Work Text:
Act One
Fallen apples are rotting in the grass next to his bare feet. The sickly sweet scent is cloying under the table that’s his hiding place. Falling like heavy drapes is a white table cloth that turns the spot dim and mutes adult conversation taking place next to the tables laden with meat dripping with fat, boiled potatoes and apple pies with pastry dough criss-crossed over the top.
With a twig, he pokes at the apple’s collapsing skin until it rolls over to reveal weevils and ants feasting on decaying fruit. Realizing that their cover has been ripped away, they scatter, fleeing to the closest hiding spot.
Light rushes in.
”Found you!”
The ginger boy grins down at him. He has a gap between his front teeth from where one has fallen out. The new tooth pokes up from pink gums.
He pulls Dean out to a cluster of children laughing and shoving each other like their parents aren’t gonna murder them if they tear what looks like brand new clothes – linen dresses in burnt orange and mossy hued plaid shirts.
”What now?” A girl with brown curls tied in a satin ribbon asks.
Game suggestions hurl through the air, voices going louder to be heard over the overlapping chatter. Finally the leader of the group makes a decision and they all take off.
Jogging along the tail end, Dean scans the crowd of unfamiliar faces.
”Aren’t we missing someone?” he asks the kid next to him.
”You mean Castiel Novak?” The boy grimaces, ”He’s a freak. Forget about him.”
Dean slows his pace and says, ”I’ll just make sure he knows that we’re playing something else now.”
”Suit yourself,” the boy shrugs and turns to catch up to the others. Over his shoulder he calls, ”You’ll probably want to check the trees first.”
Dean splits from the group and makes his way over to the fence marking the area reserved for apple trees evenly spaced. He grips the aged beams with one hand and swings his leg over. Twigs crunch under his feet when he lands on the other side.
Picking at a splinter stinging in the palm of his hand, he makes his way between trees laden with fruit. Branches droop from the weight of fat red apples. He heads straight for the older part of the grove where the trees are taller and the branches sturdier. Where the canopies kiss, providing ample cover.
That’s the spot he’d pick himself.
Craning his head back, he scans the thickest of the branches. Finally he spots him among leaves backlit with blinding sunlight.
Dean holds up a hand to shield his eyes, ”Man, I’ve been lookin’ for you for ages!”
”You mean no one wanted to find me?” A dry voice comes from behind a branch with the bark peeling.
”Nah, you’re just too good, dude. The others had to give up,” Dean calls back with as much cheer as he can muster.
The reply is a scoff that’s followed by rustling, ”You’re very kind.”
The kid, Castiel, comes into view. He steps down on the union between the trunk and the next branch before he jumps, landing firmly on his feet in front of Dean.
Eyes the color of the sky study him. Ringed around one is the deep purple bruising that made Dean take notice of him from the mass of small towners.
His dark hair is thick and messy. His ivory button down has brownish green streaked down one sleeve and a navy tie is wrapped around a fist like they’re at one of the boxing matches that Dean sometimes manages to sneek out after his dad to see.
Castiel tilts his head, ”I haven’t seen you at school.”
”Maybe you’ve just missed me,” Dean says instead of replying. A cocky grin is smeared on his face even as he’s picking at the loose threads of his jeans picked out of the rejects basket in a Goodwill three states over.
”I doubt it,” Castiel says.
”What are you, the principal’s kid?” Dean jokes.
”Something like that,” Castiel says flatly. His unyielding gaze is still on Dean.
The silence drags on until Dean shrugs, ”We’re just passing through town.”
He doesn’t add the ’so what?’ that he wants to. Teeth bared and hackles raised.
”Okay,” Castiel just replies. Still no emotion. He nods. Probably mainly to himself, ”Do you want to see something?”
”Uh, sure,” Dean says.
Castiel takes him through the grove. They walk without speaking. The only thing breaking the silence are twigs and fallen leaves crunching under their shoes.
Dean reaches out to grab a perfectly round apple dangling right in front of his face.
”That’s not allowed,” Castiel says before his fingers can even begin to graze the plump peel.
”Ah, but who’s gonna know?” Dean grins at him.
”Father always knows,” Castiel says. The darkness in his voice makes Dean snatch his hand back.
The rest of the way, Dean sneakes glimpses of the bruised side of Castiel’s stony face.
Trees give way to an open field of grass. A wooden barn towers over them with red paint peeling off the siding.
Castiel takes him up a creaking ladder to a platform right under the roof. The floorboards are dusted with sweet-smelling hay. One corner has a crumpled up blanket next to an oil lamp and a stack of weathered paperbacks.
Dean picks up the top one, Watership Down, ”This yours?”
”Yes, I come here sometimes.”
Dean sets the book back down and follows Castiel to the low window open to the sky. Taking Castiel’s cue, he sinks down. He lets his legs dangle out to the drop below.
They have a full view of the orchard from here. The canopies are lush and green under a clear blue sky that’s starting to streak with pink.
”What happened to your face?” Dean asks.
”Fell off a horse,” Castiel replies with his gaze firmly on the horizon.
Chewing his lip, Dean considers it. He slips the overshirt from his shoulders and shoves up the sleeve of his t-shirt to reveal the bruises circling his shoulder in a perfect handprint of a grown man.
”Yeah, me too,” Dean says.
Castiel looks at his face quizzically before his attention goes to the shoulder.
He doesn’t freak. Just nods. He lifts a hand, slowly reaching. One after the other, he places the tips of his fingers next to the bruises. They sit like dots at the ends with Castiel’s too-small hand in the epicenter where nothing mars the skin.
”You’re not staying?” Castiel asks. His warm palm is still on Dean’s skin.
Dean shakes his head.
They sit next to each other, breathing crisp air that graually gets colder until Castiel quietly asks, ”Isn’t that the car you arrived in?”
Following his line of sight, Dean sees the headlights of his dad’s Chevy Impala blink. Once. Twice.
”Shit,” Dean struggles to his feet. His dad is gonna leave in five minutes. With him or without him. He’s gonna have to run to make it.
Still, he lingers as Castiel gets to his feet too.
”I gotta…” Dean gestures at the ladder.
Castiel nods.
”Thank you,” Dean says, ”It’s… it’s a cool spot, Cas. Thanks for showing me.”
Castiel nods again.
They leave that night. Halfway to Oklahoma, Dean realizes that he’s left his overshirt in the hay loft. He doesn’t tell his dad, just clenches his teeth and deals with the discomfort as the temperature inches down over the next months.
Act Two
For once, the blood coating his teeth tastes like freedom rather than shame.
Grinning up at the asshole who shoved his little brother, Dean hooks his foot behind a leg and pulls until the guy tumbles to the ground.
All 6’ 3” of him lands on top of Dean, heavy and ungraceful, but still knocking air from lungs and, more damningly, landing right on a rib that Dean increasingly suspects might be broken rather than just bruised.
A grunt of pain escapes from his lips as the wild roar of adrenaline takes a back seat to nausea rising.
The football player on top of him recovers first. His dull eyes light up with the sudden wind of change. A hand closes around Dean’s throat. It’s artless, just force pressing down, attempting to crush his windpipe.
”Not so tough now, are you, Pretty Boy?” The guy huffs. Blood drips from where Dean’s ring caught skin on the side of his face. It drips down on Dean. Drips on his hands scrambling on top of the crimson sleeve of a varsity jacket.
The blurry faces of bystanders start to swim in his vision. Their gleeful expressions twist to masks barely covering pitchblack malice. Chants for more mutes and warps, turns into guttural braying for his blood.
A blade flashes.
Out of sight to anyone but Dean, shielded by the open jacket that’s nothing but a blood-red blob against shining metal.
”Get off him,” a rough voice orders.
Too close. Someone is in their circle. The tan hold on the knife doesn’t match the doughy hue of the jock attempting to choke him. The blade pressing against an undershirt, held not by his attacker, but by an outside force.
