Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean inhaled deeply. The whole break room smelled like gooey cheese and cooked meats of questionable origin. Which, to be fair, was still better than the “motor oil, Hot Pockets, and sweaty socks” combo that usually filled the air. Dean’s leftover Winchester Surprise wasn’t health food and it wasn’t pretty, and okay, maybe Jo was right and it technically looked (and smelled) a bit like someone had already eaten it. But to Dean, the greasy mess meant comfort and home. It was one of the only recipes he had from his mom. It was also easy to cook a big batch of over the weekend, so that he could bring leftovers for lunch all week. Jo loathed Winchester Surprise weeks. 

Looking over at the microwave, Dean saw that the green numbers had stopped counting down, greeting him with a glowing “END,” instead. 

Settling back down into the well-worn seat of his preferred breakroom couch once he’d retrieved his lunch, he peeled the top off the Tupperware and kicked his feet up on Bobby’s old coffee table. It wobbled. The uneven, shabby thing had migrated to the shop when Ellen had insisted that Bobby get one that hadn’t been chewed by Rumsfeld, their ancient rottweiler. It still had teeth marks… Once upon a time, Dean had thought to sand them out, pretty it up, but in reality, no one working at Singer’s cared much.

Two spoonfuls into Dean’s piping-hot, nostalgic lunch, a hand gently pressed to his bicep, drawing his head up. “Hey, Jo,” he said, dropping his feet so that she could walk around to the other side of the table.

Jo had a slightly flat sandwich in one hand and a diet Pepsi in the other. Her blonde hair was tied back roughly, and she had splatters of black grease all over her, across her army green Singer’s Auto shirt and even covering her cheeks and forehead. She sat down directly opposite Dean so that they could talk with ease, though she didn’t greet him beyond a sullen nod.

Dean returned his feet to resting on the table and waggled his boot to get her attention. When she looked back up, he put down his spoon so that he could sweep his hand up to gesture at his face before pointing at her. “Why are you wearing an oil change?”

Jo scowled, taking a bite of her sandwich and dropping it onto her lap before she replied. Out of habit, Jo moved her hands as she spoke, gesturing and throwing in Pidgin Signed English automatically, so that Dean wouldn’t have to rely purely on lip reading. “Cole. He’s such a dick. He left the drip pan from his oil change on top of the Camaro he just finished with. It was hanging over the edge, so I walked into it. Of course, his excuse was that he told everyone it was there; it’s not his fault I couldn’t hear him.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I’m glad I can’t actually hear his asshole of a mouth.”

Her shoulders loosening, Jo grinned and nodded in agreement. She’d just needed to say it, Dean figured, to talk about it and have someone agree with her in order to feel better. Not a compulsion that Dean himself was all that familiar with. Ignore it ‘til it went away—that was the Winchester way.

Settling back onto the old couch, Jo pointed to the pile of papers on the table next to Dean. “Are those all your intake papers for school?”

Dean nodded reluctantly before going back to his lunch. It took the steel toe of Jo’s boot jabbing painfully at his knee to get him to look back up again.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked.

Dean gave her a disbelieving look. “You’ve known me since we were babies. When have I ever wanted to ‘talk about it?’”

“Oh, so Trenton isn’t the only one who got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” Jo threw back.

In lieu of an actual response, Dean decided to glare and shove his mouth full of Winchester Surprise. Jo, though, hadn’t known Dean his entire life for nothing, and she appeared to be perfectly content to wait him out. She sat, arms crossed, sandwich done, and smiled at him patiently.

Swallowing harshly, Dean popped the lid back onto his Tupperware and tossed it down onto the table. It bounced and scuttered away from him before landing on the paper pile under discussion. “Alright,” he said, focusing on Jo. “Ask me your damn questions.”

Jo raised an eyebrow, chastising. “Fine,” she said, leaning further forward. “I’ll play. When do classes start?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Bobby giving you the time off that you need?”

Dean nodded, but said nothing, still waiting for the real question.

“Have you been to the Student Access Center to see what help you can get, what accommodations can be made?”

If it had been anyone but Jo, Dean probably would have stormed out right then. Instead, he gritted his teeth and exhaled heavily through his nose, before leaning forward to run his hands through his hair. He took a moment to regard his kneecaps before directing his answer back to Jo. “I don’t need help.”

“Was I asking for your Dad’s answer? Or yours?” Jo said, her expression catty and unimpressed.

“Ouch,” said Dean.

“Want me to ask again?” Jo said, her gaze unwavering.

“It’ll be different from last time,” Dean said. He was determined it would be. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t considered it, hadn’t thought about it. He knew that the main reason he’d dropped out of college the first time had been because of his deafness and his poor handling of it.

Dean was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He was self-aware enough to know that the way his dad had raised him, to fight his way through life like it was out to get him, wasn’t healthy.

People out there, Dean? They’ll chew you up and spit you out. You gotta learn to exist in the hearing world, boy, or you’re never going to get anywhere. Learn to deal with it, John had said, so many times.

Dean knew it was bullshit.

But that didn’t mean it was easy to do any different, even with his dad long gone.

Realizing that he’d drifted off into his thoughts, snapped his eyes back upward. Oops.

“~~like last time,” Jo said, nodding.

“Sorry,” Dean said, shaking his head. “I got distracted. Say that again?” He pushed his thoughts aside, concentrating instead on his best friend’s lips as they moved, and taking in the bits of ASL and Pidgin signs that she threw in naturally to help him along.

“I just don’t want to see you struggle. You are smart and you deserve that degree. Don’t make it harder than it has to be. It’s not a weakness to want to be on a level playing field with everyone else. It doesn’t have to be like last time,” she repeated.

Jo was the only person Dean could understand with such ease. Years of friendship, growing up together, and Jo’s willingness to communicate however they needed—despite John Winchester’s ban on sign language in Dean’s childhood home—made for an easy rapport. Coming from a Deaf family, she understood him a lot better than most. Their sibling-like bond also, she claimed, gave her leeway to say things to Dean that only his brother Sam, or maybe Bobby and Ellen, could otherwise get away with saying.

Dean disagreed. She didn’t give a shit.

Every word Jo was saying was true. Dean knew that. But he clenched his fists even so, resisting. He didn’t want to stand out, to be the weird older student in the corner of the class who needed someone to hold his hand. He didn’t want to be weak.  

Jo, Sam, and Ellen, and probably even Bobby, would have blown a few gaskets in outrage if he said that out loud.

But he thought it, anyway.

Thanks, Dad.

“You need to stop thinking of it as help,” Jo continued, pulling a card from her jeans’ pocket and dropping it on the table. “I even got the number of the Access Center for you. You deserve the same chance everyone else has. It’s a right, not a privilege.”

“Alright,” Dean grumbled. “Enough crusading for one lunch break, okay?”

Jo’s shoulders rose and fell slightly with a sigh. “Okay, Dean. Are you working late today?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. I’ve gotta replace the brakes on the Chrysler out back, and then Bobby is gonna listen to the engine on that Subaru for me and see if he can help me diagnose what the hell is wrong without having to take the whole thing apart.”

“Well, don’t be too late,” Jo reminded him. “My mom is cooking dinner for us all, remember, so she gets to see Sam one last time before he flies out.”

Oh, Dean definitely remembered. Like there was any chance he wasn’t counting the minutes until Sam left and dreading every single one. He was proud of Sam, but Dean had played a bigger part in raising Sam than his dad had, when it came down to it. He missed the kid something fierce during the school year while he was studying law at Stanford, though Dean would rarely admit just how much.

He nodded and waved to Jo before she headed out the door that led into the repair bay of Singer’s Auto, the auto shop and salvage yard run by his Uncle Bobby. Bobby might not technically be a blood uncle, but Dean’s family neither started nor ended with that.

Dean rinsed out his Tupperware and shoved it in the scrappy backpack he used for work, hanging it back on the peg next to the door. The peg was labelled with his name and had been for years now. It sat between Garth’s and Cole’s, even though Dean was going down to part-time during the semester. He wasn’t going to be replaced here, in the only real home he had. Dean was immensely grateful that, even though he was going back to school, Bobby supported him and was still going to give him hours at the shop. He loved his job and his colleagues. Well, most of his colleagues. Okay...one of his colleagues was a total dickbag.

Dean hurriedly shoved his paperwork in beside the Tupperware and was about to leave when he noticed the card Jo had proffered still on the wooden tabletop. He leaned over and picked it up, slowly turning it in his hands. Kansas State University Academic Achievement Access Center, it said in neatly printed letters. Missouri Moseley, Student Liaison, it went on, before providing her email and phone number. Her office hours were displayed on the back.

Dean spun the card in his fingers, looking once, then twice, to the trash can.

Finally, with a sigh, he tucked it into his back pocket and went back to work.

The engine of the Subaru, Bobby informed Dean, sounded like someone was shaking a bag of rocks. Dean sighed at his assessment but nodded. He doubted that the owner would be down for a total engine rebuild on such an old vehicle, but he’d ask. Cleaning the grease from his hands with a rag, Dean headed back out onto the main shop floor, having taken a few minutes to wipe everything down after Bobby had delivered his verdict. He tossed the square of white shop fabric, now gray and black with engine grease, into the bucket in the corner and pushed his way through the swing door that led into the office.

Dean flopped down onto the wobbly swivel chair that lived under the desk, slowly spinning around twice before he pulled the plastic filing tray over toward himself. He searched for the Subaru owner’s phone number so he could text them the news about the car; Garth’s penchant for organizing everything in sight really paid off when it came to admin. The owners had already responded that they’d “think about it and call back” by the time the light in the office flashed twice, announcing someone’s arrival at the garage. Looking up at the light panel that Bobby had rigged up above the door many years before, Dean saw there was someone ringing the bell at the front. He craned his neck, looking out through the glass panel of the swing door. Seeing no one else in sight to answer it, Dean hauled himself back out of the seat.

Something was tense and off the minute Dean stepped back onto the shop floor.

Cole had a face like an angry bull’s ass on the best of days, but right then he was waving his hands, his mouth moving fast. Yelling, Dean assumed. At Bobby. Which Dean would just never be cool with.

“Hey,” he called, moving over to the two men with a frown already in place. “What’s going on?

Turning on Dean, Cole gave him a scathing look. “Maybe if Bobby didn’t have to waste time doing your job, he’d have~~” Dean squinted at Cole's mouth, confused, trying to keep up. "~~around to help with this~~" Nothing. Spittle flew from Cole's lips. "~~I’ve been needing all day!”

Dean’s mind worked overtime trying to fill in the gaps and work out what Cole was so mad about. He was good at lip reading, but even so, at least half of what he picked up was from context clues rather than the specific movement of someone’s mouth—and that was a generous estimate, based on someone who actually took the time to try and speak clearly and to look at Dean when they talked.

Cole was a lazy, bitter son of a bitch. He didn’t even try. 

“~~don’t see why I should~~because Bobby wants to play favorites with the~~”  

Dean blinked. Unfortunately for everyone, Dean was nowhere near a big enough person to not rise to that kind of bait. “What the hell?” he threw back, scowling and stepping right up to Cole. “What is your problem? You don’t run this place, Bobby does. It’s up to him what—”

Bobby touched Dean’s shoulder to pull his attention. “Dean,” he said, his untamed, graying eyebrows drawn together firmly. “You’re right, I run this place. So, it’s not up to you to fight my battles, boy. Go answer the door.”

Still bristling and annoyed, even if Bobby was right, Dean slowly disengaged and stepped back. Nodding, he moved across the floor to go and see who was waiting to be attended to. He turned before he stepped out, and saw Bobby verbally railing into Cole, his hand clenched at his side and his brow furrowed.

The client that was waiting out front had an appointment to drop off their Honda, so it only took Dean a few minutes to get their paperwork done and send them on their way. They spoke pretty clearly, and it only required one tap at the “Please be PATIENT I am DEAF!” badge on his chest to get through it. Dangling their keys idly from his forefinger, Dean made his way back into the shop, pushing at the heavy swing door with his shoulder.

Jo and Garth were switching out some tires on a depressingly beige soccer-mom van, but no one else was in sight. Dean headed back toward the office to get the keys logged in and see what the next job on his docket was. Bobby sat at the desk when Dean entered, leaning back in the chair with a sour expression on his face and a clipboard balanced on his knee.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted him, closing the door and walking up to the edge of the desk. The office was tiny, the smallest room on the premises, but like every other space Bobby made sure that it was brightly lit, for Dean—it was so much easier to pick words out from beneath the twitch of Bobby’s mustache with decent light. 

Wordlessly, Bobby kicked the other chair out from the wall and nodded down at it. Dean could communicate with Bobby almost as easily as Jo, but it certainly helped that the grumpy old bastard used as few words as possible in the first place.

Raising his eyebrow in question, Dean leaned over to place the keys from the checked-in car on the desk, before he forgot. “That’s the Davidson’s Honda,” he said, once he could see Bobby again.

“Checked in alright?” Bobby asked. “No problems?”

Dean shrugged. “Normal, no issues.”

Bobby nodded, but his brow was still creased in thought.

Folding his arms across his chest, Dean stared across at him until Bobby met his eyes again. “What’s up, old man? You got something to say?” After another moment of thought, Dean added, “This about Cole?”

Frowning, Bobby’s lips parted, as if he was letting out a long sigh. “Yeah, I suppose. Nothing for you to worry about; he’s just bitchin’ like always.”

“About me?” Dean asked bluntly, his stomach clenching angrily.

Bobby gave him a pointed, annoyed look.

“So that’s a yes,” Dean said with a huff. “What did I do this time?”

Shaking his head, Bobby leaned forward on his knees and hunched over toward Dean, his puffy vest bunching up around his shoulders. “Look, boy, you didn’t do nothin’. It’s me that Cole is pissed with. You know he doesn’t think I should have you working out there with the rest of the guys—”

Immediately angry and defensive, Dean pushed up against the arms of his chair, ready to go see Cole himself. “I can work just as well as—”

“I know that, kid. Sit your ass down!” Bobby said, his furrowed brow more than enough to clue Dean in on his tone.

Chastised, Dean settled back into his seat, jaw still tight. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Look, Dean, Cole is my problem. This is my business, and it’s not right that he says the stuff he does. Your work isn’t in question here, and your job ain’t, either. You do better than him, honestly, and we adapted the garage for you years ago. Nothing’s gonna change around here.”

Slowly, Dean nodded. Cole made his blood boil, but he knew that he was also the only guy Bobby had who could work on the electronics for some of the newer cars, so he felt like he was in a bind. Dean appreciated that Bobby always had his back, regardless.

“Thing is, boy,” Bobby said, searching Dean’s face to make sure he was paying attention, “you’re gonna come up against assholes like Cole all your life.”

Dean frowned. “I know that, Bobby. My dad always said—”

“John ain’t fit for you to be takin’ any advice from, Dean.”

Dean sat wordlessly, eyes wide. Bobby never spoke about John; they’d been friends for decades, and Ellen had been his mom’s best friend, but his mother, Mary, had died over twenty years back. Since then, Dean knew that Bobby and John hadn’t always seen eye to-eye on a lot of things.

“John wanted you to go out there in the world and fight for every damn thing you want, Dean,” Bobby continued, straightening up. “And that ain’t bad, but it ain’t fair, either. He made you stubborn and he made you never accept help from anyone. It’s not a privilege for you to be on the same level as everyone else without havin’ to claw your way there. It’s just a right.”

Dean squinted across the space between them, suspicious. “You making a point, old man? Or is this a precursor to free hugs or some shit? You’re talking like Sammy.”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “You ever think maybe your brother is right?”

Thinning his lips, Dean didn’t respond.

Pushing his hands back through his short, balding hair, Bobby shook his head at the floor before looking back up at Dean, moistening his lips and trying again. “Dean, you know I’m not one for the touchy-feely stuff. But I think if your mom was alive, she’d want to see you succeeding. She’d want to see you trying. And right now…you’re coasting. You’re smart, and you deserve to earn that damn piece of paper from the college.”

Dean couldn’t quite work out how to respond, his breath caught in his throat.

“Honestly,” Bobby continued, “I think you’re just scared.”

Shaking his head slightly, Dean let out a small sigh. “Jo talked to you, didn’t she?”

“She did, though she didn’t need to. Your stubborn ass has been the same since you were a toddler.” Bobby leaned back in his seat again, linking his fingers together across his chest so that they rested over the zipper of his vest. “I’m keeping you on part time while you go back to school because I believe in you, boy. We all do.”

“Alright, Bobby,” Dean forced out. “No need to get sappy on me.”

“Maybe there is a need,” Bobby said immediately, “if it’s the only thing that’ll make you realize there ain’t nothing wrong with bein’ the way you are and using the resources they’ve got for you. You don’t have to fight the world. Sometimes it’s okay to meet it in the middle.”

Reaching into his back pocket, Dean pulled out the card for the KSU Access Center. It had formed into a curve from warming up in his back pocket, and Dean slowly smoothed it out, far more than necessary, happy to have an excuse not to look back up at Bobby for a minute.

When he did, Bobby was wearing a tiny, proud smile. He pushed up off his chair, and it spun emptily for a moment as Bobby approached the office door, heading back out onto the floor. As he passed Dean, Bobby reached out, squeezing his shoulder.

“Go get ‘em, kid,” Dean saw Bobby say.

Dean nodded minutely. Bobby didn’t say anything in return; the softness at the corner of Bobby’s eyes was communication enough for them both.

Chapter Text

Singer’s Auto Repair was in Topeka, so Dean was already half an hour closer to the K State campus than he would have been if he’d driven all the way from Lawrence. Or that’s the excuse he’d used, anyway, when he’d asked Bobby to put him on shift for the morning. In reality, of course, he just wanted the normalcy of metal and oil to settle his jitters before he headed to the Student Access Center for his appointment. 

Baby’s hood slammed down, making her frame shudder, as Bobby shut it sharply to get Dean’s attention. Dean scowled as he rolled down the window; being rough with his pristine ‘67 Impala was no way to get him to look in the right direction.

Bobby smirked at him. “You’d better hurry up, son, or you’ll be late.”

And just like that, poof, there went the normalcy.

“Yeah,” Dean said reluctantly. “I was just about to close her up and head off.”

“Gave her an oil change to calm your nerves?” Bobby asked, crossing his arms in front of his eternal puffy vest.  

“No, she just needed one,” Dean lied.

Bobby shook his head in disbelief. “Get outta here,” he said, giving Baby an affectionate pat on the hood. “And don’t be an asshole to those people, y’hear?”

Dean glowered, rolled up his window, and drove out of the bay. 

The journey from Topeka to Manhattan, where the Kansas State main campus was, took about fifty minutes. For someone who loved driving as much as Dean did, it was nothing—even driving from his apartment in Lawrence would take less than an hour and a half. When Dean had told Sammy that on Zoom the night before, he’d looked horrified. Living in a residence hall right on campus at Stanford was making Sam lazy, Dean decided. Kid didn’t even have a car—it wasn’t natural.

The low vibrations of Robert Plant’s deep voice through the Impala’s speakers kept Dean company until he reached the campus. Occasionally he’d wonder and long to know what the music sounded like, but he still loved the feel of it, the bass buzzing into his skin. He remembered the tunes of some of his mom’s favorite songs from when he was a tiny kid, but he wasn’t sure how accurate he was with them anymore. He’d last heard Led Zeppelin when he was five, before his hearing completely went. But they were still his favorite, and always would be.

He pushed the volume up, increasing the vibration to distract himself from his own thoughts. 

As he’d expected, the K State campus was busy. Dean didn’t have a parking permit yet, and after a few minutes going back and forth, he decided to park in a public garage just a short walk away. He didn’t take chances with Baby’s safety. Squeezing her in somewhere or leaving her on the street? Not happening.

Holton Hall was an imposing limestone building that made Dean feel underdressed in its presence. Luckily, there were plenty of other folks milling around, most of which looked to be dressed even further down than Dean. He passed a couple of dudes in onesies as he headed into the building, and decided to stop worrying.

It was fine. He could do this.

“I’ve got an appointment with Ms. Moseley,” Dean said carefully at the desk, enunciating to the best of his ability. 

Dean saw movement in the clerk’s cheeks, but she remained looking down at her keyboard as she answered him, until he tapped his fingers on the desk and got her to repeat herself. It was so annoying when people did that—bane of Dean’s goddamned existence. 

Directed to the correct waiting area, Dean was carefully taking in the modern, perky-feeling office space when a neat, red pant-suit stepped into his view. Looking up immediately, Dean found himself face to face with a beaming black woman who somehow, though they’d never met, seemed to be genuinely happy to see him.

“Dean Winchester?” she asked. 

At his nod, she gestured to an office, and he followed. 

“Welcome to K State,” she said, settling herself behind a slim desk. “I’m so glad that you ~~ to stop by and see me before classes started.”

Her demeanor was so warm and smiling that Dean actually believed her words, even if he missed one or two of them. He nodded, giving her a brief smile in return, but not quite sure what to say. 

“Now, after you emailed,” she began, reaching for a piece of paper and sliding it toward Dean, “the first thing I ~~ was pull your class schedule.”

Dean looked down at the neatly printed timetable of his classes for the upcoming semester—a smattering of courses covering math, chemistry, and computer science, and some all-important mechanical engineering core classes. He lifted his head back up and noticed that Ms. Moseley had waited for him to look back at her before speaking.

He shouldn’t have been surprised—this was her job, after all—but it made Dean relax a little.

“You have a heavy course load and several quite technical classes in there,” she said, gesturing to the paper. “So, I do have a few questions, if you ~~ mind answering them honestly.”

Dean nodded.

“How well can you lipread?”

“I get by,” he said guardedly.

Ms. Moseley stared at him, waiting.

After letting out a small sigh, Dean’s shoulders slumped a little. “I can lipread pretty well in a one-on-one scenario with someone who’s being careful to speak properly, like you,” he explained. “When I tried college the first time, it...it was a struggle.”

Ms. Moseley nodded. “Professors have a lot of students to worry about; they can’t be constantly looking in one direction or focusing on ~~ person. Most of our deaf and hard of hearing students prefer to work one-on-one with ASL interpreters. We have ~~on staff who are dedicated solely to helping students in classroom scenarios.”

“Ahh,” Dean said, shifting anxiously in his seat. “Well, I, uh, I can sign a tiny bit. But I’m not very good. I wasn’t raised using it or anything.”

Ms. Moseley’s smile was kind, and she was already nodding. “You did mention that in your email, which is why I wanted to introduce to you one of our interpreters in ~~ he works with students like you, but he’s also an ASL instructor for several courses here. The aim is that he would ~~ classes with you, sign as a backup for you while you lipread, and be your classroom advocate.”

“Classroom advocate?” Dean double checked, trying to push down his frustration at the conversation. “What’s that?” 

Ms. Moseley wasn’t too difficult to understand, obviously used to making sure that she spoke clearly and slowly without managing to slip into the gross, fucking annoying habit that some people had of speaking to Dean like he was stupid , rather than just deaf. Even so, he had to guess the odd word here and there, and he didn’t want to mess this up. 

He couldn’t mess this up. Jo might kill him.

“Professors are overworked as it is, and they may not be aware of your needs amongst a lecture hall of two or three hundred students. Your advocate will be the ~~ who is in your corner, Dean. If you need transcripts of lectures, copies ~~ slides, or written instructions for papers rather than verbal, he will be the one making sure you get all of those. Any bumps in the road, he will be your guy.” 

Dean thought that sounded uncomfortably like the special treatment and “sticking out like a sore thumb” he’d been so determined to avoid, but with Bobby and Jo’s eager faces still in the back of his mind, he swallowed his pride and nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Ms. Moseley stood from behind her desk and stuck her head out of the office door. Dean could only assume that she shouted for someone, because when she returned to her seat she smiled brightly before indicating the door.

Seconds later, Dean’s mouth went dry. 

The guy that appeared in the doorway was wearing a wrinkled navy suit and sensible shoes, but Dean barely registered his dull, quiet wardrobe over the loudness of his strikingly blue eyes. Blue was a common color, so there was no reason why this man should look exotic and remarkable, but he did. He was tan and muscular and incredibly handsome, but it was those eyes that had Dean in a mental spiral. They punched Dean in the throat and he panicked for a moment—thinking that perhaps he’d actually let out one of the strangled noises that his brain was making—but the man smiled calmly at him, extending a hand as if Dean’s reaction was entirely normal.

Though, Dean supposed, if you went through life looking like that, Dean’s reaction probably was entirely normal.

Managing to shake the guy’s hand without making a fool out of himself, Dean cleared his throat. “Hey. I’m Dean.”

Castiel’s hands moved as he spoke, almost as if it was automatic. Communication flowed out of him in tandem, and Dean wasn’t sure he could recall someone ever looking so comfortable as they smiled and said their name, clarifying the spelling with fluid, exceptionally clear finger signs. “Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel. I’m going to be your interpreter while you’re here with us at K State.”

“Castiel,” Dean tested out, immediately anxious that his pronunciation was going to be off. 

“You can call me Cas,” Castiel said. The guy’s small smile warmed his serious face, but instead of feeling reassuring, the offered nickname just made Dean feel even more certain he hadn’t said it right. 

Feeling the warmth of a flush at the back of his neck, Dean dropped back into his seat, turning his eyes determinedly back to Ms. Moseley. 

“So, I get a hand-holding buddy for all of my classes?” Dean deflected, before reaching to pick up the class schedule again from the tabletop. 

“You get whatever help you may need, Dean,” Ms. Moseley replied knowingly, a teasing twinkle in her eye. “Hand holding ~~ optional, and I’d suggest getting to know Cas first.”

Dean felt his neck heating further. Okay, that wasn’t what he’d meant. He chanced a look over at Castiel again—his expression didn’t seem to have changed at all. But, when Dean looked closely  at him, he smiled his slight smile and reached across to tap at Dean’s schedule.

“The only class I have a conflict with is your computer science class; it’s at the same time as one of the classes I teach. I made the suggestion to Ms. Moseley that switching you to a ~~” —Castiel paused at Dean’s squint and repeated the word easily, spelling it out— “a remote-learning version of that lab might benefit you. Then you can take it at your own pace and focus on the digital materials.”

Dean was surprised—but immensely pleased—to see that Castiel spoke clearly and calmly enough that Dean barely missed a word. He looked back at Ms. Moseley, asking, “I’d still get the same credits that I need, just like if I did the in-person class?”

She nodded. “You would. It will also free up your Friday afternoons, so you’ll be able to socialize more. I’m sure that’s good news.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Not really here for that. I gotta work, too.”

Ms. Moseley raised a neatly penciled brow but said nothing. Instead she deferred to Castiel, who raised his fingers and paused for Dean’s attention before he spoke again.

“My assistance is supposed to be for classroom settings, but I’ve found that some students find it helpful to let me know of any clubs or societies that they want to join. I can sometimes find ways to help people with alternate communication needs to integrate better.” 

Dean frowned. “I’ve gotten this far in life just fine on my own, I don’t think I need help making friends.”

Castiel’s lips thinned only fractionally, but his expression clearly stated that he thought Dean knew perfectly well that wasn’t the intention of his speaking up. “Very well, then. The offer stands if you change your mind. Ms. Moseley”—Castiel directed his speech to the advisor with a flick of his eyes, but Dean noticed that he considerately remained angled toward Dean as he spoke—“unless you need anything else from me, I’ll take a copy of Dean’s schedule and get back to orientation.” 

“Very well, honey,” Ms. Mosely said, smiling familiarly. “As long as we’re all in agreement, you can just meet Dean in his ~~ class on Tuesday.”

Castiel nodded, Dean nodded, and just like that, it was set.

It was just Dean’s kinda luck that his very first class of the year, of this entire attempt at college, was a math class. 

Ugh.

He was ten minutes early—he wanted to make sure he had the correct room—but as it was the first day of school, he wasn’t the only one. Castiel arrived seconds after Dean, sweeping into the room in a crumpled beige trench coat. Dean couldn’t help but bite back a smile; this dude was incredibly hot (like, stop-drop-and-roll hot), but his fashion sense seemed to have been inherited from an accountant who slept under bridges.   

Dean raised his hand in greeting as Castiel approached. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said. His ugly boots thumped on the floor as he came to a stop next to Dean’s chair, solid steps that Dean could feel when he got closer. He carried a bulging briefcase, though he didn’t put it down immediately. “You think this will be the best seat for you?”

Awkwardly, Dean gestured to the seating chart that had been displayed next to the gigantic whiteboard that took up most of the wall. He’d thought it was strange that there was a chart—no one had cared where he sat since high school. But, as one of the other students had helpfully said to a friend while Dean was close enough to see, “Better just do what it says. My sister told me ~~ a huge control freak.”

Dean didn’t want to make a big deal of it, so he’d moved off to his seat. The students had been arranged simply in alphabetical order by last name, putting Dean close to the back.

“It’s where they put me,” he explained to Castiel.

“Well, this is a college not a middle school, so your professor will have to learn to be more flexible,” Castiel said. He smiled calmly, a brisk, unflappable air about him as his eyes flicked between Dean and the offending chart.

“Look, dude, I don’t want to make a fuss on my first day, okay?”

The way Castiel looked straight at Dean when he spoke, in a way that many people seemed awkward or shy about doing, was a little unnerving. Dean needed people to look at him, but it was still unusual for someone to do it quite that intensely.

Looking down at Dean’s chair again, then forward to the podium and whiteboard, Castiel shook his head and frowned. “No, Dean. You don’t want to make a fuss, I understand that, but this won’t do. You can’t lip read from back here. Give me a moment.” 

With that, his trench coat spun out around him and he moved off to the front of the class. Dean watched as Castiel moved up to a tanned, balding man in a suit, and began speaking. The man scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Oh, great, Dean thought. That’s a good start.

The professor gestured to the seating chart, but Castiel was shaking his head even before he turned back. Dean was too far away to make out what the guy—Adler, the board said his name was, Professor Z. Adler—or Castiel was saying, but when Castiel smiled back at him, Dean was struck by how dangerous Castiel’s expression looked. That was a fighting smile, Dean realized. Castiel leaned forward, quietly directing a few furious-looking, incomprehensible words into Adler’s personal space.

After only a second’s hesitation, Adler stepped back and walked up to the front row, approaching a red-headed girl about halfway along. He spoke to her briefly and pointed up to Dean’s seat. She turned, and Dean noticed that she was wearing a black shirt with a bright yellow Star Wars logo emblazoned across the front. Nodding cheerily, she grabbed a backpack—covered in more badges and pins than Dean had ever seen—from the seat beside the desk and bounded up the incline to where Dean sat. 

From the professor’s swift gesture, Dean guessed that he was supposed to take the newly vacated seat.

The girl grinned as she squeezed past Dean on the way to his old seat, and he gave her a grateful smile for not making a fuss. Not that many people would really want to sit that close to the front anyway, he figured.  

Dean settled into his new spot, and a chair was quickly procured for Castiel to sit beside him. 

“Thank you,” Dean quickly signed to Castiel as Professor Adler moved to close the door and begin. He didn’t like causing a problem, standing out—but Castiel hadn’t made a big deal of it, hadn’t made Dean feel like he was somehow more work than anyone else. It felt like a simple problem with a simple solution.

Maybe this wouldn’t be as awful as he’d feared.  

The lesson itself wasn’t so bad—being the first class of the year, there was very little actual teaching done. Adler mostly talked about grading, expectations, and plans for the year. Even so, Castiel sat beside Dean, summarizing the professor's words in sign. Dean tried to keep up with Castiel at first, but then realized his ASL was definitely not up to that. But, as Castiel had said in Ms. Moseley’s office, he could use it as a backup. Mostly, Dean could watch Adler—at the times when he spoke too fast, or Dean lost line of sight, he simply shifted his attention fully to Castiel, who caught him up. He couldn’t understand all of Castiel’s signs, but he could get the general gist, and it helped. 

By the time Adler dismissed them, Dean was feeling fairly...dare he say it...positive. 

Dean started to leave, but Castiel reached out to gently touch his arm, pulling his attention back.

“Before you go, can we take a few minutes to review what worked and what didn’t?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded, sitting back down. “Sure.”

“So, how was that? Was it helpful to have me sign all the time, or merely a distraction?”

Dean thought before he answered. “It was a little distracting, but I had to check in with you a couple of times to work out what was going on when Adler would talk too fast, so it did what it was meant to.”

Castiel nodded. “Alright. As you prefer to rely mostly on lip reading, then, would it be better for you if I didn’t sign along unless you give me a signal that you need clarification?”

“I dunno, man. How do you usually do it?”

“However the student needs,” Castiel said immediately. “There’s no right or wrong, here. Some people prefer to have me interpret everything, so they can take their class fully in sign. Others prefer to lipread, like you, and I only summarize if they ask.”

“What about people who—” Dean moistened his lips nervously, “—aren’t very good at it? I mean, not everyone signs, right?” 

Castiel’s nod was calm and understanding. “Not everybody, no. Some people don’t use it at all. They never had the opportunity to learn, or they choose not to use it for a variety of reasons.” 

“What do you do for them, then?” Dean wasn’t about to admit all of his baggage to this unknown dude just yet, but...it’d be nice to know if there were options.

“If ASL fluency is an issue, there’s several routes I take. Typing is the easiest.” Castiel reached down into his briefcase and pulled out a slim black laptop, perching it on the small table attached to the arm of Dean’s chair, and opened it straight up. After only a few moments the screen loaded, and Castiel opened up a blank document.

“I just type whatever the professor says,” Castiel typed.

Dean blinked. “That simple, huh?”

“Yes,” Castiel typed. “Why create an excessively complex solution when a simple one works, after all?”

“You can type really fast, dude.”

Castiel gave one of his tiny smiles. “Yes. That does help.”

Dean huffed out a low laugh, and Castiel packed his laptop back away. 

“You don’t have to answer me now, or make any kind of permanent decision,” Castiel said, looking straight at Dean in that slightly unnerving way again. “Just think about what worked today and what didn’t, before your next class. We can try out a few methods. And if there are any other issues like the seating today, remember that you aren’t a burden, to me or the class as a whole. I’m not just here to wave my hands around, I’m here to advocate for your needs, whatever they may be.”

