silent, looking disbelieving.

“We’re here,” Dean said, and then his resolve failed him - but he looked into Cas’ eyes, so close in the cramped little closet, and twisted it back to firmness. “We’re here because of me. I did something… something I shouldn’t have done. I didn’t - you know, I didn’t, uh…” He swallowed. Cas was frowning, waiting.

Dean cleared his throat.

“You remember that time,” he said, aiming for a more lighthearted, conversational tone, and almost achieving it. “That time when I asked if you wanted to fake date me, and you were totally grossed out by the idea and said no?” Cas looked as though he wanted to say something; Dean pressed on hurriedly, not wanting to hear the confirmation. “Well, I - I did something. I didn’t actually tell anyone we were dating, but - but - I told people we weren’t.”

Cas squinted.

“See, it’s sort of like - if I say to you... there’s definitely not a giant slice of pie on the shelf behind you, so there’s no need for you to look, alright?”

Cas frowned - and then, half-reluctantly, glanced over his shoulder.

“No pie,” he said.

“But you had to check, didn’t you? You were thinking there might be, because I said it? See, it’s amazing how many people will think you’re lying if you tell them the truth for no reason...” Dean cleared his throat. “So, that’s what I did… with us. I didn’t tell anyone we were dating. But I told them I definitely wasn’t dating you. And rumours started to happen, and then it started to escalate, and  -”

“The coffee incident,” Cas said.

Dean reddened.

“Yeah…” he said.

“The invitation to this party… your friends wanting to get to know me….”

Dean looked down at his shoes.

“Yeah,” he said.

There was a pause.

“Michael leaving me alone,” Cas said. “It wasn’t my resilience. It was because he heard I was in a relationship with you.”

Dean couldn’t look down any further, couldn’t redden any more, couldn’t shrink himself into the ground and disappear - but if he could have done it, he would have.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s - that’s sort of - about the shape of it.” He bit his lip. “I never meant for things to go this far. I’ve been acting weird all night, I know, trying to make it all work, make my friends keep thinking we’re together while not letting you know that they think we’re together… I know I must’ve looked kinda crazy…”

Cas looked off to one side, a dry smile on his mouth - small, tight, looking like the facial equivalent of a strained ankle.

“And I actually thought,” he said, “you were acting that way because -” He shook his head. “And I asked you to dance… what was I thinking? Of course, you were just pretending.”

“Hey,” Dean said, clenching his fist. “Hey, wait. I wasn’t pretending when we were dancing. I was just being me. Enjoying dancing with you.”

“OK,” said Cas. “Is that another lie? Or trick, or whatever you call it?”

He sounded caustic, furious. Dean tried to ignore the physical sensation of cracking that he had running up his torso; he had a thousand things he felt, and no idea how to say them.

He held out his hands, one to each side - though he wanted them in front of him, wanted to put them together and get on his knees and beg, pray. There wasn’t space, though, between their two bodies in the cramped-up closet.

“Why did you do it?” Cas asked. “Why would you make up this huge lie? Did I ever make myself your responsibility? How much of the past few months has just been for show?”

Dean shook his head, chastised, flushing furiously.

“I know I did a bad thing,” he said, a little unsteadily. “I know I screwed up. But the one part of this whole thing that has never been a lie is the way that I - that I feel about you.” He couldn’t meet Cas’ eyes.

“I’m supposed to believe that?” Cas said. He didn’t sound angry so much as - as lost, Dean thought. Sad.

“You - you’ve been my neighbour since we were tiny,” he said, almost a whisper. “You’re - you mean -” He failed, changed tack. Cleared his throat. “I did this because… I couldn’t take seeing you come home like that anymore. Not because of the blood or the bruises or any of that. I mean, I hated that, but - it was the look in your eye, man.” Dean swallowed. “It was the fact that you were realising that the world was a shit place that wanted to hurt you, and it was making you so sad, and I just - I didn’t want you to learn that. I wanted you to feel good things. And I know I fucked up, because I should’ve respected you enough to let you handle this alone. I know you could have handled it alone.” Dean shook his head, his voice getting quieter and quieter. “But I was - scared, man. Scared of what it would cost you to get through it. I wanted you to stop paying costs and losing parts of yourself and losing opportunities to be happy. I wanted you to be able to do your homework and eat with friends in the cafeteria and just - just enjoy yourself for once. And I know it got out of hand with the party and the - the -” He waved his hand, awkwardly in the small space, to encompass the closet. “I know I screwed up. I should never have started it. You told me not to. I just…”

His throat felt raw; he felt as though he’d been speaking for far too long, but hadn’t come close to saying enough. Outside, the sounds of the party continuing were audible, sounding fractured and surreal.