Air rushes into his lungs as the constriction disappears. The shape on top of him scrambles off. Away. Dean lunges up, coughing and gagging in an attempt to pull too much breath into his body all at once. The dizziness gets worse. The nausea.
”Okay?” The voice asks him. It’s the boy with the knife, crouched over him like a protective shield against the onlookers while he sputters and fights not to throw up.
Dean blindly nods, ”’m fine,” he croaks with a throat that feels like shattered glass.
”Castiel Novak!” A shrill voice cuts through the subsiding coughing fit.
Dean regains his vision in time to see azure eyes being rolled. ”It’s Cas,” he calls back, sounding bored, as he takes the time to pull Dean to his feet.
His full, pink lips curl softly like this whole thing is a joke. The crisp button-down he’s wearing is open in the throat, revealing a thin, silver necklace tucked under. Rolled-up sleeves expose bare forearms.
In the shadowed space between their bodies Cas flips his butterfly knife closed and pockets it. He winks at Dean before trudging after the teacher impatiently tapping her foot in the hallway.
”Everyone, back to your classes,” the teacher snaps.
Sam lingers, ”Dean…”
With the back of a hand, Dean wipes at his nose. Blood streaks his knuckles when he holds the hand up to look.
”Get to class, Sammy,” he tells his little brother, ”It’s your first day. Don’t wanna be late.”
With a grimace, his brother hikes his bag up higher on his shoulder and does as he’s told.
Dean searches the hall for his own bag. It’s crumpled on the linoleum floor several feet away. He picks it up and rights the lapels of his oversized leather jacket before heading to find a bathroom.
It’s day one and he’s already itching to skip town. The only thing holding him back from rash decisions are his dad’s orders to stay – look after Sammy and finish high school. And if doing the right thing isn’t enough, the rib cutting a burning line through his chest with every too-deep breath serves as a reminder of what happens when he tries to argue.
His fingertips find the skin of his throat that’s probably gonna bruise. At least it provides a convincing cover for the rest of his scrapes.
In the bathroom he washes out his mouth with water that tastes like rust. He swirls it around before spitting red into a pristine sink.
”I’m not pretty,” he snarls at his reflection. He splashes a spray of water on the mirror showing plump lips and freckles dusted over a too-straight nose, calling him a damn liar.
He nearly leaves his hair as the mess it’s become, but with a curse, his hand leaves the door handle and he turns around to swipe fingers through yesterday’s leftover wax until he’s satisfied. Whatever, the chicks dig it.
They’re halfway through the first period before he finally strolls into Social Studies.
The teacher stops mid-sentence to scowl at him, ”Dean Winchester, how nice of you to join us.”
”No problem,” Dean says cheerfully. He fingerwaves at a cluster of jocks sending him the evil eye from the back corner of the room.
”I hope you’ll all give Dean a warm welcome. He’s going to be joining us this year, after moving from…” the teacher trails off, looking to Dean to complete the needless sharing of his personal life.
”Ah, a little bit of everywhere,” Dean shrugs.
One of the jocks make a gagging motion, but Dean’s attention is fully on a leggy blonde who’s batting her eyes at him. She blushes when he makes his way over.
”This seat free?” He asks her, gesturing to what’s very much the only empty seat left in the house.
She nods vigorously. He’s closer than he needs to be, hovering over her, so it’s impossible to miss when she lets bright eyes do a slow sweep up and down his body.
”Thanks,” he grins and flips into the seat.
The teacher restarts whatever was going on before Dean burst through the door. As soon as his back turns, Dean leans across the space between desks.
In a loud whisper he says, ”You know my name. Doesn’t seem fair that I don’t know yours.”
The girl bites her lip, flashing a quick look to her giggling friends before softly whispering back, ”Larissa.”
”Pleasure meeting you, Larissa,” he grins.
When the class ends, she casts her eyes around before quickly pressing a carefully folded page from her notebook into the palm of his hand, ”Call me,” she whispers before bouncing after her waiting friends.
He makes it through most of the day riding the high of the paper sitting in his pocket, until he finally snaps in math.
It’s the teacher insisting that he ’at least tries’, for the third time. It’s some numbers bullshit that Dean’s never seen a day in his life and as he rakes his brain for some kind of reply, the cow-kickers around him start snickering.
”How ’bout you do it yourself?” Dean snaps at the teacher and wrenches his bag from the floor. He marches out of the class without a single look back.
Storming all the way out of a back door that he slams behind him, he lets out a yell of frustration.
He whirls around to kick something.
A lifted eyebrow greets him.
Blue eyes calmly regard his loss of composure. Unruffled, Cas lifts the cigarette dangling from his fingers and brings it to his lips. He inhales deeply, before slowly blowing the smoke back out. It curls lazily up towards the bright blue sky of early autumn.
Leaning against the concrete wall next to the dumpsters, he’s still in the same shirt, though it’s more crumpled now. He’s got a bag resting next to his oxfords.
”Can I bum one?” Dean asks, aiming for casual, like there’s any facade left to uphold.
Cas shrugs, ”Sure.”
He slips a pack from dark jeans and holds it out in the space between them.
Dean plucks one, ”Thanks. You’ve got a light too?”
Cas nods. He pockets the cigarettes and digs out a BIC lighter. Instead of placing it in Dean’s waiting palm, he takes a step forward.
At the motion Cas makes, Dean hurries to place the smoke between his lips. Cas lifts his hands to his face. With one hand, he flicks the fork to create a spark. The other he uses to protect the flame. That one has his own cigarette hanging between long fingers.
Dean leans in closer, fighting to keep his eyes off Cas’ face in the tight space.
Getting the smoke lit is fiddly as all hell, because Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He’s never had this kind of cash to burn.
Mirth dances in Cas’ eyes.
Finally amber glows at the end and Dean takes a stumbling step back with a mumbled thanks. His eyes water as he tries to suppress a cough at his first inhale.
”Thanks for the assist,” he says in an uneven voice, when the worst of it has passed, ”This morning, I mean. I…”
”You’re welcome,” Cas replies before Dean can come up with a bullshit excuse. He settles back against the wall, apparently satisfied with smoking in silence.
Dean chews his lip, considering whether to say something or not. Nicotine burns on his tongue, in his throat, in his lungs protesting the polluted air.
”We’ve met before,” he settles on, praying that Cas remembers, so he doesn’t wind up looking like a nostalgic sap.
”Yes,” Cas replies with lazy indifference. He tosses the butt of his smoke on the asphalt where he steps on it, using his sole to put it out.
Very aware that he’s running out of time, Dean sticks out his hand, ”I’m Dean Winchester.”
”Mm, I’ve always wondered,” Cas replies. He takes the offered palm, shaking it with firm fingers. His thumb rests softly on the back of Dean’s hand, ”Cas.”
”Yes, I got that,” Dean says and releases Cas’ hand, ”I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble.”
Cas shrugs and pulls out the pack of cigarettes again. He lights one with practiced care and takes the first drag before replying, ”What are they gonna do?”
Personally, Dean can think of a whole bunch of possible consequences, but in the face of Cas’ sardonic smile he just laughs weakly and takes another pull from his cigarette.
They finish the rest in silence. Or rather, Dean finishes and Cas discards the remaining half of his own at the same time.
Cas grabs his bag and roots through it, confirming something before nimble fingers work open the buttons of the shirt he’s wearing. He shrugs out of it and crams it into a plastic bag that he shoves in with his school supplies.
He gets back up with a rolled-up piece of white fabric. He catches Dean blinking confused at miles of bare skin moving over tight muscle. Lines of black ink run over one side of his ribcage.
”Gotta look presentable for Vespers,” Cas says in his rough voice and Dean has no idea whether he’s joking.
Dean manages something noncommittal. Silver flashes in the sunlight. A cross swings from Cas’ neck, dancing against his breastbone as he unfurls the fabric and drags on what turns out to be a fresh shirt.