“Glaring at assholes included?” Dean asked, tightening his fingers around his backpack strap. Sitting close like this, Dean was glad he had such a good excuse to stare at those pink, pillowy lips.

“Ah, you saw that,” Castiel said. His smile was an exaggerated, guilty grimace. 

“I did. Was he being a dick?”

“It’d be unprofessional of me to call him a dick, Dean. We merely had a disagreement over his thoughts about rearranging the seating plan.”

“But I notice you didn’t say he wasn’t…”

Standing up from his chair, Castiel winked. “No, I didn’t.”

Holy shit, Hale Library was massive.

That should have been obvious from the outside, when Dean had approached the pale stone building. It had actual damn turrets, like it thought of itself as a low-rent Hogwarts, but it did look pretty cool, Dean had to admit. Even if he had, in his haste, not quite registered how huge the place actually was.

In his determination to not flunk out of every single one of his courses this time, Dean had headed straight to the library after his first two classes—both of which had been very similar, with lots of students, very little learning, and no real issues with Castiel by his side—with the idea of checking out or getting on the waitlist for all of the optional reading items that his professors had mentioned so far.

Reading, Dean could depend on. He didn’t have any issues interpreting stuff that was written down; no relying on anyone else, there.  

Dean had asked at the desk and paid close attention to the librarian’s directions, but even so, he wasn’t sure he was quite where he needed to be. He was near a display of interesting-looking sci-fi novels, though, and he stopped to check out the selection after seeing a familiar edition of Slapstick on one of the shelves. He knelt down, squishing his backpack between his knees as he slid his fingers along the spines, moving past book after book that he’d already read.

All of Dean’s life, books had been comforting, easy, and educational in a way that school never had been. He was hoping for that to change now, but even so, books were where he could teach himself, where he didn’t have to rely on awkward, stunted communication.

There was a Christopher Moore novel that Dean was sure he’d never read; a chunk of the shelf was dedicated to it. With that many copies, Dean thought, it must be on the syllabus for an English literature class or something. He wondered if he should grab one to read while there were still—

OOF!

Dean let out a sharp huff of air as someone tripped over him, essentially nailing him in the kidney with the toe of a battered Converse high top. 

“The fuck?” he grumbled, rubbing at his back as he stood up and shook it off. Realizing he’d dropped his book, he reached down to grab the copy of Lamb he’d been holding before someone trampled on that, too. 

Dean was swinging his backpack back up onto his shoulder, book in hand, before he realized that there was someone talking to him. He only picked up on it because the person was a hand-talker and their left hand swung into the edge of Dean’s field of vision while he was settling his backpack strap.

Snapping his head immediately over toward the person who, he assumed, had tripped over him, Dean blinked. “It’s you,” he said. “Star Wars girl.”

“That’s what I was saying!” the petite redhead that had switched seats with Dean in Adler’s math class said. “Of all ~~ people I could have tripped ~~ it ~~ person I cleared space for earlier!”

Dean hoped he wasn’t squinting too hard, but he could feel his brow pulling as he tried desperately to concentrate on the woman’s lips. She was speaking so damn fast.

“I’m Charlie,” she said, reaching across and punching Dean lightly in the bicep. “Real sorry about ~~ kidney, I’m a klutz.”

“Dean. And it’s okay, I was on the floor.”

“On the floor finding gems,” Charlie said, reaching out to tap the cover of the novel in Dean’s hand. She said something else, but her face tilted as she looked down at the book and Dean missed it entirely.

“Sorry?”

“I said it’s great, I’ve ~~ three times.”

“Oh,” Dean replied, nodding hurriedly. “Right. Sorry.”

“If you like that kind of book and you like Star Wars too, then—” Charlie was off again at full speed and Dean could feel tension prickling in the back of his neck. 

Charlie spoke animatedly, but not in the way Dean needed, her head turning this way and that as she gestured at shelves and began to pull her bag from her shoulder. If she’d just—

“I can’t understand you,” Dean blurted, his knuckles white around Lamb. “I can’t—you’re speaking too fast and I—I can’t—I can’t read your lips when you do that.”

Dean wasn’t wearing his badge like he did at work. He hadn’t wanted to stand out, hadn’t wanted to make things harder. Briefly, for the first time all day, he regretted it. His chest was painfully tight, like it was trying to pull back his arm as he raised his hand toward his ear.

Charlie’s head tilted and she squinted at Dean for a moment before her eyes flew wide as he awkwardly pointed to his ear. “Oh my God, you’re deaf! I am so, so sorry!”

Dean’s chest released, the tension traveling to his shoulders instead. Great. The “sorry” part. He should have just backed away when he had the chance. “It’s fine.”

“No, that was really inconsiderate of me,” she said, still speaking way too fast but at least looking directly at Dean. “So, you read lips?”

“Yeah,” said Dean shortly, not really wanting to get into it. “Most of the time.”

“I...I’m speaking too fast, aren’t I?” Charlie said, looking stricken and guilty. “I’m terrible at this, shit. I’m sorry, I—thought, I mean—you liked the book, and you mentioned my shirt, I just thought maybe we had some stuff in common.”

Dean blinked. What the hell? “We probably do have stuff in common,” he said, confused. “I’m deaf, that’s all. I still have a personality!”

Charlie looked like she wanted the carpet to swallow her. “I didn’t mean—holy shit, I really am bad at this. Can we just start again, dude? Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Biting his lip, Dean tried not to chuckle at how utterly forlorn she looked. “Look, breathe. It’s fine. You didn’t know.”

Dean thought that Charlie would leave at that point, awkward apology aside, but instead she reached out and raised a finger, the universal sign for “wait one sec,” before digging around in her bag. She pulled out her cell phone, and after a few quick swipes, she had a notepad app open.

“Is this easier?” she typed, handing her phone over to Dean with a grin.

“Yeah,” Dean typed back quickly. “You speak super fast. I can understand you, but I think I’m missing stuff.”

“Well, typing isn’t a problem for me in the slightest. I was just saying that it looked like we were into some of the same things, so I was asking if you were a freshman. I’ve never seen you around at any clubs or stuff.”

“Technically, yes,” Dean responded, tapping away. “I just started classes today, but I guess I’m a ‘mature student’ compared to most of these kids.”

Charlie smirked, and Dean was instantly glad he hadn’t offended her. She looked younger than him, sure, but hardly like she’d just finished high school.

“I’m here doing my second bachelors,” she responded. “So, I’ve been here forever. If you want a tour guide, or drinking buddy, or an introduction for any of the nerdy stuff around here, I’m your girl.”

Dean looked down at what Charlie had typed, unsure. Did she mean— 

Very quickly, Charlie snatched the phone back. “I don’t mean like THAT. I’m a girl’s girl, not YOUR girl. I just meant like a friend.”

Grinning, Dean took the phone back. “Right. Gay. Gotcha.”

Charlie narrowed her eyes slightly. “And that’s okay?”

“Of course it is. I’m bi, and I’m also not an asshole.” Or at least not in that way , Dean allowed in his head.

At that, Charlie beamed. “Well,” she typed, “in that case you should come to the party at Sig Chi on Friday.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m not the frat type.”

“Oh, me neither, but my friends Ed and Harry are pledging this year. It’s a family thing for them, so a whole bunch of us are going. I can introduce you to people and it’ll be low-pressure.”

While part of Dean wanted to say yes, he also immediately wanted to say no. Charlie seemed nice, and he didn’t want to spend his whole time at K State as a weird loner. But there were just so many things about the invitation which made his chest crunch in on itself oddly.

Dean was just fine socially, in smaller or more familiar places; he picked up ladies (and sometimes men) in his aunt Ellen’s bar all the time. But that wasn’t a party, full of so many total strangers.

But he did also want to go, in some ways. The idea of having a few drinks, enjoying the feel of the music, meeting some people that could be kinda cool… It was tempting.

“I dunno. I’m not sure if that’s my scene. How about we swap numbers and I’ll let you know?” Dean settled on.

Charlie beamed exactly like he’d said “yes.” He had a feeling she wouldn’t let it rest that easily.

Chapter Text

Charlie hadn’t let it rest. Friday night found Dean digging through the tiny closet in his orderly but dank one-bedroom apartment, discarding every shirt he owned. Eventually, he gave up and sat down on the edge of his bed, causing a mountain of plaid to cascade over the comforter behind him. Shoving it away roughly, he opened up his laptop. 

Bringing up Zoom, it only took a minute for his younger brother’s face to appear. Luckily for Dean, lip reading from Sam was as natural as breathing, especially considering he could predict what the kid would say ninety percent of the time.

“Hey, Dean. What’s up?”

“What do you wear to these things?”

Sam squinted through the screen at him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his shared apartment all the way across the other side of the country, at Stanford. He was wearing a neat, gray button-down and some black slacks. Clearly, Sam hadn’t had any issues deciding what to do or what to wear for his Friday night. 

“You said you were going to a party, right?” Sam asked. “You’ve been to parties before. A lot more than me, I’d bet.”

“I know,” Dean said, running his hands back through his hair. “I have no idea why I’m stressing out so much over this.”

“It’s gonna be fine, Dean. You said that Charlie girl was cool, and you had lunch with her a couple of times this week. Pretty sure if she’s nice, her friends probably aren’t total jerks.”

“That doesn’t tell me what to wear.”

“Jesus, Dean, who cares? A shirt that doesn’t have motor oil on it and preferably pants. Seriously, it’s college. No one gives a shit.”

“Well, you’re all dressed up. Where are you going?”

“Taking Jess to see a play,” Sam said. He looked proud, brushing off his shirt sleeves as he grinned across at Dean. 

After quizzing Sam on his date, Dean finally picked out a shirt, got his boots on, and managed to get out the door before Charlie blew up his phone any further. She was...energetic.

“Nice shirt,” Charlie said as he slipped into the passenger side of her banana-yellow Gremlin. He’d seen the car for the first time when they’d met up for lunch on campus, and by the end of their coffee and sandwich he’d felt comfortable enough to mock her mercilessly about it. 

She had yet to meet Baby, but like Hell was he taking his girl to a frat party, of all places.

“Thanks,” Dean said, looking down at the burgundy button-down that he’d finally decided on with Sam’s assistance. The past year or so, Sam had been bugging him on and off about ‘meeting somebody’ as opposed to hooking up. Dean wasn’t sold, but he could still try and make a good impression on a few folks, no matter what he hoped the end result would be. “I’ll be honest, I asked my brother what to wear,” he tagged on with a shrug.

Dean could feel Charlie’s laughter through the arm she had pressed against him as he did up his seatbelt. Gremlins weren’t big on elbow room.

“Your brother some ~~ fashion icon?” Charlie asked, looking over at Dean with her hands on the wheel.

“God, no, far from it. The kid is into lawyer fashion. I was just that nervous, I guess.” 

“Don’t be. I ~~ it’s ~~ be fun,” Charlie insisted, before checking her mirrors one last time. “Ready to go?”

Charlie was getting easier to understand—or at least she was slowing down a little—but Dean still missed little chunks of what she said, sometimes, and ended up asking her to repeat herself.   

“Yeah, I’m sure it’ll be fun,” Dean answered once she’d tried the sentence again. “Thanks for picking me up, by the way. I know it’s a long way.”

Charlie pulled her phone from her lap and quickly typed out a longer response, shoving the screen at Dean with a grin.

“It’s not too bad. I live just outside Topeka, not over in Manhattan, so Lawrence isn’t that big a deal. Besides, I wasn’t gonna let you not wanting to drive the whole way there and back be an excuse not to go. You’re still crashing with me and Dorothy after, right?”

“That’s the plan,” Dean said, nodding as he returned her phone.

They didn’t talk much more during the journey, but Dean was used to that—Charlie needed her eyes on the road, so it wasn’t like she could face Dean all that much. She did put on some music, though, after a whole discussion about why Dean wanted it on even though he couldn’t hear it.

Dean liked that she asked. Charlie was curious, but in a really respectful way, and it didn’t make him bristle to have to explain to her how loud music could still feel good, even if he had no idea what the lyrics were.

The Sig Chi house was, as Dean expected, huge and a little bit tacky. It was completely overrun with people, and Dean immediately felt sorry for whoever else lived around here—it had to be loud, surely? 

As soon as they’d parked down the street and walked up to the old, white, column-fronted building, Charlie grabbed Dean by the elbow and marched them straight inside. He could only assume that she was yelling something, because people scattered in front of her like split bowling pins, most of them with their shoulders bobbing and their mouths open, laughing good-naturedly. Charlie seemed to know her way around. Without pause, she dragged Dean straight to the kitchen area of the house, where he met Harry, Ed, and a really large keg of beer.

Helping himself, Dean smiled uncertainly at the two guys—a few years younger than him and Charlie, by the looks of it, and clearly nerdy as fuck—and raised his cup in their direction.

“This is Dean,” he saw Charlie announce. “He’s deaf, so get some God damn manners and ~~ at him when you talk, and make sure you speak one at a time.”

For a second Dean’s shoulders tensed, but Ed immediately shrugged and pushed up his glasses before asking clearly, “Alright. What’s your major?”

“Mechanical Engineering.”

“First year?”

“Yup.”

“Oh,” Harry chimed in, grimacing. “Let me guess—you’ve got ~~, Goldsmith, and fucking Adler.” 

Relief washing through him, Dean nodded. “So, it’s not just me that thinks Adler is a dick.”

“Oh, no,” said a tall, dark-haired woman that pushed into their little circle and slipped her arm around Charlie. “Dorothy,” she interjected, before diving right back into the conversation. “Adler managed to ~~ his reputation already?”

Suddenly everyone was looking at Dean, waiting for a story, and he tensed. “ A grown ass man had to stand up for me, just so he’d let me get a seat near the front” suddenly sounded pathetic. 

But that, in turn, sounded suspiciously like something his dad would have said, now that Dean phrased it like that.

Fuck you, Dean thought, pushing right past it. 

“Yeah. He had a seating plan—which, first of all, who has a seating plan in college, like they’re teaching middle school?—and he put me right at the back. My interpreter called him out on it, but it looked like he had to fight for it.”

“He sure did,” Charlie confirmed, looking at Dean even though she spoke to the group. “Right in front of my seat. That trench coat dude is a badass though; he ~~ right over Adler. I couldn’t even hear most of what he was saying, but I could tell he crushed him under those dorky boots like an ant.”    

Dean chuckled. “Trench coat dude’s name is Cas. He’ll be in my classes all year.”

“Oh, good,” Charlie said, before grinning wickedly. “I’m a card-carrying dick dodger and I have been for my ~~ existence, but that dude ~~ enough big dick energy to excite even me. The eye candy is welcome.”

Dean choked on the sip of beer he’d taken.

“What?” Charlie challenged, grinning maniacally over the top of a wine glass she seemed to have mysteriously procured while Dean was concentrating on lip reading. “He not your type?”

“Oh, no,” Dean admitted easily. “He’s definitely my type. Cas is really hot. Super hot, even—Harrison Ford level. Honestly, it’s really not an issue to have to concentrate on him so much, both during and after class.”

Dean expected Charlie to continue laughing, or agree, not for her eyes to widen over top of her wine like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Charlie?”

“Cas! Right? That’s your name, yeah?” Charlie reached out, grabbed Dean by his shoulder, and forcibly turned him around.

Right into Castiel.

And he wasn’t wearing the trench coat, either.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, smiling his tiny smile at Dean’s bright red face as if nothing had happened. In one hand he held a solo cup of watery beer, which he reached across to place on the counter so that he could sign, echoing his greeting. Dean’s eyes followed his bare forearm upward and his brain short-circuited. 

Castiel was wearing a tight, black t-shirt with a muted design on the front: a giant pair of faded lips with the teasing words “Lust or Bust” printed around them. It hugged his muscles so closely across the shoulders that Dean could name them all— deltoid, trapezius, perky fucking pectorals, Dean’s brain sang unhelpfully—and somehow the washed-out color of the fabric seemed to highlight just how tan he was. Below that, he wore jeans that were in some kind of fight to the death with his thighs, and they looked to be losing badly. 

Dragging his eyes swiftly back up to the pink lips and sex hair (like that helped), Dean focused desperately on his too-blue eyes instead while he blurted, “Your coat is gone.”

Castiel blinked slowly, before looking down, then back up. “Oh...yes. Casual clothes, not work clothes. My brother was insistent.”

Dean moistened his lips, willing his cheeks to burn less. Hopefully he could pass it off as alcohol, because neither his cheeks nor his dick appeared to be under his control, currently. Traitors. Scrambling not to sound like an idiot, Dean sucked in a breath and asked, “So, you hang around college parties often?”

Castiel blushed . 

It was somehow both adorable and reassuring, all at once.

“No, not at all. My little brother is pledging here this year. He should be around here somewhere…” Castiel paused, looking around for a moment. “Ahh. There he is.” 

Through the kitchen window, Castiel indicated the brick patio outside, where a short brownish-blond guy—with no shirt or shoes, and something strung around his neck that was flashing—was downing the tail end of a liquor bottle. As if on cue, he threw his arms up in the air, tossed his head back, and then beat his chest like a caveman.

Looking back at Castiel, Dean raised an eyebrow silently.

“He’s adopted,” Castiel said, and Dean didn’t need to be able to hear in order to know that his tone was dry as fuck.  

Stifling a smile, Dean suddenly remembered his manners and sharply turned, introducing Castiel to the small group he’d been standing with. Standing with, talking about how hot you are, Dean thought, desperately hoping that Castiel had been suddenly selectively deaf himself, at least for that embarrassing moment.

Not that Dean had any issues hitting on guys when he wanted to. But Cas was something else, professional and put together and serious and way, way out of Dean’s league. Plus, he had zero idea what Castiel’s sexual preferences were, nor did it seem particularly appropriate to ask out of the blue, since Castiel was assigned to work with him all year. 

It was Cas’ job. There were rules, probably.

Castiel chatted politely with everyone for a few minutes before excusing himself to check up on his brother (which seemed like a good idea, given what Dean had seen through the kitchen window). He gave Dean another of those small smiles as he began to shuffle away through the crowd, and as he reached the kitchen door, he caught Dean’s eye one last time.

“See you later,” he signed across the distance, just for them.

Dean had to admit, Sig Chi threw a damn good party. If he was honest, he was still feeling the effects of the far-too-late night by the time Monday rolled around, which proved more than anything that he was just too old for this college shit. But he’d promised Bobby, and he’d promised Sam, and Jo would have his ass if he slacked on the learning part for the fun part. 

So, he arrived ten minutes early for class and was already reviewing Castiel’s carefully typed transcript of the previous lecture by the time a polite forearm tap announced Castiel’s arrival.

“Good morning, Dean.” He looked a little tired and rumpled, his hair sticking up in three places, but given that Cas usually rocked a style Dean thought of as ‘entirely unconcerned accountant,’ he looked pretty normal.

“Heya, Cas. Did you have a good weekend?”

Castiel nodded as he set up his laptop before turning to face Dean again. “I did, thank you. After the party at Sigma Chi I was quite tired, but on Sunday I went to watch a movie with a few of my siblings.”

“A few? How many do you have?”

“There’s nine of us.”

“Holy shit, nine? Did I get that right? Is your family really religious or something?” Dean couldn’t help but blurt out, honestly unsure if he’d misread Castiel’s lips. Cas really made an effort so that Dean could understand him easily, but still... 

Castiel grinned. “Nine. And yes, which is why we’re all named after angels. But several of my siblings were adopted, also.”

“So, which one of the nine was pledging on Friday? Did he go through with it?” Dean asked, leaning his arms forward onto his small desk.

“That was Gabriel, the second youngest. He did pledge, which was no surprise, given that he’s a huge party animal.” Castiel tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace.

“Not so much your scene, huh?” Dean said.

Castiel shrugged. “Parties are more fun when you have someone to go with, rather than just being the older brother-slash-chaperone. But Gabe wanted me there, so I went.”

Dean wondered, briefly, why on Earth Gabriel wanted to drag his brother along for a college party in the first place, but figured that it probably wasn’t his place to ask.

“Did you have a good time? I saw you talking to a pretty brunette before I left,” Castiel said with a small smile. “I was going to say goodbye, but I thought I’d better not interrupt.”

Ahh. Dean shifted self-consciously in his seat. There had been a pretty brunette at the party… Lisa, she’d said her name was. Charlie had turned out to be a great wingman, and he’d ended up trying to talk to Lisa for a few minutes. Unfortunately, it hadn’t gone so well. She seemed like a sweet girl, but Dean had trouble working out what she was saying, and she struggled to remember to look at him when she spoke. 

He’d gotten frustrated and he’d definitely drunk too much after. Hence the hangover he could still kinda feel on Monday.

Interactions like that were common for Dean, and it sucked. He was well aware that he could have taken the time to try and work out the communication issues, explain what he needed, see if she was still interested. But Dean wouldn’t. 

Because having someone have to change how they acted just to include him made him feel like a problem, like work, like a burden.

He didn’t say anything like that to Castiel, of course. He just shrugged awkwardly and said, “You should’ve come over, man. That was never gonna work out, anyway.”

Castiel frowned, and Dean was instantly reminded of the expression Jo would have had if he’d said something like that to her. “Why not?”

Dean turned deliberately away from Castiel, moving his eyes purposefully to the giant whiteboard ahead as he said, “Communication issues.”

He didn’t need Castiel telling him he was wrong. Or even worse, he didn’t need him agreeing.

Dean’s class passed swiftly, with a few humorous interludes as Castiel tried desperately to spell engineering terms without pausing to look them up. 

Cas was great. He read ahead in Dean’s syllabus, tried to make sure he could summarize where professors waffled, tried to learn the terms so he could make sure Dean learned them. He did a lot more than Dean suspected he was even supposed to—hell, at this rate, the dude was gonna end up deserving an engineering degree of his own. 

But that was the thing about Castiel, Dean was learning. He clearly did this job for passion, not for a paycheck. Dean suspected that he’d chosen the career for personal reasons, but he felt like it wasn’t his place to ask. That was Cas’ own business.

“Do you have to run anywhere before your lab this afternoon?” Castiel asked when they were done, remembering Dean’s schedule better than Dean himself did, as always.

Dean shook his head. “I don’t have time to head home, so I was just going to hang out around campus somewhere.”

Castiel hoisted his laptop bag up to his shoulder. Dean’s eyes immediately zoned in on his fingers playing nervously with the strap, making him miss the first part of Castiel’s question.

“—with me?” 

“Sorry, again?” Dean said, quickly signing repeat . He didn’t use many signs with Castiel, even though Cas signed a lot. Really, he was embarrassed to; he knew his own attempts were clumsy, with a bunch of pidgin signs thrown in. There were bunches of really common signs he’d just never learned, and it made him self-conscious to try, especially when Castiel was so comfortable and fluent.

“Would you like to get lunch with me? I usually bring myself some sandwiches from home so I can do paperwork while I eat, but I forgot today.”

“Sure,” Dean said, happier than he’d care to admit at the prospect of hanging out with Cas a little outside of class. “That’d be great.”

There was a Chick-fil-A restaurant in the Student Union, and Dean was internally delighted to see that Castiel didn’t even bring it up as an option. Instead, they walked the short way from Engineering Hall to Radina’s, a local coffee shop that, according to Castiel, made killer sandwiches.

“The turkey bacon with rosemary ~~ on Konza wheat is amazing,” he said, sliding onto a stool next to a tiny bistro table and pointing to the menu.

“Turkey bacon is an abomination,” Dean corrected him, before ordering himself some real bacon with swiss on sourdough.

Castiel smiled—the type of smile that Dean was beginning to notice more often, where his eyes did a lot more work than his mouth—pulling the lid off his paper coffee cup and blowing carefully across the top of the piping-hot Vienna roast.

They munched contentedly across from each other, and it wasn’t until Castiel pushed his waxy paper wrapper aside—with the crusts still on it, Dean noticed—that he tilted his head to grab Dean’s attention.

“I’d like to ask you something,” he said. “Well, offer you something, really.”

Wiping his mouth with a corner of his biodegradable napkin, Dean made what he hoped was an interested sound before balling up the paper and tossing it down onto the table. “Alright. Hit me.”

“You say you never learned sign.”

Dean bristled immediately. “That’s a statement, not a question.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. It was a full-body affair, and Dean tried not to smile at the motion. “Fine,” Castiel said. “It’s very clearly something you’re not comfortable talking about, so I won’t push. But I have seen you use some sign, though you seem uncomfortable with it, unpracticed.” 

“And?” Dean said, crossing his arms firmly.

“I was going to offer to teach you more and help you practice what you do know, so that you have an additional tool in your box. It would probably be very helpful for you, so that you could communicate more easily with other deaf people.”

“Don’t know any other deaf people,” Dean said stubbornly. Alright, that wasn’t quite true, he knew Jo. But that wasn’t the point here. The point here was...well, it was…Dean clenched his jaw. 

“You could meet some,” Castiel said, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s a thriving d/Deaf community in Manhattan and beyond, there are events all the time and I was hoping—”

“I don’t need your help making friends,” Dean interrupted, pushing his stool back sharply. “That’s not your place.”

Castiel blinked in surprise, leaning back quickly as if Dean’s words had smacked into him physically. “I just—I thought maybe—” Castiel was stumbling uncharacteristically over his words, making Dean miss whatever he said next, but it didn’t matter, anyway.

Grabbing his satchel off the floor, Dean snatched his coffee off the tabletop, causing some to splash out of the opening. “I have to get to my lab. I’ll see you in class.” 

As Dean stormed past the cafe window he could see Castiel still sitting at their table, slowly mopping up Dean’s spilled coffee with a bunch of napkins and a strange, sad expression.

Chapter Text

Of all the smells in the world, thick, warm car oil was the one that was most comforting to Dean. It reminded him of simple, honest work and warm days, of Bobby and Jo, and of his Dad teaching him how to maintain Baby when he was just a kid. It smelled of belonging.

He’d arrived early for his pre-class shift at Singer’s, hoping that the work and the smells of the garage would distract him from his foul mood. Unfortunately, it hadn’t done as good of a job at that as he’d hoped.

Dean scrubbed at his hands with a wrinkled rag, getting off the worst of the black grease. Tucking the filthy cloth into the back pocket of his jeans, he carefully picked up the drip pan he’d used and carried it over to the oil disposal barrel. 

“That was quick,” Jo said, hanging a couple of wrenches back up on the wall next to him. 

Dean nodded, leaning over the small sink they had out on the floor and flicking on the tap. The cool water was nice; it was warm out, and the air conditioning at the auto shop was mostly useless, given how much of the frontage was open to the yard. Refreshingly cold water wouldn’t do much for the grease, though, so Dean cranked up the temperature.

Jo snapped her fingers rudely in front of Dean’s face, grabbing his attention again. “What’s up with you today?”

“I know you didn’t just shove your dirty hand in my face, Joanna Beth,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes.

“Wouldn’t have had to if you hadn’t been blowing around here like the ass end of a hurricane all morning.”

Dean scowled down into the deep steel sink, letting the water rush over his hands for a moment more before reaching to grab the bottle of soap and looking back at Jo. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m patient.”

Sighing, Dean squirted some of the thick soap out of the bright orange bottle that lived on the corner of the creaky sink, looking down at it in his palms for a second before turning back to Jo. “Got in an argument with someone, that’s all.”

“Really?” said Jo, something smirky and annoying passing over her features.

“Not sure why it’s your business,” Dean grumbled.

“Because you love me, and because I have to put up with you PMSing about it. So, spill.”

Dean scrubbed at his hands, taking his time working at the grease that was ingrained into the lines of his knuckles. Jo was almost as stubborn as he was, and she waited, arms folded, until the water in the sink started running clear.

“Cas, okay?” Dean admitted grumpily as he shook the last of the pumice-filled soap from his hands and turned to face Jo. “My interpreter at school, Cas.”

Jo grabbed the rough hand towel from above the sink and threw it into Dean’s chest with a pointed eye roll. “Yes, I am aware of who Cas is. You’ve talked about him non-stop since you started classes.”

Dean felt himself flush, like warm steam curling up across his neck and behind his ears. “No, I haven’t. Don’t exaggerate,” he mumbled, beginning to dry his hands.

Jo just stared.

“Okay, whatever, Jo—my point was just that it was him I got into an argument with.”

“Alright, what was it about?”

Dean twisted the towel between his hands aggressively, before throwing it to the side and looking back at Jo, defeated. Fine. She always got her way in the end. 

He explained what had gone down over sandwiches and coffee back at Radina’s the day before, telling her all about Castiel’s presumption and assholery. His hope for friendly support went up in flames the moment Jo raised both of her eyebrows before responding.

“So, there was no argument,” she said.

Dean frowned. “Yes, he—”

“You just yelled at him and stormed off.”

Dean set his jaw and breathed carefully out through his nose. Getting mad at Jo wasn’t going to help anything, he reminded himself. Carefully, he cleared his throat and began, “He was being pushy, and presumptive, and—”

“No, he damn well wasn’t, Dean. For crying out loud. You—” Grabbing the towel off the side, Jo used it to point stubbornly at Dean before she threw it into the laundry basket, “—owe him an apology.”

Dean spluttered, but even as he tried to protest, he could hear little warning bells in the back of his head. His gut began to tighten guiltily. What if—

“Did it not occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Cas was trying to help you because he has skills that could actually make your life easier ? That he was trying to be a good friend? That—incredible as it sounds—maybe he didn’t just want you to be able to go to deaf community events to make new friends, but that maybe he wanted to hang out with you himself?” 

Arguing with Jo was fruitless at the best of times, but even more so when she insisted on being right.

Ugh.

Dean let out a defeated huff and shook his head. “I’m gonna take a break.”

“Good. Text Cas and fix your mess, Winchester.”

Dean didn’t even bother to answer. He stalked off across the bustling bay, dodging Cole and ignoring whatever it was that the man’s horrible mouth tried to toss at him as he passed. Over in the admin corner of the garage, he stomped through the small office to the break room beyond. The room smelled of cheap lunch meat and old beans, which did little to help Dean’s mood. He felt the door bounce off the wall beside him as he tore through it, and he was met with Bobby’s very displeased frown from his seat at the coffee table.

“What’d my shop door do to you, boy?”

“Nothing, Bobby.” Dean flopped down onto the couch with a sigh, before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Tiredly, he reached up and ran his still-damp hands through his hair, linking his fingers across his crown for a moment. 

When he looked back up, Bobby was waiting, his half-eaten bologna sandwich still in hand. Ellen had made him lunch every day for the past twenty years since his first wife, Karen, had died. It warmed Dean’s heart to see it, normally, but right then it barely made a dent in his sour insides.

“Nothin’ my left ass cheek,” Bobby declared. “What’d you do?”

“Oh, come on,” Dean groaned. “Give me a break. Jo already let me have it.”

“And was she right?”

Dean regarded Bobby flatly across the banged-up coffee table.

“Alright, kid,” Bobby said. He put his sandwich down and leaned back on the couch. “Tell me what happened.”

“Since when was this a therapist's office instead of an auto shop?”

“Since you brought your emotional bullshit to work and made it one. Now talk.”

So, for the second time, Dean went back through his lunch with Castiel on campus the day before. By the time Dean finished recounting who’d said what and how he’d left, Bobby’s bushy eyebrows had taken on a life of their own. Dean felt vaguely threatened by them.

“You idjit!” Bobby exclaimed, shaking his head like Dean was getting on his last nerve, despite the conversation having just begun. 

“Look, Bobby, I—”

“I don’t wanna hear it. Stop being so defensive and thinkin’ the worst of everyone. You are better than John made you, so start actin’ like it.”

Dean’s chest throbbed uncomfortably. He felt shitty enough without Bobby reminding him he was reverting back to his Winchester ‘fight the world’ behavior. If he could only thank Bobby for one thing, it’d be helping him realize how fucked his childhood had been. 

“Sorry, Bobby.”

Immediately, the old mechanic’s posture softened. “Don’t apologize to me, Dean. Y’ain’t done nothin’ to me. Just say sorry to him. And if he wants to listen, explain. If he’s gonna have to put up with your moody ass all year, you need to step up.” 

Nodding, Dean dropped his eyes slowly to the table, ending the conversation. He could feel the bulge of his cell phone in his pocket against his thigh—he could text Castiel. They’d exchanged numbers after their first couple of classes together, in case one of them was going to be late or unable to make it for some reason.

Bobby’s hand clapped Dean on the shoulder unexpectedly, and Dean jerked upward to see that he’d risen and was heading back out to the garage.

“Just speak to him, Dean. It ain’t that hard. Humans, they talk.” With that, Bobby ambled off through the door, resettling his worn trucker’s hat atop his head.

Dean thought about it. He really did.

But words, apologizing words or words that revealed the parts of him he wasn’t so proud of…they’d always been hard. Yet another thing he had to thank his dad for, probably.

John Winchester had been moody even before his wife’s death, by most accounts, though Dean had been too young to remember that. What Dean mostly recalled was his father’s angry outbursts in the years after, and the increasing drinking that had led to him wrapping his car around a light pole a few years ago. Dean mourned him, sure—John was his dad, after all. But did he miss him? That was another question entirely.

Dean had done everything he could to make sure Sam was shielded from the worst of John’s moods, but the older he’d grown, the more he realized how much of that anger he’d internalized. How much of John’s furious ‘fight or die trying’ mentality he’d taken on without even realizing.

It wasn’t healthy. But Dean was also not John, something that Bobby reminded him of on the occasions when he needed it.

After a long few minutes, Dean pushed up off the couch and headed back out to the bay. He’d speak to Castiel later, he told himself. For now, he’d quickly get the wheel alignment done on the Chrysler that’d just been brought in, before he had to leave for class.

As he made his way out into the bay to collect the car, he could feel Bobby and Jo’s eyes boring into his back with every step.  

The sun was a little too warm by the time Dean had finished up with the Chrysler and gulped down his homemade lunch. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead as he dashed across campus to get to his afternoon class, prickling itchily along his hairline. He’d spent the whole morning in a foul mood—through no fault but his own, it’d turned out, once he saw sense—and had deliberately dodged Jo and Bobby on the way out.