“You just?” Cas said. Dean looked into his eyes. He couldn’t hide it, not anymore.

“I just care about you,” Dean said. “I just care too much to let you get hurt when I could try to stop it. And I know that caring doesn’t mean you get to make someone’s decisions for them. It wasn’t about owning you or being responsible for you or any of that. It was just - it was just the look in your eyes. And your ribs. And the way I could see you... breaking, God, on the inside - in ways I couldn’t sticky-tape back together with a band-aid or - or fucking sterilise with antiseptic.” Dean gulped. Words were flowing, now, ones that he hadn’t even really let his brain think to itself, except in the very darkest part of recent nights. “And - and I guess I always knew that in the end, I’d get caught. And our friendship would probably be over, and you’d hate me. But I guess I thought, you’ve been paying prices all this time, you know? So if the price I have to pay to get you out of it all... was you starting to hate me, then I decided - I’ll pay it. OK? Because I’d rather you hated me and didn’t have to lose anything else, than you still liked me, and kept on coming home looking like you’re broken in places I can’t fucking reach.”

He clenched his fists even tighter, looking down at the floor, incredibly aware that he sounded dramatic and emotional and, in general, not at all how he imagined a concerned neighbour with strictly neighbourly feelings would sound. He breathed in, and out.

“And what makes you think,” Cas said quietly, “that losing you wouldn’t be a thousand times worse than losing anything else?”

Dean’s world went utterly still.

Cas’ expression was soft, and sad in the way that Dean had seen flashes of, before - in the way that he’d never understood.

“You - you’d care?” Dean said. “If we weren’t… if we didn’t talk?”

Cas’ tight little smile seemed to want to make a comeback, but Cas’ face was made for sadness and couldn’t take the strain. The smile flickered and faded.

“Yes,” he said, his tone making of the word a confession. “I’d care. How could you think that I wouldn’t care? I’ve felt like it’s been radiating out of me. Like trying to hide candlelight in the dark.” He shook his head. “It’s stupid to try, and it burns.”

Another day, Dean would have said, calm down, Shakespeare, save it for Sonnet One-Fifty-Five. Tonight, Dean only stared at him, his thoughts in turmoil.

How could you think that I wouldn’t care? Cas asked, as though he couldn’t think of a reason for Dean to doubt that he cared - when the reason for doubting was absolutely and patently obvious. Dean had been fixing Cas up and helping him out whenever he could for months, now - and before that, for years more, in different ways. They’d always been there for each other at the crucial moment. But when Cas had truly needed Dean’s help the most, and Dean had offered it - Cas had rejected him. Dean had offered to protect him at school, and Cas had refused. He hadn’t trusted Dean, or his pride had been more important, or something.

And that was how Dean knew that, ultimately, Cas wouldn’t care if they never talked again. Because if they weren’t ride-or-die, if they weren’t in it til blood flowed, if they weren’t all-consuming and all-giving and all-taking, then what was the point? At his heart, Dean wanted to give Cas everything he had - and if Cas didn’t want it, didn’t want his help - if he rejected it so furiously - then it amounted to the fact that Cas didn’t want Dean. As a whole. As a person.

“Dean?”

“People don’t belong to people,” Dean said - a mutter, a shamefaced remembrance. He knew Cas would understand from the single sentence alone which day he was thinking of, and he wouldn’t have to explain any further. Those words still flew around inside his head every day, sending his heart to his shoes. They were true, Dean knew. But they’d come to him in a way that had destroyed his hopes of being with Cas, and taken away his belief in the mutual trust between them.

He’d thought they’d always be able to turn to each other for help - always be able to give each other help, as endlessly and carelessly as the sun gave light. He’d thought that they were both of a kind, like that - both willing to go further and give more than just about anyone else Dean knew, and they’d do it for each other. As partners, if he could have it. As best friends, perhaps. Or maybe even just as neighbours.

But Cas had looked disgusted. And Cas had said no.