This one he buttons all the way up, going as far as closing the cuffs as well. He digs a crumpled tie from his bag. It’s pre-tied, maybe from this morning. He pulls it over his head without bothering to re-tie it.
With a mouth that’s dried out from the nicotine, Dean clears his throat and says, ”Your tie’s on backwards.”
Cas looks down, ”Oh,” he shoves it off and on again, messing up his dark hair even further. Folding the collar down in practiced motions, he says, ”Thank you. See you tomorrow, Dean.”
That afternoon, Dean calls Larissa, after taking Sam home to the elderly couple their dad has dumped them with.
He buys her a soda and then goes down on her in their impromptu picnic spot in the park behind the school.
”You know, they’re showing a movie on Saturday,” she blinks up at him after, trailing long nails down his chest.
He gently pries her slim hand off, ”Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t do dates.”
”Oh,” she looks down at her strappy sandals. She gingerly adjusts her skirt before slyly peeking up at him, ”Okay. Let me know if you want a repeat at some point.”
Dean flashes a smile, ”I sure will.”
After that, he spends the evening watching like a hawk that Sam completes his homework. The TV is blasting a game show that no one is truly watching and dirty dishes pile high on more than one surface, but their room is too small to accomodate anything other than sleeping, so this is their work space.
”Shouldn’t you be worrying about your own school work?” Sam grumbles.
”Nice try, college boy,” Dean settles his forearms more firmly on the aged dining table. He pops another disgusting piece of the dried mango that Sam favors into his mouth. It tastes like $15 he should’ve budgeted responsibly instead of burnt on a guilt gift.
The first time he and Cas skip together start in English class. Cas is glaring furiously while the teacher breaks down the day’s reading of Lord of the Flies. He’s moving his mouth like he’s mumbling to himself, jotting a line of text onto a page before tearing off the paper, curling it up and hurling it across the room where it lands on Dean’s desk.
Dean gingerly picks up the balled paper and looks quizzically at Cas, silently checking if it’s meant for him.
At the responding nod, he unfurls it.
Wanna do something that’s not a giant waste of time?
Cas is still staring at him, so it’s not difficult to catch his eyes. Dean hesitantly nods.
A chair scrapes as Cas, without further preamble, shoves his shit into a bag and stalks for the door. Dean swears under his breath, but grabs his own bag and jacket before running after him.
Cas never slows down, just turns to check that Dean is with him. With a satisfied smile he takes Dean through the school grounds, the park and further down dirt roads. All the while, he delivers a lecture on missed points and the abhorrent lack of quality literary analysis – fully going where Dean can’t follow.
”What do you think?”
”About…?”
”About the nature of evil,” Cas tells him in a serious voice.
Dean laughs, ”I dunno, man. I don’t even have a copy of the book.”
He takes care that it comes across as non-chalant. Like he just can’t be bothered. Instead of the implications about his economic situation.
”Mm,” Cas says, ”It’s actually a good book, when it’s not mangled in the American school system. You can borrow my copy.”
Walking through wet grass, Dean starts to recognize their surroundings. Cas takes him through a wooden gate into an apple orchard.
He’s assuming that it’s the one they met in, until Cas reaches out and picks a shiny red apple that he places into Dean’s hand.
Moving with Cas between rows of trees, Dean sinks his teeth into the firm skin. It breaks with a satisfying crunch and sweetness explodes in his mouth.
Realizing that he’s being watched, Dean pauses in the middle of scarfing the fruit down, ”What?” He asks, wiping the back of his hand on his chin where there’s a good chance that juice is running down.
Cas just shakes his head, but his gaze is still heavy on Dean’s mouth.
Dean wipes his entire lower face with his sleeve and asks, ”You don’t want one?”
”No, I’ve had enough for one lifetime, I think. They make me nauseous,” he replies and as he’s wrinkling up his nose, he’s looking it.
”You need me to...?” Dean mimics tossing the apple back among the trees. His grip on it is tight, taking care not to accidentally lop it before there’s indication that he absolutely needs to.
”Not at all,” Cas replies. One corner of his mouth lifts, showing off white teeth, ”I quite enjoy watching your enthusiasm.”
”Shut up,” Dean mumbles. Heat rises in his cheeks and it might be visible on his skin, but he still says, ”We’ve been doing a lot of driving. Not a lot of fresh produce in gas stations along the I-90, I’ll tell you.”
Cas tilts his head, ”I didn’t mean it as a criticism.”
”Didn’t take it as one,” Dean grumbles his reply around the small bite he’s taking care to chew slowly.
The line of trees break, giving way to grass and a familiar barn. The red paint has peeled and faded, looking more brown this time around, but it’s the same. Cas’ father’s land after all, then.
He follows Cas up to the hay loft, where he accepts a dog-eared copy of Lord of the Flies. Cas throws himself down on a crumpled blanket with an ancient edition of The Picture of Dorian Gray, leaving Dean to hesitantly thumb open his own book, revealing handwritten notes crowding the margins and underlined passages. He settles in with his back against a hay bale.
They stay there until Cas’ ears perk up at a distant sound of bells. He gets to his feet, dusting off his jeans, ”I’ll follow you to the edge of our grounds.”
They say their farewells at a hole in a fence. Dean ducks through it, before he checks the time and realizes that he’ll have to run to make it in time to pick up Sam.
As autumn tips into winter, it becomes a regular occurrence. Some mornings they don’t make it further than a single, shared look in the hall, before they’re off.
It’s freezing in the hay loft in November and Dean gets an official warning from school, but nothing could keep him away from lazy conversation and space to just be. So every time Cas invites him, he says yes.
One afternoon, Larissa finally manages to convince him to come to a sermon the following weekend. He’s laughed it off until now, but this place is a ghosttown on Sundays anyway and she keeps insisting that it’s worth it.
He brings Sam, who looks at him like he’s grown a second head and spends the entire two hours doodling on what Dean’s pretty sure is a creative writing assignment for English.
Dean should’ve followed his lead. Instead he’s fully present for Cas looking eerily like a choir boy – strait-laced in his immaculate shirt and stony expression. It doesn’t shift in the least when Dean tries to wave at him across the room.
The sermon is a full fire and brimstone production that Dean has to force himself not to snicker at before looking around and seeing earnest devotion on every face around him.
Most of the town is here, so Dean clenches his teeth and rides it out, but the instant people start getting out of their seats, he’s about ready to grab Sam and floor it.
They don’t even make it to the door before an unfamiliar hand lands on the juncture between his shoulder and neck. He whirls around with bile rising in his throat.
The guy is a few years older than him. He’s in the same shirt as Cas, but carrying it like he enjoys it. His smile is so warm that it’s like touching a hot stove, ”The Winchester boys! We’ve been wondering when you were going to join us.”
”Ah, we’re just window shopping. Thanks for the peek. I don’t think this is really our scene, though,” Dean says with a disarming laugh. He attempts to take a step back. The smile directed at him doesn’t waiver, but the grip tightens.
”Michael,” a voice says. It’s so flat and mechanical that Dean has to do a double take to check that the speaker is indeed Cas, ”Father is asking for you.”
”Ah,” the guy – Michael – laments, ”Another time, then,” with a last squeeze, the grip disappears.
For the briefest moment, Cas meets Dean’s eyes. Something flickers there that dies as soon as Michael tells him, ”Lead the way, little brother.”
Watching them go, Sam’s pressed up against him. Sam’s far too old for this, but when he asks, ”Can we leave now?” Dean wants nothing more than to grab his hand tight in his own.
They’re once again intercepted. This time it’s Larissa. She bounds over with her dress floating and her curls bouncing. She tugs at his arm with a bright smile, ”Dean, come meet my parents.”
With a grimace, Dean points with his thumb over his shoulder, ”Ah, can’t. Sammy here has ants in his pants, so we have to…”
He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, just bumps Sam who launches into dragging him down the church floor like he’s a lot younger than his fourteen years.