The drive, luckily, had given him some time to think about what he wanted to say to Castiel before class started, and he had his words in some kind of order in his head. He just had to get there early enough to say them.

He didn’t want to excuse his behavior. But Dean knew that another legacy of his father’s was how hard he found it to say important things—like “I’m sorry”—sometimes, so he was determined to at least explain his reaction to Castiel.

The quadrangle out in front of Engineering Hall was packed with people enjoying the sun, having just emptied out of their morning classes or arrived for their afternoon ones, and Dean could feel the energy of the people jostling around him and enjoying their days.

Dean didn’t have time to stop and enjoy the cloudless sky and chat on the quad, though. He hustled through the crowds, head down, and bounded up the steps into the building where most of his classes were held.

Two flights of stairs and four choked hallways later, Dean reached Adler’s door. His spine was a tiny creek of early fall warmth and apprehension. Dean hauled in some deep breaths, focusing for just a moment on ensuring he didn’t look like there was an emergency happening.

He was fifteen minutes early, luckily, so he had time to calm himself and anxiously run through what he wanted to say just one more time in his head. As soon as Castiel arrived, he’d speak his piece.

Dean sat alone for fifteen minutes.

Right as Professor Adler plugged in his laptop to start the class, Castiel strode confidently through the door and beelined straight to his seat beside Dean. With nothing but a brisk nod, he set up his laptop and focused his attention on Adler, who’d started putting up some slides ready to begin.

Yikes.

Class passed torturously slowly.

Castiel was painfully professional and polite, only asking Dean short, precise questions when needed or answering Dean’s own just as proficiently. He typed along with everything Alder said, turning to Dean only when he needed to have Dean lipread something from him.

Dean barely took in anything, which he cursed himself for even as it was happening. Thank goodness for Castiel’s notes, because he was running too many circles in his head to make any sense at all of this lecture. He was gonna have a late night making up this class on his own.

His only saving grace was that Adler didn’t call on him. Which was pretty normal, really, given that Adler ignored his students as much as possible and certainly didn’t like any learner that might need something extra from him. Dean thought he was lucky that the few times he’d asked for something so far—copies of slides or a transcript of a video there was no captioning for—he’d had Castiel at his side, ready to step in at a split-second’s notice.

Dean could tell that the bell (or buzzer, or whatever it may be) in the hallway had gone off, because the students around him started ejecting themselves from their seats with more speed and determination than Fox News would ever admit Gen Z were capable of.

Castiel, too, shut his laptop and began to rise from his chair, looking as closed-off and overtly professional as he had for the last hour and a half.

“Cas, wait,” Dean said, reaching out to catch Castiel’s forearm as he slipped his laptop into his bag. “Please.”

Turning his head, Castiel did exactly that—he waited. He gave a small smile but said nothing…just paused. His expression wasn’t unpleasant or angry, but it was certainly devoid of any of the warmth and friendly closeness they’d begun to develop over the past couple of weeks. Dean’s stomach twisted guiltily at the sight of it.

“I owe you an apology, and—and an explanation, if you’ll let me give it,” Dean said. He had to force himself to look at Castiel to catch his reply, fighting every urge to drop his eyes to his toes in shame, instead.

Castiel nodded and turned fully toward Dean again, though he didn’t return to his seat, instead just hovering. “You don’t have to explain anything to me that you don’t want to, Dean,” he said. “It’s not my place, as you said, to be present in your life in any capacity beyond interpreting for you.”

Ouch. Castiel looked calm and professional enough, but Dean remembered yelling those words at Castiel in the café the day before—it served him right, probably, to have them thrown right back at him. Obviously, he’d hurt Castiel’s feelings more than his stoic demeanor was letting on.

Just more guilt to add to the soup in Dean’s stomach, as if it wasn’t already salty and over-seasoned.

“Okay, I deserve that,” Dean said, allowing his eyes to drop for a minute. He sighed, before looking back up to speak. “My mom died when I was four.”

Immediately, Castiel sat back down, blinking. He looked confused—probably wondering what the hell that had to do with anything—but nonetheless, his brow creased sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that, Dean.”

“She was deaf, too,” Dean continued, wrapping the knuckles of his hand into his opposite fist and gripping tight, just getting the words out, like he’d been rehearsing the whole way here in his head. “There was a fire in the apartment building we lived in while me and my brother were away visiting our grandparents. There was a fault with the alarm; it sounded, managed to warn all the neighbors and get them out, but it didn’t flash like it was supposed to. My dad is hearing, but he was at work. She had no idea until it was too late.”

Castiel’s frown deepened for a moment, a sadness to it, but he let Dean continue.

“My dad was never the same after. He used to tell me, ‘ People out there? They’ll chew you up and spit you out. You gotta learn to exist in the hearing world, or you’re never going to get anywhere. Learn to deal with it.’”

“Dean,” Castiel said, shaking his head sadly. “Oralism and mainstreaming like that are common, especially with a hearing parent or guardian. But it’s not—”

“I know, Cas. I know. But I was raised that way. I was reminded of it every single day. I was never allowed to—” Dean felt his throat constrict, and he was sure his voice wobbled. He was grateful he’d waited until the room had mostly cleared out, after all. “—to use sign language at home or take lessons. My dad insisted I go to a mainstream school and just…just ‘cope,’ he called it, even though there was a deaf school I could have gone to.”

Dean’s world was always silent, but somehow, Castiel seemed even quieter than his surroundings, watching Dean intently and just listening.

“I know none of this is an excuse to be a shitty person,” Dean said, pressing his fingers into his knuckles guiltily. “I don’t mean it to be, either. I’m just—just trying to explain that it wasn’t you. It was me, my defensiveness, my total lack of any fucking clue how to…how to do any of this.”

Castiel reached out and caught Dean’s hands as he gestured vaguely around. “It’s okay. Thank you for telling me.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not okay, and I know that. And I can’t promise I won’t ever push you away again, either. But…I’m working on it.”

Solemnly, Castiel nodded. “I understand.”

Dean cleared his throat forcibly and pushed a small smile onto his face as he stood up. “Anyway. I guess, what I really wanted to say, was…”

Slowly, haltingly, Dean finger spelled, “I’m sorry,” in front of himself, grimacing at his own clumsiness even with simple letters.

Castiel, though, lit up with a grin, clearing the strange air that had been between them for the whole class with laughter that gently shook his ribcage.

“You know, there’s a sign for that,” Castiel pointed out teasingly as he rose to stand with Dean.

“I know there is,” Dean retorted, relief flooding through him. Smiling hopefully, he gave Castiel a little shrug. “I was kinda hoping that you might still want to teach me what it is.”

Castiel smiled. “I think we can come to an arrangement, Dean.”

Chapter Text

“It’s just board game night, Dean,” Sam said for the third time.

“I know that, bitch,” Dean grumbled. “Forgive me for being the tiniest bit apprehensive about going to hang out with a whole bunch of strangers.”

“You already know Charlie. You’ve been living in each other's pockets since school started. And you've met Harry, and Ed, and Dorothy,” Sam said, entirely too reasonably.

Sam had developed a horrible habit of not tolerating Dean’s shit ever since he went to Stanford, Dean noted sourly. He threw a scathing look at the open Zoom window.

“Yeah, but I haven’t met the rest of them.”

“I don’t get you.” Sam threw up his hands, shaking his head. “You aren’t shy. You go out to bars and pick up people all the time. You have no qualms about that.”

“That’s a whole other thing, Sam. Those people don’t have to like me, that’s just sex. If we don’t communicate well, it’s not a big deal, because no one’s talking much if I do it right. And anyway, I haven’t done that for a long time,” Dean said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

Sam’s eyebrow wandered slowly up his sizable forehead. “Really?”

“Really,” Dean confirmed, glowering.

“Why?”

Dean rolled his eyes. This kid was getting way too damn nosy. “Because I didn’t want to, detective. That a good enough answer?”

Sam folded his arms, leaning forward so his elbows were on his knees. “No, it isn’t.”

They scowled at each other for a long minute, until Sam’s eyes suddenly widened.

“Wait—”

“Sam—”

“You like someone, don’t you!” Sam pointed a finger at the camera. It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation.

“We are not doing this, Sam. I called you to ask what nerds like you bring to things like this, not for a heartwarming brotherly sharing session.”

Dean watched Sam’s nostrils flare, presumably in a snort. “Sure, Dean. And anyway, you’re a bigger nerd than me.”

Holding a finger up to Sam to pause him for a moment, Dean leaned forward across his knees so that he could reach down and tie his boots. Worn jeans, his boots, and a soft plaid shirt—that was fine, right? It’d better be, Dean thought grumpily. His layers were more than a fashion choice, they were a self-defense mechanism, so hipster fashion could suck it. Though…he did see a lot of hipsters in plaid. Maybe they had issues, too.

“Seriously, Dean,” Sam said when Dean straightened back up, “who is it?”

Having no time and even less will to get into it, Dean fixed Sam with a shit-eating grin as he called, “Gotta go, board game night!” He shut the laptop with a snap, cutting off whatever incredulous expression Sam was probably making right then.

The drive to Charlie and Dorothy’s place didn’t take long. Dean already knew the route like the back of his hand—ever since they’d met, Dean had been crashing in Charlie’s spare room any time he had an early class and didn’t have work, or if he’d gone over to hang out. Really, he should give up his shitty one-bedroom place and just pay rent to Charlie. It was closer to school, anyway.

“Knew it was you!” Charlie said, grinning wide as she swung the door open.

“How?” Dean asked curiously, shrugging off his jacket as he stepped into the clean, modern foyer of Charlie’s fancy rental.

“Because you didn’t answer when I yelled to come in, obviously.” She looked almost proud of herself, her teeth flashing as she gave Dean a mischievous wink.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Figures.”

The apartment was pretty luxurious for Topeka, in a small, gated complex with a pool and gym that neither Charlie nor her girlfriend ever seemed to make use of. Dean certainly wouldn’t ask where she got the money to rent a place like this, though he had a feeling Charlie would happily tell him.

“Hey, Ed,” Dean said, moving into the kitchen and seeing Ed Zeddmore, who he’d met a few times since the party at Sigma Chi, sitting at the island.

“Dean, glad you could make it,” Ed greeted, remembering to turn toward Dean without any prompting. He reached out and shook Dean’s hand briefly before offering him a beer.

And things were just that easy.

Harry soon joined them, fresh from his programming lab and furious at the professor for his opinion on something or other, and he was quickly followed by Dorothy, who was a TA in the theater department. She brought her work home with her in the form of a pile of masks, which of course they all had to try on while waiting for the rest of the gaming group.

Kenny Spruce, a photographer, was quiet but nice enough. Maggie, Ed’s sister, was much perkier than Ed was and worked as a research historian. The last person to arrive, Alan, introduced himself as a “gay chef”—Dean had a lot of questions, but managed to bite back all of them.

“Alright, let’s break out the games!” Charlie announced, waving a box in each hand. Cards Against Humanity was a staple warmup game that Dean had played plenty of times. The other box looked to contain something with a lot of counters and a name he probably wouldn’t say right if he tried.

Dean soon discovered that the group was fiercely competitive. They were good sports about it, though, and Dean enjoyed everything they played, even when he lost. Hours later, when they finally got bored of playing game after game, they all squashed onto the two long sectionals that curled around the edges of Charlie and Dorothy’s living room, talking and planning to have a drink or two before they all departed.

Charlie grabbed a couple of her favorite vinyl records while Dorothy made trashy cocktails.

“Hey, Harry,” Charlie said, “switch ~~ with Dean?”

Harry’s brow wrinkled but he shrugged, standing up to move and letting Dean take the seat next to the large speaker of the fancy sound system. Dean smiled fondly at Charlie as she started the first record spinning, quietly happy that she’d remembered their conversation from weeks before about music.

Dean relaxed, turning so that his shoulder blades were both against the speaker and he could feel it rhythmically buzzing through him.

“So, Dean,” Maggie said, shifting on the couch to make sure he could see her before she continued. “Are you single? Because I’m sure Alan is dying to know.”

By the time Dean turned his attention over to Alan, he was bright red and coughing, gazing down at the ice bobbing in his glass like it had betrayed him.

Charlie reached over, slapping Alan on the back and laughing. “Interesting wing-person attempt Mags, but I’m pretty sure Dean’s already doing all the crushing he can handle somewhere else.”

Feeling his neck heat, Dean blinked and sat up before responding. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, but it was Ed that lifted a hand to get Dean’s attention and answered.

“Your interpreter guy, of course. The dude who came over when we first met at Sig Chi.”

“His name is Cas,” Dean corrected tiredly, before glaring at the way Charlie’s shoulders shook again. “And he’s my interpreter for class. I can’t have a crush on him, that’d be really inappropriate. Or…like, unprofessional, or something.”

“You ‘can’t’? That’s not how crushes work,” Charlie pointed out. “And you forget—I’m in one of your classes, Dean. I can see you staring at him the whole time.”

“Dude, I’m watching his lips.”

“I bet you are.”

Dean harrumphed and crossed his arms; it was a childish response, but really, what other option did he have? They all had his number already.

And what did it matter, really, if Dean was crushing on Castiel? It wouldn’t amount to anything. Castiel was hyper-professional, for all that he was warm and attentive with Dean. He was also a few years older, Dean thought, and probably straight, and most likely thought Dean was a bit of a jerk by now.

Yeah, it was probably a good thing that Dean had zero plans to try and make any moves on Castiel.

Though he did, according to the buzzing against his thigh, have a text message from him.

Cas [11:28 pm]: Apologies for texting you so late, but my plans for Saturday just changed. I’m free after 2 now, if you’d like to meet for a lesson?

Awesome. They’d initially had trouble syncing up their schedules. Castiel seemed to have a ton of commitments, and with Dean working at Singer’s, trying to keep up with school, and maintain some kind of social life, they hadn’t been able to jump into working on Dean’s ASL as quickly as they’d wanted. Doggedly, they’d kept trying. Dean grinned down at the glowing screen, pleased that Castiel had finally suggested a day he could manage.

Dean [11:30 pm]: no problem, wasn’t asleep

Dean [11:30 pm]: does 2:30ish work? i’ll be working at the garage until 2.

Cas [11:31 pm]: Yes, that would be fine.

Dean [11:31 pm]: want to do it at your place?

Cas [11:31 pm]: No, I live with my family and my house is very busy, we’ll never get anything done.

Dean blinked, taken by surprise that Castiel still lived with his family at his age—the dude had to be in his early thirties, going by the gentle beginnings of wrinkles around the corners of his eyes (which Dean had certainly not studied in depth). Still, housing was expensive in Manhattan, if he lived near the college. Or maybe his parents needed help with some of Castiel’s herd of siblings.

Dean [11:32 pm]: ok. want to meet somewhere then?

Cas [11:32 pm]: That would work better. Where would be best for you?

Dean [11:32 pm]: i live in lawrence, but i stay with charlie in topeka most nights. so manhattan is only an hour, i don’t mind the drive. do it all the time for school anyway.

Cas [11:33 pm]: I live in Alma, about halfway between the two. Do you know Blackbird’s Espresso in Topeka?

Dean [11:33 pm]: hell yeah. i’ll be there.

Cas [11:33 pm]: All settled for Saturday then. I’ll see you in class tomorrow afternoon 😊

Castiel used emojis…of fucking course he did. Chuckling softly to himself, Dean looked up find half of the room staring at him.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Who were you texting?” Charlie asked, pointing at Dean’s phone.

“Oh, just Cas,” he said, tucking it back into his pocket.

Charlie gave Dean a strange, held-back, fond smile that he couldn’t quite interpret, but Dean was spared from any further interrogation by Dorothy stepping into the room with a tray full of fruity drinks with umbrellas.

Fruity things with umbrellas were so not Dean’s wheelhouse…but what the hell. It was awesome to spend time with people other than Jo who just included him, without question. One more drink wouldn’t hurt.

Bobby tapped Dean’s shoulder firmly, making sure to pull his attention up from the nuts he was tightening before he yelled to the whole crew, “Staff meeting in ten!”

Dean nodded before looking back down at his monkey wrench and losing himself in work again. It was the kind of work he’d done since he was fourteen years old; it was easy, to him, repetitive and comforting in a way that occupied his hands so that his mind could wander.

So, as the old junker that he was working on slowly became something resembling a vehicle again, Dean’s thoughts wandered.

To Castiel, mostly.

Dean was nervous. Cas had forgiven him for snapping and storming out of the café, without so much as ever bringing it up again since. Not once, during all of their lessons and even a couple of hasty lunches. Dean was grateful for that—he knew he could be difficult sometimes, not great at sharing much of himself with other people. He was much better at showing a front—confident, sometimes cocky, flirty, and fun. He never connected with people. He didn’t have time for many real friends, and one-night stands were far easier than the couple of ill-fated relationships he’d tried. So, he acted like he really didn’t care—like the only people who mattered were Sam, Bobby, and Jo.

He’d connected with Castiel.

And it was bothering him. It made him feel strangely vulnerable in a way he didn’t like. Dean was getting better at making friends—though if he was honest, it was mostly that Charlie was doing it for him, these days. She didn’t stand for his nonsense, which was as refreshing as it was annoying. But Cas…Cas was something different.

Jo knocked into Dean’s shoulder and pointed to the break room, frowning.

Right. Staff meeting.

Scrambling up off the floor, Dean tucked his wrench into his back pocket, taking the rag that Jo offered and rubbing his hands clean—well, cleaner, at least.

“Too busy daydreaming about your not-date this weekend?” Jo asked with a smirk.

“Don’t think I won’t punch you because you’re a girl,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes. “I believe in equality, Jo, and I happen to know you hit harder than me.”

With Jo’s face contorting with laughter in the corner of Dean’s eye, they headed through the office to the break room.

Bobby was standing near the microwave, leaning on the counter as a concession to his bum leg. Dean couldn’t see what he was saying as his attention was turned to the side, a frown marring his forehead as he talked to Cole. Jo gave Dean a little shove to push him further into the room, and they both settled down onto the couch directly opposite Bobby.

“Alright,” Bobby began, turning to face Dean and Jo. “Here’s the deal. Somebody from the Occupational Safety and Health Administration in Wichita came down here this morning—”

“OSHA?” Dean said, frowning. “Why?”

“Well if you let me finish, boy, you might find out,” Bobby cautioned, his scowl bringing the brim of his cap further down on his brow, making him look spectacularly grumpy.

Dean closed his mouth and tried to look suitably contrite. He wasn’t, but he knew Bobby would appreciate the effort.

“As I was tryin’ to say,” Bobby continued, “a very nice man from OSHA came down to inspect the shop. Now, obviously I let ‘em see whatever they wanted. We ain’t got anything to be ashamed about around here; we do our jobs and we do ‘em right.”

In Dean’s peripheral vision, heads nodded and turned in agreement.

Bobby’s eyes flicked over to Garth, sitting to Dean’s right on the edge of the coffee table.

“No, Garth,” he said, nodding. “They didn’t find anything. Just like I knew they wouldn’t. The guy was quite complimentary, actually, especially when he saw all the stuff we got set up for Dean and Jo. Extra safety precautions are a benefit to all of you, hearing or not.”

Dean caught Garth’s chin dipping in agreement from the corner of his eye, but he kept his attention on Bobby, sensing that he wasn’t done—a well-passed inspection wouldn’t have the old man looking as pissy as he did right then, for sure.

“I did ask the man why they came down—as far as I knew we weren’t due for any kind of inspection. He was kind enough to tell me that they’d had a tip off from a ‘concerned citizen’ that there might be some violations here, that some of my workers might be at risk.” Bobby folded his arms across his chest, looking evil. “Anybody know anything about that?”

Dean’s chest constricted oddly, hot and angry.

Next to him, Jo thumped her thigh into his, and when he looked over, her eyes were resting pointedly on Cole.

The brown-haired, smug-faced asshole just sat there, glaring at Bobby in annoyance, his lips clamped shut.

Bobby waved, getting Dean and Jo’s attention once more. “Alright then. Since no one has anything to say, get back to your jobs. You know where my office is…and if I ain’t in it, then look under the nearest damn car, doing the same job you all do.”

Dean pulled his feet in toward the couch so that Garth could move past him as everyone filed out. Cole slammed the door behind himself dramatically; Dean felt the wall shake behind the couch.

Jo stood up, standing between Dean and Bobby. “Someone’s pissed his little plan to cause trouble didn’t work,” she said.

“Can’t prove nothin’,” Bobby said, his eyebrows fighting for space above the bridge of his nose. “But I know which jackass we’re all thinkin’ of.”

“They couldn’t tell you who tipped them off?” Jo asked.

Bobby shook his head. “There’s rules against them telling that kinda thing.”

Exhaling angrily, Dean ran his hands over his face before he spoke. “I’m sorry, Bobby.”

Bobby raised one bushy eyebrow, silent.

“All three of us know this is because of me. Cole doesn’t care about Jo.”

Jo’s face creased up in displeasure. “Only because he ignores me, thinks a woman can’t do this job at all.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, for either of you,” Bobby said, crossing his arms firmly. “You both do your jobs and do ‘em exactly how I taught you—or how John did. I got no problems with either of you. I should be the one apologizing to you, Dean. I should’ve done something about Cole a long time ago.”

Even as angry as he was, Dean shook his head. “No, Bobby. It’s okay. I know you need him. There aren’t many guys around here as good with the electrical stuff as he is.”

Bobby’s shoulders slumped as he said, “It’s not okay, Dean. But I also can’t just fire him out of the blue, especially without a replacement lined up. But I’ll keep an eye on him and start looking around.”

After exchanging Winchester Approved shoulder slaps, Dean and Bobby walked back out onto the shop floor with Jo trailing behind. Bobby headed back to the shiny, new Ford Focus that he’d been changing the brake pads on that morning, and Dean made a beeline for the old junker he’d been tightening up the motor mount on before the impromptu staff meeting.

The vehicle was an old Pontiac Firebird, and if it had been looked after it would have been a great car. Usually, it was the kind of project that Dean adored—sprinkling some TLC on an older, vintage model and bringing it back to life—but his thoughts were occupied elsewhere.

He was so angry. Dean hated Cole; he’d always hated Cole, but this was something else, something new and fiery and vicious.

Bobby was family. Closest thing to a father Dean had, really, and someone who’d always had Dean’s back. The fact that Cole would let his pettiness toward Dean affect Bobby, Bobby’s garage, Bobby’s life…Dean was absolutely seething. In another life, where he wasn’t trying his hardest to stay on track and be someone who he could be proud of, he’d have walked across the bay to where Cole was jacking up a rusted Chrysler Crossfire and punched him out cold.

He’d probably have kicked him while he was down there, too.

But no. Dean wasn’t going to be that person. He wasn’t going to solve all his problems with his fists, he wasn’t going to cause even more problems for Bobby, and he wasn’t going to give Cole the fucking satisfaction.

Of course, that just meant that Dean had to keep all his anger inside and sit with the raw hammering of it inside his ribcage, trying to ignore how it wanted to break his bones and burst out, careless of the detriment to himself.

Looking up at the clock on the concrete wall, Dean decided he had time to look at the Firebird’s radiator, too, before he had to leave and begin the drive up to Manhattan for class.

He had to channel his fury somewhere, so into the metal it went.

“Hey!” Dean yelled angrily. “Watch where you’re parking, jackass!”

The douchey G-wagon full of spoiled frat kids had pulled out way too close to Baby’s bumper, and it took a moment for Dean’s heart to settle. He was already in a bad mood; if they’d actually scratched her then he’d have ripped the trashy Mercedes Benz logo off and put it somewhere even Daddy’s money wouldn’t help to retrieve it.

Hoisting his ratty backpack up to his shoulder with an irritated huff, Dean made his way toward Engineering Hall. The weather was beginning to get cooler, so at least he wasn’t dashing across campus all sweaty—but instead, dots of rain began to hit Dean’s face.

Of course.

It had rained earlier but stopped; Dean had sped through a few deep puddles in Baby, but he’d thought that’d be the end of it. Dean turned his face up to the sky, observing the gathering dark clouds with a scowl. Come on, couldn’t he get a break today? Hopefully, if he hurried to class he’d miss the worst of the storm and wouldn’t have to spend an hour and a half sitting there soaking—

With a huge, arcing splash of water, a douchebag on a bicycle swerved swiftly around Dean and straight through a puddle the size of Lake Michigan.

“SON OF A—”

“Sorry!” the cyclist called back half-heartedly over his shoulder, not even slowing down. Dean recognized the annoyed expression on his face. It was one he saw directed at him often, an irritated gaze that said, “ Didn’t you hear me?”

Dean was drenched from his ribs down.

Of. Fucking. Course.

Letting out a long sigh, Dean squelched his way up the steps of Engineering Hall and splodged a wet, dribbly trail to room 416. He got a few looks on the way, but seriously, fuck ‘em all. They hadn’t had Dean’s day, they could stare all they wanted as long as no one dared open their mouth.

Surprisingly, Castiel wasn’t waiting for Dean next to his usual seat. Flopping soggily into his chair, Dean dumped his backpack onto the arm-desk and pulled out his phone: no text. Castiel always texted if he wasn’t going to make it, so he’d likely just been held up somewhere.

Professor Lee strolled in and began a few minutes later. Dean tried to keep up with lip reading, but quickly began to struggle; with nearly forty students in the lecture-based portion of this class, no professor could spend their time only looking at one person, even if that person did need to lip read. They had other students, too. The light coming in the window kept darkening erratically with the storm outside, casting shadows across Professor Lee’s face, making it even harder to make out what she was saying.

Ten minutes into the class, Dean was confused and lost.

Dean was about to check his phone again and send a text message to Castiel when the chair beside him pulled sharply back and Castiel quickly dropped himself into it. Professor Lee raised an eyebrow at him but kept right on teaching.

“Dude,” Dean whispered, looking over at Castiel with a frown. “What gives? Where’ve you been?”

“Sorry,” Castiel signed quickly, before shoving Dean’s bag over and hastily pulling out his laptop. As soon as it loaded, he typed, “I had some car trouble. Apologies. I may need you to give me a ride tomorrow if you still want to meet.”

Dean nodded, flicking his eyes back to the professor for a moment—a lost cause, but he was trying—and folded his arms across his chest. Just his damn luck, today.

Castiel got to work as fast as he could, his fingers flying across the keyboard. By the time the class was over, Dean at least had some of the concepts down, though he had no idea what he’d missed at the beginning. Hopefully, it wasn’t anything significant.

The reminder of how hard this was without Castiel, of exactly why he’d dropped out last time, only made Dean’s mood worse. He liked working with Cas. He was awesome. But he hated feeling like he relied on him, like he couldn’t function by himself.

But it was, apparently, true.

As the rest of the students filed out of the room, Castiel closed his laptop and rolled his shoulders, then touched Dean’s forearm to get his attention.

“I’m sorry that I was late, Dean. I try to make sure I’m always here early, but I couldn’t get my car out of the front yard. Something’s wrong with the suspension, I think. My sister will take a look at it for me on the weekend.”

“Can’t be helped, I guess,” Dean said, trying to push down the bundle of irritation that was sitting behind his sternum in a pressure-filled lump, as if he’d eaten too much spicy food again.

Out of the window, behind Castiel, Dean could see that the storm had gotten even worse. Great. He was supposed to head to Charlie’s place to help her with her new LARPing costume—he was going to look like a wet poodle by the time he got there. Fuck that and fuck this day. He’d text and cancel. 

Dean could feel the tension in the back of his neck. He rolled his shoulders, trying to relax, but it was fruitless. This entire damn day was a shit show. 

Castiel tapped his arm again, a small frown bunching his forehead. “I really am sorry,” he said again. “I know it was unprofessional of me to be late, but it couldn’t be helped. I appreciate that it’s difficult for you to keep up without an interpreter. I understand—”

“You don’t understand, ” Dean snapped viciously, trying to rein in his temper but fraying at the edges. “You have no idea about my fucking life, or what it’s like to be me!”

The frown that had marred Castiel’s brow was crushed by his eyebrows rising in surprise, and he took a small step back. He didn’t say anything, though he continued looking at Dean calmly as he repositioned his bag’s strap on his shoulder.

Dean immediately felt his chest constrict, tight, like it was desperately trying to keep the words caged inside him—but they’d already escaped.

Castiel stared, his lips unmoving but his eyes sad. He just…waited. Like he was giving Dean a timeout. 

“Sorry,” Dean whispered. His eyes dropped down to his hands, where he held the strap of his backpack and turned the woven end over and over in his fingers, the fabric twisting and curling just like the sour feeling in his stomach. “I shouldn’t have—I’ve had a long day. I’m just gonna go. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, just text me where to go.”

Dean looked up enough to see Castiel’s agreeing nod, then pushed past the desk and headed out and back downstairs, welcoming the rain.

Chapter Text

Dean’s fingers settled comfortably into the grooves they’d long ago worn into Baby’s steering wheel. The Impala’s leather was soft and familiar, reassuring in a way that little else was. No matter what else had changed in the last decade—losing his dad, Sammy going to Stanford, flunking out of college, and now trying again—Dean always had Baby. She was his most reliable friend and confidant.

Letting out a long breath, Dean refilled his lungs with her clean scent: car wax, leather, and dangly pine air freshener. Home.

“Alright,” Dean said to the wheel as he straightened up. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

Dean felt crappy.

And worse, it was one hundred percent his own fault. He’d been a dick to Castiel, yet again. Who knew that when he went back to college, he’d be majoring in ‘how to be a total jackass’? Alright, maybe Castiel didn’t know what it was like to live Dean’s life—but he was never going to understand, either, if Dean kept pushing him away like this.

Conflicted and grumpy, Dean flicked through his phone for the address Castiel had texted to him. He’d never been to Alma, but he had the vague impression that it was a tiny town, a few hundred people at most—very country. Dean had always considered the town to be somewhere that old folks lived.

As he got closer to Castiel’s family home, though, he could see why a big family like his might favor it—it was quiet, and it looked like the kind of place where land was cheap, swathes of fields stretching between each home on the outskirts of the little down. Dean headed down Old K18 Road, watching for the turn just after the Alma cemetery that Castiel had described.

The house, when he came upon it, was actually quite hard to miss. Three floors and sprawling, the mid-century tri-level ranch was painted a cheerful yellow, and the garden out front was bursting with flowers. Six cars were parked on a concrete driveway—Dean noticed that Castiel’s fugly gold Lincoln Continental was one of them. The way that one corner of the vehicle listed low to the side, Dean would have put money on Castiel being right about it being the suspension, even looking from a distance.

Dean wondered if it’d be weird to offer to take a look at it—Castiel had said his sister would, after all.

Castiel wasn’t waiting outside. Dean checked his phone and realized that he was a few minutes early. Rather than texting him and waiting outside, Dean pulled up behind the line of cars and cut the engine.

He hopped out and knocked on the door.

After a few minutes, he knocked again, then noticed a small card in the glass window at the side. “Please use the bell!” it proclaimed.

Dean located the plastic buzzer off to the side and had barely returned his hands to his pockets when the heavy white door swung open wide.

A girl—seventeen or eighteen at most, if Dean’s guesses could be trusted—was standing just inside, her head cocked to the side. Her eyes were bright, lively blue, just like Castiel’s, and her dark hair fell thickly past her shoulders. She smiled a tiny, shy smile, and stepped to the side, gesturing for Dean to come in without saying anything at all.

“Hi,” Dean said, smiling awkwardly as he moved inside, surprised to be invited so easily within. “I’m Dean.”

The small foyer that Dean stepped into was lovely—stairs with a polished wooden banister headed straight upward to his right, and the lower hallway that Dean followed the girl into was lined with family pictures and colorful, lively-looking modern art. The girl paused in the hallway and gave Dean another tiny smile, but that was it.

“I’m, uh, I’m here to pick up Cas?” Dean tried again as he closed the door behind himself.

Movement on the stairs caught Dean’s eye. A golden-haired man, younger than Dean but older than the girl in the hallway, bounded down the steps several at a time. Halfway down the flight he gave up entirely, gripping the banister with one hand before jumping over it, landing in front of Dean with a wide, wicked grin.

“Don’t worry about Hael, she doesn’t speak,” the guy said bluntly, looking straight at Dean as he spoke. He signed along with his words, far faster than Dean could keep up with.

Dean’s eyes flicked back to the girl, and she gave him a tiny wave, her face serious and entirely unaffected by the guy—her brother, Dean had to assume—announcing her business to a stranger in the hallway.

Tense, Dean looked back to the blond man. Something about the hair and set of his eyes was familiar, but Dean couldn’t place it. “Oh, okay,” Dean said. “Well, I’m here to—”

“Pick up Cas, of course,” the guy interrupted—with his hands as much as his mouth—before turning to yell something up the stairs. Dean couldn’t make out what he said, only the swelling of his chest as he bellowed up to a higher floor, but he assumed it meant Castiel would be on his way down in a moment.

“I’m Gabriel,” the guy said, sticking a hand obnoxiously firmly into Dean’s space. “We were at a party together once. We didn’t get to talk, though.”

“Oh!” Dean blurted. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you with your nipples covered.”

Gabriel’s laughter shook his shoulders and lit up his entire face. It seemed to suit him, like he was a person born to be amused.

As if they’d been summoned by Dean stepping inside, the hallway began to fill with people.

Some of them bore a strong family resemblance to Castiel—the non-verbal girl, Hael, and a taller, older-looking man who entered from the other end of the corridor. The rest, though, ran a whole gamut of looks. Gabriel quickly ran down a roster of introductions for Dean, finger-spelling out each name as he nodded toward them—Anna, a red-headed girl perhaps Dean’s own age, Raphael, a serious-looking black guy a little older, and Luke, a rat-faced blond man who glared at Dean openly.

All of them waved and looked directly at Dean when they spoke without any prompting, though they let Gabriel do most of the talking.

“Let” might be too generous of a word. Gabriel just seemed to like to talk a lot.

“Hello,” Dean said to each of them, signing slowly along with his greeting, a strange sinking feeling in his stomach.

Why were they all—

“Cassie will be down in just a minute,” Gabriel said, his hands flowing smoothly. “He’s helping Joshua with something for work, and he only just got done with Uriel’s lesson for today.”