“That…” Cas said. Dean looked up, and met his eyes. They stared at each other for a long, long moment -

“SEVEN! MINUTES! IN! HEAVEN!” yelled someone, suddenly, just outside the door. There was a general loud clattering, the sound of a group of people moving outside, a fumbling for the handle of the closet.

Without looking away from Dean, Cas reached out a hand, and shot the bolt on the door across.

The first person to try opening the closet door rattled it once - and then again, harder.

“Guys - uh, Winchester? Weirdo? You in there?”

“Oh, my God, they’ve locked themselves in,” said another voice. “Oh, my God, are they…?”

About to wave goodbye to their friendship? Dean thought bleakly. Yup. Let us get on with it, could you?

“Anna! Anna!” People were yelling, someone was running; Dean stared at Cas, and Cas stared at Dean. “They won’t come out!”

“Um, excuse me,” said Anna’s voice. “I think you’ll find they already came out. And if they locked themselves in there, we’re leaving them to it. I’m not about to break the door down. Last thing I need on my birthday is to see Dean Winchester’s -”

Dean closed his eyes for the rest of the sentence, as though that would stop the sound getting in.

It did not.

There was the noise of the crowd dispersing, with general dirty laughter and jokes. Dean swallowed.

“I was angry,” Cas said, as though there had been no interruption. “That day. Angry and hurt.”

“You didn’t want my help,” Dean said.

“I didn’t. Not like that.”

“But all I am is help, Cas,” Dean said. “For God’s sake. If you don’t want that, then obviously you don’t care.”

Cas looked abruptly as though he’d been hit by a brick.

“What?” he said. “What do you mean, all you are is help?”

“I mean... if you won’t let me help you, then why would you care? I’ve got nothing else to give you, Cas! Look at me!” He held out his hands again, offering himself up for Cas’ appraisal. “Just actually look at me, Cas. I’ve been your neighbour so long you’ve probably not checked for a while. But I’m a dumb jock moron who can play sports, great! I can’t tattoo myself like you, or - be smart like you, or be cool and weird and not care about other people’s opinions like you, OK? I'm not original, I'm not... I can’t be - I’m not like you are, man, I’m - I’m bullshit, Cas! Let’s be honest here.” Dean steeled himself to say something that had been ricocheting around in his mind for a while now. “I’m antiseptic wipes and a pair of aviators that could keep you safe in the hallways, and that’s about it. And if you don’t want that, why the hell would you want to be around me?”

There was a ringing silence, made all the more obvious by the fact that in the tiny space, Dean’s soft voice had felt loud.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Cas watching him, but he kept his own gaze fixed on Cas’ left shoulder.

“I’m overreacting,” Dean said. “I’ve overthought this. I know it. Just - don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not going to laugh,” Cas said, and he said it in a way that Dean trusted.

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, for no particular reason.

Or rather, for too many reasons to mention. I’m sorry I care about you all wrong. I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess of lies. I’m sorry for not being able to help you. I’m sorry for shoving all this bullshit about myself in your face...

“I don’t know how to make this better,” Cas said. He was looking at Dean with wide, sad eyes.

“You don't have to,” Dean muttered. Tonight was going to go down in his memory as the time he conducted an experiment to see if it was possible to literally die of embarrassment.

“You…” Cas said, and then stopped.

“It's OK,” Dean said. “Just… you asked how I could possibly not know that you cared. And that's my answer. I know you don't care because you didn't want my help.”

Cas reached out a hand, and brushed the back of Dean's fist with his fingertips.

“You know…” he said hesitantly. “I have heard a lot of bad things about me, recently. From the people who were - taking an interest in divesting me of unbroken bones. And some of the things they said hurt more than others. And I didn’t get why.”

Dean nodded. Even he couldn't say why Cas’ rejection had cut him so badly. Cas frequently and comfortably argued with him, and Dean even enjoyed it. But this one had been different.

“And at first,” Cas said, “I couldn’t tell why the things that were the worst were the worst ones, because they weren’t phrased in the worst words, and they didn’t come along with the worst punches. But they still hurt a lot more than anything else.” Dean heard Cas swallow. “And then one day, I got it. I understood. The worst ones were the worst, because they were about the things that I thought made me worthwhile.”

Dean felt a little painful twinge in his chest, as though his heart recognised something that his brain hadn’t caught up with, yet.