”Sorry,” Dean calls back, ”See you at school.”
Once they’re safely out, Sam grumbles, ”Thanks for that.”
Reaching to ruffle Sam’s hair, he says, ”You’ll live.”
To make it up to him, Dean filches a shotgun from the entryway in the house they’re staying at and they spend the afternoon shooting cans in an empty field.
The next day Cas shows up to school with a limp and he’s slow on the ladder – clutching his side after. Dean doesn’t say anything. From experience he knows that it’s just gonna make it worse.
For once Dean is staring at his homework rather than monkeying around. The shotgun incident combined with an additional warning sent to the house turned out to be the last straw for Mr Nelson. The man can’t touch him, but Dean can appreciate that he’s the man of the house, so when he’d laid down the law – that if Dean flunks out, it’s the street for him and Sam – Dean had been forced to nod and whip out the essay he should’ve turned in last week.
He’s lost in reflection, trying to formulate some kind of thought to put on paper. His gaze rests on Cas sitting crosslegged across from him. He’s writing in a small leatherbound book. The watery light streaming from the window hits the side of his face, enhancing the lines and dips of his cheekbones, his dark eyebrows, his defined jaw, the bow of his lip.
Long, black eyelashes get exchanged for blue the color of the sky, when Cas looks up at him. Cas blinks. His adam’s apple bobs.
”What’re you writing?” Dean asks, pointing at the book Cas is so often scribbling in.
Cas’ eyes flick down. He shakes his head.
When he looks back up, his mouth is a firm line, ”Stay away from the congregation.”
”Yeah, you don’t have to tell me,” Dean replies with a shaky laugh, ”Goddamn crazy town.”
Cas’ lips curve in a wry smile, ”Yes,” his palm stray to the side he’d been clutching earlier and for a second, Dean thinks he’s gonna add something. When he doesn’t, just picks his pen back up and goes back to writing, Dean lets out a breath and tries to focus on his school work.
Things with Larissa fizzle out after that.
The day before Christmas break, Dean awkwardly gifts Cas a silver Zippo lighter that he’d gotten from his dad when he turned sixteen. It’s easily the nicest thing he owns.
Cas stares at it, slowly running his thumb over a scratch in the metal from where Dean is perpetually unable to take proper care of his belongings.
He’s on the verge of apologizing that it’s old, when Cas looks back up and says, ”Thank you,” with a sincerity that makes the space between them feel tight and weird.
”You should have a proper light,” Dean grumbles as he fights to kill the blush rising in his cheeks.
Cas gets him volume two of The Boys. Dean got volume one of the superhero comic ages ago and he often opts to read his battered copy while Cas reads his fancy literature.
”You’re always bringing just the first one,” Cas says, studying his expression closely, ”And I didn’t know if it’s just your favorite, but…”
”No, I…” Dean wets his lips. His fingers flex on the glossy paper of something that’s for once neither old, borrowed or bartered, ”I’ve never read the rest. This is… Thank you.”
The Christmas break stretches like a swamp of boredom. It’s desperately trying to catch up on school shit that he’s too stupid to grasp. It’s doing as much house work as he can get his hands on, to bribe the Nelsons into buying something nice for Sam for Christmas. It’s seriously considering calling up Larissa just for something to do. It’s reading his new comic, over and over again, gripping the pages like his life depends on it. It’s feeling the absence of Cas like a burning pit in his stomach.
For the last day, he’s counting down the minutes, pacing his and Sam’s room like it’s a jail cell until Sam banishes him to the freezing outside where he ends up shoveling snow for the entire street.
Waking up on the first school day, his stomach feels bubbly and strange. He skips breakfast and rushes Sam through his morning routine until a wristwatch gets shoved in his face, showing him that they still have ages before classes start.
At school it’s easy to spot Cas. It always is. He’s an island that other pupils leave plenty of empty space around.
Dean’s excited grin slips when he takes in the slump of Cas’ shoulders. The empty way he’s staring at a bulletin board. The shadows under his eyes.
Plastering the grin back again, Dean yells, ”Hey, Cas,” across the hall.
When Cas’ eyes meet his, there’s light in them and the way his mouth quirks into a smile seems genuine.
Dean skips over and greets him with a handshake and a slap on the shoulder,”Man, it’s good to see you. I actually thought I’d die of boredom at one point.”
Cas’ gaze is latched where the slap has turned into Dean’s hand lingering. With a squeeze, Dean releases him, ”How was your Christmas?”
”Long,” Cas replies flatly. The emptiness threatens to return to his eyes.
Slowly, carefully, Dean drags him into a hug. It’s brief. Perfunctory. With Cas barely getting the chance to put his own arms around Dean. When he does, it’s hesitant. The warmth seeps through leather and flannel, all the way into Dean’s bones.
With a thump on the back, Dean releases him, ”Okay, can you repeat the stuff you said about The Catcher in the Rye?”
”Is this about the essay we’re turning in today?”
Dean smiles brightly, ”Not for another three blocks, we’re not. There’s plenty of time if you’ll just give me a hand.”
Cas rolls his eyes, but doesn’t complain further when Dean filches his hard work.
Most of January slips away in homework and freezing hours spent in a hay loft.
One Friday when they’re smoking behind the school, Cas asks, ”It’s your birthday tomorrow, right?”
”Uh, okay, stalker.”
”You showed me your driver’s license,” Cas says without remorse.
”Yeah, weeks ago, to show you the picture,” Dean stabs his smoke accusingly in the air between them.
”So that’s a yes?”
”To what?”
”Tomorrow’s your birthday?”
”Yeah,” Dean’s shoulders inch up, readying for questions about his non-existent plans.
”Do you want to come over?” Cas just asks.
Dean grimaces, ”I can’t. It’s the weekend. Sam…”
Cas shrugs, ”In the evening? After he’s asleep?”
Chewing his lip, Dean tries to force the refusal out. He doesn’t like leaving Sam unattended with strangers. Instead he nods.
Eighteen turns out to feel exactly like seventeen did.
He wakes in his twin sized bed, hitting his head on the headboard in the cramped space. This time it’s to Sam singing Happy Birthday under his breath. Cradled in his hands sits a Reese’s with a lit tea light balancing on top.
”Make a wish,” Sam whispers with his hazel eyes sparkling and a grin that’s catching.
Dean makes a wish. A stupid, delusional one. Then blows out the candle.
”I wish you’d let me cut your hair,” he solemnly tells Sam.
Sam swats away the hand flicking the edges of his mop of hair with a whiny, ”Dean, you’re not supposed to tell.”
”Ah, right. Then it won’t come true? Dammit, looks like you’re stuck with the bowl cut for another year, then.”
”It’s not a bowl cut,” Sam grumbles. He throws himself down on Dean’s mattress. Gingerly plucking the light and setting it on the floor, he hands Dean the chocolate.
Dean takes a bite, then passes it. When Sam tries to protest he rolls his eyes, ”C’mon, you need some bulk to go with your growth spurt or you’ll look ridiculous.”
The Nelsons splurge on a pizza that evening. They pair it with hitting him with an updated list of chores he needs to chip in on now that he’s an adult.
When Sam finally passes out, Dean silently drags on his best pair of jeans and a shirt he double checks for holes. He grabs his jacket and slips out of the window, taking care to close it all the way after him as well as using the thin blade of a knife to lock it from outside.
In the glow of a streetlight, he uses a window as a mirror to mess with his hair until it looks somewhat presentable.
The trek to Cas’ home is a long one in the freezing January night. Snow dusts the air, falling in minuscule flecks on the deserted streets. It’s like a visualization of the white static that’s moved into his gut. Something between a sparkle and a buzzing.
There’s a soft glow coming from the window in the barn that has for once been shuttered. Dean slips inside and climbs the ladder.