“Uriel’s lessons take far too long,” Luke said, and Dean could see that he was being snide just from the way his eyes flicked to Gabriel, slanted and unpleasant. “It’s a waste of Castiel’s time to keep teaching him; he’ll never learn. He should have started years ago.”

“Yes, well,” the tall man who shared Castiel’s dark hair—Michael—said. “We thought you were too stupid for it to stick, too, but here we are. You never stop waving your hands around.”

And they were—all of them. Moving their hands. Every single one. Dean had never seen so many people using sign language so casually. Hell, he’d never even been in a place where more than one or two people knew it.

Dean’s stomach felt like it had a rock in it.

Thank God, Castiel came down the stairs and spared Dean any further awkwardness. He raised an eyebrow at the packed hallway before shaking his head, a touch of amusement to his smile.

“Good thing I came downstairs before you overwhelmed Dean,” Castiel said and signed.

Oh, too late for that, Dean thought.

Castiel was dressed much more simply than he did for classes—no tie or endearingly rumpled jacket. Instead, he wore a navy polo shirt with a blue horizontal bar across the chest and a worn, comfortable pair of jeans. His hair was just as unkempt as usual, but it somehow looked much more deliberate when paired with the red leather jacket and aviators he threw on in the hallway, tugging the coat from an overstuffed rack further up the corridor.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Castiel said as he turned back to Dean.

“No problem,” Dean replied, attempting a weak smile but knowing full well that it fell flat.

“Ready to go?” Castiel asked, something like a concerned frown ghosting across his features at Dean’s anxious response.

“Yeah—” Dean gestured to the front yard. “—I’m parked right behind you.”

On the way to the door, Gabriel gave Castiel a thump to the shoulder so hard that he stumbled, and Hael stretched up on her toes and pressed a kiss to Castiel’s cheek as he passed her. There was a wicked twinkle in her eyes that Dean didn’t understand. Castiel simply rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and wordlessly opened the door for Dean.

The fresh morning breeze rushed around Dean as he raised a hand to bid goodbye to Castiel’s lurking siblings before closing the door. The wind was picking up, a fall storm on the way, perhaps. Dean tossed his car keys nervously in his palm as he approached Baby, Castiel at his side.

Dean watched as Castiel eyed the Impala appreciatively before sliding into the passenger seat, and he couldn’t help the tiny flutter of pride in his chest. The fact that Baby, at fifty-three years of age, was so beautiful and flawless was entirely Dean’s own doing. His dad had looked after her just fine, and taught Dean how to do so—but as John had aged and his alcoholism had gotten worse, he’d definitely neglected her.

Restoring Baby was one of the things Dean was proudest of.

“I can see why you’re so fond of her,” Castiel said, catching Dean’s eye as he slipped behind the wheel. “She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, before turning his attention to pulling the car back out onto the road.

They rode to Blackbird’s Espresso in silence.

All Dean could think about was what he’d said to Castiel the day before.

“You have no idea about my fucking life, or what it’s like to be me!”

Fuck. Dean’s fingers ached around the steering wheel by the time he reached Topeka, and once he’d snagged a curbside parking spot outside the coffee shop, Dean sat for a moment and shook out his hands. He deliberately didn’t turn to Castiel, or even look up, until he felt the lurch of Baby’s passenger side door opening.

Blackbird’s was a low-key, white-fronted espresso bar that sold great coffee and even better pastries. Without conferring, Dean headed up to the register to get them both black coffees—and grab some honey packets for Castiel, because he’d noticed that weird habit back when they’d gone to Radina’s on campus—and Castiel moved over to the window, grabbing them a table in the brightest part of the room.

Doing things with Castiel was easy, Dean realized. Castiel didn’t have to be reminded that sitting in the dim booths at the back would make it hard to lip read, he simply pointed at the pastry that he wanted with a smile instead of saying what he liked, and he never forgot to face Dean fully before he spoke.

They were small things, maybe, but also respectful things—things Dean didn’t often ask for, because feeling like a “problem” was an issue he still had, even after years of Bobby’s repairs to the way his childhood had formed him.

Even though Dean had his eyes down, Castiel tapped Dean’s arm when he returned with the coffee, drawing his attention deliberately.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“No problem. Got your honey, too,” Dean said, dumping the handful of little sweet packets onto the tabletop.

Castiel’s smile was small and soft. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

Dean shrugged, pushing his coffee to the side so that it could cool down for a while.

“Ready to start?” Castiel asked, sliding his chair around so that he was directly opposite Dean’s. “We’ll begin by going over what you do know, I think.”

Letting out a long puff of nervous breath, Dean nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”  

“Okay,” Castiel said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “Talk to me.”

Confused, Dean frowned. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?” he said, holding up his hands and waving them vaguely.

“I’m sitting here teaching someone useful college vocabulary, but I’m not wholly convinced it’s you.”

That cleared up exactly nothing, and left Dean squinting at Castiel. “What?”

“You pay attention well at school, but outside of a classroom I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this solemn,” Castiel said. “You’ve been concentrating on what I’ve been showing you, you’ve been repeating perfectly, you’ve been quiet and focused—you haven’t said a single word that wasn’t directly related to the lesson.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“I’m pretty certain I could teach you how to sign ‘whiskey dick’ and you’d just copy me.”

“No, I would not. That’s one sign I’m never gonna need,” Dean protested. “I can hold my liquor, for one thing.”

Castiel’s tiny smile was amused, but he shook his head and spread his hands wide. “Did I do something that’s upset you, Dean? If so, can we talk about it, please? Because I don’t like this meek version of you even half as much as the normal, mouthy one.”

“Did you just call me mouthy , or is the light in here just bad?” Dean said, glaring at Castiel.

“Ah, so you are in there.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, until Castiel’s foot deliberately knocked against Dean’s beneath the table, and his gaze softened.

“Dean, please,” he said. “Tell me what’s happening here.”

Huffing out air in defeat, Dean buried his face in his hands for a moment, creating space to think as he leaned his elbows on the table. Where to begin?

“You must think I’m such a jackass,” he mumbled, before looking up so that Castiel could respond.

Castiel looked thoughtful. “A little bit, sometimes.”

Surprised at his bluntness, Dean laughed. “Sometimes?”

“Alright,” Castiel allowed. “Somewhat frequently, but I assume there’s a reason for it.”

“I’m not sure there’s a reason good enough for what I said to you in class yesterday,” Dean said, guilt making his throat burn with sharp bile. He pulled over his coffee to wash it away, and Castiel let him collect himself for a moment before he continued. “I cussed you out for nothing and said you could never—never understand , when actually…”

When Dean trailed off, his eyes down, Castiel reached across the table and touched Dean’s forearm. He didn’t retreat once Dean looked up; he wrapped his fingers around Dean’s wrist and squeezed, gentle and firm.

“It’s okay, Dean. I’m not mad at you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m mad at me.”

“You’re angry with yourself because you were judging me based on the information that I had provided you with—which left out a fairly large piece of the overall picture. You’ve said before that you’re trying to stop fighting the world, Dean, and that’s good. But you need to learn to stop fighting yourself, too.”

Dean drained the rest of his coffee before placing his own hand over the top of Castiel’s. “I’m sorry, Cas. Taking it out on you wasn’t cool of me, whether I knew about your family or not.”

Castiel nodded. “I agree.”

Shame curling in his gut, Dean withdrew his hand slowly.

Wordlessly, Castiel reached across and grabbed Dean’s coffee mug from the tabletop. Dean wasn’t sure whether Castiel was giving up on their lesson, whether he wanted Dean to drive him back home and never—no; the barista passed him two fresh cups of coffee. Dean’s stomach did another furious, anxious loop-de-loop and then, finally, settled the fuck down.

Castiel slid one of the coffees in front of Dean and lowered back into his seat.

“Thank you,” Dean signed.

Castiel smiled, blowing across the top of his mug to cool it before he started to talk. “I have a lot of siblings, like I told you,” Castiel began. “Michael is the oldest. He was born deaf—both of my parents are deaf, so it wasn’t a surprise. Luke followed right after. Once they were raising two deaf kids, more didn’t seem like such a big deal, I suppose—they heard about how rough it can be for deaf and hard-of-hearing kids in the system, so they adopted Raphael.”

Dean wanted to interrupt, to tell Castiel that he didn’t have to tell Dean any of this, but he was on a roll. And maybe Dean needed to stop assuming things about Castiel, anyway. So he kept his thoughts to himself, beyond asking Castiel to repeat the odd word here or there.

“They adopted Uriel and Joshua, too, over the next couple of years. My father is a preacher and a writer, he doesn’t make much with his treatises on religion, but my mother was a killer trial lawyer before she retired. They could afford a bunch of kids, and I guess they wanted to give deaf babies a home where they could feel included.”

“That’s—that’s really kind of them,” Dean managed.

Castiel nodded. “Anna is the sister closest in age to me, she’s only a year older. She’s deaf, too, of course, and one of the biological children. We were best friends growing up. She reminds me of you, a little—” Castiel grinned and paused to blow his coffee again. “—she’s sassy and very opinionated, and she really wants to be a mechanic. Unfortunately, not all employers are as open to it as your uncle.”

Dean nodded slowly. He knew that firsthand.

“Then there was me,” Castiel said with a small grin, spreading his hands. “The odd one out. I believe my parents fully assumed I would be deaf when I was born—but genes aren’t quite that predictable. Gabriel and Hael are the most recent additions to the family. Hael is the youngest. She’s deaf but she’s also never spoken. We don’t know why, but as long as she’s happy, we’re happy.”

“So, you’re the only one?” Dean asked. “In your family, I mean. The only hearing person.”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I can hear perfectly, but I essentially grew up like a deaf child. When I was in elementary school, I could sign better than I could talk. Because I could hear, I was put in a mainstream school and I had no opportunities to make deaf friends there. Hearing people were a strange mystery. It didn’t go so well for me,” he admitted, running a finger around the edge of his steaming mug. “In the end, my mother pulled me out and homeschooled me with my siblings.”

Dean held up a hand. “Cas—you don’t have to tell me any of this. My shitty behavior doesn’t mean you somehow have to justify yourself—”

“No,” Castiel shook his head, his eyes dropping briefly to the table, almost shy, before coming back to Dean. “That’s not what I’m doing, Dean. I’m just…just trying to get to know you, and letting you know me, too.”

Oh. Dean’s chest shouldn’t have filled up and throbbed as much as it did at that. Their relationship was professional, he reminded himself. Purely professional.

But…they could be friends, maybe, at least.

Rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s—that’s cool. So, you don’t think I’m an asshole anymore?”

“Oh no,” Castiel said, animated. “I still do. But I forgive you.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. He grabbed his coffee, taking a couple of gulps to center himself before he looked back at Castiel, raising his hands hopefully. He did his best with some of the signs he’d used with Jo, and what he’d picked up more recently. “Can we start again? I want to be your friend.”

Castiel tried to keep a straight face, clearly, his chin trembling. He reached forward, taking Dean’s hands in his, hooking his forefingers together. “Friend,” he said clearly. “These two fingers…not these two,” he said, touching Dean’s pinkies.

“What did I say?”

“Opossum,” Castiel said, laughter all over his face. “You want to be my opossum.”

Deadpan, Dean asked, “How do I say that my friend is a dick?”

Castiel’s smile was blinding, and it hit Dean in the sternum hard. “That’s lesson two,” Castiel said, signing along with his words like always.

Lesson two... Dean had to let the buzz in his chest settle for a moment before he responded, “You want to do this again?”

Considering that Dean stared at people’s faces all the time, it was incredibly nerve-wracking to suddenly feel the weight of Castiel doing the same, his eyes taking a second to study Dean solemnly before his lip quirked, and he both signed and spoke his reply. “Yes, I can stand to be in your company at least once more.”

“Now who’s an asshole?” Dean teased, and they chuckled together.

After taking a big sip of his still-steaming coffee, Castiel pushed his mug away from himself and held up his hands. With his left hand flat and his right hand bent, Castiel moved his right in an arc until his fingertips touched his left palm. Again. Repeat. Do over.

“Shall we try again?” Castiel asked. “We can finish up the lesson I had planned for the day, then maybe you can tell me why your day was so shitty yesterday, and I can nod sympathetically.”

Putting down his coffee, Dean gave Castiel a warm grin. “Let’s do this,” he signed.

Chapter Text

With only a couple of weeks left until winter break, Dean’s life had fallen into a rhythm. A frenetic rhythm, maybe, but at least the tempo had him going somewhere. Class five days a week, shifts at Bobby’s four days a week, computer labs to complete at home, homework every evening. Then, when he could relax, weekend evenings with Charlie (and a quickly expanding group of people that he was beginning to realize might actually be his friends) hanging out and watching movies, playing games, going to the occasional party.

Every Saturday, Dean met Castiel at Blackbird’s Espresso in Topeka. Not to brag, but he thought he might be getting the hang of this sign thing—or at least Castiel dissolved into badly hidden chuckles at his efforts somewhat less regularly. This past Saturday, Dean had managed to hold down a whole conversation without relying on lip reading at all.

It was a strange, new feeling for Dean to be proud of himself. Not that he was on a constant self-hatred bender or anything, but he just wasn’t that important. He spent as much time as he could focusing on and doing things for other people.

And he didn’t seem to be the only one.

It was a crisp but sunny early winter day, and Dean was walking across the quad from Hale Library. He had about an hour before his next class, one of his engineering core classes, which didn’t give him enough time to drive home. So, he’d packed himself a brown bag lunch that morning and planned on getting some reading done in the fresh air before heading to meet Castiel.

The quad was busy. A bunch of people seemed to have the same idea as Dean, spread out on the generous swaths of grass that took up the space between the biggest group of college buildings. Dean wandered on through, looking around for an unoccupied bench or low wall, not quite feeling like sitting his ass on cold dirt...these college kids could do what they wanted, but Dean was speeding toward thirty faster than he’d like, and occasionally woke up having thrown something out by extreme sleeping. No grass sitting for him.

Luckily, he spotted a familiar fugly beige trench coat on a stone bench under one of the old oaks.

“Hey, Cas!” he called, waving as he approached.

Head jerking up from his laptop in surprise, it took a moment for Castiel’s eyes to settle on Dean, but then he smiled and waved, waiting for Dean to come closer before he responded.

“Hello, Dean.”

“You here super-early for my class, or did you have another one in this area?” Dean asked as he stopped on the grass before the bench.

“I just finished interpreting for an Agricultural Economics class in Cardwell Hall,” Castiel said, shuffling to his left. “Did you want to sit?”

Dean dropped down into the offered space with a nod of thanks, angling himself to face Castiel and propping his backpack between his feet. “Agricultural Economics? Did I get that right? I figured my classes were boring for you, but apparently they’re the tip of the iceberg.”

Castiel laughed, pulling one knee onto the bench so that he could resettle his laptop as he looked at Dean. “Your classes aren’t too bad. They’re actually much easier for me to interpret than something like a liberal arts class, where there’s so much more leeway for meaning.”

“Huh. Makes sense, I guess.” Dean placed his lunch bag down onto the bench between them and began to unroll the top, nodding to Cas’ laptop. “What’re you working on now, then? Stuff from that class?”

“No,” Castiel said, and Dean thought that the set of his brows might just be the tiniest bit annoyed. “I’m transcribing a bunch of videos for my younger brother, who’s enrolled here.”

“Ahh, yes, Gabriel. The frat boy.”

Castiel visibly bit back a smirk. “Yes, that one. He’s very intelligent, but he’s not very good at actually turning up for his classes.”

“Somehow, that’s not surprising to me.”

“He’s scrambling to catch up with some of them, so I’m transcribing a bunch of additional material to help him out,” Castiel explained.

“That’s pretty nice of you,” Dean said, peering down into his lunch bag and digging out his slightly flattened bologna sandwich. Not fancy, but a part-time mechanic’s wage only supplemented his student loans so much.

“He’s my brother,” Castiel said with a dismissive shrug. “It’s my duty.”

Odd choice of word, Dean thought, but after getting Castiel to repeat it just in case, it was definitely the right one.

“If you’re going to take a break for lunch,” Dean said, nudging at his baggie, “I have extra pie.”

Castiel graced Dean with a tiny smile. “That’s kind of you to offer, but I won’t have time to eat. Once I’ve gone through these videos for Gabriel, I need to make some phone calls for my sister and another one of my brothers.”

Something wasn’t sitting right about Castiel’s lack of enthusiasm, but Dean focused in on the more important part. “Dude, you can’t decline pie just because you’re busy.”

“I assure you, I can.” Castiel looked regretful, even so.

“Like hell you can, this is my pie. I made this from scratch. All butter crust, perfect honeycrisp apples, fresh-ground cinnamon.” Dean pulled out one of several slices that he’d tucked into his bag—never too much pie—and waved it temptingly under Castiel’s nose. “Smell that.” 

Castiel inhaled, and Dean watched his resolve crumbling, flake by buttery flake. “It smells wonderful,” he admitted. “You made this?”

Dean nodded.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I may be an effortlessly charming college dropout, but I know my pastry.”

Finally giving in and holding his hand out for the slice, Castiel squinted across the space between them. “The juxtaposition of your cocksure confidence with your self-deprecation never ceases to be jarring.”

“Cocksure?” Dean teased with a wink, “I am pretty sure of that, you’re right.”

Castiel coughed so hard a bit of pastry landed on his laptop keys.

Dean grinned while he wiped the crumb off onto the grass, before reaching over to not-so-subtly push Castiel’s laptop lid down an inch. “C’mon, Cas. You gotta take a bit of a break to eat.”

With a slight shoulder slump of defeat, Castiel nodded. “You’re right, I suppose. Thank you,” he said, lifting the pie slice up a little in indication. “This is very delicious.”

Castiel was smiling, more than just his little half-twitch of lips, and something warmed and wormed a little deeper into Dean’s chest at the sight. He smiled back, proud. “You’re welcome. It’s all in the pastry temperature, that buttery flakiness.”

Resting his gaze on Dean for much longer than felt quite polite—though Dean certainly wasn’t about to complain—Castiel’s tongue flicked out to collect a gleaming streak of cinnamony sugar from his lower lip. “You’re a surprising man, Dean.”

“That I am,” Dean agreed, flashing his teeth with another wink. “How about you? Got any hobbies that’d surprise me?”

Castiel looked down at his closed laptop for a moment, his lips twisting, before he lifted his head again. “Not really,” he said.

Dean didn’t believe that, though he was strangely worried that Castiel actually might. “Everyone’s got some hobbies, or things they want to do at least, even if they don’t have time,” he coaxed.

“Well,” Castiel said, before pausing to dust off his fingers, “I run.”

Entirely of their own accord, Dean’s eyes drifted down to Castiel’s thighs, tight against the material of his navy slacks where his trenchcoat fell open, exposing his legs. Running. Well, that explained....that.

“Thats, uh, good,” Dean barked out quickly. “Great. Very healthy.”

“Do you ever run?”

“Not unless I’m being chased.”

“And does that...happen often?” Castiel asked carefully, his hands hesitating between words. He moistened his lips and flushed, adding clumsily, “Lots of...people? Chasing you?”

Even from Castiel’s struggling expression, Dean could pick out the secondary meaning to Castiel’s words and his awkward, floundering attempt at being subtle. 

Cute.

Dean was tempted to make Castiel squirm for a moment longer and pretend he didn’t know what he was asking, but in the end, he didn’t really want to make him uncomfortable.

“Pretty often,” Dean threw back, grinning as he dug out the two emergency cans of soda he kept in his backpack, keeping one and offering the other to Castiel. “I find I get chased by all kinds of folks. Women, men...I’m fine with either.”

Castiel’s uncertain smile solidified, and he reached out and curled his fingers around the offered can of soda. Popping the top and taking a sip, he lowered it to the bench next to him and reached to slide his laptop back into his backpack.

Once he straightened back up he smoothed his tie—it was still wonky, but he tried—and turned back to Dean, returning to his tiny, professional half-smile. “So,” he asked, “what made you choose Engineering for your degree? You’ve never said.”

Alright, Dean could shift the conversation back to where Castiel was comfortable. He could take a hint. For now, at least.

While they sipped their sodas for the last ten minutes before Dean’s class, Dean explained about Uncle Bobby and his shop, about the car he inherited from his dad, about how machines spoke a language he could hear.

Castiel listened intently, watching Dean with the same quiet intensity he always did.

Castiel’s life seemed to get busier and busier as each week went on, Dean noticed. He was more and more stressed, the eternal bags under his eyes darkening as they got closer to the end of the semester.

A couple of times, Dean suggested that they could skip their Saturday lesson Blackbird’s, but Castiel seemed reluctant, so they made it work. Dean wanted to beg him to slow down, but he figured that was none of his business.

On this particular chilly, blowy Saturday, Castiel was late. That didn’t feel like normal Castiel behavior at all, to Dean. Other than the dark day when Castiel’s fugly gold car had its suspension problem and Dean had turned it into unnecessary, angry drama, he’d never once been late to class—either at school, or for their private time. He’d arrived looking stressed and harangued at least eight times out of ten, but never late.

It was unsettling.

The scent of fresh honey-baked ham and warming cheese drew Dean from his Castiel-centric musing for long enough to get their coffee order in and add two of the delicious-sounding hot sandwiches from the weekly specials board, which must be what he could smell. Castiel was always too busy, always in a hurry, and he often skipped meals—something Dean had been displeased to discover over the past few months.

Not that it was any of Dean’s business what Castiel ate, of course. But it activated his mother-hen gene all the same. So, sandwiches it was.

Juggling two black coffees, honey, and the little number on a stand that would help the waitress deliver their lunch, Dean moved over to the table that he and Castiel occupied every weekend. It was near the door where the large glass front of the store gave them the most light and tucked away from most of the other tables—probably a good thing, as Dean had been told he could be loud sometimes.

As Dean approached their spot, Castiel burst through the door of Blackbird’s Espresso like a dark cloud blowing in from the tropics, looking ready to drop a storm on whoever got in his way. A burst of wind blew in with him, pressing his trench coat tightly around his thighs and raising the collar, which, judging by the swift way he used both hands to flip it back down, only added to his irritation.

Dean eyed the tan coat with surprise as he lowered their coffees to the table. Castiel didn’t usually wear his trench coat on the weekends. Dean had seen a red leather jacket and a denim one, and one Saturday when he’d looked a bit under the weather, a severely over-washed maroon hoodie. Usually the wrinkled flasher coat was reserved for school, where it hung shapelessly—but strangely endearingly—over Castiel’s staid suits.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean called, waving. He couldn’t help a smile at how very not sunshiny Castiel looked. The weather outside was sunny, but it clearly hadn’t worn off on him on the way. Castiel was never a morning person, Dean had learned that from his early classes, but it was almost lunch and he still had his pre-caffeine appearance.

Castiel greeted him with a quick nod. Shucking his overstuffed satchel from his shoulder, he hung it on the back of his chair and settled down opposite Dean. His suit looked like it may have been neatly pressed at one point, but now it was creased across the front from his bag strap. Castiel looked down at it, gave a small sigh, and fruitlessly smoothed it before looking back up at Dean.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, the overly large trench coat arms flapping around his wrists as his hands moved.

“No problem,” Dean answered, pushing a pre-honeyed coffee across the small bistro table toward Castiel. “Gave me time to get the coffees in. Looks like you need it.”

Castiel gave a small, sharp nod before burying his nose in his mug. When he resurfaced, coffee half gone, he managed a little smile. “Thank you, Dean.”

“It was my turn,” Dean replied, shrugging. “Got you a sandwich on the way, too.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Castiel said after another sip of coffee. His hair was sticking up in three places, and he wore a frown. “I could have gotten lunch. You know you don’t owe me anything for these lessons, or in general.”

Dean prickled defensively. Do something nice for the guy, and that’s the response he gets? A reminder of value, of being owed?

Dean’s hand clenched around his cup.

“Who said I did?” he snapped, the words out before he could tell his own brain to take a hike. “It’s just a damn sandwich—I’m capable of just being nice, you know? It’s not about owing you. I can make decisions by myself, okay, you don’t have to take care of me or feel sorry for me.”

That stupid anger-lump was tightening up right at the base of Dean’ throat. He tried to swallow past it, annoyed at himself. He knew he was overreacting, here. This was really stupid, Castiel obviously didn’t mean anything by it, he should—

Clearly tired, worn down, and not in the mood for Dean’s bullshit today, Castiel threw his hands up in the air, abandoning his coffee. “That is not what I meant!” Signing furiously, Castiel’s frown punctuated his hand motions. “I’m not here ~~ you every weekend because I feel obligated. I don’t feel sorry for you, asshole, so maybe stop feeling sorry for yourself!”

They both froze as Castiel’s outburst hung in the air between them. Castiel looked instantly guilty, but Dean felt…relieved? Taking a deep breath, Dean checked in with himself (something he usually avoided doing).

Honestly, it was really good to have Castiel yell back at him, to be called out, to have him simply not take Dean’s shit. He was used to having Sammy and Jo for that, but it kinda felt like Sam was too busy for him these days, and Jo had to put up with him enough at work.

It was also really, really good for Castiel to say that he didn’t feel sorry for him. Because that was the last thing Dean wanted in the whole world. He knew that, really, if he thought about it. But, strangely, seeing it with his own eyes felt like a weight leaving him, one he hadn’t known he was carrying.

Dean studied Castiel for a moment, taking in the permanent bags beneath his eyes, the dark shadowing under them especially purple today and causing him to look even more tired than usual. His cut jaw was sprinkled with stubble, and the edges of his eyes drooped.

Castiel looked up, his expression wide and guilty. “Dean, I—”

Cutting off his apology with one raised hand, Dean gave him a little smile. “Give me just a minute, okay?” he said, pushing up from the table.

Concerned, slightly panicked blue eyes followed Dean as he stepped back up to the counter, collecting lids for their coffee cups and asking the waitress to bag their sandwiches to go, instead. Castiel probably thought that Dean was angry—not at all. He was a lot of things, but not angry.

Walking back to the table with the paper bag of sandwiches under his arm, Dean offered a reassuring smile. “Come on,” he said, popping the lids on their cups. “We don’t have to do this today.”

Castiel looked embarrassed, his eyes dipping briefly to the tabletop before coming back up. “No, I—I apologize. I’m just tired. I don’t want to miss our lesson, Dean. I really enjoy our time together, our”—his cheeks flushed pink, and Dean tried helplessly not to get distracted by them—"talks. Coffee with you is the best part of my week.”

Dean had planned to say something, but as he watched Castiel’s pillowy, peachy lips form the words “best part of my week,” English abandoned him.

The best part of his week.

Not even one of the best parts—the best part.

Biting back the goofy smile that threatened to take over his face, Dean cleared his throat. “Just come with me, okay?”

Frowning lightly, Castiel nodded as he rose from his seat, pushing it neatly back under the table. He resettled his heavy-looking messenger bag on his shoulder and followed Dean obediently to the door, then stepped outside when Dean held it open with a flourish.

“Do you want me to leave?” Castiel asked, his crinkled brow telegraphing his uncertainty as he signed.

Dean shook his head. “Not at all. We’re just gonna skip the lesson today, do something else. Is that okay?”

Castiel’s head tilted comically to the left, but he nodded slowly.

“Great,” said Dean, far more confident than he felt. He gestured up the street, saying, “This way, then. It’s less than a ten-minute walk, we can leave our cars here.”

“Where are we going?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Castiel scowled, but there was no heat behind it. “Very well.”

Dean carefully settled their coffees on the little paper tray inside the bag, then led them out onto the road and northward, using the pedestrian crossing to get them across 10th Street. Beyond, there was a large expense of trimmed green grass and huge, heavy-limbed trees that littered the sidewalk with the sludgy remains of their once-glorious fall coats.

In Dean’s periphery he could see Castiel casting curious glances around. As Dean continued on to the footpath that led further north through the grass and into Gage Park, Castiel reached out and touched his arm to pull his full attention.

“Are you taking me to the ~~?” Castiel asked, looking baffled.

Dean paused, turning his head fully to watch Castiel’s lips. “I don’t know that sign. Again?”

“Z-o-o,” Castiel spelled, and repeated it. “Are you taking me to the zoo?”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. “No—nice idea, though, they’ve got otters there. Otters are cool.”

Castiel raised a sardonic eyebrow, but Dean could still detect a tiny smile. He held back from explaining how otters were playful, cuddly, super family-focused, and held hands when they were sleeping. If Dean wished he could be an otter on occasion, that was no one’s business.

The destination that Dean had in mind was only a couple more minutes ahead. A carved marble and brick sign soon greeted them: Reinisch Rose Gardens.

Dean turned them onto a bush-lined pathway and watched Castiel gazing around with a smile. The season being what it was, they weren’t surrounded by blooming roses—though the gardens were still pretty and green, blooms or not—but Dean had another plan. A couple of twists and turns later, Dean slowed.

“Oh, this is lovely,” Castiel said, blinking as he looked around. “I had no idea this was here.”

In front of them, bricked in at the edges and easily the size of an Olympic swimming pool, there was a well-cared-for pond. Its surface rippled gently in the breeze.

“It’s a reflecting pool,” Dean said, gesturing to the bench behind them.

Castiel ignored Dean’s gesturing—instead, he dropped his messenger bag down to the ground and whipped off his trench coat, spreading it out on the grass at the pool edge. Lowering himself down to sit on the wide stretch of beige fabric, he looked up at Dean expectantly.

There wasn’t a ton of space, but Dean plopped onto the neck portion of the coat and stretched his legs out in front of himself. He put the paper bag from Blackbird’s between them and looked over at Castiel.

He was smiling, taking in the reflecting pool.

The edges were covered in lily pads, and there were bull rushes and other plants Dean didn’t know the names of crowded around the brick edging. Up ahead, beyond the pool, there were some steps and columns leading up to a pergola that Dean knew was often used for weddings in the summer. No blushing brides climbed the steps today, just a few families taking weekend walks. A wind-whipped flag waved at them, but other than that, everything appeared peaceful in the bright, wintery sun.

Castiel took it all in bit by bit, his eyes even brighter than the pool they reflected. The wind tousled his hair gently, and Dean took a moment to selfishly drink in how fucking beautiful he was—that wasn’t why Dean had brought him here, nothing like that, but still… damn.

Dean dug into the thick, brown paper bag from Blackbird’s Espresso, and Castiel tapped his arm.

“This is beautiful,” he said. “But why did you bring me here? I could still teach—”

Reaching out to still Castiel’s hands with one of his own, Dean placed Castiel’s wrapped sandwich in them instead.

“I brought you here to take a break. To talk, and eat, and tell me why you’re so stressed all the time, why you’ve been running around like your ass is on fire.”

Castiel’s shoulders dropped, but it didn’t seem to be in disappointment; his smile was gentle, and it softened all of him. “Thank you, Dean.”

Carefully removing their coffees from the bag—they were barely warm, but it didn’t matter—Dean placed both drinks on the grass in front of them. The wind was calming down, but the blades of grass still licked at the white paper cups eagerly as Dean nestled them firmly into the lawn, making sure they didn’t tip.

Castiel nodded his appreciation once Dean was done.

“So,” Dean said, angling himself to face Castiel as he unwrapped his sliced beef and provolone sandwich, “what’s the deal?”

Before he looked up to answer, Castiel slowly pulled his sandwich out of its parchment wrapping, taking care to catch all of the paper and shove it back into the bigger bag so that it didn’t blow around in the breeze. He smiled gratefully, sinking his teeth in for a big bite—and wow did Dean wish he could hear the satisfaction that showed on his face. Castiel’s lips parted as his head tipped back, the long line of his neck open to the sky, a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth as he chewed.

Dean blinked, coughed, and hurriedly took another bite of his own sandwich.

Castiel rolled his head to the side, smiling wider, and said, “Thank you for lunch, Dean. That’s what I should have said before, at Blackbird’s.”

Feeling smug, Dean nodded firmly. “Yes, you should’ve.”

Dean let Castiel relax and swallow a few more bites of his sandwich before he nudged him again, knocking his knee against Castiel’s thigh from where he sat cross-legged, right in his personal space.

Swallowing and lowering his sandwich to his lap so that he could use his hands, Castiel clapped away the crumbs of his ham and fontina ciabatta before he began.

“I’m sorry that I was late. This morning I accompanied my older brother Joshua to an appointment and his doctor was running behind. Then I was supposed to go with ~~ to sit in on an interview with his peer review committee, but they moved it to a later time slot because we were late, and then Gabriel—”

Biting back a smile, Dean raised a hand to stop him. “Okay, I think I get it. And it’s fine. I don’t care if you’re a few minutes late. You’re not even getting paid to teach me.”

Castiel’s shoulders slumped again, more glumly this time. “I enjoy teaching you. I do it because I want to, it’s very rewarding for me, and I don’t like keeping you waiting.”

Taking another bite of his own lunch, Dean gulped it down and placed the sandwich back on the paper so that he could sign back to Castiel—he’d been trying to get better about doing that, over the months, and not relying solely on his voice when he spoke to Castiel.

“You do a lot for your siblings.”

“Of course, they’re my family,” Castiel responded instantly.

“Don’t they want to be more independent?”

A flash of annoyance straightened Castiel’s shoulders back out again. “They are independent. They are perfectly capable people. But sometimes having someone on hand who is hearing, who is registered as an interpreter, can just—it just smooths the way, makes them more confident.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Just—you’re doing too much,” Dean said, giving Castiel a small, regretful smile. “Not everything is your duty, you know. You deserve a break sometimes, some fun, to prioritize yourself.”   

For a long moment, Castiel regarded Dean before picking his sandwich back up and taking a small, thoughtful bite. He chewed, swallowed, and then looked back at Dean almost sheepishly as he put his lunch back down.

“I’ve been so busy with my family, I’ve never really done anything that wasn’t work,” he admitted. “Sometimes being the only hearing person around can be exhausting. I hate myself for it, but I feel overburdened sometimes. Thing is, my siblings are all I’ve got. I don’t really have any friends, relationships have been, well, not great—almost non-existent. I’m just…a bit boring, I guess.”

Dean’s rib cage gave a sort of angry throb that Castiel would say that, would think that about himself. But, the tiny voice in the back of Dean’s head reminded him, he was hardly one to talk.