“You…? What did they -”

“They said a lot of things,” Cas said bleakly. “But this is what I want to say. Dean… listen to me. You’re not just antiseptic and - and aviators. You’re not just a provider of help. You’re not just a support system or a security blanket.” He let out a breath. “I don’t care. I’ve had enough of holding this back. Listen to me. You’re a human being. You are clever. You’re... gentle, and well-meaning, and sarcastic. You make me laugh - like no one else does. You’re - you’re lemonade glasses, and handwriting, and the flavour of your shower gel, and your music, and your books, and your copies of the Star Wars movies, and your voice, and your hands, and your eyes, and your stupid -” Cas broke off, and now he was the one looking away, retreating. “Your - your stupid letterman jacket that smells like you. You’re all of it. Everything that you keep with you is a part of you. And all of those things are worthwhile.”

Dean could only stand, silent as a mountain, and watch him.

“I pushed you away that day,” Cas said. “I couldn’t stand the idea of pretending to have something that I wanted so much. It would have been dishonest, when I hadn’t even told you. But I had no idea it would upset you so m-”

Wait.

“Stop,” Dean said, his voice returning to him.

“Stop,” he said.

“Stop. Wait just a second.”

Cas went silent. His eyes dropped down towards Dean’s hand, for a second, as though remembering the press of it against his lips.

“Say what you just said.”

Cas squinted.

“What’s more important…”

“No. Before that.”

“It… would have been dishonest?”

“What would?” Dean demanded. His heart was in his throat. Surely not. Surely not. Surely…

Cas’ lips were pinched.

“To... pretend to be dating you.”

“When?”

“When - I hadn’t told you.”

“Told me what?” Dean said, and here they were, here they finally were, at the heart of it - at the heart of it all.

Cas looked at him strangely, tilting his head in confusion.

“That I’m in love with you,” he said.

Dean’s knees almost gave. He threw out a hand to steady himself, and managed to grab the sad-looking mop.

“You…” he said, weakly.

“Yes,” Cas said, as though it were obvious.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You too?”

“Ye- what?”

Dean could feel his head spinning. Somewhere inside him, something was shifting - the dust of disbelief being slowly shaken off the grander wings of hope.

“You - you’re in love with me back?” Dean demanded, his voice becoming stronger. The pain in his chest was easing. The tiredness, the weight of their talk was easing.

“You - what?” Cas said.

“You - you love me back?”

“You?” Cas said, his expression utterly thunderstruck.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean said.

“How?”

“Well…”

“How? ”

“Uh… it kind of… comes naturally?”

“But…” Cas’ mouth was slightly open. “But - how?”

Dean waved his arms out to the side.

“What, you want a list of reasons I find you irresistible?”

“No…” Cas said, not sounding sure about it.

“I mean, I could start with your damn jacket,” Dean said. “Or maybe your boots. Or your soft weird sweaters. Who even knows why I like ‘em so much, but I do.”

Cas didn't look like he believed a word. Dean found himself warming to his theme.

“Or the way you handle your sadness with Christina Aguilera,” he said. “Or your eyes, Christ, don’t even get me started on those.” He paused.

“Dean, I -”

“I didn't finish yet.”

“What - well -” Cas looked utterly floored, completely disbelieving.

“I think,” Dean said, “part of it’s the way I want you, so much. Like, all the time. When you’re standing in front of me or sitting on my porch or dancing with me out there in front of everyone. But part of it’s the way that I want to hear you laugh on a loop, or hear you argue about animal rights with your mom through the window in the middle of the night, just because you care so freaking much. I don’t even know.” Dean shrugged. “I just know that I want everything about you in my life. I want to be with you all the goddamn time. To be honest, I don't know how I could not.”

It felt like spilling out a full tin of paint over the floor - tipping out all the things he felt, all the bright and powerful things he'd been keeping inside, letting them sweep satisfyingly up to the walls. It was a relief, after so long keeping it wedged inside him, crammed to bursting. He managed to stop himself before his tongue ran away with him, because he thought that if he said anymore, he might never stop - he’d just list through every single thing, each individual moment that had made him fall a little harder.

“But - but why didn’t you say?”

“I tried!” Dean said. “You told me that you hated the idea of even pretending to date, what was I supposed to think?”

“Well - well, of course I hated the idea of pretending to date you, when I really wanted to actually date you,” Cas said. “Can you even imagine?”

“Oh, yeah, no,” Dean said, sarcastically. “I can’t imagine at all what that would be like.”