At the top of the ladder he freezes. He’s never seen the hay loft like this. Lights have been strung from the wooden beams, casting a yellow glow that makes aged wood look warm and inviting. The floor has been swept, clearing the boards of stray hay. And it’s warm, curtesy of a space heater occupying a corner safely away from anything flammable.
In the middle Cas sits on a quilted blanket with a book open in his lap. The soft light paints the strands of his hair more brown than black.
At the sound of Dean hoisting himself all the way up, he looks up. Unceremoniously casting the book aside, he scrambles to his feet, ”Hello, Dean.”
”Holy shit, Cas,” Dean grins, ”I bet chicks just die for this set-up?”
Cas makes a noncommittal sound. His eyes stray to the floor, before flicking back up, uncertainly, ”It’s for you.”
”Oh,” Dean weakly says. His heart picks up speed until it’s thundering in his chest. Eyes darting over the space, he grapples for any kind of clue. Anything to fix the corner he’s backed them both into by imposing any kind of romantic implications to a gesture that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him. Certainly the softest.
Cas’ face is doing the same kind of panicked backpedaling, but he’s the first one to solve Dean putting his foot in his mouth.
”I brought whiskey,” Cas hesitantly offers.
”Ah, why didn’t you say?” Dean throws himself down, sprawling on the blanket with his legs wide. He grins up at Cas, carefree as anything, while relief pumps through his veins.
Cas stays rooted to the spot. His eyes are wide. He blindly reaches for the bottle resting next to a stack of books on a crate. The bottle is clear glass, showcasing the liquid coming up to about halfway.
He pries the cork off and lifts the bottle to his lips, tipping it too far, too long.
Dean scrambles forward, coming up on his knees in preparation of wrenching the spirit from Cas’ hands, ”Whoa there, I’m not paying for the ambulance.”
Cas lowers the bottle, ”It’s mostly water,” he confesses with a wry smile.
”You asshole,” Dean laughs and swats at Cas’ hip for something to do with the way he’s on his knees at Cas’ feet like a gullible idiot.
He filches the bottle from Cas’ hands and scoots back to create room on the blanket. He takes a drag, ”Wow, yeah,” he holds the bottle up to the light, gauging the way the amber of the liquid is far too light, ”That’s like 2/3 water? At least.”
”Probably. I have older brothers.”
Dean has brought a deck of cards, so they play heads-up poker, passing the bottle back and forth while Dean absolutely wipes the floor with Cas.
After winning for the fourth time in a row, Dean groans, ”C’mon, it’s not that hard. Call me on my bluff, just once.”
Cas plucks the bottle from Dean’s fingers, bringing it to his lips and drinking deep before putting it down on the floor. He doesn’t bother moving away again. Watered down whiskey shines on his lips in the soft glow of stringlights. He shakes his head, ”I can’t. I never know when you’re bluffing.”
”Every time, Cas. I’m bluffing every time,” Dean replies. He mock-shoves at Cas’ shoulder, something between asking him to move out of his personal space and exasperated.
With a focused glare like it’s automatic, Cas catches his hand, pinning it to his shoulder. While Dean scrambles for an apology, Cas’ other hand comes up to touch Dean’s face.
Long fingers fit themselves perfectly to the shape of Dean’s cheek, a thumb swipes at his plump bottom lip.
Uncertainly scanning Cas’ expression doesn’t yield anything useful. He looks exactly as frozen in place as Dean feels. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s mouth, hypnotized like he’s lost in thought.
It’s too hot in here. They’ve both discarded jackets and overshirts, but even in just rolled-up shirt sleeves there’s a flush to Cas’ face, streaking down the line of his neck where it disappears into the open collar, right next to the thin chain he’s always wearing tucked underneath, like it’s a secret that he’s the pastor’s son.
Whiskey-induced heat snakes through Dean’s chest. It curls in his gut, hot and tight. Cas’ hands are still on him. One painting a tingling brand into his cheek, the other pressing his own palm firm into warm skin with only thin cotton between them.
Cas’ chest is rising and falling rapidly. His irises are swallowed by the pupils. The tip of his thumb scrapes over Dean’s lower lip again, gently tugging at sensitive skin. The heat in Dean’s gut wakes up, sending tendrils up his spine.
”Cas, what…?” Dean weakly asks. It comes out uneven and with too much breath. He breaks it off to try again. Start over in a different tone.
Strong hands flex on his skin. With a low sound, Cas leans in. The thumb disappears. In its place, Cas presses soft lips against Dean’s mouth.
Dean’s eyes go wide. His heart rate takes off like he’s having a panic attack. His body feels weird. Something contracts and expands like an explosion. Too big. Too much.
This time, when Dean shoves him, it’s for real.
For some reason, Cas isn’t expecting him to. His hands leave Dean to catch some of the weight as he lands directly on his ass. His eyebrows draw together. Something moves under his expression.
Dean is breathing hard, ”What the fuck are you playing at?”
Pushing off the floor in a fluid motion, Cas launches himself at Dean.
Dean’s back hits the blanket hard. The back of his head hits the floorboards with a jolt.
Cas is heavy on top of him, pinning him down. ”Don’t push me,” he snarls with hellfire in his eyes, darkness smeared over his features.
They’re both breathing fast. Cas in deep gulps. Dean in shallow puffs. He’s drowning in Cas’ shadowed eyes, caught there lightheaded and unsteady. His mouth is too dry. He wets his lips. Cas’ gaze dips down, tracking the dart of his tongue.
The burn of adrenaline doesn’t feel like fear.
Cas doesn’t stop him when he wrenches a wrist free. His palm lands on Cas’ chest, intending to push him off. Instead it curls in the front of the shirt, pulling him down and arching his own body up to meet in the middle.
It drags them together, right where Cas is firm and hard and Dean is quickly getting there. Cas gasps, his mouth falling open and his hold on Dean tightening.
”Shit, I’m so drunk,” Dean mumbles, staring mesmerized at Cas’ slack expression.
The look on Cas’ face falters. He lets go of Dean to push up, hovering over him to uncertainly scan his expression.
”I’m not queer,” Dean warns. His hands are already working Cas’ belt from its loop.
Cas’ gaze is still jumping all over his face, looking for something.
Opening the top button and wrenching down the zipper, Dean lets his hand dip inside of Cas’ boxers. His fingers close around Cas and he feels the sensation like a punch, low in his own abdomen.
Cas’ eyes go wide, ”Yes. Okay,” he drops his head, gasping into Dean’s air, ”Me neither.”
”Good,” Dean forces out past a groan as Cas grips his thigh.
The touch falters on the waistline of Dean’s pants, ”Can I…?”
”Yeah,” Dean nods vigorously, ”Absolutely.”
Fumbling the jeans open, Cas carefully touches the tips of his fingers to Dean’s dick in a feathering imitation of what Dean actually wants.
Dean bucks into the touch, ”Come on, Cas. You can do better than that.”
Cas blinks confused at him, like he’s seriously expecting that this is a damn gift shop.
With a final, slow, swipe through the precome leaking from the head of Cas’ dick, he retracts his hand. He shoves his own pants down to his thighs along with his boxers. Then he grips the hand that Cas is using to torture him with.
He makes a fist of both of their hands, folding his own over Cas’ as he starts stroking. He does it twice. Firm, luxurious strokes. Then he stops, staring at Cas in challenge.
Blue eyes narrow at him. The hesitance slips off, replaced with a darkness creeping back in.
This time around, Cas’ touch is unfaltering. It’s fast and rough before he reaches down to tug at drawn-up balls.
The air Dean pushes out takes the form of a whimpering curse.
”Happy?” Cas solemnly asks in a voice like gravel.
With a breathless laugh, Dean nods. He grips the back of Cas’ neck, using it for leverage as he grinds against the touch. It brings their faces dangerously close together. He drags his own lower lip into his mouth to avoid doing something stupid.