As soon as he was done speaking, Castiel’s eyes dropped in embarrassment and he went back to his sandwich, keeping his attention on it until there was nothing but a pile of waxy paper streaked with a single blob of stray, melted cheese.

Dean waited until he was done eating—if Castiel thought he could out-wait or out-stubborn a Winchester, he had another think coming.

When Castiel tossed the paper into the waiting Blackbird’s carrier and went to reach for his coffee, Dean sucked in a breath and stretched his arm out, stopping Castiel with a careful, tenuous hand on his thigh.

“Hey,” said Dean, ducking to find Castiel’s eyes and address them firmly. “Just for the record? I don’t think you’re boring at all.”

Castiel’s eyes snapped onto Dean’s tightly. “Thank you,” he signed, cheeks pink. His lips parted slightly, the beginning of something else in the space between them…but it faded, lost under the weight of their shared stare. The held gaze lingered. Dean could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, and his breath was too much for his lungs to hold.

Blinking, Castiel tore his eyes away quickly. He scrambled to his feet and threw a smile down to Dean before he said, “We’d better start to walk back to Blackbird’s. I promised to pick Michael up from work; Gabriel borrowed his car, so Raphael dropped him at the hospital for work this morning.”

Still dazed from…whatever that had been, Dean nodded quickly and got up off Castiel’s coat so he could tug it back over his shoulders. Dean gathered up their trash quickly, and Castiel took one last long look out across the reflecting pool, smiling at the serene water, before he fell into step beside Dean.

“Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Anytime. Seriously, I like hanging out with you, Cas. I appreciate the lessons a lot, you know that. But if you want to just have a drink and hang out, I’m good with that, too. We can call it practice.”

Castiel’s smile was soft, even as one corner of his mouth quirked up playfully. He raised his hands and signed, “I would like that. You do need a lot of practice, after all.”

“Great,” Dean signed back with a pleased grin at the teasing. “I’m sure a few drinks would make my signing better.”

They turned back onto the path through Gage Park, heading back toward 10th Street and where they’d parked, beyond. They walked in content silence. Sometimes, Dean felt awkward not constantly talking, not chattering away with the people that he was with—but with Castiel, Dean felt like he didn’t need to speak at all. 

Sprawled on the break room couch at Bobby’s early on Sunday morning, Dean was feeling pretty good about his busy but satisfying life.

“So, how much longer are you going to date this Jess girl before you bring her home to visit?” Dean asked, because teasing his brother could only ever make his day just that little bit better.

On Dean’s phone screen, held up before his face, Sam glared defiantly. His bitch faces were impressive but after over two decades of them, Dean was mostly immune. “I was thinking about asking her to come back with me for Christmas, but she has a family thing,” Sam admitted. “And anyway, I remembered that time I invited Ruby to Bobby’s work party, and she ended up drunkenly cornering you at midnight.”

Dean grimaced, covering his face with one hand in shame for a moment. That had been one hell of a party. “It wasn’t even New Year’s yet! I was caught by surprise,” Dean defended himself feebly. “Still the most awkward kiss of my life, though. I’ve never tried to extract myself from a person that quickly.”

“You’re lucky I saw the whole thing. I don’t know how you’d have explained it otherwise!” Sam grinned back at him, the incident long gone and kinda funny with age. “Well, I guess I don’t have to worry this time, not with Jess.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You tryin’ to say I’m not her type? I’m everyone’s type.”

“Humble, too,” Sam noted. “Jess has better taste, but I figured you weren’t looking for anyone, anyway.”

Sighing, Dean straightened up. He put his forearms on his knees so that he was looking down at his phone, keeping Sam’s face in full view so that he could see what he was saying. “This again?” he asked, glaring at the screen.

Sam shrugged. “I think you protest too much. Besides, I checked the ~~ for the KSU Student Access Center, and there’s a picture of Cas on there. He’s insanely hot.”

“Sam!”

“Oh, come on.” Sam shook his head. Dean realized he had that same stubborn, determined look he used to get when he was a kid and wanted Dean to let him do something their father had said no to. “I can see your crush all the way from California. The only thing I don’t understand is why you, the Lothario of the Winchester family, haven’t asked him out yet.”

This was a familiar conversation by now, one that was wearing Dean down, slowly.

“He’s my interpreter, Sam. That literally means he’s paid to spend time with me.”

“He’s not paid to give you extra lessons every week for free, though,” Sam pointed out smoothly, “or to have lunch with you on campus. It’d be different if you were a freshman and he was the professor or something, but you’re both grown men and he’s support staff without authority over you, so don’t try and go down that route, either.”

“Honestly, Sam, I don’t even know if he’s interested in guys,” Dean said, shrugging, defeated. “It’s been a couple of months now and he’s never mentioned anyone at all, girl or guy. I just know he’s single.”

“Ask him.”

“Sam, you are insane?” Dean could read Sams lips better than anyone in the world and unfortunately, he didn’t think there was any chance he’d mis-read what he’d just suggested.

“It is the twenty-first century, Dean, you know that right? You can ask people who aren’t assholes polite questions like, ‘Hey, I don’t know if you’re interested in guys at all, but I thought that maybe if you were, we could get a drink sometime,’ without being pilloried, you know. I guarantee you that as you’ve already established that he’s not a dick, the worst you’ll get is a polite ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’”

“Sammy, are you trying to give me dating advice?”

Sam’s smile was wicked. “First time for everything—” He looked like he was about to say more, but his eyes flicked up beyond Dean’s shoulder to the left, and he grinned.

Dean turned, finding Bobby standing behind him, smirking.

“He’s right, y’know,” Bobby said, winking in a way Dean wasn’t ever sure he wanted to see again. “You should ask him.”

“Bobby!” Dean was aghast, embarrassment flooding him. Sure, Bobby knew Dean’s preferences, but he didn’t exactly sit around and chat about them with a guy he thought of like an uncle or a surrogate father.

One of Bobby’s bushy eyebrows raised in amusement. “Sam can tell you like that guy all the way from Stanford,” Bobby pointed out. “Imagine what I’m suffering through with a front row seat.”

Yes, okay, Dean had a serious crush on Castiel. He was well aware of that by now; the first gobsmacking flutterings of “ Oh my God, he’s hot!” had not much faded, and they were being joined by other, softer, warmer feelings that all in all were much more alarming. Castiel was thoughtful and kind, and in his own dry, irreverent way, really damn funny. He was reliable and gorgeous and had a smile like—fuck, Dean’s cheeks were warm.

Bobby smirked down at him knowingly.

Dean wanted the couch to open up and eat him, but instead, he turned his attention back to Sam. “End of this conversation. I have a whole docket of cars to work on and then a massive pile of homework to get through if I want to be able to go out for a drink tonight.”

“With…?” Sam asked, looking far too smug.

“I was gonna ask Cas, if I got done early enough,” Dean admitted, sighing. “As friends, okay?”

“Tell your boyfriend hi from me,” Sam said before he hung up.

Shoving his phone moodily in his pocket, Dean turned around to find Bobby still standing behind the couch, his arms folded across his chest and his baseball cap in one hand, grinning.

“What?” Dean asked wearily. “You want to quiz me about my feelings, too? You need to change the sign on this place, you’d make more money as a therapist’s office.”

Bobby shook his head as he shoved his cap back on, pulling it low on his head. “No, boy. I’m not gonna get onto you about it—you’ll realize in your own time that you’re bein’ an idjit by not even taking a chance. For now, I’ve got minivan brakes to test.” Bobby almost made it out of the door before turning his head back, looking at Dean from the square of the door frame with a deadpan expression. “Make sure to tell your boyfriend hi from me, too, though.”

Dean let his head fall forward into his hands, shaking it despairingly. “I am surrounded by assholes,” he muttered to himself. He was just grateful that Jo hadn’t walked in. She would have been ten times worse than Bobby.

Hauling himself up reluctantly a moment later, Dean moved over to the hooks on the wall and shoved his Tupperware back into his backpack, then hung it back between Garth’s and Cole’s. He did his best to ignore the childish impulse to throw Cole’s in the trash.

Things had been no better with Cole since the OSHA incident. His usual assholery of trying to make Dean’s job harder, refusing to communicate in ways Dean could understand, and trying to embarrass him in front of clients continued unabated. Dean had a horrible feeling that Cole was just waiting for the opportunity to do something worse.

Selfishly, Dean almost wished he would. He wished that Cole would do something obvious, so Bobby could just fire him on the spot. But that would leave Bobby without anyone, and as dickish as Cole was, Dean didn’t want extra stress for Bobby.

So, Dean left Cole’s backpack where it was and headed to the office.

The next vehicle on his list for the afternoon was a Ford Focus that needed new tires. Easy. After grabbing the clipboard from Bobby’s desk, Dean walked out onto the shop floor. The Ford was parked on the other side of the bay, ready to be lifted.

Dean’s eyes flicked down to the clipboard in his hand as he walked, checking the size of the tires. Off to his right, there was a sudden movement—but before he could turn and see what was going on, his feet began to slide.

For a split second, Dean took in the slick, black spill of oil that coated the floor beneath his feet. Something was… wrong. Before he could do anything more than choke out a sound, Dean’s limbs betrayed him, all splaying in different directions on the slippery puddle.

He didn’t have time to flail, his boots leaving the floor in a dizzying whoosh as he flew downward, hard.

The back of Dean’s head was met by greasy concrete, then…nothing.

Chapter Text

“Bobby, I swear, I’m fine,” Dean protested, even as Baby’s frame shuddered with the motion of her driver’s side door slamming.

Dean wasn’t used to riding shotgun, particularly in his own damn car, but Bobby hadn’t given him much of a choice. If it had been anyone else, Dean would have put up much more of a fight when he was ordered to hand over his keys. But it was Bobby—and his skull was feeling remarkably like a cracked egg.

“Just keep that ice on the back of your head, idjit,” Bobby said, his lips settling into a thin, tense line beneath his thick mustache when he was done.

“Ice” was a generous word—the ice packs that Bobby had in the medical kit at the auto shop were small, awkward, and not as bendy as they needed to be, so Dean had ended up with a bag of pre-chopped mango and pineapple from the tiny staff freezer. He had a feeling it was Jo’s.

They were just inside the hospital door when Bobby spoke up again, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“Look, I know you hate hospitals, kid. But that was one hell of a whack you ~~, okay? You might not have been able to hear the smack as you went down, but me and Garth sure did.” A small grimace passed over Bobby’s face. “We worry. And look at it ~~ my side of things, just for a damn second—you were injured on my business property. Even just from an insurance perspective, I gotta—”

Dean held up his hands, interrupting. “I get it. I don’t want to worry you, and I don’t want to cause problems. I’ll stay. Promise.”

Bobby raised one bushy eyebrow in surprise but nodded. Bobby was well aware of Dean’s issue with hospitals—he wasn’t afraid of them, but damn, he really didn’t like them. He’d last seen his mom in one, and he’d last seen his dad in one. On top of that, medical settings were just a pain in the ass when you couldn’t hear what was going on around you.

Dean said nothing, though, nodding as the emergency room receptionist pushed a clipboard toward him. He grabbed the pen—secured to the board by a little chain, of course—and sat down in a wobbly plastic chair while Bobby conversed with the older woman behind the desk, occasionally pointing at Dean and gesturing.

Dropping the quickly thawing, makeshift ice pack down onto the empty seat next to him, Dean balanced the clipboard on his knee.

When he looked down at the paperwork, the tiny words all swam before his eyes. Great.

Wincing, Dean reclaimed the cold baggie. Maybe Bobby could fill in the forms, as it seemed there was a tiny, irritating possibility that just maybe, Dean had a concussion.

The chair lurched as Bobby dropped down into the seat next to Dean, at an angle to mind his dodgy hip. Dean shifted to the side to make room, then tipped his head back, settling in, his eyes closed against the throbbing in his skull. After a moment, Bobby tapped his arm.

“They said there’s gonna be at ~~ hour’s wait.”

Dean let out a sigh. “Figures. You should just go, Bobby. The shop needs you.”

Bobby frowned, but Dean could see him thinking. “You don’t want me to stay?” he asked. “You should have someone here with you.”

“I’m twenty-nine, Bobby. You don’t have to babysit me.”

Bobby glared firmly, the longer hairs that stuck out of his large eyebrows meeting above his nose. “I’m not. But in case you forgot, you just kissed concrete, kid. And you’re not exactly handling being upright too good, right now.”

“I’m in a hospital. Best place I can be, and I promised I’d stay. You’ve got stuff to do, Bobby. I know you do.”

“I gotta get back and deal with Cole, that’s for sure.” Bobby’s face was dark and hard.

“What are you going to do?” Dean asked, strangely conflicted.

“He’ll be out on his ass before the day is over.” Bobby’s chest puffed out, and Dean could see him working up into a rant. “There’s a reason we have a flawless safety ~~ at my shop, and that’s because everybody does their part. We have hazard lights! It ain’t hard! Everybody knows. There’s a hazard, hit the button. A preschooler could handle it. And Cole is no rookie—he should have ~~ that button the moment he spilled that oil, and he knows that. The only reason he didn’t is because he’s lazy and he just don’t care.”

Even though Dean had been lipreading from Bobby for decades, it was a little harder to keep up when he was so worked up. Dean took a breath to speak, but Bobby wasn’t done, barreling on with one finger raised in vague accusation.

“And if I find out he spilled that oil on purpose, I’ll give those ~~ tapes to Sheriff Mills faster than he can cry for his momma, mark my words.”

“Bobby, really, I’m gonna be fine—”

“Irrelevant.” Bobby’s jaw tightened. “Would you be dismissing it like this if it had happened to anyone else? It could easily have been Jo, Dean. She could’ve hit that ~~ puddle and brained herself on the concrete just as easy as you, and then she’d be the one sitting here in the ER with a bag of expired frozen smoothie mix on her skull. You’d be okay with that, would you?”

Dean stiffened, disgruntled. “Of course I wouldn’t—”

“Then shut the hell up, kid.”

Dean closed his eyes for a minute. Bobby was right, he knew that—if it had been Jo injured because the safety procedures put in place to protect her were neglected, he’d have strong-armed Cole out of the garage himself, no questions asked. 

“I get it, Bobby. Go deal with Cole and I’ll let them check out my concussion. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Bobby still looked reluctant, but he eventually agreed to leave after—somewhat threateningly, in his usual style—telling Dean that he’d better text for help if he needs it, and good luck not telling Sam because he’d already messaged him.

Dean rolled his eyes, causing himself to wince. Maybe it really was a good idea to get someone to check his head, just in case. Once Bobby had departed—taking Baby with him, just in case—Dean pulled the clipboard he’d been given back into his lap.

Several minutes of swimming words later, there was a receptionist asking him questions without looking up from her keyboard, and another patient who kept yelling something at him that he couldn’t make out.

Dean could feel his blood pressure rising.

He excused himself to go to the bathroom, splashing cold water over his face as he glared down into the sink.

By the time he returned to his wobbly plastic chair and retrieved his paperwork and chained-up pen, Dean was feeling calmer and more resigned. There was no need to make this harder, he knew that.

He pulled out his phone.

For a long minute, he just held it. Wrestling with himself, frustrated that…well, that he was the way he was.

But then he flicked his thumb across the screen and unlocked it, bringing up his text message thread with Castiel. With a bit of squinting and some help from autocorrect, Dean managed to type out what he hoped was a coherent message.

Dean [01:46 pm]: Hey cas you around

He hadn’t even put his phone back into his pocket before it buzzed.

Cas [01:47 pm]: Yes, I am. I’m just working on material for my classes next week.

Dean [01:47 pm]: ok don’t worry if you’re busy

Cas [01:48 pm]: I didn’t say that. What’s up?

Dean [01:48 pm]: I could use a little help honestly

For a moment, typing bubbles appeared, then stopped. Then started again…then stopped. After a minute, the screen brightened once more.

Cas [01:49 pm]: I’m glad that you’d think to ask me, whatever it is. What do you need?

Dean [01:49 pm]: There was an accident at work today. everythings fine but I’m at the ER in Topeka

Cas [01:49 pm]: What happened?!

Cas [01:49 pm]: nvm you can tell me when I get there

Cas [01:49 pm]: Stormont Vail or University?

Dean allowed himself a brief smile at Castiel's immediate urgency. He’d never seen him abbreviate a single word in text before. It warmed something in Dean’s chest.

Dean [01:49 pm]: Stormont. Thanks Cas

Cas [01:50 pm]: omw

Dean pocketed his phone. He knew asking Castiel for help was the right thing to do—even if it had involved an awful amount of squinting. He felt a strange lifting in his chest (different from the one he usually got in anticipation of seeing Cas) and it took him a moment to place it as pride. He was proud of himself that he’d reached out.

Sometimes, it was okay to ask for help. He’d been adjusting to that idea for a long time, but hell, it was time to start walking the walk.

Resting his head back against the convenient wall behind his plastic chair, the makeshift ice pack wedged against it, Dean held his clipboard of patient information across his lap and closed his eyes. Things were less swooshy and nausea-inducing when he closed his eyes.

He lost track of time, and Castiel’s gentle touch and grip on his arm made him jerk his head forward off the wall, his eyes flying open to a blurry world of clinical lights and stark walls. The bag of frozen fruit slipped down to his shoulder with a wet, cold slap.

“Cas! That was quick.”

“I came as fast as I could,” Castiel said, letting go of Dean’s arm to free up his hands for conversation. “What happened?”

Dean explained, watching Castiel’s expression grow darker.

“So, this man not only neglected safety procedures and caused you injury, but is the same man that has been disrespectful and disruptive before?”

“Yeah,” Dean nodded emphatically—then let out a sharp, uncomfortable huff of air as he retrieved the improvised ice pack from his shoulder and slid it back into place.

Looking at it, Castiel bit back a smile. “Give me just a moment—let me see if they have something better than the contents of the auto shop freezer for your head.”

Castiel stood and moved over to the reception desk. There was a swift discussion, some hand waving, and then the woman nodded. She called back to someone in the room behind her seat, and a nurse appeared a moment later with a frosty, blue ice pack. Castiel returned with it wrapped in a neat cloth sleeve, and with a clipboard of his own.

Dean raised his eyebrow at Castiel’s paperwork as he handed over the ice pack.

“Just a quick form,” Castiel said, noticing, as he sat back down. He shoved his hand into his pocket—causing Dean to register, for the first time, that Castiel was dressed in grey sweatpants and an old Kansas State t-shirt, as if he’d run out of the house in what he’d slept in—and pulling out his wallet. From within he retrieved a red license, credit-card sized, and began to swiftly input the numbers and details onto the form. “As I’m not family, this facility requires that I be licensed in order to stay with you and interpret.”

“Lucky you have your license, then, I guess,” Dean said, dropping Jo’s smoothie ingredients onto the empty chair on his other side.

Castiel finished his form and dropped it back at the desk before returning and gesturing to the identical clipboard on Dean’s other side.

“Are you done with yours?”

“Ah, actually—” Dean held up his ice pack with a sheepish grimace, “—everything is a little fuzzy right now. Would it be weird if I asked you to fill it out for me?”

Before Dean was done asking, Castiel had reached across and grabbed it, nodding swiftly. “Of course not, no problem.”

Castiel set about filling it out, stopping to ask details that he didn’t know about Dean or couldn’t remember.

“What’s your middle name?”

“Michael.”

“Your birthday is in January, right?”

“Yeah, January twenty-fourth.”

“Current medications?”

Dean shook his head, and they moved along. It took a little time, but eventually they reached the final page and Dean scrawled a haphazard signature along the bottom.

“Congratulations, Cas,” he joked. “You now know more about me than anyone in the world, other than possibly my brother.”

Castiel laughed, lowering himself back into his seat and pulling up one knee, angling himself so that Dean could see him as he signed. “That doesn’t seem very fair.”

“True.” Dean grinned broadly. “Does that mean you need a head injury next, so I can learn all about you?”

“I’ll pass, thank you. But…” Castiel pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “Fair is fair. So how about…three questions. Anything you want. And I’ll answer them.”

“Hmm, reasonable.” Dean settled back into his seat for a moment, flipping his ice pack while he thought what to ask first. “Okay. Tell me the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”

“That was not on the medical form.” Castiel glared teasingly, before shaking his head. “Honestly, Dean, I told you before…I’m boring. Even my wildest things, you’d probably just laugh at.”

Castiel was adorable when his eyes dropped shyly like that, Dean decided, but even so, he didn’t want him to feel awkward. Dean knocked his thigh into Castiel’s knee, drawing his gaze back up.

“Try me. You went to college, you’ve gotta have some stories.”

Pink-cheeked, Castiel rolled his eyes to the ceiling before he looked back at Dean and admitted, “I was arrested once.”

“What?!” Dean sat up a little in surprise, ignoring the loud complaint in his head. “What did you do? Let me guess—someone ruffled your feathers and you punched them in the face. Ooh, or was it drugs? Too much pot in your pimpmobile?”

Castiel bit his lip, swallowing back a chuckle. “Much worse—I was arrested for reading a book on the roof of a bank.”

Dean only managed a slow blink. For a moment he didn’t trust his eyes, but—with flaming pink cheeks—Castiel repeated himself, more slowly.

Jesus. Dean clamped his teeth down on his lower lip, hard.

“I needed better lighting,” Castiel said, a tiny pout on his features that Dean desperately yearned to discover the taste of.

Fuck, he had it bad. For the dork who gets arrested for disruptive reading, apparently.

“Was it at least some really cool, radical, banned book?” Dean asked.

“It was a poetry anthology, actually,” Castiel admitted sulkily. “But some of it was quite progressive.”

“Of course it was,” Dean agreed kindly, fixing Castiel with his warmest grin. “Okay, next question. What’s your biggest fear?”

“Wow, Dean. You’re going for the throat. Are you sure I can’t interest you in my favorite food, instead?”

“Cas, you bring a PB&J to school for lunch every damn day. I think I can work it out. Besides,” Dean paused and nudged his knee against Castiel’s as he let his temple flop onto the wall, supporting his head. “I want to know real things about you, Cas—I want to get to know you, the you inside, not the superficial parts.”

It felt like a line, but…well, shit. Maybe it was.

Castiel blushed anyway. “Okay,” he signed then, smiling softly. “Real things. The thing I’m most afraid of is… not being selfish, I suppose. You were right, I’ve spent my whole life doing things for my family. And I don’t regret that, except that I’ve…I’ve never had anything just for me. I’ve devoted myself to helping other people, to being a good teacher and a dutiful son. I’m proud of those things. But I want that, sometimes. Something that’s just for me. And I’m afraid I won’t be brave enough to abandon my duty and grab it.”  

Their eyes remained locked after Castiel’s hands dropped to his lap, and Dean made a study of the gentle color that highlighted Castiel’s cheekbones. Finally, after far too long of a minute, Castiel dropped his eyes away, the color growing.

“I’m afraid of flying,” Dean said to break the moment. “Seems a bit lame by comparison, now.”

Castiel grinned before saying, “You know planes are safer than cars, right?”

“Maybe the way you drive,” Dean retorted. “Okay, my third question; Worst date ever—go.”

Castiel dropped his head into his hands—of course Dean couldn’t hear him groaning, but he definitely didn’t need to.

“That bad, huh?”

Sitting up, Castiel nodded before he signed, “Her name was April. I met her on a night out in college, and I thought she was into me. She asked me if I wanted to ditch my plans and get dinner. I said yes, and after we ate, we were walking home and cut through some deserted backstreets. I thought she was going in for a kiss.”

“She wasn’t?”

“No, she was mugging me.”

“Oh my god! Seriously?” Dean could feel his jaw hanging open, but—wow. His own poor dates suddenly didn’t seem that bad.

Castiel nodded. “Yes. My dating attempts before that weren’t great either. So, clearly, you can see why I gave up on dating entirely and resigned myself to living at home and reading poetry on roofs.”

“Gave up entirely?” Dean asked, his chest giving a little lurch. “That seems extreme. Bad girlfriends though…fair enough. What about, uh, boyfriends? Any boyfriend stories?”

Castiel’s eyes lifted back to Dean, and the corner of his mouth crept upward in a somewhat amused looking little smile.

Great. Subtle. Dean was real, real subtle.

“No, no boyfriend stories,” Castiel signed slowly, the movements of his hands small. “Not yet, at least.”

Not yet?

Hell, yes—Dean would take not yet.

Before Dean could open his mouth and let something stupid and flirty drop out of it—thank God—a man in green scrubs stepped up to them and said something that pulled Castiel’s attention.

“They’re ready for you, Dean,” he signed, all business once more. “Room four.”

Right. The pounding, swollen egg on the back of Dean’s head. The reason they were here. He’d actually managed to relax while he was sitting and chatting with Castiel, but reality came crashing back as they rose from their seats. Dean could feel his blood pressure rising.

Room four was a small, standard examination room. A tall, black doctor in a knee-length white coat over simple black scrubs waited for them inside.

“Alright,” Dean said as he sat down. “Let’s get this over with.”

Castiel stood in front of Dean, to the doctor’s left, and signed along as she spoke.

“This is Doctor Berry. She is going to go through your paperwork with you quickly, then assess your vision and balance. As you’ve already been experiencing obvious concussion symptoms, she would like to send you for a CT scan to make sure there’s no internal bleeding or swelling.”

“Okay,” signed Dean. “Do I talk to you, or her?”

“Talk to her, ask her your questions, and from this point forward I’ll just interpret her words directly. Okay?”

Dean boosted himself up to sit on the examination table, then signed “okay” back.

Within minutes, Dean gave up trying to lipread and relied wholly on Castiel. The doctor was kind and thorough, but she spoke way too fast and moved her hands distractingly while she went through his forms and asked additional questions.

Any other time, Dean would have balled up his frustration inside, hiding his stress beneath anger. But he already felt less lost with Castiel there. Even so, when Dr. Berry stepped out for a moment to arrange his scan, Dean let out a shaky sigh.

Castiel came and stood next to him once she’d gone, the paper cover on the examination table wrinkling up as he rested his hip on the padded edge.

“Thank you,” Dean said, keeping his eyes on the floor between his swinging boots. “I, uh, I don’t like hospitals all that much. Not scared exactly, but…the whole experience just stresses me out. So, thanks for coming, Cas.”

Dean didn’t look up to see if Castiel responded, but after a beat, Castiel’s hand reached across and took Dean’s. He twined their fingers together and gently squeezed.

He didn’t let go until the doctor returned to direct them down to radiology.

Dean dropped into his seat in Professor Adler’s front row, dragging his busted-up backpack onto the small arm-table in front of him. He pulled out a bottle of water and quickly downed two of the prescription-strength ibuprofens he’d left the hospital with the day before. As he’d insisted to Bobby at the time, Dean was fine.

Alright, a little concussed.

But he’d been just fine. He certainly hadn’t needed the indignity of being forced to spend the night at Charlie’s and being woken up every few hours to be checked on. He was going to get Castiel back, one of these days, for being all concerned and insisting Charlie stayed up with him.

The absolute highlight of the evening, concussion or not, had been the series of photographs that had Jo texted to him. They were of Bobby, red-faced and open-mouthed, railing into Cole—and Cole slinking out of the building with the contents of his locker afterwards.

Yeah, maybe Dean was petty—no, no, he wasn’t. His guilt was non-existant. That fucker deserved it.

Dean had forwarded one of the pictures to Castiel with a brief explanation, and Castiel had sent a string of emojis and several gleeful gifs in response. Because of course he had.

All in all, Dean was tired, and his head ached, but his vision had pretty much cleared up and he didn’t feel nauseous anymore. A win, Dean figured. Now he just had to survive Adler’s early morning math class.

Charlie walked in only a few minutes later, after dropping Dorothy off over at the theater department. She idly kicked Dean’s foot and threw him a wink on the way past. “Don’t fall asleep,” she said, glaring teasingly. “Adler will be pissed if I have to come wake you up.”

“Funny,” Dean said flatly, briefly reconsidering his decision to stay at Charlie’s place rather than go to Bobby and Jo’s. Charlie’s was closer to school, though, unfortunately.

“You think I’m hilarious,” Charlie signed cheekily across at him before heading back a few rows to her seat. She’d decided to start learning a few signs not long after they’d met. Dean hadn’t gone into detail with her about how much it touched him, but he had a feeling she knew.

Against his thigh, Dean’s phone vibrated with a message.

Cas [08:58 am]: I’m really sorry to do this, but I’m not going to make it to class today

Dean [08:58 am]: Everything ok?

Cas [08:58 am]: I’m fine, but my “pimpmobile” has wheezed itself to death. Anna is looking at it, but she says it needs a lot of work, stuff she doesn’t have the tools for

Even though he was disappointed, Dean couldn’t help but smile at the quotes around pimpmobile, even in text.

Dean [08:59 am]: It’s fine dude, it happens. I’ll manage. If Anna can’t fix it, get it towed to Singer’s Auto. Tell them I sent you.

With that, Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, defeated. His chances of improving his day had just dropped dramatically. Nonetheless, he straightened his shoulders and grabbed his notebook, turning his attention to the huge whiteboard at the front of the class that Professor Adler always covered in numbers and ramblings. It was clear, waiting for him to start.

Dean could do this. He knew the material; he’d done the homework—he was on top of this class. Even if he missed the odd thing that Adler said, he felt pretty confident that he could get through this.

Funny how working with Castiel had given him the confidence to be without Castiel.

As bald and boring as ever, Adler strode into the room from the side door, indicating he’d been passing the time in his office drinking weak tea and under-grading student’s papers. The usual.

He was a tall man given that he looked so weaselly—probably a couple of inches taller than Dean, even. Not that Dean wasted much time standing close to the guy. He tried to stay out of his bug-eyed gaze as much as possible, not wanting to tempt fate. Overinflated, middle-aged asshat Zachariah Adler had taken a distinct dislike to Dean since the very first day of class, when Castiel had stood up for Dean over the first minor seating issue.

Since then, every time Dean had asked for slides, or reminded the Prof to pick videos with closed captioning, Castiel had stood right by his side. Dorky, quiet, and rumpled, and yet somehow wholly intimidating.

Professor Adler greeted the students, Dean guessed, with a vague shift of his lips that indicated he wasn’t in the best mood, his paper cup of watery tea looking even more sickly than usual as he placed it on the little-used podium.

His beady eyes moved across the class, taking everyone in. For a moment, his gaze settled on Dean. He raised one greying eyebrow, flicking his attention briefly to the empty seat at Dean’s side, as if noting Castiel’s absence. With that, he nodded and picked up the eraser for the whiteboard.

As at the beginning of every class, he banged it down on the podium for attention.

Yet another thing Dean was glad he couldn’t hear, because that was obnoxious as all hell.

Adler walked up to the whiteboard and wrote out a series of numbers and a long equation that Dean hadn’t come across yet. He stood for a while with his back to the class, to Dean’s increasing frustration, pointing from one number to another, before turning around.

With a tiny, cold smile, Alder looked at Dean. Then he turned, and walked to the other side of the classroom, angling away from Dean entirely as he addressed the room.

Dean stared at his back.

…the fuck?

Even when he had Castiel at his side to interpret, Dean still watched Adler closely—he could make out a fair bit, reading his lips, now that he’d gotten used to the way the man talked. He’d been pretty sure that between the notes on the board and picking out as much as he could from Adler’s words, he’d have been able to keep up. It was only one class, after all.

But the clock ticked on, and Adler didn’t move.

Frustrated, Dean tapped his pen repeatedly on his notebook, until he caught the skinny chick with braids to his left glaring at him out of the corner of his eye. Whoops.

Dean’s palms were sweating, and his heartbeat was picking up in a way that wasn’t sexy in the slightest.

Why did he think he could do this?

He couldn’t do this. He needed Cas.

He was fucking useless.

Slowly, Dean’s fingers curled in until his hands were fists, cutting half-moons of frustration and disappointment into the meat of his palms. Periodically, Dean looked at the clock above the podium. It mocked him, the hand juddering on slowly, making sure he was aware of every hopeless second.

Dean continued staring at Adler’s back, picking out a pull of thread in his sweater vest. Dean wanted to yank at it and choke the asshole with the resulting yarn.

As he was swallowing down his anger, Dean felt his phone buzzing against his thigh. He pulled it out of his pocket, briefly, in case it was an update from Cas, or something urgent from Sam or Bobby—but his notifications announced a string of texts from Charlie, several rows back.

Huffing air out angrily, Dean dismissed them and shoved his phone back into his jeans. He rubbed his jaw roughly and refocused on Adler.

He could speak to Charlie later. Likely, she’d either picked up on Adler’s douchey behavior and was yelling at him to say something—which, no, that was not gonna make it better—or she was sending him dorky math jokes or musings on his handmaiden costume for their planned upcoming cosplay weekend. He could answer her later; he wasn’t in the mood.

Dully, Dean noted that his head was pounding again. Of course.

The chairs around Dean all shuddered as they were hurriedly pushed back, movement everywhere sending vibrations through the floor. Dean’s eyes flicked back to the clock—class was over. Adler must have dismissed them.

Slowly, Dean slipped his notepad back into his backpack. The new page that he’d turned to was still just that—New. Bare. Not a single note.

He’d wait around a few minutes. Usually, Adler would send copies of his slides or his own lecture notes, if Castiel requested them. Maybe if Dean hung around and asked—

Adler strode straight past Dean’s seat without a look.

His exit would have been a lot more dramatic if there hadn’t been a stopper on the door, slowing it and preventing it from slamming, but the way Adler flounced out without a care still felt like a slap to Dean’s rapidly reddening face.

He was so fucking frustrated, he—

Charlie’s face popped in front of his very suddenly, making him flinch.

“Hey,” she said, a frown beneath her red bangs. “What—”

Dean jerked his head down to zip up his backpack, ignoring her words. His fucking head was killing him, he needed to—

Firmly, she tapped him on the arm, clearly pissed.

“You ignored my texts, but you can’t ignore my face,” she said, her expression stiff and angry. Which…was reasonable, probably.

“Try me,” Dean mumbled, pushing around the edge of the desk past her.