Cas frowned at him, and then shook his head.

“You were stupid to do it,” he said. “The whole thing. You were completely stupid.”

“I know,” Dean said, but he couldn’t quite connect with the feelings of remorse, not now - not when Cas was here, in front of him, Cas, saying that he - that he felt the same way about Dean, that he was - that he really -

“But you were stupid for the right reasons,” Cas said. He blinked, and then he slowly - oh, so slowly - raised his hand, and rested his palm on Dean’s cheek.

“Cas…”

“Forgive me,” he said.

“Forgive you?”

“You’ve been hurting.”

Dean let out a soft would-be laugh.

“So have you,” he said.

“You stopped it,” Cas replied. His hand was warm and soft on Dean’s cheek.

Dean lifted a shoulder.

“Not the right way,” he said.

“Maybe,” Cas said. “Maybe not. But it worked. And I understand, now. Why you did it. And I think it must have been hard.”

“Ahh,” Dean said dismissively. “You know. It was easy, really.”

Cas smiled.

“Easy like this?” he said, and he leaned forwards - and he kissed Dean.

The press of his lips was heaven. It was the opening of the skies, and the bursting-through of the saving light. It was leg-shaking, spine-tingling; it was every nerve in Dean’s body ablaze, his arms wrapping around Cas’ waist to pull him in closer and feel the shock of touch everywhere he could possibly get it. Cas’ mouth moved with his, and Dean frowned into the kiss, trying to memorise every single moment of it, every press and hold and push and give. If, before, Dean had seen radiance inside Cas, now he felt it within himself - a happiness so instant, so breathtaking, so wild and terrible and perfect, as though he’d leapt off a cliff and found he could fly. Cas’ hair was soft under his hand. Cas’ back felt broad when he ran his hands down it. Cas’ body was just the same and utterly different from this close, finally, this close.

They broke apart, barely far enough to breathe a little.

“Yeah,” Dean said, when he could speak again. “Easy... like that.” He let his eyes wander over Cas’ face, muzzy with happiness, soft and warm and true.

“Is it gone?” Cas said. “The pain?”

Dean asked his feelings; the reports from them came back mixed.

“I think I’m hovering somewhere in the region between euphoria and losing my mind,” he said. “I’m not sure which one I’m closest to, but I’m definitely in that region.”

“No more hurting?”

Dean just looked at him - looked into his eyes.

Even if they hadn’t kissed, he thought. Even if Cas hadn’t been in love with him back, it would have been enough to ease the worst of his hurt to have Cas standing in front of him and absolutely, definitively refusing to stand for the fact that he was in pain.

“No more hurting. And you?”

“Right now, I can’t remember what pain felt like.”

Dean pushed their foreheads together.

“When you remember,” he said, “let me know.”

“It’s not your -”

“Responsibility,” Dean said. “I know. But it’s something I want to help with. For as long as you need me.”

“You’re more than just your ability to help me, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean said, and didn’t quite - but he thought he could, one day, with Cas in his arms. “I know.”

Cas smiled, and lifted the arm with his new tattoo on it up. I know, said the words under the heart.

“You say that a lot,” he said.

Dean couldn’t resist any longer; he kissed Cas again, a little longer, this time. Cas’ fingers brushed through his hair, and pulled ever so slightly. Dean smiled into the kiss, and experimentally shifted his hips. Cas bit down lightly on Dean’s lower lip, and slotted their bodies more firmly together, in the way that they’d been dancing, before.

Cas let out a soft breath as the kiss ended. His eyes were closed; he was unselfconscious.

“I’ve been alive for eighteen years,” he said, “and I’ve never felt about anyone else, the way I feel about you.”

Dean kissed him, and kissed him again.

“We need to dance again,” Dean said.

“Soon,” Cas agreed.

“Really soon.”

Cas opened his eyes.

“Really soon,” he confirmed.

“Hey… Cas?”

“Mmmm.” Cas was leaning forwards, and pressed a light kiss to Dean’s cheek that made his toes curl, his cheeks redden.

“I know - I know, uh. So, like... people don’t belong to people.” Dean swallowed. He’d been thinking about this one, more than he’d care to admit. “But… do you think maybe people could belong with people?”

Cas said,

“I do.”

Cas said,

“I think we belong, Dean.”

And Dean said,

“I know.”