One hand is clenched in Cas’ shirt, grabbling for some sense of which side of the world is up. The other is back inside Cas’ underwear, retaking the sequence of squeezing strokes in the confined space.
It’s unexpected when Cas comes. One second Dean is groaning, taking care that it doesn’t come out as an embarrassing whimper. The next, Cas’ touch falters and his brows pinch tight together as he spills over Dean’s hand.
Dean scrambles to get a hand on his own dick in time to salvage his climax before Cas flops over and the insanity passes. He’s met with Cas’ hold still there. Cas’ eyes stay firm on his face as they help each other chase Dean’s orgasm.
It doesn’t take long. He just about has the presence of mind to shove the shirt out of the way. He muffles the harsh moan in his lower arm as the heat finally unfurls, lashing through his body with an unfamiliar intensity. It’s all-consuming, whitening out his vision and making Cas’ name spill out where it’s fortunately muffled past the point of recognizability by his skin.
Cas awkwardly moves off him and Dean tries his best not to stare while he removes his pants to get rid of come-soaked boxers. It’s a single flash of lean muscle. Long legs and the jut of a hip bone. And every single part of it feels like a crime.
Taking Cas’ clue, he uses his own boxers as well. With a grimace he closes his jeans directly against sensitive skin while his body screams at him for forcing it to move.
None of them are meeting the other’s eye. Cas is tieing his shoes with laser focus directed at the laces. Dean scrapes up the cards that have at some point been strewn all over the blanket.
When he’s done, Dean plucks the nearly empty bottle of whiskey from the floor. With a wry smile he says, ”Okay, maybe less watered down than I assumed.”
Cas looks up from his task with studied neutrality in his expression, ”Maybe.”
Doing a second take, Dean swallows, ”Shit, do you need to replace it?” He shakes the bottle, watching the last drops do a single, sad, swirl in the bottom. There’s just no way.
Shaking his head, Cas says, ”I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”
”No. No, I could…” Dean trails off, mind working overtime but coming up with absolutely nothing. People know each other in this backwater town. Short of breaking and entering or attempting to bribe Mr Nelson, which might very likely end with him and Sam getting the boot, he’s fresh out of ideas.
”Dean. I said I’ll figure it out,” Cas rubs at the space between his brows, ”It’s not your problem.”
It stings. The implication that they’re not a team. That Dean is a guest in this space. An intruder.
But he knows when he’s being thrown out. So he swallows heavily and grabs his jacket from where it’s resting next to Cas’, ”Okay, sure. I’ll get out of your hair,” he forces a smile, ”See you Monday.”
He spends the entirety of the endless walk home with unwanted emotion eddying in the pit of his stomach. About halfway, the flecks of snow turns to a sludge of icy water that he treks with him through the window and all the way to his bed.
He sneaks out for a towel, but there’s no getting rid of the proof, so when he wakes the day after, it’s to Sam glaring at him accusingly.
”You went out yesterday.”
”What?” Dean grumbles sleep-rough and disoriented, ”No, I didn’t.”
”You know you can just tell me, right? I’m not gonna rat on you if you’re seeing a girl.”
”Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean groans and buries his head in the pillow.
With a huff and a slam of the door that would’ve never flown if their dad were here, Sam storms out of the room.
For once he leaves it. If Sam wants to be a crybaby about it, he can knock himself out.
It’s around midday when Dean sinks down next to where Sam is demonstratively doing his homework. Pressing the cool side of a glass of water to his cheek, Dean mumbles, ”You can calm down. It won’t happen again.”
Then Mr Nelson realizes that Dean is behind on chores and for the rest of the day there’s no room for dealing with Sam’s sulking.
He walks into school Monday woefully unprepared. Cas is standing with his locker open, elbow resting on the bottom and head stuck in a book.
Dean’s steps falter. He rubs at his neck, considers turning around and taking the back entry. Delay this meeting another fifteen minutes. Wait for when he’s not flushing hot and cold and has had time to decide how he wants to play it.
But waiting might lead to chickening out completely. Might lead to the weird atmosphere cementing. This might be his one shot at salvaging something he isn’t willing to lose.
So he hitches his bag higher and marches right up to Cas. He hooks his chin over Cas’ shoulder, ”What’re you doing?” He asks with forced cheer.
”Math homework,” Cas absently replies with barely a look spared for him.
”Awesome. Can I copy yours?” Dean doubles down, widening his grin, pressing closer.
”It’s not done,” Cas mumbles, still not looking at him.
”Ah, but it will be.”
”Dean, you’re smart and talented. You don’t need my help with this.”
At the outright rejection, Dean’s smile finally slips. Something biting makes its way up his throat, burning on his tongue.
Cas looks up from his homework, suddenly fully present, ”Sorry, I’m… what do you need?”
Dean slings an arm around his shoulders with a sigh of relief, ”You know, you’re my favorite person.” He poses it like a joke, but it’s not. Not even remotely.
After that it takes two whole weeks before he’s invited back. They still smoke together. They still shittalk the teachers too loudly in the hallway. But nothing more than that, until one day Dean lops a crumpled piece of paper onto Cas’ desk.
As Cas reads it, a slow smile inches onto his face. It’s overkill for a message about Dean threatening to burn the school down if he has to sit through another second of this lesson. A mirroring smile spreads on Dean’s lips even before Cas rolls his eyes and nods his head at the door.
Dean practically skips when they leave. On the way to the farm he has to focus to avoid bumping into Cas’ orbit. He’s careful with it, counting between casual touches to make sure he’s not overdoing it.
Cas is just as careful. Maybe more. Taking care to keep distance between them unless Dean initiates. Raking his brain, Dean is deeply unable to come up with how much they usually touch. More than this, surely.
That afternoon he doesn’t take in a single line of what he’s trying to read. He spends it all on edge, checking if Cas is looking at him – he’s not. Wondering if their drunk fumble occupies as much as Cas’ free time as it does his – probably also a no.
It’s another week of more of the same and Dean is losing his mind. He puts down his book and nudges Cas’ shoe with his own boot.
”Have you thought about prom yet?”
Cas shakes his head. Without looking up from his work he asks, ”What about you? Are you going with Larissa?”
”Nah, we’re not… It was too much hassle,” Dean says. After a beat, he asks, ”Why don’t you date?”
Cas’ eyes flick up for half a second. Then he shrugs and scrunches up his nose, ”I’ve grown up with everyone around here. It feels incestuous.”
Not everyone, something whispers in Dean’s ear, not me. He’s holding his breath, senselessly waiting for Cas to add to it. When he just returns to the paper sheets resting in his lap, disappointment spreads like a heavy blanket.
”I’ll trade you for a blowjob.”
Cas’ head shoots up. He’s staring at Dean with wide eyes, ”Excuse me?”
Dean doubles down on the devil-may-care grin he’s sporting, ”I’ll suck you off, if you’ll return the favor,” he shrugs, ”It’s been a while for me as well.”
With his heart in his throat he watches Cas going from shock to eyebrows creasing in confusion. When it becomes clear that Dean isn’t about to back down, the crease evens out, ”Yes, that…” he wets his lips, ”that sounds mutually beneficial.”
After that it becomes a regular occurrence. One of them suddenly putting a book down. A touch that feels different. Awkward avoidance of eyecontact turns into lazing next to each other in the afterglow. To returning to whatever they were doing before, with rumpled clothes and satisfied smirks.
One afternoon, Dean off-handedly says, ”We should skip prom and just get wasted together instead.”
”Yeah?” Cas grins. He’s putting down his writing and moving all the way into Dean’s space.
”You wanna…?”
”Yes,” Cas looks up at him with sparkling eyes and his hands slipping under Dean’s clothes.
Three days later, Cas shows him the notebook he’s always scribbling in.
He thrusts the open book into Dean’s lap and worries the skin on the side of his thumb with his teeth while Dean looks at the open page.
It’s a poem. About small towns and the smell of wet grass in the morning. About longing to stay. Longing to leave. The push and pull of it.