“But you ~~ let him do ~~ fair, Dean! Or I will!” Frowning and severe, Charlie crossed her arms over in front of her Rurouni Kenshin hoodie. Clearly, she had noticed Adler’s behavior. She really was way too observant.

Even with only half the sentence, Dean shook his head. “Just leave it, Charlie,” he mumbled. “It’s not going to make it any better.”

Before she could answer, Dean turned and pushed his way through the door, still swinging his backpack up as he moved.

He caught his shoulder on the doorframe. A small, sharp pain bloomed through his bicep, but he ignored it, and shoved his way into the crowded hall.

Charlie didn’t try to follow.

Chapter Text

“What are you doing here?” Jo asked, her brow lifted in surprise. “It’s dark out, Bobby’s already gone so I was about to lock up.”

Dean threw his backpack down onto the old, battered couch in the break room, rolling his shoulders. He felt his bones creaking; did school textbooks really have to weigh so much? Never mind cost so much—why wasn’t everything just online already, anyway?

Huffing out a grumpy sigh, Dean turned his attention back to Jo.

“Bad day,” he admitted. “I gotta do something with my hands. Don’t worry about locking up the garage, I’ve got my keys. I’ll close it up when I’m done.”

Jo frowned at him. “What happened?”

Dean waved a hand. “Just some school bullshit.”

Jo regarded him for a moment, her arms folded across her chest and her lips pursed. Then she nodded, a slow smile breaking across her face. “Come with me, then. I’ve got just the thing.”

Dean didn’t have time to question her. She turned on her heel and marched toward the door out to the bay, holding it open and sweeping her arm to usher Dean through.

They stopped by the office, Jo scurrying with a little smile and Dean trailing behind, wondering what she was up to, but ultimately deciding that as long as it involved there being something else for him to focus on, he didn’t care.

Holding up the keys and clipboard that she’d grabbed from Bobby’s desk, Jo jerked her head to the other side of the bay.

“No one’s picked this up yet, it was on the docket for tomorrow—but really, it should be you anyway.”

Dean gave her a questioning look. She ignored him, looking back down at the clipboard before striding off across to the other side of the work area.

After weaving around a few vehicles in various states of repair, she stopped and held out the keys to Dean. “Here you go. She’s all yours—fix her up good, now.”

Dean’s eyes followed her thumb as it jerked over her shoulder, and landed on a very familiar, totally fugly, gold Lincoln Continental.

A strange warmth bloomed in Dean’s chest as he realized that Castiel had listened to him, and he couldn’t help but smile as his gaze roved over the car. Her hood was propped open.

Jo held out the clipboard helpfully, but after only a cursory look at the car and Bobby’s chicken-scratch admission note under the wiper, Dean didn’t need it.

“Damn it, his transmission is totally fucked. It’d make more sense for him to get a new car.”

Jo nodded. “Yeah, Bobby told him. Apparently, he likes this one.”

Dean regarded the blocky, old-fashioned lump of a car. It could have been a classic, to some people, he supposed. This one, though, was kinda banged up and had bizarre hydraulics and a bad paint job.

Dean smiled fondly. “Yeah, that sounds like Cas.”

“Bobby already found a replacement transmission,” Jo said. “He had one back at the lot. I’ll go get it, you inspect it for other issues. I know you won’t want to be giving this one back with waiting problems.”

Jo was right, of course, but the wink she gave Dean was uncalled for, in his opinion.

“It’s just good service,” Dean said, prickling.

“Sure,” Jo agreed, nodding as she tossed the clipboard onto the front seat for later reference. “I’m sure you want to service him real good, Dean.”

“Joanna Beth Harvelle!”

“Save it for the jury, because I was here when he dropped it off. That man is as hot as the hinges on the gates of Hades.”

Dean spluttered out the last of his dignity and pointed a threatening finger at Jo. “You—you shut up.”

Her shoulders shook as she walked away, leaving him blushing like an idiot in the car bay. Raising his hands to his face, he pushed them back over his head and let out a sigh. Okay, yes, Jo was right—he wanted this car to be perfect because it belonged to Cas. But it wasn’t, as she thought, meant to be any kind of flirtation, not really.

The reason this one mattered was because Dean had a chance to prove to Castiel that he was capable. That even if he was on his second attempt at school at nearly thirty, that even if he pushed away friends and failed at relationships, that even if he felt like he was the worst Winchester, the one who was a disappointment…he was still good at stuff. He still had skills, talents.

He wanted Castiel to be proud of him. It felt stupid to admit, even to himself, but he did.

Castiel’s opinion of him mattered. A lot. A hell of a lot.

Shaking his head, Dean walked around to lean on the edge of the Continental’s hood, looking down inside.

You, Dean Winchester, are a lovesick idiot. The thought brought him a small smile, at least. Yeah, maybe he was an idiot, maybe Castiel was way out of his league. But at least he was self-aware enough to know he was totally gone on the guy.

For now, though…car.

Maybe he wasn’t batting a great average romantically this year, but cars? He could do cars.

Dean gave the Lincoln a good look over and jotted down various extra jobs he wanted to do, just to make sure Castiel got the car back in the best condition he could. As he crept under the car on a board, he could see several spots where a lot of work had already been done on her. That must have been Anna, he supposed, keeping her brother’s disaster of a car running as best she could without a shop. It was good work, he noted, fixes he’d have been proud of himself.

Wonder if she’s any good with electronic stuff, or willing to learn? Dean mused as he made note of a few serial numbers.

A tap on his ankle announced Jo returning with a wheeled cart, the replacement transmission ready on top of it. He scooted back out. She was in her oily Singer’s shirt again, her hair pulled back from her face.

“You sticking around?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. I get that you need to work through your emotions or whatever, but the transmission alone could take you six hours or more. You need hands.”

“Jo,” Dean protested, touched. “You don’t have to do that.”

She didn’t bother answering, just kicked her foot out to nudge the car’s bumper instead. “Lots to do under there?”

“Not too bad,” Dean said, showing her the list.

“Alright. Let’s do this. One really spoiled, ugly car coming right up so you can impress your man.”

Dean let his shoulders slump, defeated. “Yeah, sure. That.”

They worked side by side for several hours, no communication needed—they’d been doing this a long time, him and Jo. They knew when to pass tools, who was better at what, which jobs to do first. The only person more in sync with Dean than Jo was Sammy, and that boy didn’t know a crankshaft from an exhaust donut. He was probably the only Winchester in three generations who didn’t do his own oil changes. Hell, Sammy rode the bus.

Dean missed him. He should call him again soon, he decided.

It was the middle of the night by the time Jo disappeared and came back with two steaming cups of fresh black coffee from Bobby’s stash. Taking it gratefully, Dean blew across the top before slurping a few burning, airy sips into his mouth.

“Needed that, thanks, Jo.”

“No worries. You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Thought I smelled smoke.”

“Fine, I’ll keep my amazing, sneaky idea to myself, then…” she said, shrugging far too innocently as she leaned back against the driver’s side door.

“This can’t be good.”

“It’s better than good, it’s brilliant.”

Dean placed his paper coffee cup down on the hood and paused to reroll his sleeves before looking back at Jo. “Alright. I’ll bite. What’ve you been thinking?”

“You should surprise Cas with the car tomorrow. Take it to class. I’m sure he’ll work out another way to be there in the morning, right?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I messaged him this afternoon and he said he’d get one of his brothers to drop him off before my applied engineering class.”

“Then drive his car to school. Surprise him with it after, tell him about all the extra work you’re doing—which you won’t even charge him for, I know you won’t—and when he wants to thank you, tell him that you’ll accept a date as payment.”

“I can’t bribe him into dating me, Jo, that’s really manipulative. Besides—”

“Oh, fine,” Jo interrupted, her hands waving. “Dinner and a drink, then. He can take it as platonic if he wants, or he can take it as an opening. Ball’s in his court.”

Dean’s spine was stiff, immediately wanting to shut the conversation down and talk about something else, but…it wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe not the date thing, but surprising Castiel with the car, when he probably expected to wait days and pick it up himself? That’d make him smile.

Dean was pretty weak for Castiel’s rare, gummy grin.

Realizing that he was smiling down at his own hands, lost in thought, Dean jerked his head back up. Jo was laughing.

“Dick,” he muttered.

“Bigger than yours,” she said, winking. “Drink your coffee, Romeo. I don’t wanna be here until four in the morning.”

Smiling, Dean chugged down the rough, dark roast and got back to work. 

Thank God, Dean got to sleep in for a couple of hours the next morning, as his first class wasn’t until ten. Even so, he was pretty tired, and a dull headache reminded him that pushing himself and working at the garage half the night wasn’t the wisest decision so soon after a concussion.

He’d never claimed to be a wise man.

Backpack on one arm, Dean dawdled into Engineering Hall with a piece of cold toast in hand. He’d intended to eat it on the way here, but he’d forgotten in favor of chugging a whole thermos of coffee. Shoving it in his mouth, Dean was dusting a cascade of crumbs from his front when he felt a nudge to his shoulder.

Castiel fell in step beside him, raising a hand in greeting.

“Morning, Cas,” Dean said around his toast remains.

“You look like shit,” Castiel signed, deadpan.

“Well you, you’re…” Dean trailed off for a moment, taking in Castiel’s work attire: his deep navy suit, white shirt, and striped tie, all covered by his usual trench coat and a lumpy, blue scarf that had most certainly been hand knit. It brought out his eyes. Dean shrugged, smiling. “Nah, I got nothing. You look great.”

Castiel blinked in surprise before looking away quickly, but Dean caught the surprised flush on his cheeks. They managed to squeeze up a busy flight of stairs before Castiel tapped his elbow again.

“What I meant,” he signed, face serious again, “was that you look very tired.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, well. Bad day yesterday and then I was up half the night.”

“Couldn’t sleep?” Castiel frowned gently.

“Nah, I was busy. Which reminds me to say, hang around for a few minutes after my next class, okay? I have a surprise for you.”

Castiel looked softly startled once more but managed a smile this time. “For me?”

“Don’t see anyone else around here I even like, so it’s gotta be for you.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel signed before pausing to open the lecture hall door, “you like Charlie. And Ed, and Harry.”

“True,” Dean agreed as he headed to sit down. “Charlie’s on thin ice after waking me up four times in the night after you dropped me off at her place, though.”

“You had a concussion, Dean.”

“She’s lucky she didn’t have one, waking me up like that.”

Slumping down into his seat, Dean tucked his backpack under his chair so that it wasn’t in Castiel’s way and began to prepare for the lesson. He knew that he needed to apologize to Charlie for how he’d behaved the day before, but he didn’t want to text her an apology. Even he knew that wasn’t cool. Some stuff deserved to be said out loud, whether he could hear it or not. Hopefully, he could stop by her place later. In the evening, he decided. She deserved that.

Castiel nudged him to let him know that class had begun. Dean was glad to have him back.

Applied Engineering was one of Dean’s favorite core classes, and one of the ones he was best at. Sitting with Castiel typing away by his side, the warmth of his knee just catching Dean’s thigh, and knowing that he had a fugly gold surprise for him parked around the corner, kept Dean on a low simmer of happiness.

The hour sped by and, before Dean knew it, they were rushing across campus together and into Adler’s math class.

That was where it all went wrong.

Adler, all weak tea, weak chin and wrinkly disposition, strode up to the front of the hall with a smug, slimy confidence that Dean instantly disliked. There was just something odious about the man—and it wasn’t really a comfort to know, from talking to his classmates and to Charlie and friends, that he wasn’t the only one to think so.

After a few minutes of basic housekeeping chat, Adler shoved a bundle of poorly printed sheets into the hands of the sleepy-looking Asian kid in the front row, and stood with his arms crossed, glaring at nothing, while they were handed around.

A pop quiz.

Ugh. The bane of every student’s life.

Dean’s stomach dropped as he turned over the pages. The only thing he recognized was the unexplained algebraic equation that had taunted him from the whiteboard for the whole of the previous class, leering down at him mockingly while he’d glared a hole in Adler’s back.

Swallowing hard, Dean read the questions.

Calculate the deformation of the given columns under an axial compressive load...

Then read them again.

What the fuck was an axial compressive load?

Dean could feel the back of his neck heating with embarrassment and frustration. After heading to the garage to work off his anger, he hadn’t had time to start digging into his textbooks and researching the mystery equation himself—he hadn’t thought for even a moment that Adler would drop a pop quiz on them today, the one day where Dean wouldn’t have a clue.

After reading through the whole thing several more times, Dean slowly blinked and dragged his eyes up to where the professor stood, at the front of the class.

Should…should he say something?

Dean looked around, sneaking quick looks along his row.

Castiel was keeping himself occupied, tapping away on his laptop, catching up on paperwork of his own. Beyond him, all of the other students in the class had their heads down, their arms shifting as they scribbled quickly through the answers. Some were nodding.

Moistening his lips, Dean read every question once more.

Castiel’s knee nudged into the side of Dean’s thigh beneath the table. He looked puzzled, quirking a questioning eyebrow at Dean’s test.

Dean shook his head firmly, embarrassed, and stared back down at his blank answer pages.

His heart rate picked up, and not in the fun way. He slowly spun his pen. As the seconds ticked by, his ribcage got tighter and tighter, and then—

A hand appeared, stretched out, waiting for his paper.

Dean picked up the neat, untouched sheets. For a moment he wanted to say something, to explain, to ask for help—like he knew he should.

He screwed them into a ball and left them on the desk.

Wrapping his hand tightly around the strap of his ratty backpack, Dean stormed out of the door. He gritted his teeth and huffed out an angry breath, just so that he could pretend to himself that the backs of his eyes weren’t prickling with tears.

Most classes were still in session, so the corridor that bisected Engineering Hall was pretty empty, and Dean stomped unimpeded down it to the nearest bathroom. It too, thank God, was empty.

Dean dropped his backpack down at his feet and allowed his spine to wilt, his head hanging forward over the bank of plain, white sinks as he supported himself on his palms.        

I am such an idiot, Dean’s brain began. There’s no way I can do this. Why did I ever start thinking I could do this? Cas is away for one day—one! And I manage to fuck it all up.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean bunched up his forehead and gripped the porcelain edge of the sink more tightly. His breathing felt stunted and his eyeballs felt hot beneath his lids, his shame and annoyance with himself and his anger at Adler all bottled up inside and heating him from within.

What am I going to do with actual tests if I can’t even get through a pop quiz? I’m not always gonna have Cas right there to hold my hand and—

A brief tap to Dean’s forearm politely announced someone’s presence, right before a warm palm settled between his shoulder blades.

Dean flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes felt wide and sticky as they landed on Castiel, and he moistened his lips automatically before saying, “Damn it, Cas, you made me jump.”

Castiel held up one hand, palm open in apology, but the other stayed resting where it had landed on Dean’s back. He didn’t bother speaking, his troubled, questioning frown enough.

Dean shook his head, before admitting to the sink, “I failed Alder’s stupid little quiz thingy. Only a few days until finals and I can’t even pass a quiz.”

In the sink, a droplet of water from the dripping faucet journeyed miserably down the slope of the porcelain and into the drain. Dean stared at it, letting out a long, slow sigh.

The warm fingers of Castiel’s empty hand came up to rest at the side of Dean’s jaw, pulling his attention back up and away from the sink.

“It’s just one little quiz, Dean,” he said, slowly and carefully, his hands busy; he rubbed a tiny, confused circle into the middle of Dean’s back, and his fingers stayed on Dean’s jaw for a moment longer.

Dean liked them there.

“I know, I know, I—” Dean squeezed his eyes shut again. He took a breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, man. This is stupid, I get it, but it…you were out for one day. Just one. And the second I didn’t have you there to hold my hand, I fucked up.”

Castiel frowned and slowly slid his hands back in front of himself so that he could sign as he talked.

“I don’t learn for you, Dean. You’re doing all of this yourself. I just give you the material in a form you can understand. Are you mad because I couldn’t make it to class yesterday? I—”

Dean interrupted, huffed wetly. “Hell no, Cas. I’m not mad at you for anything. I’m mad at that dick bag”—Dean’s arm jerked up toward the door, indicating back down the hall—"Adler, and I’m mad at myself for being fucking useless.”

Roughly, almost angrily, Castiel gripped at Dean’s bicep and hauled him upwards. No longer leaning on the sink, Dean reluctantly straightened and looked at Castiel, accepting his challenging gaze.

“You are not useless. You are one of the hardest working, stubbornest, most independent people I have ever met.”

Dean squirmed, his eyes dropping. “Well, I don’t feel that way.”

Castiel’s hands were gentler, but he grabbed ahold of Dean’s bicep once more and stepped forward, right up to Dean’s front, and ducked his head down to catch Dean’s gaze again. “You’re wrong. Maybe you don’t see it, don’t see you, but I do. You’re a magnificent, talented person who fights hard but loves harder. You’re brilliant, Dean.”

Dean’s chest was tightening up again. He tried to suck in a breath, but he felt like a balloon on the verge of popping. With flushed cheeks, he shook his head and said, “How’d you just—you can’t just say stuff like that, Cas, Jesus.”

Castiel shrugged, right there in front of Dean. No sense of personal space. “I believe it to be true.”

Even with more than one method of communication at his disposal these days, Dean didn’t have a God-damned clue what to say.

So, instead, he yanked Castiel into a rough hug, burying his heated face into the shoulder of his suit jacket. Dean felt Castiel draw in a sharp breath of surprise against his chest, but his arms came up instantly to embrace Dean back, slipping around him and wrapping him close.

It lasted for a long, comfortable minute. Dean pulled in air through his nose, filling his lungs with the clean, soft, warm-laundry smell of Castiel, and cataloged every feeling; the firmness of his chest, the weight of his arms, the way his messy hair tickled at Dean’s temple.

Pulling back before he made it weird, Dean shrugged one shoulder awkwardly and signed, “Well, thanks. It’s nice that you think that. Pretty sure Adler just thinks I’m a waste of space and resources, though.”

Castiel frowned again, more firmly, the wrinkles across his brow deepening. “What do you mean?”

Dean explained. He told Castiel about Adler’s behavior in class, about his pointed looks and refusal to face Dean's direction. He told him how he turned his back, how he addressed every part of the room except Dean’s. And Dean told Castiel about his intention to corner Adler after, to ask for his slides or some notes to be emailed, and how Adler had swept past Dean’s desk without a glance.

Maybe he’d just been busy. Maybe none of it was deliberate. Professor Adler was a well-documented douchebag, but maybe Dean was overreacting.

Castiel’s expression clearly showed that he thought that possibility was utter bullshit.

Pulling himself up to his full height and straightening his shoulders, Castiel’s eyes darkened dangerously, his jaw locked firm and tight.

“Cas, I—” Dean began, not wanting to cause trouble.

Castiel held up a hand and shook his head, butting in sharply. “No. He can’t do that—he knows what your needs are. He can’t get away with this, I won’t let him. Your accommodations will be taken into consideration, and he will treat you as fairly as you deserve.” Spinning on his heel, Castiel grabbed Dean’s backpack where it had been slumped, abandoned on the floor, and shoved it into Dean’s arms. He pulled open the bathroom door and then, holding it open with his foot, continued to sign angrily, “Come with me.”

Chapter Text

Castiel didn’t sign as he approached the classroom. Even so, Dean couldn’t stop staring at him.

Their journey back to class had been quick, and they’d arrived just as the rest of the students had begun piling out—including Charlie, who’d given Dean a swift, hard look as she passed that didn’t need any words or signs to clearly say: “You will tell me later, or else.”

Now Dean sat on the edge of one of the front row chairs, about half a dozen seats up from his usual spot, watching Castiel. He took in his stiff shoulders, straight spine, and lifted chin, mapping the lines of him greedily, glad for the excuse. Maybe it was wrong to find Castiel’s intimidating, professional demeanor so sexy, but fuck, it was hardly Dean’s fault.

He wasn’t the one who created that eyebrow and then did that with it, after all.

Upon Castiel’s approach, Adler had begun hastily gathering pens and sheets of paper and half-finished weak tea cups, shoving them all so haphazardly into his briefcase that Dean was surprised he didn’t give his laptop an accidental bath. Castiel was unfazed, and he waited politely next to the podium—one hand resting not-quite-casually on the edge of it, blocking Adler’s exit from the room with an exceptionally cool expression.

Adler looked up and said something short to Castiel, who smiled dangerously as he responded.

Castiel gestured to Dean once, twice.

Adler’s eyes flicked across, took him in, raced back to Castiel.

Castiel didn’t sign much as he spoke to Adler, of course, as the balding, bug-eyed professor wouldn’t have understood anyway. Dean couldn’t help but smile as he noticed Cas’ hands moving regardless, though, the odd sign escaping him like he was having to translate his own thoughts so that they could be spoken for Adler.

Dean tried lip reading for a minute, but after Castiel started rattling off a long, angry-looking speech about the definition of “equal access” under the Americans with Disabilities Act, he gave up trying to understand what Cas was actually saying and just gazed in awe.

He did spot the words “pig-headed, tiny little man” fluttering across Castiel’s lips, though, and had to bite back a laugh.

Castiel was magnificent. Dean had never seen someone who could pull off both rumpled and commanding simultaneously. His knowledge of his field, his personal investment, and his god damned in-charge eyebrow were a stunning combination.

With very little shame, Dean realized that he’d rarely been more turned on in his life.

In what seemed like barely any time at all, Dean was back out on the quad with Castiel, a thick sheaf of hastily printed professor’s notes in his hand, and the promise of a passing grade on the quiz for his troubles.

Castiel elbowed Dean, bringing his eyes up from the notes so that he could give him a smug little smile. “I doubt you’ll have any more issues with him,” he signed, “but if you do, I’m sure that his department head and the dean’s office will be very interested to hear about them, in addition to the complaint I’ll be filing on your behalf.”

Dean shoved the papers into his backpack before giving Castiel an awkward smile. “You know you didn’t have to do any of that, Cas.”

“Actually, I did,” Castiel said, tying his scarf back around his neck before he started to walk away from the quad. “While you may have certain ideas about how you should fit in or what you deserve, Professor Adler has responsibilities not only to the college but under the law. That’s part of what the Academic Access Office does, Dean—remind him of that. I’m not only employed to interpret for you, there are other parts to my job.”

“Remind him by calling him pig-headed and tiny?”

Castiel had the good grace to flush a little as they walked. “I didn’t think you were watching.”

“Let it get a bit personal there, huh?” Dean grinned, pressing a hand into Castiel’s lower back for a moment to turn him to the left out of the gate. “Admit it, you don’t like him.”

“I’m not required to be on friendly terms with everyone employed by the college. Thank goodness.”

“Ooh, wow,” Dean teased, “I bet his ears are burning.”

“As a colleague, I shouldn’t badmouth him to you, Dean.” Castiel paused, but only for a moment before his hands came back up. “But as your friend, I can tell you he’s a total assbutt.”

Dean didn’t bother biting back his surprised laughter. Castiel’s eyes flicked across, taking in Dean’s amusement with a tiny, pleased smile before dropping down to the pavement, his grin growing.

He looked proud to have made Dean laugh, and that alone was all kinds of adorable.

“Ready for your surprise?” Dean asked, his chest aching oddly in anticipation.

Castiel’s suspicious squint was also adorable. Or maybe Dean was just a lovesick idiot…that was a possibility, too, he had to begrudgingly allow.

“Am I going to like the surprise?”

“Ninety-nine percent certain,” Dean said, nodding firmly. “I think I’m on solid ground with this one.”

They walked past Hale Library, weaving through the rush of students dashing around for lunch. Dean resisted the urge to turn up the collar of his jacket against the crisp air—he didn’t want to regress to his fashion choices of a decade ago—but he couldn’t help but wish he had a cozy scarf like Castiel’s, as adorably lumpy and hand-knit as it was.

Pulling the front of his old khaki jacket tight as they walked, Dean hitched his backpack up onto his shoulder and looked over at Castiel. He was smiling a little, just one corner of his mouth in on it, and peering around curiously as they walked.

Spotting Dean looking, he signed quickly, “Where are you taking me?”

Dean grinned. “Not far. Promise.”

They crossed the road once they left campus and kept going, Dean leading Castiel up the street to the parking garage where he usually left Baby during classes. Once they were close, Dean stuck his hand into his coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s car keys, pulling them into his palm.

Castiel’s face slackened in surprise as Dean led him to the parking spot on the ground floor where he’d left the Continental.

“You brought my car with you!” he said, smiling, pausing by her trunk so that he could face Dean to sign. “Mister Singer said it would be three or four days, most likely, before he could fit her in.”

“Well, I might have gone in on my own time and prioritized her,” Dean admitted, handing over the keys.

Castiel blinked. “You really fixed her transmission already?”

“Replaced it with an already reconditioned one Bobby found at his parts lot. And that’s not all, either.”

Dean guided Castiel around the gold Lincoln, pointing out the tweaks he’d made, her new back axle, tires, and radiator in addition to the main work. Castiel looked overwhelmed, but his smile grew further with each addition.

“That’s most of it,” Dean finished with, slapping her on the roof affectionately. “Obviously, I changed your oil and fixed your alignment, too.”

“Dean, I…I don’t know what to say,” Castiel began, shaking his head. “You did all this? Is this anything to do with why you barely slept?”

Dean mimed zipping his lips.

“How much—”

Dean jumped in before Castiel could finish asking. “You can settle up with Bobby for the transmission; he’ll give you a good price for the parts. Payment plan if you need it. But the rest of the stuff and the labor, don’t worry about that.”

“Dean,” Castiel signed slowly, his face softening further with each signed letter. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Cas.”

“No, it’s not nothing,” Castiel said, running his hand along her frame with a warm smile before turning back to Dean. “You must let me thank you somehow.”

Here it was. Dean’s chance. Or, kind of, anyway. He wasn’t going to go with Jo’s dumb suggestion, but…baby steps. Spending more time together away from school was a good start.

“I think we can work something out…starting with lunch, if you want? And then, if you don’t mind, taking me home when you’re done with classes, because I drove this ugly girl here today and I do not do public transportation.”

“She’s not ugly,” Castiel complained, giving Dean a harmless glare before he stepped back and opened the passenger side door for him. “And of course. We can grab lunch now, if you like—I have a several-hour gap before I teach this afternoon, so we can eat and then I’ll take you home. Did you have anywhere in mind?”

“Nah,” Dean said, shaking his head, before curling up the corner of his mouth in a grin that—tried and tested—was pretty deadly. “I’m more interested in the company than the food, honestly.”

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed without forming any words before he let out what looked like a little laugh and a nod. Dean spotted the beginnings of a red tinge behind his ears. That had to be a good sign—right?

After Castiel had walked around and settled himself into the driver’s seat, he reached into the back to dump his heavy-looking satchel before turning back to Dean.

“How about a really good bacon cheeseburger, from-scratch fries, and onion rings you could fit your whole fist through? I know a place. They have good desserts, too.”

Dean spread a hand dramatically over his heart and fanned his face with the other before responding. “Careful Cas, we’re in public. Don’t get a guy excited.”

Castiel grinned. “It’s only a five-minute drive. Hopefully you can make it that long.”

Winking, Dean snapped his seatbelt into place. “The meat man has stamina.”

The Continental juddered forward a few inches as Castiel’s foot slipped on the brake. Wide eyed and flustered looking, he peered over at Dean and shook his head. “The meat man?”

Dean shrugged. “I like meat.”

Castiel schooled his features, checking the rearview mirror before pulling out.

“Of all kinds,” Dean added nonchalantly.

Swinging out of the parking spot jerkily, Castiel threw Dean a glare, the skin behind his ears fully pink. “You’re a menace,” he signed, before turning his attention to the road.

True to his word, it only took five minutes before Castiel was parallel parking just down the street from So Long Saloon, a hipster-looking place that Dean had driven past on several occasions and never given much thought to. It looked busy, but Castiel had promised good burgers, so Dean didn’t complain. They could wait, if they had to.

Besides, the company really was what he was there for.

It turned out that they didn’t have to wait long. After only a couple of minutes, Dean was trailing behind Castiel, admiring his wide shoulders in the trench coat he’d grown so fond of, and being led to the back of the restaurant. They slipped into a booth opposite each other. Castiel smiled at their server as she left them menus, then squinted up at the fashionable dim light overhead.

“Can you see my face sitting here?” he signed thoughtfully, gesturing up at the pathetic bulb.

Fresh warmth bloomed in Dean’s chest as they quickly swapped seats so that Castiel’s face wasn’t in shadow.

“There we go,” Dean said. “Much better. I should be able to lipread now, mostly.”

Castiel nodded, but kept signing along anyway as he said, “That’s good. I know you still prefer it.”

Dean watched Castiel’s fingers with a smile. “You wouldn’t know what to do with your hands if you weren’t signing, anyway. Can you still talk if you aren’t moving them?”

Teasingly, Dean reached across the table and caught Castiel’s hands between his own.

Castiel looked startled and started to say something—then paused, laughing and flushing. Looking down at their hands, he rotated his palms and entwined their fingers, giving Dean’s a little squeeze before letting go.

“Turns out you’re right,” Castiel admitted. “It feels really weird not to sign.”

Dean didn’t say anything back, still embarrassingly taken by the brief, simple feeling of Castiel’s fingers sliding between his. When had he become this much of a sap? It was one thing to fantasize about Castiel spread out on his memory foam, it was another to feel his heartbeat pick up at the thought of holding hands.

Eh, whatever.

Dean let his reservations go. Sam was right; he’d been totally gone on Castiel for months.

They chatted comfortably for a few minutes while they perused their menus. Dean ordered a stacked burger with extra cheese and onions, and Castiel almost lost him entirely for a moment by ordering a craft burger with pickles and peanut butter.

It turned out that love could overcome bad condiments, because not only did Dean complain very little, but he even tried the first bite at Castiel’s insistence.

“You’re such a weirdo,” Dean said affectionately. “Peanut butter just doesn’t belong on burgers, man.”

“It balances the pickles,” Castiel defended staunchly, rearranging the toppings to his liking before settling the bun between two hands and taking a massive bite. He chewed once and his eyes drifted closed, his head tilting back against the padded seat.

Dean wanted to lean forward and trail his lips up the long line of Castiel’s neck, let them catch on his skin so that he could feel the vibration of the groan he knew Castiel must be letting out against his own mouth.

Castiel gave him a questioning look, and Dean snapped his eyes down to his own burger.

Okay. Lunch. Keep it G-rated.

Only one bite into his own patty, Dean agreed that Castiel had been right about the food—it was fantastic. He told him so without reservation, and they spent the rest of the meal talking about the best and worst things they’d eaten, ignoring the clock, and stealing each other’s sides.

Dean had just finished checking in the Garcia’s new Toyota when the door swung open again, catching his eye. He looked up, “Welcome to Singer’s” ready on his lips, but relaxed when he saw Sam, clutching a greasy-looking brown paper lunch bag.

Sam had been home for less than twelve hours, his plane from California landing in the middle of the night. Dean had been excited to find out that Sam’s finals were the week before his own; having his brother home and crashing in his apartment for a few weeks over the holidays was comforting and calming, and just what he needed.

“You’re awake,” Dean noted cheerfully, reaching out for the lunch Sam offered with eagerly wiggling fingers. “Figured the jet lag would have you asleep for a couple more hours.”

Sam shrugged, passing the bag to Dean and then slowly signing, “Woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

“You know you don’t have to sign for me, Sam. I’ve understood you just fine for the last couple decades.”

“The more you’re immersed in it the easier it’ll be for you to obtain fluency,” Sam said, as if Dean needed reminding. “It’s important. The internet says that ASL could open up a whole new culture for you now that you’ve finally taken your head out of your ass about it. I want to support you.”

Dean smiled, appreciating his little brother’s love even more for it not being said directly. Obviously, he couldn’t let the chick flick moment go on, though. “Yeah, well, your signing sucks ass,” he said.

“I’ve been learning from YouTube; give me a break. Maybe I should ask your Cas for some lessons.”

“He’s not my Cas,” Dean grumbled, pulling open the greasy bag Sam had brought with him. “Ooh, Ellen made BLTs.”

“Extra lettuce and tomato for me, and a poorly disguised bacon sandwich for you.”

“Perfect. I can take lunch in ten, so I’ll eat it then.”

“Great, I’ll put yours in the break room.”

Sam disappeared into the garage but returned shortly, moving around the end of the counter and plopping down on a stool to Dean’s left. He stretched his long frame forward to lean his elbows on the counter as he looked over at Dean. “Are you going to go to that party your friend Charlie was talking about? Free beer on Thursday?”

“Not sure,” Dean said. “Unlike half of the finance and business majors in that fraternity, I still have classes on Friday.”

“And then your finals start on Monday,” Sam pointed out, as if Dean didn’t already know. “You should relax for at least one night. Will Cas be there?”

“Could be,” Dean answered warily. “One of his brothers is a member of Sig Chi. I ran into him there once before, but he isn’t really much of a party guy.”

“Bet he’d go if you asked him, though.”

Dean glared, about to retort, but luckily movement at the front door of the shop caught his eye before he could.

Through the door came a familiar, cheerful-looking girl with dark red hair and delicate features, Castiel following close behind. They were about as far from similar as it got, in looks, but knowing that they were related, Dean could pull out some parallels in their expressive brows and the set of their jawlines.

“Cas, Anna,” Dean greeted them, grinning as he pushed past Sam. “You made it! This is my brother, Sam.”

Sam raised his hand in a dorky little wave.

Anna waved back, her eyes flicking around to take in the setup before she went any farther.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said with a smile, urging his sister forward with a gentle shove. “I hope we’re not too early.”

“Nah, right on time,” Dean said, turning to Anna to sign, “Bobby is really eager to meet you. The mechanic he’s hoping you can replace got fired on the spot, so he didn’t get to stay and work a two-week notice, or anything. It’s busy around here, being one man down.”

“He got fired?” Anna asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise as her hands moved.

Dean nodded, shaking his head in amusement before he signed, “He was an asshole. Ended up endangering an employee. It’s a long story.”

His hand reached up to the back of his head automatically once he was done talking, skating over the tender spot on the back of his skull. The lump was almost healed, his nausea and disorientation completely gone, but it was still a bit sensitive. Dean had been sleeping on his side all week.

Anna grimaced. “Well, hopefully Bobby will think I’m better than that.”

“Cas had a lot of good things to say about you, and I saw your work on his car; that’s why I recommended you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

Next to Dean, Sam made his way around the edge of the counter and stuck his hand out eagerly toward Castiel. Dean could see the mischievous expression on Sam’s face even if anyone else might have missed it; the way he grinned at Castiel was just a little too welcoming.

Dean shot Sam a threatening look that he hoped said, “You will wake up with no eyebrows.”

Sam ignored Dean, keeping all his attention on Castiel. “Hey, Cas. Good to have a face to go with the name, finally. Dean never shuts up about you, it’s like he’s sixteen again.”

No eyebrows and a big, fat dick tattoo in Sharpie.

Castiel shook his hand politely, his eyes only briefly flickering to Dean. “Nice to meet you, Sam. I’ve heard a lot about you, too. How was your flight?”

Dean threw Sam one more warning look before he turned back to Anna. “Let’s take you on back to meet the boss.”

She nodded, moving ahead of him as he opened the door behind the counter and stepping into the office beyond.

“It’s good to know that you talk about my brother as much as he talks about you,” Anna signed. Her smirk was very like her brother’s.

Dean sighed, defeated. “I see you can lipread, too.”

“Pretty badly, actually. ASL is my first language. But that was a lucky guess.”

“Don’t you ever get frustrated?” Dean asked, grasping at straws to keep their conversation away from Castiel. “When you have to communicate with hearing people, I mean.”

Anna looked thoughtful for a moment, but her shrug seemed genuine. “Not really,” she signed. “I am deaf but I am content. This is who I am, it’s all around me, it’s my culture.”

Pushing down a strange pang of longing, Dean raised an eyebrow skeptically. “So, you’re telling me there are no drawbacks to signing all the time?”

“Well, there is one thing,” Anna admitted with a grin. “I walk into a lot of light poles when I’m signing instead of watching where I’m going.”

Dean laughed, pulling a chair out for Anna to sit on. He quickly opened the other door to the small room, poking his head out onto the bay.

“Bobby! Anna’s here!” he yelled, spotting Bobby with his head under the hood of a nearby Prius. He waved his rag at Dean, indicating he’d heard, and Dean returned to Anna.

“He’ll be just a minute.”

“Thank you. My brother said that Mr. Singer is a relation of yours?”

Dean nodded. “Pretty much. Maybe not by blood, but he’s always been Uncle Bobby.”

Anna seemed to understand, smiling. “He adapted the garage for you?”

Shrugging one shoulder, Dean leaned back on the desk. “In part, I guess. His stepdaughter is hard of hearing—she’s been one of my best friends since I was born. She started working here a year after I did.”

“Does she sign?”

“Yeah, better than me. Most of the other people that work here just write to communicate with us, because I didn’t know much ASL at all until this year. Still wouldn’t, if it wasn’t for your brother.”

“You’re doing pretty well, now. I understand you just fine.”

“Your brother is a good teacher.”

“He is.” Anna gave a Dean a soft little smile before adding, “He’s very proud of you, you know.”

Dean found himself suddenly warm, unsure what to say. He pursed his lips and looked awkwardly down at his steel-toed boots for a moment before saying, “I don’t know about that. I’m far from fluent, he’s probably just being nice so that I don’t give up and drop out.”

Anna regarded Dean for a long minute with a grin that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Sam, before leaning forward almost conspiratorially.

“You know, we’re a pretty close family, and none of us have ever known him to—”

The door swung open and Bobby sauntered in, effectively cutting off whatever Anna had been about to reveal.

Dean made some quick introductions, and Bobby settled into a seat opposite Anna with a notepad to begin her informal interview.

“If you’re all good,” Dean said, “I’ll take my lunch hour now. Let me know if you need anything, though.”

Bobby nodded his approval, and Dean stepped back out of the office. He headed back to the front of the shop to find Sam and Castiel; maybe he could have some company for lunch.

Castiel was sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, staring at his phone. He looked up as Dean approached, his face relaxing into the tiny smile that Dean liked to tell himself was just for him.

“Everything okay?” Castiel asked. “Sam said to tell you he’s heading back to your apartment to try and take a nap. He was more tired than he thought.”

“Figured it’d hit him at some point. And yeah, Anna is good. I just settled her in with Bobby. He wants to talk to her first, but I’m sure he’s going to offer her a trial period, at least.”

Castiel smiled warmly. “That’s very kind of him.”

“She seems like she’s on her way to being a quality mechanic. Really, it’s our gain.”

“Thank you for doing this,” Castiel said, his eyes soft. “For suggesting her for the job. It means a lot to her—and to me.”

If any more warmth filled Dean’s chest, it was going to start pouring out of his ears. “No worries, Cas. Her work on your Lincoln was good, and if you’re willing to put your word behind her...that’s good enough for me. I trust you.”

Their eyes met. Dean struggled to look away. He didn’t want to make it weird, but it wasn’t like Castiel was looking away, either. One of them had to, at some point, right?

Dean could feel his heart rate rising, the longer they looked.

“Is there a place close by where I could get a sandwich to go, and maybe some coffee?” Castiel asked, finally breaking their stare and standing up from his seat. “I came with Anna partly for moral support, but also because I had some errands to run—one of which should probably be getting some lunch.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Bobby’s wife Ellen has a bar down the street. She makes great sandwiches around lunchtime. I can show you the way, if you want—I have food I can eat later but I wouldn’t mind grabbing a coffee that hasn’t been on the break room warmer since before seven.”

Castiel beamed, nodding as he held open the front door, waving for Dean to go ahead.

They chatted easily as they made their way to the Roadhouse and back. Dean complained about finals coming up, and Castiel listened sympathetically.

“What about you? Are you working a lot for the rest of this week, other than my classes?” Dean asked, seizing his chance as they approached Singer’s once more. “I know a bunch of folks are done already.”

“I’m mostly done for the semester, other than your last few classes,” Castiel confirmed. “So, I’m not too busy, compared to usual.”

“Not too busy, huh? What about in the evenings, doing anything fun?”

Castiel shook his head. “I have some grading to do, but otherwise it’ll be me and Netflix.”

“That’s cool,” Dean said, before taking a fortifying breath. “Charlie and a few other friends are going to a party on Thursday night, and I was just wondering—well, I figured Gabriel would probably be going, so I just wondered if you’d heard about it.”

Pausing right outside the door to the garage, Castiel blinked slowly. “The party at my brother’s fraternity house? He mentioned it in passing, yes.”

“I know that kind of thing isn’t really your scene,” Dean said carefully, “but Charlie is a force to be reckoned with when she gets an idea in her head, so it’s just easier for me to go and make the best of it, y’know?”

Castiel laughed. “Yes, I get that impression of her.”

“It’s fine until she wants to sneak off somewhere with her girlfriend Dorothy, and I’m left standing around with all these frat boys half a decade younger than me.” Dean grinned, pausing to knock his elbow gently against Castiel’s before he signed, “I was wondering if you’d want to go. Keep me company?”

“Me?” A slow smile began to pull at Castiel’s cheeks. Dean couldn’t tell if they were pink from the chill wind or for some other reason.

Dean nodded, pushing down the lump of tension that was slowly rising up in his chest. “Of course, you. I know you aren’t a big party-person, but you said once that they could be fun when you have someone other than Gabriel to go with.”

“That’s true. I don’t mind hanging out and drinking and dancing, but Gabriel’s speed of doing it is exhausting.”

“Well, I figure we can do it at our speed, instead. If, uh, if you wanna go with me?” Dean asked, fixing Castiel with his most charming, hopeful smile.

“Of course,” Castiel said, smiling softly back as he signed. “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

Chapter Text

Phone in hand, Charlie hit the voice-to-text button, her lips moving quickly before she turned the screen to show Dean. They were headed out the door, and Dean stepped aside to let her lock it while he read.

“How much longer is left on your apartment lease?” she asked.

“Two months,” Dean answered. “I might as well just pay them off at this point, I guess.”

Charlie nodded, tapping the button again to answer. “Yeah, just move the rest of your stuff in over the next week or so, or after finals if you’re swamped. Unless you want to wait until after Christmas?”

Dean shook his head as they walked away from Charlie’s fancy apartment, down the short path to where her Gremlin lived. “Nah. Sam’s on my couch until New Years, so he can put those shoulders to use.”

“There are advantages to having a moose for a brother.” Charlie grinned as she showed him the screen.

Chuckling, Dean nodded in agreement. “He’s great for reaching abandoned cans at the top of the pantry, too.”

Dean climbed awkwardly into the Gremlin—Charlie loved the little thing, but it was definitely not a car built for a man of Dean’s height or build, or for anyone who had crazy things like shoulders. Though he did have to admit, the Gremlin was a hell of a lot cheaper to fuel than Baby was. Charlie waited until Dean had clipped his seatbelt and looked back at her before she said anything else.

“Are you coming back here tonight?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, as long as that’s still cool.”

“Of course. That room has been yours since school began, and you know it.”

Dean grinned gratefully.

“Are you gonna bring Cas back here tonight?” Charlie asked. She had one hand on the steering wheel, though the car remained immobile as she turned her face to Dean, a wicked twinkle in her eye.

“Dude, no.” Dean crossed his arms, angling himself in the tiny Gremlin cabin so he could glare at her more forcefully.

Charlie frowned at her phone before turning the screen toward Dean. “‘Dude’ yourself; I was just asking, geez. It’s cool if you do but like, stick a sock on the door or something.”

“Charlie,” Dean chastised, unfolding his arms in defeat.

Charlie shrugged, uncaring. “Okay, fine, but why aren’t you bringing Cas back here? Miss me with the ‘asking him to the party as platonic bestest buds,’ because you don’t dress like that when we go places, or when you go to the Roadhouse with Jo.”

Dean looked down nervously, smoothing his palms across the thighs of his jeans. “Too much?”

It wasn’t like he’d dressed up, not particularly, but he did have this new shirt that he just happened to have not worn yet, and the large black and red checkers looked good with his best black jeans and a tight, black t-shirt underneath. He’d polished his boots because… Well, they’d just needed cleaning. Of course.

When he looked back up, Charlie gave him a warm wink and said, “Just enough, Casanova. Now, compliment my outfit so we can leave.”

Laughing, Dean took in Charlie’s neon jumpsuit. “You look very…you. Best one of the entire montage—don’t you dare say you want to change. Go, go, go.”

Grinning happily, Charlie finally tucked her phone away, eased off the brake, and pulled away from the curb.

Already in a good mood, Charlie turned the music up—it didn’t take much to make the entire plastic frame of her shitty little car vibrate—and they sped on to the chapterhouse.

As they parked down the street and began walking toward the huge, column-fronted building, Dean spotted Castiel leaning against a low wall. His hands were gliding through the air as he spoke to his brother Gabriel, who was standing obnoxiously in the middle of the pavement in front of him.

Even from a short distance away, Dean could make out a few parts of their conversation, causing a little flutter of pride in his chest. Gabriel appeared to be telling Castiel about his plans for the evening, after the party—Castiel looked a little strained, but he was managing a polite smile.

“And you,” Gabriel signed, “be ~~.”

Hmm…Dean wasn’t certain about that sign. It looked a bit like “strong,” but the handshapes at the beginning were a little different, almost like claws—oh. “Brave.”

Approaching, Dean observed Gabriel make another sign, and he had no idea what the meaning could be—he formed a letter “C” up near his shoulder, then moved his hand away in a little wing-like motion.

Castiel smiled, raising his hands again to say something back. He was wearing worn jeans and a soft-looking navy button-down with the sleeves pushed up, and Dean was too busy staring at his exposed forearms as they approached to realize that Charlie was trying to get his attention.

Until she jabbed him in the side, anyway.

“I said, ” she repeated pointedly, “if you get an Uber home or ~~, make sure to text me so I’m not waiting for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Dean answered hurriedly.

When they were only a few steps away, Castiel looked over from his conversation and spotted them approaching. It’d be impossible to miss Charlie’s neon yellow jumpsuit even in a crowd, Dean reasoned; she looked like a walking highlighter. Or perhaps she’d just shouted ahead. Castiel raised his hand in a little wave.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, drawing to a halt in front of him. He briefly dipped his head to Gabriel, too. “Gabriel.”

Gabriel waved, before turning his attention back to Castiel. “Remember,” he signed, tapping his thumb up to his forehead.

Castiel nodded but offered no response, turning to look at Dean instead. He smiled, slow and easy, as he raised his hand in greeting. “Hello, Dean.”

There was a brief pause as they smiled at each other. Or at least, Dean thought it was a brief pause, but perhaps it had been longer, as Charlie dramatically waved her hands in front of them.

“Charlie. Still here. But—leaving. Dean…sock. Remember. Sock.”

Castiel’s brow creased in confusion, and his lips parted—

Dean quickly reached out for Charlie’s shoulders to spin her around, pointing her at the frat house. “Go, you. Find friends. We’ll be in there in a minute.”

Gabriel took his leave alongside Charlie, heading up into the house, and Dean turned back to Castiel once more.

“Hope you weren’t waiting long. Charlie made me sit through ten outfits.”

Castiel’s cheeks pulled up in a laugh. “No, not at all. I got dropped off here with Gabriel. He kept me company for a minute.”

“So I saw. He looks enthusiastic about tonight,” Dean said, before his curiosity got the better of him. “Hey, what’s this mean?”

He did his best to mimic the strange shoulder sign that he’d just seen Gabriel use.

Castiel squinted for a second, then grinned. “Oh—that’s my name sign. Or the one my family uses for me, anyway. The letter ‘C’ and then—remember we talked about iconic signs, where the sign resembles the meaning of the word?” Castiel fluttered his hand, fingers together. “‘Wing’—see, the motion. ‘Wings’.”

“‘Wings’?” For a moment Dean was confused, but clarity arrived before Castiel could jump in. “Oh—right. You’re all angels, yeah?”

Castiel nodded, performing a little series of name signs: his own, a G with wings, an M with wings, an H, an A. “My mother likes things very orderly,” he explained.

Dean couldn’t help but grin. “Guess it made sense, with that many kids around. It’s a cool sign, I like it.”

“You can use it if you want,” Castiel said, straightening up from where he’d been leaning on the wall. “Though C-A-S is quick to sign, anyway.”

“Lucky for me, Dean is pretty fast to sign too,” Dean said. “I never had anyone around to give me a name sign. Jo could’ve, I guess, but when my dad was around he’d have been pissed if he saw it.”

Dean didn’t have to do much interpreting of Castiel’s expression to see what he thought of that.

“Well,” Castiel fingerspelled slowly, stepping up into Dean’s space, “a name sign should really only be assigned by a Deaf person. I wouldn’t even give you one, normally. But...I do have a sign that I use when talking about you with my brothers.”

Castiel’s cheeks flushed a little. It was enchanting. 

“Children of deaf adults like me, though—some people don’t like us assigning name signs. Too hearing, not in the community ‘enough’ no matter how we were raised, to some people. And that’s their right. I understand. There are even some groups of people who wouldn't even want me using a sign name, never mind gifting one. But as Gabriel made up this sign so he could use it to tease me about our friendship...I think it’d be okay for you to have it.”

Dean held his breath as Castiel’s hand came forward. He had strong, elegant fingers that Dean had definitely had some really inappropriate fantasies about…but this wasn’t the time to dwell on what he wished those hands would do. With his first finger and thumb pinched together, Castiel lightly tapped the top of Dean’s cheekbone, looking nervous, before withdrawing his hand to demonstrate on himself.

“Green,” he signed, his gaze locked on Dean as his hand twisted back and forth below his eye.

Dean felt his chest heat strangely, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing like he thought he was. What a way to make Cas think he was a total weirdo.

“Uh—” Dean cleared his throat sharply, “—thanks. That’s, uhm, I like it.”

Castiel grinned across at him, wide enough to show his perfect white teeth, and Dean suddenly had to put some space between them before he embarrassed himself in a much worse way.

Stepping back, Dean tilted his head toward the chapterhouse. “You ready for this?”

“Probably not,” Castiel confessed, “but I trust you to stick with me.”

Dean slapped Castiel’s shoulder as he laughed, letting his hand linger a moment longer than was absolutlely necessary. Maybe this wasn’t strictly a date, but Dean was definitely hoping that Castiel might get the hint and interpret it that way.

Unless he didn’t want that, of course. Friends went to parties together all the time.

With that sobering thought sitting in the back of his mind, Dean started to walk up toward the huge columns that flanked the door. Castiel fell into step beside him. They had to dodge increasing numbers of people as they entered the building. Despite Charlie’s reassurances that it would be a smaller party, it certainly seemed like every one of Ed and Harry’s frat brothers were doing their damnedest to forget about finals week coming up.

Once everyone had arrived and done a little mingling, they’d all gravitated to the kitchen by unspoken agreement. It was always the brightest room in the house during these parties, with all the overhead lights blazing, and Dean allowed the thought to cross his mind that maybe, just maybe, his friends gathered here because they knew it was easier for him to see them talk. He wouldn’t mention anything about it, but the idea was nice.

Even Gabriel, to Dean’s surprise, stopped by the kitchen to affectionately rib Castiel about hanging out at the frat house and challenge them to beer pong. (Dean and Charlie vs Castiel and Gabriel—Dean had thought Gabe would be the one to watch, but Castiel turned out to be startlingly ruthless, effortlessly tactical, and have a sense of aim far beyond what his unassuming suits and sensible shoes suggested.)

Once Gabriel had departed (after signing something fast and lewd-looking to Castiel that Dean missed but had made Castiel turn purple), everyone gathered at the other end of the kitchen to chat for a while, leaning against the counters. Dean grabbed a fresh beer and sandwiched himself between Castiel and Ed, who was busy watching Corbett and Charlie furiously debate helmet protocols in The Mandalorian. Dean left them to it, turning to Castiel.

“How’d you get so good at beer pong?” Dean asked, angling himself toward Castiel so that he could sign more clearly.

“Self-defense,” Castiel explained. “I learned to play with Gabriel, because it was much easier and less humiliating than trying to play against him. He’d start telling embarrassing stories from my childhood to throw me off.”

Dean grinned. “Oh? Maybe we should have asked him to stay; I wouldn’t have minded some stories,” he said, speaking aloud so that he could grab his beer from the counter.

Castiel blinked, looking ever-so-slightly alarmed. “Okay,” he signed quickly, grinning, “time to distract you, I think.”

“And how are you gonna do that?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow with a cocky grin. “It’ll take something significant to make me forget about the prospect of embarrassing childhood tales, just saying…”

Castiel bit his lip, and his expression did something strange—a little flutter, something like nerves or fear, that raced across his eyes before it was gone, buried under a tiny smile.

Quickly, like a decision made and spurred forward before too much thought could be put to it, Castiel reached across and took Dean’s cup from his hand. He held Dean’s eyes as he raised it to his mouth, taking a deep, long chug of his beer. His other hand twisted into Dean’s, his fingers warm between Dean’s own, and he began to walk away from the group, tugging Dean along with him.

“Alright, beer thief—what do you have planned?” Dean called out, knowing that Castiel could hear him, even if his face was obscured.

Castiel merely squeezed Dean’s fingers tighter, throwing an amused, knowing look over his shoulder as he led them into the main area at the front of the building. It was dimmer, nearly dark, and smelled of the sweet smoke that pumped out of the stacked machines along one wall. Sig Chi wasn't known as the party frat for nothing. Lights pulsed, and Dean began to feel the thud of music in his chest.

Bodies moved around Dean—some sinuously, some purely drunkenly—and for a moment, Dean worried. He liked music, sure, but unless he had a pretty good idea of the beat it was hard for him to pull off anything truly resembling rhythm.

He should have known better than to worry. Not with Castiel.

On a mission, Castiel pulled Dean through the crowd. At the farthest end of the room, a skinny dude with an impressive mullet occupied a small, makeshift stage and filled the room with some kind of fast-paced, bass-heavy music that Dean could feel with increasing intensity, the closer Castiel led him to the speakers.

Jostled by the crowd, Dean was about to squeeze Castiel’s hand for his attention when he stopped, turning to face Dean. He moistened his lips slowly—nervously, Dean thought, but he said nothing—and threw back the last of Dean’s drink before stepping up to Dean’s front.

He smelled clean but musky, somehow like cinnamon and fresh laundry, all at once.

Slowly, Castiel reached for Dean’s biceps and tugged to make him rotate a quarter turn.

Trusting, Dean followed his lead and stepped to the side, giving Castiel a puzzled smile through the flashing gloom. Then Castiel’s hand slipped from his arm and came to rest on Dean’s chest. The tiny touch sent Dean’s heartbeat shooting up like a rocket.

Spreading his fingers, agonizingly slowly, as if he thought there was some possibility Dean was going to object to absolutely any part of this, Castiel gently pushed Dean backwards, stepping forward and following, keeping their bodies close, his eyes locked on Dean’s face.

After only two steps, Dean’s shoulder blades thumped softly against a hard surface, and sound flashed through his bones. Dean grinned widely, instantly understanding that Castiel had fought through the crowd for this exact spot so that he could press Dean’s back up against the vibrating speaker, letting Dean feel every note of the throbbing music that pumped out of it.

Castiel smiled a little more uncertainly. Shining blue fractals of light danced across his face, spinning off this way and that in time to the beat as he kept his eyes on Dean, almost hopeful. His hand lingered at Dean’s chest for a moment before sliding away.

Dean wanted it back. The music thumped through his bones and echoed in the cavity of his chest, warming him, and the spot where Castiel’s hand had been resting felt oddly cold by comparison.

Castiel moved back a few steps, his movements timed to the beat that Dean could feel. As Dean grinned at him encouragingly, he balanced the empty solo cup that he still held on a ledge that ran along the wall, squeezing it between many others, crushed and wilted and abandoned on their sides or stacked, sticky and dripping. Dean was glad he’d never joined a fraternity like this; cleaning up in the morning must be a bitch. With his hands freed, Castiel began to move to the beat, his arms raised, his body loose. Dean couldn’t help but start to move in turn, feeling the music and the heady vibe that Castiel’s proximity seemed to always create.

Dean wouldn’t have called Castiel a good dancer by any means, at least on a technical level. But the way he smiled and loosened, the way he relaxed before Dean’s eyes… He’d been gorgeous before—hell, Dean’d started drooling over the guy the very first day he’d walked into Ms. Moseley’s office wearing that dumb, wonky tie—but he was fucking hot under the pulsating lights, a flush of beer and heat on his cheeks, his hips swaying and dipping.

Yeah, there was no way that Dean was going to get through this night without making a total idiot out of himself, so he might as well embrace it.

Relaxing, Dean closed his eyes for a moment and rolled his head back against the speaker, stretching out his neck, focusing on the buzz of it and letting it dictate his movements. When he looked again, Castiel was gazing back at him, his mouth slightly open, his feet shuffling and his hips rotating closer to Dean than they’d been seconds before.

Noticing, Castiel took a step back, giving Dean space. But his stare remained, and Dean could see…something. Something in it that made him bolder. Maybe it was amusement, or affection, or awe, Dean wasn’t certain. But there was a warmth to it, a heat that flared the fire in Dean’s belly up another notch.

Grinning out his approval and pleasure, Dean reached out to grasp at Castiel’s hips and pull him sharply, suggestively, back in.

Castiel’s eyes widened and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed harshly. But he came forward, nerves and all, slotting himself into the open vee of Dean’s parted legs until their chests were barely an inch apart. Beneath his fingers, Dean could feel the heat of bare skin, the rucked-up edges of Castiel’s soft, navy shirt exposing a tantalizing sliver of pelvis.

Dean left one hand right where it was, loving the perfectly sized dip of skin below Castiel’s sharp hip bone where his thumb could rest. His other hand slid back, wide-fingered and firm, gliding his palm up the curve of Castiel’s spine and across his back. Castiel’s gaze didn’t waver as Dean’s hand shifted across his ribs until it was just beneath his shoulder blades, pulling their bodies close.

They moved together easily, their bodies in sync, and reflected each other’s smiles.

The spinning flares of multicolored lights highlighted the glistening of Castiel’s skin, the heat between them causing tiny droplets along his hairline that shone with microscopic rainbows as the lights spun past. Castiel’s lips were parted, his mouth open just a fraction to pull in hot air, and as they danced close, studying each other, his tongue darted out to flick along his bottom lip.

Fuck, Dean was hot. Even if the room hadn’t been packed with people, his checked shirt was thick and Castiel was close, enough to raise his blood pressure to catastrophic heights.

The music changed, slowing, and they both slowed in time with it. Castiel brought an end to Dean’s torture as he pulled back, just enough to raise his hands between them.

“Air,” he signed, his brow quirked in question as his fingers swished back and forth.

“Yeah, a breather would be good,” Dean agreed, grinning. He peeled his shoulders from the speaker and stepped forward, falling in beside Castiel.

Given how close they’d been dancing, Dean didn’t think twice about slinging an arm ‘round Castiel’s shoulders as they weaved their way through the crowd, heading toward a side door that led to a large patio space. They laughed at nothing, smiling and sharing looks as they shuffled past people far more drunk than they were. Their gazes lingered in a way that kept Dean’s heart banging loudly within his ribs, still at a dancing tempo even though the vibration of the music was gone.

Outside, chill night air burst into Dean’s sinuses, making his nose tingle as he huffed in deep breaths, cooling down. Spotting a stretch of empty wall farther from the door, Dean slid his arm down from Castiel’s shoulders to catch his wrist, tugging him toward it.

Sweaty, weary, and smiling, they leaned against the rough stone, enjoying the cold night breeze. Castiel’s back pressed into the wall and Dean leaned on it beside him, supporting himself with an arm above Castiel’s head.

They looked at each other and laughed again, and Dean didn’t even know why; all he knew was that he had never, even in months of dreaming, wanted to kiss Castiel more than he did in that moment.

Castiel gazed back at him, and Dean saw his eyes drop down, resting on Dean’s lips for a long, heavy second.

Dean sucked in an anticipatory breath—

And then Castiel’s eyes squeezed shut, and his shoulders tensed, and his hands whipped up suddenly to say, “Is this a date? No—shit, of course it’s not, I just…I wasn’t sure and I thought I should probably clear it up, in case—just in case it was?”

Dean’s mouth fell open from the whiplash. “I, uh—”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel interrupted, his eyes open again, a little too wide. He signed much faster than Dean was used to, something frantic and embarrassed about it, and Dean had to take a step back to focus on his movements. “This is—I’m so bad at this, I have no idea what I’m doing and I just wanted to know—”

Dean cut him off by reaching out for his arms, wrapping his fingers around them gently. “Hey,” he said, entirely failing to bite back his smile.

Castiel stilled, watching him nervously.

“No,” Dean said, not letting go of Castiel’s arms. “It wasn’t a date.”

With a grimace, Castiel tilted his head back against the wall, and Dean had to let go of his arms to grab his chin and pull it back down.

“I wanted it to be, though,” Dean said, offering Castiel a nervous smile of his own. “I just wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted.”

Castiel’s lips formed, “Oh,” but his hands were frozen.

Slowly, Dean let go and stepped back, feeling awkward but…elated? Was that what this was?

A buzzing grew in Dean’s chest and pushed upwards, zinging uncomfortably up his throat and into his mouth, where it came out much more gently than he’d anticipated. “Did you want it to be a date, Cas?”

For a moment Castiel didn’t move, just gazing back at Dean. But then his face softened, falling into a shy, soft, little smile. The expression was totally at odds with the way that Dean usually saw Castiel: self-assured, in control, almost intimidating. This, Dean realized, was a whole other part of Castiel that simmered beneath the surface, a part that he was being allowed to see—perhaps he’d been allowed to see for a while, if he thought about it.

Castiel nodded, small and jerky.

The buzzing feeling fizzled back up in Dean’s muscles, but this time it stayed, forming a warm lump in his chest.

Silently, they looked at each other, their smiles slowly growing into grins, until Dean couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. He reached up, rubbing his hand back across his crown and to the back of his neck, squeezing at the tension there before he dropped his hand to ask, “It’s not that late, yet. Do you maybe want to get out of here?”

Castiel smiled again, pointing questioningly at Dean with one finger.

“Yeah, with me,” Dean said, nodding as he stepped back into Castiel’s space. “Like a date.”

Grin widening, Castiel nodded, bigger that time.

“Then let’s go,” Dean said, reaching to tangle their fingers.

Castiel’s palm felt hot against his own. Dean looked down, smiling at Castiel’s elegant, strong fingers. For another moment they didn’t move, and Dean noticed Castiel looking down just as he was.

He raised their joined hands, making eye contact with Castiel before he pressed his lips to the soft pads of Castiel’s fingers, one tip at a time. 

They weren’t as thick as Dean’s fingers, maybe, but they were longer, strong and sure, and Dean wanted to memorize everything about them; those beautiful, talented hands that had given him everything.

Castiel flushed gently, holding tight to Dean’s hand before he moved, tugging Dean into motion.

Out on the sidewalk, Dean paused to tug his phone from his pocket and send a quick text to Charlie.

Dean [08:47 pm]: Hey, I’m leaving. Heading out with Cas, so I’ll get an uber back to your place.

Immediately, his phone buzzed back in his hand.

Charlie [08:47 pm]: OMG I KNEW IT

Charlie [08:47 pm]: Is this a sock warning

She followed with a string of exclamation points, heart-eyes, and smirky-faced emojis. Dean rolled his eyes before firing back a quick response.

Dean [08:48 pm]: One step at a time, ok. I’m gonna see if he wants to grab some food. I’ll text you later

As Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, he felt it buzz again but ignored it in favor of smiling over at Castiel, who was similarly putting his phone away.

“Telling your ride that you’re leaving?” Dean asked.

Castiel nodded and fell into step beside Dean as he began to walk up the street. “Yes. Michael was kind enough to drop me off earlier, and he offered to take me home, too.”

“Nice of him to drive all the way here,” Dean said. “Especially in the middle of the night.”

“I’m sure he thought it would be worth it to find out who I was here with.”

Dean guided them around the corner, away from the huge, old fraternity buildings that lined the street. “Did you tell him?” he asked.

“He guessed,” Castiel admitted, looking a little sheepish before he peered around. “Did you have somewhere in mind to go?”

“If you don’t mind the walk, I figured we could go to Vista Diner, on the other side of the golf course? I know it’s not fancy or anything, but Ed and Harry are always talking about how great their corn dogs are,” Dean said, before second-guessing himself, squinting across at Castiel in the light of a large streetlamp. “It’ll probably be a twenty-minute walk, though, we could always—”

“I don’t mind,” Castiel interrupted with a grin. “They’re right, the corn dogs at Vista are awesome.”

“You’re sure?” Dean checked, taking in Castiel’s hunched posture in his thin shirt. He was sure that if it wasn’t for using his hands to talk, Cas would have been hugging himself. “It’s getting pretty cold.”

“It’s not that far, I’ll be fine.”

Still warm from dancing, Dean quickly shrugged off his thick, checked shirt. Castiel began to protest, but Dean ignored him, settling the loose fabric around his shoulders. “It’s fine, you can use it as a second layer, at least until I get cold.”

Out of habit, Dean tried not to stare at the pinking of Castiel’s cheeks in the yellowy overhead light, before realizing that he could look, that it was okay. He took full advantage, watching as Castiel halted his steps to shrug on Dean’s oversized shirt. The big red checks did something to his eyes, making them pop in some vague color-theory way that Dean didn’t understand but was happy to take full advantage of.

“Looks really good on you, anyway,” he said, delighting in the way Castiel ducked his head awkwardly at the compliment.

“Thank you,” he signed, his smile lingering as he looked back up and jerked his head to indicate the road they needed to cross. “Ready?”

Grinning goofily, Dean held out his hand, waggling his fingers suggestively. Once Castiel’s palm was settled against his own, he gave him a wink. 

“Ready,” Dean confirmed. On impulse, he lifted Castiel’s beautiful, expressive fingers up to his lips again, pressing a kiss to their tips. Yeah, he liked doing that. “Let’s date.”

Chapter Text

They walked quickly to Vista Diner, only letting go of each other’s hands when one of them wanted to say something. It was pretty dark, though, and Dean was glad that he and Castiel were already well-practiced in perfectly comfortable silence—unlike other first dates he’d been on—because trying to have a conversation in such low light would have been pretty difficult.

When they arrived at the diner, though, it was brightly lit and warm-looking, and Dean was happy to hustle inside, walking past the cars that wrapped around the building to go sit at one of the inviting-looking booths within.

Dean blew warm air onto his fingers as they waited to be seated. It was definitely too cold to be walking around just in a t-shirt—barely above freezing—but seeing Castiel wearing his shirt had pleased something deep in his chest that he kinda liked, so he hadn’t bothered to ask for it back. If that was a little caveman of him, well…sue him, he didn’t care. Cas looked hot and his amazing shoulders were testing the fabric of Dean’s shirt.

No shame. Just a little appreciative ogling.

The small diner only had one waitress, a softly smiling brunette who introduced herself as Mary—Dean often had trouble lip reading when it came to names, but that one he was very familiar with. She led them to a circular corner booth, and Dean scooted around the table across the orange leatherette seat until his knee pressed into Castiel’s, close at just a slight angle.

Castiel’s eyes snapped to Dean as their legs pressed under the table, wide and bright—he looked exhilarated, and Dean couldn’t help a little chuckle. He couldn’t blame him, though; he felt very similarly himself. He was bubbling inside, waiting to wake up any second.

With one of his much-more-reserved, tiny, polite smiles, Castiel nodded to Mary the waitress and took the two menus that she offered, exchanging a few words before she departed.

“Ooh, pie,” Dean murmured appreciatively, skimming the menu.

Mary came back a few minutes later and departed once more with their sizable order; Dean’s excitement over burgers and pie met Castiel’s enthusiasm for trying everything he’d not already eaten, resulting in a resounding crash of “let’s order the whole menu and share everything.”

Once she’d taken their order back to the kitchen and brought their sodas, Dean pulled one knee up onto the bench seat so that he could angle himself toward Castiel a little more, leaning one shoulder on the seat back.