Thumbing through the book, Dean’s throat feels tight as he takes in the poems. Some are long. Some are just a single line or a snippet of text being workshopped – words crossed over and sentences being reworked, ”Shit, Cas. These are really good.”
The book falls open where a folded sheet of paper is pressed between the pages. It’s worn at the creases like it’s been read and carefully folded over and over again.
Dean is busy smiling at Cas while he unfolds it, so he sees the panic flash in Cas’ eyes. Sees the way he reaches to grab for it.
Looking down is instinctual. The smile crashes off his face. ”You got into Princeton?” He asks with a voice that sounds like it comes from outside of his body.
Cas’ gaze darts all over Dean’s face, ”Yes, I… I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll go. But…” the carefree smile he paints on his face looks forced, like it’s copied from the kind of bullshit that Dean pulls on a regular basis, ”It’s certainly an ego boost to know that I could.”
Dean looks down in a futile attempt of shielding what’s written all over his face. His eyes land on the text on the page the college admission was folded next to.
And it’s about him. It has to be. Prose about freckles and soft lips, stubble and a leather jacket drooping off the slope of shoulders that aren’t broad enough to carry it.
He snaps the book shut.
”I have to pick up Sam,” he chokes out. He chucks the book on the blanket along with the college admission and then he runs.
Cas is leaving.
He’s leaving this shithole of a town, which doesn’t matter – Dean is leaving too.
What matters is what he’s leaving it for. That unlike Dean, who’s going nowhere fast, he’s leaving for hallowed halls and a bright, shining future.
The kind of future that has no room for someone like Dean, stomping his bad influence around, dragging Cas’ hopes and dreams down without having a shred of anything to offer in its place.
The next day Dean asks Larissa to the prom.
He does it right in front of Cas’ face. In the middle of the hall. Loudly. Demonstratively. Meeting Cas’ dumb-struck expression over her shoulder when she pushes up on tip-toes to kiss his cheek.
Behind the school Cas shoves him hard against the dumpsters and tells him, ”Come by tonight.”
His tone leaves no room to argue, but Dean should. Usually he would. Instead he stares at Cas with stupid, lost eyes and nods his damn head, until Cas lets go of him with one last shake and stalks off.
He sneaks out that night when Sam is asleep, with guilt burning clean through the lining of his stomach.
Following the golden thread tieing him to the hay loft like it’s an addiction he can’t shake, he makes the entire trek in a daze through the crisp spring night.
He’s the first one there. Instead of taking it as his sign to turn and leave, he settles on the blanket, running through every possible thing that Cas could want. When Cas finally shows, he isn’t any closer to making a decision about how he should do this. Instead he’s sweaty-palmed and drunk on relief that he isn’t being stood-up.
That’s when the relief stops.
Cas lands on the top of the ladder with a pained grunt, clutching his ribs. His left eyebrow is split and the knuckles on his one hand are scraped bloody. There’s red splattered up the sleeve of his snow-white shirt.
He meets Dean’s wide stare with a firm shake of his head. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he tosses a condom and lube down on the blanket.
He meets Dean’s gaze head-on, with no hesitation or doubt. The line of his shoulders is straight, his stance wide and this is fully the guy that had a jock scrambling away through sheer intimidation.
Dean nods his head.
Cas nods in reply. He tugs at the knot of the tie he’s wearing until silk slithers loud and fast from the collar. Then he pulls the shirt-tails from his waistline and unbuttons the shirt without ever looking away from Dean. A button clatters to the floor. He drags the shirt from his shoulders, tugging hard when one hand gets caught in a bloodied cuff.
He briefly stops to use the white cloth to wipe red from his wrist and hand, before throwing it aside.
In a single stride he’s in Dean’s space. Broad hands grip Dean firmly. One on his neck, under his jawline, squeezing. The other on his waist.
He doesn’t protest when Cas drags him into an openmouthed kiss. Whimpering into it, Dean arches and opens.
Cas’ hands slip under his shirt, shoving it up until they have to break apart to drag it off. After that it’s boots and jeans and Dean’s back hitting the thick blanket.
Cas towers over him, slowly peeling off the last of his own clothes, revealing inch after inch of skin that makes desire flare out of control in Dean’s abdomen.
When slick fingers prod at his entrance, Dean averts his eyes with his face on fire, ”I’ve never…”
”It’s okay,” Cas tells him in a wrecked voice, ”Just let me.”
He lets Cas open him up through rough kisses and blood starting to slush from Cas’ brow. He’s curled around Cas’ body, hands clutching and thighs pressing.
The instant Cas finds the bundle of nerves inside of him, he knows that he’s ruined. It explodes inside of him, pleasure forcing itself out in a sound muffled by Cas’ palm.
”You’re so beautiful,” Cas mumbles. Dean hears it through the haze of Cas crooking his fingers again. Precome leaks sticky against his stomach and he doesn’t know if it’s his own or Cas’.
When Cas pushes inside, Dean bites his cheek hard enough that it tastes metallic, to stifle a cry.
Cas pauses, giving him time to adjust. He’s breathing hard, watching Dean’s face like his life depends on it.
The cross hangs down, the end touching the hollow of Dean’s throat. When he starts moving it swings, hitting Dean on the chin.
Without ceremony Cas grips the cross in one hand. With a single, hard tug, the lock breaks. He casts the necklace aside without looking away from Dean.
It doesn’t last long, but by the time they shatter together on the floor on the hay loft, it feels like Cas has reached into his soul and carved a mark deep into the center.
They don’t bother pulling apart after. They lie with limbs intertwined and Dean’s face pressed tight into Cas’ neck.
Once the daze fades, Dean sits with his knees hugged to his chest while he watches Cas pull his clothes back on.
In the soft glow of the stringlights left up, he can make out the lines of text inked into the side of Cas’ ribcage.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n
Cas catches him look. His lips curve into a wry smile, ”Paradise Lost. Ironic, I know.”
Dean weakly smiles back. He doesn’t know. Has never been able to follow Cas here.
What he knows is blood and bones, and right behind the ink an angry bruise is starting to bloom. The proof of what it has cost Cas to be here tonight. Of what it’s going to keep costing him if Dean doesn’t stop dragging him down.
With a slight frown at the state of his clothes, Cas shrugs and decides to drag on his bloodied shirt anyway.
There’s blood crusted under Cas’ fingernails and like this, dressed for battle, Dean wants to believe that he’s strong enough. That maybe they could have this. Maybe Cas could find fulfillment in backrooms and deals made under the table. In poker halls and underground boxing rings.
Uncurling, Dean finally pulls his own clothes back on. Before he leaves, he lets Cas kiss him deep and slow.
On the way back to a dark house, Dean oscillates wildly between gut-wrenching devastation and ill-advised hope chiming like a church bell in his chest.
As soon as he opens the window to the bedroom, he realizes that something is wrong.
His dad’s silhouette fills the pitch-black room. His deep voice asking, ”Where is Sam?”
And everything else stops. Because Dean has lost the one thing that truly matters.
They find him again.
After a week of Dean’s soul turning to ash, his dad’s words burning in his ears and his guilt rotting through his bones.
They find him squatting in an abandoned house, eating crap food and hanging out with a stray dog.
Dean wants to scream and shake him, but his dad grips him before he can do any of it. And he’s right. Sam is a child. This is on Dean. Just Dean.
It’s another week after that when Cas tracks them down at the motel they’re staying at.
It’s pure, stupid, luck that it’s Dean who opens the door.
Cas takes one look at Dean’s black eye and his whole face twists into a snarl, ”I’m gonna kill him.”
Dean shoves him all the way out to the covered walkway. He silently closes the door behind him, hoping it’s inconspicuous over the sound of the TV.
In a harsh whisper he asks, ”Why the hell are you here?”
Cas’ expression turns uncertain, searching, ”I…”
”You’re making it worse,” Dean snaps with his pulse racing, ears perked for his dad, ”Go to your Ivy league college and leave me the fuck alone.”
”Dean…” Cas says in a soft voice, reaching for him.
Dean wrenches away, ”Don’t touch me. I’m not a damn fag.”
He leaves Cas on the walkway, looking like his heart has just been carved from his chest.
”What was that?” His dad asks.
”Brother of a girl I dated,” Dean lies, chokes out, hoping it sounds like a grumble.
His dad laughs unpleasantly from the couch where he’s sprawled next to Sam drooling onto the cushion, safe and asleep.
After closing the bathroom door, Dean sinks down to the floor with his head in his hands, muffling his sobs by biting down on the soft flesh of the heel of his hand.
Act Three
Gravel crunches under truck tires and Dean impatiently drums his fingers on the wheel. This is the third farm he’s trying in the area and he’s rapidly losing the light. If this isn’t the one, he might have to take it as a sign that this was an idiotic idea.
But not yet.
He pulls up to a teenage girl spray painting on the side of a garage.
”Should you be doing that?” Dean asks her. He locks the car for good measure.
She lifts an unimpressed eyebrow at him and rakes a glare down his flannel, jeans and boots combo, ”You here for Cas?”
Hearing the name, Dean wants to sink to his knees. Instead he says, ”Yes, I guess I am.”
”He’s in the house,” she nods her head at pale green siding with a porch wrapped around. Then she returns to her vandalism.
On unsteady legs, Dean walks up a paved path. To his right is the hiss of the spray can. To his left is the sound of birds singing, swooping between trees laden with fruit as they call to each other. He stops to watch a blackbird hopping on the open hood of a tractor that’s stranded on the grass, looking like it’s seen better days.
There’s a tranquility here. Not like the eerie one on a too-familiar farm several states over. But like this is a home.
With his heart in his throat, Dean rings the doorbell.
And there Cas is. In bare feet and low-slung jeans. With a shirt hugging the muscles of his chest and showing off the ink running down one of his bare arms. His hair is just as messy as Dean remembers it, but he’s wearing it longer and there are fine lines at the corner of his eyes.
He has a dish towel thrown over one shoulder and for a milisecond, Dean gets to see him relaxed and happy, with a subdued smile and soft eyes. Then his blue eyes land on Dean’s face and it all shatters.
”Dean?” He asks unevenly in a voice that’s a lot deeper than it used to be.
”Hey, Cas,” Dean says with a wobbly smile. He holds up a worn-in paperback, ”I read your book.”
”Ah,” Cas grimaces, ”I guess you want to come in?”
”I’ve been driving for six hours to get here, so yeah, I might.”
With a sigh, Cas steps back to let Dean enter.
It’s immediately a mistake. As Dean moves around him, he feels the pull like a sharp tug at his chest.
Cas swallows, taking a quick step back and closing the door too hard. He moves over to the kitchen where he starts wiping at a counter that looks clean to Dean’s eyes, ”How are you?”
Dean braces his forearms on the edge of the island counter, ineffectively trying to catch Cas’ eyes, ”I’m good. How about you?”
”I’m queer,” Cas replies.
”Uh, okay?”
”So if that’s gonna be a problem, you can leave my land right now.”
Dean laughs, ”This might come as quite the shock, but me too.”
”Oh.”
”Mm,” Dean just says, ”So, the book?”
”It’s fiction,” Cas says, scrubbing harder at the already clean butcher block top.
”C’mon, Cas.”
”You’re not the only man in the world with green eyes, you know,” Cas slams the cloth down on the table.
Dean bypasses every protest about the title – The Hay Loft – and any single thing that’s far more damning than a fucking eye color. It’s not autobiographical, even Dean’s uncultured ass gets that. It’s not Cas’ first book, either, but this one is personal in a way that none of the others have been. In a way that has finally managed to flush Dean out, fueling the small flame of maybe.
He goes straight for the kill, flipping the book open and reading the dedication aloud, ”To boys falling off horses. Wherever you are, I hope you’ve gotten back up. Or is that just your hook. Something you tell every lost guy stumbling your way?”
”There was only ever you for me. You know that,” Cas says flatly.
”It’s been thirteen years,” Dean uncertainly says, not at all sure what he’s being told and careful not to let his fragile hope put the horse before the cart.
Cas throws his arms out with an exasperated laugh, ”I’m aware.”
The veins and muscles of his tattooed arm move under the ink. Even if Dean had never read a scrap of his writing, the imagery of falling angels would be enough of a clue to know that he’s left the church for good. A line of text runs down his lower arm:
For so I created them free and free they must remain
It’s from Paradise Lost. Dean has read it more times than he can count, clutching it tight on especially bad nights, where the absence of Cas felt like an open wound. It’s been a while, but this part he could recite in his sleep.
With his back turned, Cas pinches the bridge of his nose and Dean lingers even though he should probably go.
When Cas turns back around, it’s to scan Dean’s face. With a slow nod, he asks, ”You want coffee?”
”Yeah, that sounds awesome,” Dean replies. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Softness enters Cas’ expression, ”You look exactly the same, you know.”
”You might want to get your eyes checked there, bud.”
Cas shakes his head and grabs a french press from an open shelf. He measures the coffee out and while the water boils, he settles back against a counter, ”How are you, really?”
”I’m good,” Dean repeats, ”Really good,” and because being in Cas’ presence brings back memories, he adds, ”Better after I stopped seeing my dad some ten years ago. He, uh, he put his hands on Sam and suddenly the whole spiel about family and duty started sounding real hollow.”
Nodding his head, Cas softly says, ”That’s how I felt when I saw the marks on you. Both times. It changes things, seeing it on someone who’s pure.”
”I was never pure,” Dean scoffs, purposefully averting his eyes from the silver scar splitting the end of Cas’ one eyebrow.
”You were a child. We both were,” Cas says, easy as that.
He pours water over the coffee with hands that don’t look like those of an author. Tiny scars fleck tan skin.
”Speaking of children,” Dean says, ”There’s a girl out there, spreading a whole lotta paint on your garage.”
”Blonde hair, black eyeliner, terrible attitude?”
”Yup, that’s the one.”
”That’s Claire. She’s an artist.”
”And she’s…” Dean trails off, trying to do the math, ”Yours?”
Cas nearly drops the mugs he’s in the process of pulling down for them, ”No. No. I’m… I’m temporarily fostering. Right now it’s Claire and a younger boy, Jack. The farm is open to teens who need a safe place to stay.”
”You were always good at that,” Dean says in a soft voice that he doesn’t remember when he used last.
Cas looks curiously up from pressing the filter to the bottom of the press.
Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dean says, ”I don’t have anything half as impressive going on, but I’m a mechanic. If you want, I could take a look at that tractor you’ve got out front? It looks like it could use a hand.”
With a deep sigh Cas stops pouring coffee to face him fully, ”Do you want to stay for dinner?”
”Uh, sure. When are you eating? I could…” Dean pushes off the counter and gestures outside.
Cas shakes his head, ”Do it tomorrow.”
”It’s a hell of a drive, Cas.”
”You know what I’m asking you, Dean,” Cas says evenly, ”Unless you need to go?”
”Nah, for you I’m pretty sure I could spare a lifetime,” Dean shakily says, ”If you want it.”
The corners of Cas’ eyes crinkle. He laces their fingers together on the countertop, ”How about we start with coffee and dinner for now?”
Dean laughs, ”Yeah, that’s probably smart.”
They start with coffee, tumbling into a family dinner with kids who are prickly and impossible and deeply lovable. After that, Cas offers him whiskey and Dean has to confess that he’s actually six years sober. Instead they take a walk between rows and rows of sweet-smelling fruit-trees in the autumn evening. Under the stars they rediscover the shapes of each other. The jagged ridges where they still fit, others where they don’t.
And in between slow kisses and soft forgiveness, it turns into a lifetime.