“So,” he said, watching Castiel carefully, “for a guy that was babbling about being terrible at this, you’re doing okay so far.”

“We’re only part of the way through the evening, I’ve still got plenty of time to make it awkward,” Castiel replied, looking solemn—though Dean could see a tiny lift at the corner of his mouth.

“You really think that? That you’re somehow ‘bad’ at dating?” Dean raised an eyebrow, more curious than anything.

Castiel mirrored Dean’s position, pulling his leg up so that their knees bumped on the seat. “Yes,” he answered simply. His fingers picked nervously at the orange leather for a moment, though, and his eyes dipped a little before he added, “I’m really not terribly experienced with the whole thing.”

Surprised, Dean ducked to catch his gaze again. “With…dating?”

Castiel nodded. “In general,” he signed, “though more specifically with men. I’ve been on a handful of dates with women, though obviously they didn’t work out for very long. But with men…”

Castiel paused, the nervous edge to his smile that Dean had noted earlier returning once more.

Dean dipped his chin encouragingly.

“Well, with men, you’d be the first,” Castiel finished.

Dean blinked. “Oh,” he said, genuinely surprised. “Not—not at all? Even in college, or—”

Castiel shook his head. “Not at all. I knew even back then that I was mostly drawn to men, though generally gender is just…last on my list of concerns. But I’ve never actually been with a guy, at all.”

“Okay,” Dean signed, thoughtful, before taking a sip of his Coke.

“Okay?” Castiel questioned. “You don’t mind? I’d understand if—”

Dean interrupted by raising his hands and immediately signing, “No, stop—not at all. It doesn’t matter.”

Still looking apprehensive, Castiel nodded.

“Seriously,” Dean reiterated, before grinning slowly. “To be honest, it’s kind of nice to have the upper hand in something for a change.”

Castiel didn’t sign an answer, his tilted head and puzzled brow enough.

“I mean—dude, come on,” Dean said, laughing and gesturing to Castiel. “You have all of your shit together. You’ve got a good job, you help people just because you think it matters , you’re devoted to your family, you’re organized—for Christ’s sakes, you iron your ties.”

They seemed to magically crumple within an hour of Cas putting them on, but Dean had seen the neat, crisp lines the iron left behind during his early classes. He wasn’t even embarrassed that paid enough attention to Castiel’s attire to know that. 

Even though he wasn’t wearing one right then, Castiel’s hand drifted defensively to his neck for a moment.

“I’m everything you aren’t,” Dean continued. “A college dropout who only got the balls to try again at nearly thirty, who eats bad food and can never quite get the engine grease from under his nails no matter how many showers I take. I think I’d have asked you out months ago if—”

Dean cut himself off sharply as Mary the waitress reappeared, lowering a basket of mozzarella sticks and a large serving of chili cheese fries to the table. Flustered, he moistened his lips as Castiel thanked her, managing to flash a grateful smile before she headed back to the kitchen.

Castiel didn’t let it go, though, reaching forward to touch Dean’s knee before he signed, “If what?”

Dean shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “You gotta know you’re way out of my league, man,” he said.

The way Castiel’s eyebrow raised in response held none of the awkward fumbling he’d shown a moment before and was instead packed with every inch of the self-assured, intimidating man in the trench coat that had grabbed Dean’s attention months before.

“I think not,” Castiel signed, his eyebrow frozen where it had raised. “An awkward, inexperienced man who still lives at home in his early thirties and works too much as an added bonus? Somehow, I don’t think I’m the catch, here.”

Because he could, and because he wanted to, Dean reached out to nudge a knuckle softly beneath Castiel’s jaw before he said, “Seems like we just fill in each other’s gaps, to me.”

Castiel’s slow smile was breathtaking from so close. “We fit,” he said, nodding, his expression full of warm agreement. “I like it.”

More seriously, Dean cleared his throat and took Castiel’s hand in his own, giving it one squeeze before he said aloud, “You gotta let me know how you’re feeling about things, though, okay? It’s fine if you’re still figuring stuff out, or—”

Castiel laughed, surprising Dean by squeezing his hand back before he let it go to sign, “Believe me, I have it all figured out pretty well. I’ve done this with you so many times in my head that I keep getting ~~.”

Dean squinted. “Keep getting what?”

“Deja-vu,” Castiel spelled out, letter by letter.

A giddy feeling passed through Dean, like he’d just stepped off a carnival ride and his bones were still a little shaky. Fighting against the huge grin that wanted to overtake him so that he didn’t look like a total idiot, Dean reached across to snag a mozzarella stick from the plate, scooping up a pile of marinara sauce onto its tip before biting into it. Chewing slowly, he directed his smile down at the gooey cheese for a moment before lifting his eyes back to Castiel.

“Already been on dates with me in your head, huh?” he asked, biting his lip.

Castiel didn’t look embarrassed, shrugging instead. “I wasn’t at all convinced that reality was going to happen, so fantasy seemed to be the next best option,” he explained before reaching for some food of his own.

“Fantasy?” Dean grinned wolfishly, swallowing down the rest of his mozzarella stick before winking and asking, “So, is that all you were fantasizing about? Getting dinner, watching movies, playing footsie under tables?”

Their eyes met, and Dean enjoyed Castiel’s delightfully sharp gaze while he carefully put down his drink to sign, “That was some of it.”

Dean darkened his grin, biting down on another of the delicious, crispy appetizers and deliberately raising an eyebrow in question.

“The rest of it probably isn’t suitable for a public diner,” Castiel admitted, laughing through the flush in his own cheeks.

Laughing back in turn, Dean pushed against Castiel where their knees touched. “You’ll have to give me the details later,” he signed carefully, “when we’re alone.”

Castiel’s gaze was heavy, and Dean gave back as good as he got.

They were jovially interrupted once more by their waitress, who delivered more baskets and plates of food and topped up their drinks before disappearing off to other tables. They ate slowly, sharing and testing each offering and in no hurry at all.

Dean enjoyed Castiel’s company even more than the tri-burger and pie. (And his slice of pecan pie was exquisite, no two ways about it.) In the end, Mary had to—very politely—ask them to finish up and go, as they’d lost track of time talking about books they enjoyed and sharing the milkshakes they ordered with dessert.

Stepping out into the cold night air, they called for their rides—an Uber to take Dean back to Charlie’s and the passenger seat of Michael’s Toyota for Castiel. 

Once he was done, Dean shoved his phone into his jeans. Castiel took a few more moments, his thumbs flying over his phone as he answered whatever it was that his older brother was asking. After another minute he smiled and tucked his phone into the chest pocket of Dean’s cozy shirt. 

Dean grinned as he noticed the phone light up again a moment later—clearly Michael had more to say, but it seemed like Castiel was ignoring him for now. The phone screen glowed through the red checked fabric of Dean’s shirt, a strange pinky light, for a moment before it dulled. 

Castiel and Dean looked at each other, exchanging little smiles. The date had gone well, no question about that. 

Not that Dean was surprised. They’d been spending time together for months, of course, even if they’d made sure to have a purpose for their interactions. It felt really good now, to have any excuses thrown to the wind—to hang out with Castiel for no other reason than “I like you and you like me.”

And damn, Dean really liked him.

They waited a few steps from the entrance to the diner, standing under an awning, the door clicking audibly in the still air as it was locked from within. It was late and they were the only people in sight.

Dean shivered, the breeze whipping up goosebumps across his bare forearms.

“Here,” Castiel said, shrugging his way out of Dean’s red checked shirt. “Take this back, you must be freezing.”

“But then you’ll just be cold,” Dean began to protest, before getting distracted at the way Castiel’s arms bulged in the material, imagining that there wasn’t another layer beneath as he slid the fabric from his arms.

Castiel stepped forward and shook the shirt out, placing it around Dean’s shoulders. His eyes were coy as he signed, “Well, then you will just have to keep me warm.”

Chuckling, Dean pulled the shirt back on—the inside of the fabric still heated from Castiel’s skin—before he leaned back against the wall outside the Drive-In, settling his feet apart and reaching for Castiel’s waist to tug him forward.

Chest to chest, Castiel slid his arms around Dean’s back, wrapping them beneath the shirt for a moment.

Dean wondered if Castiel could feel the thumping in his chest. They stood like that for a minute, wrapped in each other, warm against the cool night. Then Castiel pulled back, just enough to free his hands and give Dean the space to observe them.

“Thank you,” he signed.

“What for?”

“Asking me to go to the party with you…and asking for this, too, after my babbling mess earlier.”

Dean laughed and reached for one of Castiel’s hands, tugging it close to his chest before he said, “Well, you’re welcome, then. I’m just sad that it’s late and I have to get up for class tomorrow, or we could hang out some more.”

Castiel nodded in agreement, his fingers flexing against Dean’s sternum.

“I’ll see you in class tomorrow, though, right?”

A slight frown flickered across Castiel’s brow, but he nodded. Pulling his hand—somewhat reluctantly—back, he signed, “Yes. Last day of classes before finals, for you. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Unsure of his expression, Dean offered Castiel a little smile. “Good. Not sure I want to face Adler alone after you put him in his place the other day.”

“I don’t think he’ll give you any problems again.” Frown gone, Castiel’s smile was a little proud, which was all kinds of adorable.

“Nah, not with my grumpy guardian angel around,” Dean teased, giving Castiel a wink.

He may have been joking with the name, but he meant it; Castiel made everything feel easy, when his whole life up until that point had been a firefight. A lot of that, he knew, was his own attitude, his own upbringing…but Cas made it easy to be better. Made him want to be better.

Dean didn’t realize he’d been speaking any of that out loud until Castiel leaned back into his space, stepping between his legs and molding his body to Dean’s own like warm butter on a waffle, melting into Dean’s chest and shoulders and arms. 

The feeling of Castiel was everywhere, but suddenly his lips were the only thing Dean was aware of.

Oh.  

Despite dreaming of it for months, Dean was totally unprepared for how good being kissed by Castiel actually felt. He smelled musky and lemony and warm, his jaw was strong and rough with the tiniest bit of stubble, and he was just the slightest bit shorter than Dean was, their faces slotting together just right, puzzle piece perfect. 

The kiss started suddenly, like a crash of emotion that had just burst of Castiel unbidden, but the instant that Dean responded—his own arms rising to cup against Castiel’s frame, one hand beneath his shoulder blade, the other at his neck—their lips turned soft and sweet, mingling with an exhale of warm air that Dean could feel dance along his skin.

Where the pad of Dean’s thumb rested in the hollow of Castiel’s neck, he could feel a soft rumble as Castiel made a small sound amidst the kiss, a vibration of pleasure that rushed out of him on a breath. Dean savored it, shifting his thumb across the warmth of Castiel’s skin in tiny increments, beginning the process of committing the softness of him to memory.

They never really pulled back; the first kiss shifted into more, tiny kisses with gulped breaths between that never really stopped or started, just drifted dreamily from one, to two, to many. Dean wanted to catalog the taste of the inside of Castiel’s bottom lip, wordlessly requesting the chance to try with the trail of his tongue’s tip as it dipped into the warm, wet space beyond his smile.

Dean couldn’t hear Castiel’s noises but he could still swallow them, greedily cherishing the buzzing of Castiel’s vocal cords as they announced his enjoyment through his skin.

Panting softly, sucking in deep breaths to refill their lungs, they finally parted—at least mostly.  Dean’s hand curled around Castiel’s nape, keeping their foreheads tilted together, touching, pressed firmly skin-to-skin like they were trying to each leave a piece of themselves with the other.

Castiel’s eyes were bluer than ever from so close, the white lights of Vista Diner shining through the window behind Dean’s back and making them gleam. His dark eyelashes rested against his skin as he looked up at Dean from beneath them, still forehead-to-forehead, framing the sky-hued brightness with a line of contrasting black.

Dean felt his cheeks pinching from the huge, helpless grin that spread across his face. It was mirrored on Castiel, a pinkish flush from the cold—and, perhaps, Dean hoped, from a little something else—highlighting the apples of his cheeks as he beamed, wide enough to show his gums and perfectly straight upper teeth.

Sliding his hand around from the back of Castiel’s neck, Dean ghosted his thumb across Castiel’s jaw, enjoying the light scratch of his stubble.  

Dean opened his mouth to ask…to ask a lot of things: if the kiss was okay, if he wanted to do this again, to do it every day, to do it endlessly? But he got lost in the way the wrinkles in the corners of Castiel’s eyes had deepened with joy, the way he looked so damn crinkly and happy , that he didn’t say anything beyond murmuring, “Cas.”

Castiel didn’t do much better; Dean felt a soft puff of air between them as Castiel’s lips moved, too fractional for Dean to make out a word, but then he felt the pad of Castiel’s forefinger tracing the outline of his lower lip languidly, sweeping across sensitive, kiss-swollen skin and settling into the little dip above his chin.

They only lasted another moment before their heads tilted and their lips came together again, a little deeper, their bodies pressed into one another’s just a little harder, a little more desperately.

Dean loved how firm Castiel felt in his arms, loved how he smelled of lemons and clean and warmth all at once, loved the taste of his tongue.

Only when Castiel pulled back, sudden and unwilling, did Dean realize that he’d been too wrapped up in Castiel’s mouth and hands to register the appearance of a sleek, navy Toyota at the curb. Michael Novak’s dark head poked out of the driver’s side window with just enough of a smirk that Dean knew he wouldn’t want to be Castiel on that drive home.

Brothers. They were all the same.

Castiel gave Dean’s hip a last, reluctant squeeze before he peeled himself away.

“Good night,” he signed, suddenly looking much shyer than he had even back at Sigma Chi.

“Night, Cas,” Dean said, lifting his hands to add, “See you tomorrow.”

Castiel moved around to the other side of the Toyota, and Dean gave Michael a little wave and a grin. Castiel might have been embarrassed to be caught mid-makeout by his brother, but Dean had never been particularly reserved that way. “Drive safe!” he signed cheerily to Michael.

Dean could have sworn Michael bit back an amused smile of his own before he pulled away from the curb.

Dean floated into class on Friday.

Alright, he’d probably have laughed at himself if he could see the dopey smile on his face—feeling his cheeks pull with the width of it was bad enough—but who cared? He, Dean Winchester, fuck-up extraordinaire, had been on a date with Castiel Novak. 

Castiel…unflappable, determined, amazing Castiel, had agreed to go on date with him. Had wanted to. Possibly for some time.

Yes, Dean floated, and no he did not give two flying shits what the people giving his joyful expression strange side-eyes were thinking.

Being in such a good mood about the developments in his relationship with Castiel was infinitely superior to being on edge about finals, which was his only other reasonable alternative. No doubt the nerves would come back to hit him full force on Sunday night and he’d stay up way too late cramming at the last minute, but until then, he was happy to focus on better things.

Dean settled down into his seat in Professor Adler’s front row. Charlie was only steps behind him, and she gave him a fond, knowing grin as she moved past him to head to her own seat.

She’d pounced on Dean the second his Uber had dropped him back at their apartment, extracting every detail of his date from him with a glee that simply should not be seen in the small hours of the morning. She’d told Sam. Sam had told Jo. Text messages flew in screeching flurries. It was a whole thing, leaving Dean kinda embarrassed and doing his best to pretend to be annoyed by the time he eventually headed to bed.

Turned out friends were just as bad as brothers were about this kinda stuff.

It was just one date though, as much as Charlie, Sam, and Jo seemed set on picking out wedding colors.

One really, really perfect date.

Dean would see Charlie later, for lunch, before she took off upstate to visit her parents for the weekend. While she was gone, he’d have their place to himself for a studying binge. Sam was staying in town until after New Years, helping pack up the last of Dean’s old apartment, but he was happy to give Dean some space for a couple of days. Somehow the giant nerd was just as concerned about Dean's grades as he was about his own. Dean planned to turn in his keys to his old apartment sometime next week, when all this finals bullshit was out of the way. 

Sam was proud of him, Dean knew, for moving in with Charlie. He’d never lived with anyone that wasn’t family. Dean thought it was just convenient for school and cost less in gas. And now, Dean added to his reasoning, it was closer to Castiel’s house than his old place in Lawrence was.

A few minutes later, with the seat next to his own still empty, Dean pulled out his phone. No text from Castiel. He slipped it back into his pocket.

He’d thought that maybe Castiel would have texted him when he got home, but he hadn’t. It didn’t matter though, as they’d be seeing each other first thing today, anyway. In theory. 

Dean checked his phone again.

Professor Adler entered from the side door to his office, making his way across to the tiny podium in front of the whiteboard. His eyes alighted on Dean for a moment, and he merely gave him a tiny, excruciatingly polite nod before beginning to pull out his laptop and papers.

Dean bit back a delighted grin. A meek Adler was the best Adler, he decided. Perfect.

Castiel’s seat, though, remained unoccupied.

At least until a tall, slim, brunette woman entered the room. She looked around briefly, but quickly settled on Dean and headed straight for him, lowering herself into the empty spot with a perfunctory smile.

“Sorry,” Dean started to say, “that seat is actually taken, my—”

“My name is Hannah,” the woman interrupted politely. “I’m here to take Castiel’s place.”

“You—what?” Dean asked, blinking, his hands hanging useless.

“I wasn’t supposed to begin until after the break,” she continued explaining, signing. “But I was available today, and my supervisor at the Access Center thought it was better if I jumped in as soon as possible.”

“Why?” Dean asked, his palms sweating oddly. “Where’s Cas?”

Hannah looked a little more uncertain then, offering him a small smile as she signed, “Castiel will no longer be working with you. He requested that another interpreter be assigned, and Ms. Moseley agreed that was best.”

Dean didn’t move, staring at Hannah’s hands as if they’d try again at any moment and spell out something different.

“I’ll be working with you until the end of the year,” she added. Her expression was a little puzzled, as if she was unsure why this was a big deal. Meanwhile, Dean felt like he’d been hit by a truck, or like he’d smacked his head on that oily concrete floor all over again.

Dean moistened his lips, forcing out a nod. “Right—uh, right,” he said, awkwardly raising his hands to sign, “Okay.”

Hannah seemed to relax a little. “Your file says that you prefer to read lips and have someone type out the lecture for you. Will that still work?”

Dean nodded, struck dumb.

From a neat, black laptop bag that was hung over her shoulder, Hannah pulled out a slim laptop just like the one Castiel used. She settled it on the tiny arm desk and fired it up, calm and efficient, as if nothing was wrong.

But everything was wrong, holy shit.

Castiel requested Hannah? Did he not want to help Dean anymore? Did he not even want to see him? What was—

Hannah nudged Dean, smiling at him oddly before nodding to the front to indicate where Professor Adler stood in front of the whiteboard, gesturing at various key formulas they’d studied over the past months, reminding them what to focus on for finals.

Right. Adler. He was talking.

Dean tried to focus on his lips, flicking his eyes down to read Hannah’s transcription every time that he paused. He had no problems with Adler turning around or only focusing on one side of the room; in fact, the balding, beady-eyed professor seemed very intent on making sure that Dean could see him, standing directly in front of him more often than not.

But Dean struggled to concentrate anyway. There was a sharp pang in his chest that was stealing a little of every breath he tried to take, inflating bigger and bigger until the throbbing filled his ribcage. It felt like it was trying to push his lungs out of the way.

Suddenly, Hannah was tapping his arm; politely, with two fingers, a very calm and measured look on her face. “Did Castiel usually just email you these?” she asked, gesturing to the transcript on her screen.

“Uh, yeah—” Dean cleared his throat, but there still wasn’t enough air in his lungs to feel right. “—yeah, he did.”

“Very well. I’ll send them to your university email.” Hannah was all business, standing up and sliding her laptop back into her bag before she turned to Dean once more to sign, “The schedule I was provided with for you shows that you don’t have any other lecture-based classes today?”

Dean shook his head. “No. Should have two labs, but they’re canceled for finals.”

“Well, then, I will see you after the holidays,” Hannah signed, then stuck out her hand.

She stuck out her—Jesus Christ, she wanted to shake hands. Struck dumb again, Dean awkwardly pumped her hand up and down just once.

“Good luck with finals,” she signed before walking out of the room, ramrod straight.

Dean stared after her and tried to breathe.

Charlie swept past like a whirlwind, hurrying to get to her car and get the hell outta dodge, and Dean plastered a smile on his face and hugged her fast, squishing the beans out of her as best he could.

“You’ll miss me, roomie,” Charlie said, grinning.

“Yup,” he admitted easily, throwing her a wink. “Get out of here.”

She flounced away merrily, and Dean let his face slowly fall once more, let the hurt seep back through his body.

Son of a bitch.

Slowly, Dean reached down to grab his old, army surplus backpack from the floor and robotically packed up his stuff.

Chapter Text

The corridors weren’t as full as they usually were because many classes had already ended ready for finals, so Dean spotted Castiel the moment he stepped out of Adler’s classroom and into the stark electric light beyond.

He was directly opposite the door. Instead of leaning casually against the wall or something, like a normal person, Castiel stood stiffly with his hands in his coat pockets, totally immobile, with the wrinkled sleeves of his trench coat bunching around his wrists. As soon as Dean spotted him, he raised one hand in an awkward wave and stepped forward, cutting the space between them in a couple of steps.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, looking, Dean was pleased to note, a little sheepish.

“What the hell, Cas? You could have told me—” Dean snapped his mouth shut as Castiel held up his other hand, obviously trying to explain.

“First of all, I’m sorry,” Castiel signed, his eyes big and wide as they moved up and down Dean, taking him in. “I rushed over here to wait for you because I was concerned you might worry or come to the wrong conclusion. None of this went how I intended, so if you’re angry— ”

“Well, what did you expect?” Dean butted in. “You just didn’t show up, dude—you could have texted me, or said something last night?”

Castiel nodded, his expression falling. “You have every right to be upset. I planned on talking to you about it first, but it didn’t work out that way. Please, just let me explain.”

Dean sucked in a long breath, finally refilling his choked lungs that had felt just that bit too small ever since Hannah, his unexpected new interpreter, had arrived. He clenched his fist and then slowly released it, taking a moment to just...breathe. Let the anger and frustration dissipate. He didn’t need it; Castiel had seen enough of that from him. This could be different.

“Okay,” Dean said, once he’d taken a moment to unclench.

Castiel blinked in surprise—and Dean tried his best not to feel some kind of way about that, he really did. “Okay?” Castiel echoed. “You aren’t mad?”

“No, I am,” Dean admitted, but he managed a smile. “I’m just…trying to do better with this shit. You got time to grab a coffee and explain yourself?”

Castiel’s smile was brilliant white against his tan skin, full and unexpected. “Of course, Dean,” he said, not bothering in the least to hide the pride in his expression.

“Alright, alright,” Dean grumbled. “You can put the heart eyes away, you ass. I’m trying, don’t make a big deal of it.”

They exchanged small smiles and a moment of simple understanding before Dean turned and nodded down the corridor. “Radina’s for coffee, maybe? Or are you rushed for time?”

Castiel shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Campus was icy and chill, the thick frost from that morning having barely thawed in the low temperatures. Overhead, the clouds were thick and puffy, heavy gray bottoms muting the light and making the world feel strangely still. The paving was clear from many feet heading back and forth, but crystals of cold ice still clung to the treads of Dean’s boots as they cut across the grass to head toward the coffee shop.

As soon as Castiel opened the door, though, holding it for Dean, a wave of warmth and the scent of espresso flooded out. Much better. Dean inhaled deeply and waved Castiel away to find them a table while he got them both drinks.

With two black coffees and a handful of honey packets, Dean made his way to the window seat that Castiel had found, a small bistro table beneath an industrial-looking hanging light. It looked out over the pavement to the pretty sandstone bricks of Seaton Hall, huge and overbearing, not at all like the modern bulk of Engineering Hall or the square bleakness of Cardwell, where Dean’s math classes were.

“Thank you,” Castiel signed as Dean slid his paper cup across the table towards him.

Dean nodded and gave him a little smile before taking the lid off his own coffee cup so it could cool more quickly. “No problem. So…ready to talk?”

Castiel nodded as he squished two small packets of honey into the top of his steaming coffee, leaving the sticky plastic remains on a napkin. He brought his thumb to his mouth, sucking off a golden string, before he looked back at Dean with an apologetic smile.

“Originally, I wanted to…to see how things went with…” Castiel gestured awkwardly between his chest and Dean’s own.

“Us?” Dean supplied, unable to hide his small smirk at how awkward Castiel was.

Flushed, Castiel nodded. “Yes, us. I wasn’t sure if—well, we haven’t talked much about what either of us want, and I wasn’t sure if the phrase would be—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupted with a little chuckle. “It’s fine. ‘Us’ is fine. Just go on, okay?”

Nodding more swiftly, Castiel shook out his hands and sat up straighter before he went back to explaining. “If we chose to pursue any kind of relationship, I felt that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to continue working as your interpreter. Technically speaking, the school wouldn’t have any rules against it—I’m not your professor, I hold no authority over you. Nonetheless, it seemed a little unprofessional.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, nodding reluctantly. “I get that. That was at least part of the reason it took me so long to allow myself to even consider, well…us.”

“My thoughts were that if things worked out, I could discuss it with you over the holidays, so that you’d be prepared to come back to work with one of my colleagues in the new year.”

“That would have been a better plan than expecting to see you this morning and ending up with Hannah, anyway.”

“You don’t like Hannah?” Castiel asked, a small crease marring his brow. “She’s been working here for a few years now, I’ve never heard any complaints about her.”

“She’s…” Dean searched for a word but gave up. “Fine. She’s just fine. A little overly formal maybe, but she seems alright.”

“I mentioned the possible transition early this morning at our weekly department meeting. I had no idea they would jump on my request so quickly,” Castiel confessed, frowning deeply, “though ethically I can see why they did. I assumed there’d be a process that would take a few days at least, but there wasn’t. That’s my fault for assuming, and I apologize. They totally agreed with me and initially planned to bring Hannah in after the holidays. But when the meeting was winding up and Hannah mentioned that she was free this period, they thought it was best to go right ahead. I’m sorry, Dean. Really. I had every intention of speaking to you myself first, not blindsiding you.”

And Dean knew that, deep down, he realized. As soon as Castiel had even begun to explain, he’d been completely forgiven.

Even so…

“I appreciate you coming to wait for me after class so you could explain in person,” Dean said, drawing his coffee cup back toward himself. “But you could have just texted me after your meeting, so I’d have seen it when I got to class, at least.”

“Actually,” Castiel replied with an awkward grimace, “I would have, but I couldn’t. So, I thought the best option was to immediately see you in person. I know I made a mistake, but I wanted to fix it.”

Dean looked at him questioningly

“I’m pretty sure you have my phone, Dean. I put it in the pocket of your shirt last night when we were—”

Dean groaned, flopping his head forward. Clear as day, the image of Castiel’s phone lighting up the red, checked fabric of his own plaid shirt came right back to him, the screen flashing persistently with Michael’s eager messages outside Vista Diner.

Son of a bitch. Why hadn’t he thought more about that at the time?

“Damn it. Yeah, okay. I remember. I didn’t even think about it. It’s probably on my bedroom floor with the laundry.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel signed silently, watching Dean intensely. “This is still my fault, and I—"

“It’s okay, Cas.” Dean smiled, his fingers fluttering in little wings as he signed Castiel’s name. “It wasn’t deliberate. Mistakes and mess-ups happen, yeah? I, uh, definitely had a sketchy moment back there though. I panicked a little, got kinda worried.”

“About me?” Castiel asked, his eyebrow curving.

Dean shrugged. “Just…y’know. Wondering if you’d changed your mind and decided you didn’t want to see me.”

Castiel blinked. “That’s idiotic,” he said.

“Wow, Cas,” Dean replied, laughing and shaking his head. “Tell me how you really feel.”

They chuckled, and sipped, and then Castiel nudged Dean’s boot beneath the table, entwining their feet closely.

“Of course I still want to see you,” he clarified, signing carefully along with his words, as always. “All I’ve wanted to do, all year, is to see you. To know you. Much more than just in class. It’s all I thought about when we were together...I don’t think I was really very good at hiding it. But I knew that it was a conflict of interest, by my personal standards, even if the college wouldn’t have minded. So, if I want to keep seeing you in the way I really want to…then I can’t be with you in classes anymore.”

Dean nodded. He could feel a different kind of warmth in his body, heating his cheeks, but he deliberately pushed past it to say, “Yeah, yeah, I get it. I just…I don’t know if you realize how much you helped me. I really wouldn’t be here without you, Cas. You taught me a lot—not just about ASL or by interpreting what my professors said. You made me want to be different, to be better, I guess.” Shrugging awkwardly, Dean turned his flush into a grin. “And hell, I just really like learning from you, Cas. We fit.”

“I can still teach you to sign, Dean, if you still want that,” Castiel said, shifting shyly in his seat before he added, “Just in a different capacity. Instead of being your interpreter, I could just teach you as my boyfriend, instead.”

Dean wondered if his heart’s thumping, hard and swift, made a sound that others could pick up on, or if it was a song only other hearts could hear.

“You wanna be my boyfriend, Cas?” he asked, giddy and grinning and buzzing in his seat, reaching across the tabletop to stretch out his hands, palm up.

Castiel slowly gripped them, entwining their fingers beneath their joined gaze before he looked back up and nodded, the motion so small and yet…huge. Everything.

“Cool,” Dean said, not capable of much else.

Snow began to fall, beyond the window.

They drank their coffees quietly, settling and just letting the change be.

Before long, though, Castiel reached across the table to hit the button and illuminate the screen of Dean’s phone, lighting up the time. He looked at Dean regretfully.

“I know your labs today are cancelled, so you’re free,” he signed, “but unfortunately I still have some paperwork to finish up before the day is out.”

Dean nodded, understanding. “Yeah, ‘course. And I’m done with classes but I really want to get a bunch of studying done this weekend before finals start on Monday. Try and cram as much into my brain as I can and just hope it doesn’t fall out.”

Castiel’s smile was amused. “You’re going to do well, Dean. I have faith.”

“Glad one of us does,” Dean answered. “I really do need to cram, but this afternoon I’ll go grab your phone and drop it off at your office, so you have it for the weekend.”

“I appreciate that—and I am so sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Dean pushed away his empty coffee cup before he said, “All forgiven, Cas. I’m sure Hannah will be great. I’ll grab your phone and we’ll forget about it.”

“Thank you. May I suggest something? A relationship rule of a sort, I suppose?”

Curious, Dean nodded.

“Even if I upset you or make you angry—or you me—we get coffee and let each other explain. If we still want to be angry after…that’s okay, but failing to discuss it isn’t.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin across the table. “How very mature of us.”

Castiel shook his head, and his cheeks pulled back in a little laugh. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, signing before he paused to wink, the whole side of his face squashing awkwardly. “But we are pretty awesome communicators.”

“When we want to be,” Dean signed back.

Fighting a smile, Dean pushed his chair away from the table reluctantly. The world was cruel, making him choose between hanging out with his favorite dorky interpreter and studying, of all things.

Sam would be proud of him.

They looked at each other for a moment, and a low, warm buzz of excitement filled Dean’s stomach. “You know, even with all the studying, I’d still really like to see you this weekend.”

“Breaks are encouraged,” Castiel agreed, nodding sagely.

“Maybe you could…” Dean moistened his lips, grinning hopefully. “Charlie’s gone for the weekend, so maybe you could come over tomorrow night? If you’re free, I mean. We could watch a movie.”

“I’d like that,” Castiel said with a lopsided grin, giving a little flash of his bright teeth.

“Cool,” Dean said again, before remembering that he was Dean fucking Winchester and rallying his courage. “You could stay the night, if you wanted. Let me cook breakfast for you on Sunday.”

“I’d like that, too,” Castiel agreed, his grin growing.

Saturday evening, Dean had pretty much assumed that he’d be nervous. But as he checked in with himself while slipping the first disc of his favorite Dr. Sexy season into the DVD player, he realized that he really wasn’t. He was excited. Hanging out with Castiel was easy and comfortable, and all that was going to change now was that Dean didn’t have to pretend that he didn’t want to kiss him.

When he’d caught Sam up on the developments in his love life, the kid had been so happy that he practically kicked Dean out of his own apartment. It also likely had something to do with Sam wanting to spend hours on Zoom with Jessica, of course, but it filled Dean with warmth that his brother liked Castiel so much.

For now, though, Sam was staying behind at Dean’s old place and very kindly packing some of his stuff up for him while Dean packed his brain full of formulae and hung out with Castiel.

Dean was glad he’d held off on shaving the kid’s eyebrows. Sam was a great brother. The best brother.

Not that Dean would, like, tell him so to his face.

Dean had spent twelve hours that day going over his notes and doing practice questions for every topic he thought, for even a second, might come up during exams. His brain was extremely tired, so a little Dr. Sexy while he ordered pizza and waited for Castiel seemed like just the thing.

Once he’d clicked through the menu and gotten his favorite episode on screen with closed captions, Dean went to grab his phone from his room and throw a quick text to Castiel.

Dean [07:54 pm]: I’m calling it a day for studying

Figuring that he should put on actual pants to welcome Cas, Dean quickly changed into some comfy jeans and an old Led Zeppelin shirt. It was his lucky shirt. Not that he thought he was going to need a ton of luck, but… you never know.

Gathering up his dishes and the many coffee cups from his day of studying, Dean quickly stacked them in the dishwasher. Charlie’s place—now their place—had a really nice, open kitchen, with an amazing steel range and more storage than Dean knew what to do with. And it would certainly be Dean who did something with it, as Charlie had lived here since the summer and had yet to turn on the stove.

In his back pocket, Dean’s phone buzzed as he dug out a detergent pod for the dishwasher.

Castiel [08:02 pm]: I just finished helping my father with an event at his church. I can head over now, or drive home and change first

Dean [08:02 pm]: Just come on over. You almost always dress like you’re going to church, anyway.

Dean chuckled at the little frowny-face emoji Castiel sent back.

Dean [08:03 pm]: I kinda like it

Castiel [08:03 pm]: In that case, I’m on my way.

Laughing at himself for the way his heart picked up from just a text message, Dean quickly started the dishwasher before he settled onto the couch and allowed himself an honest reply.

Dean [08:06 pm]: I can’t wait to see you, Cas

Castiel didn’t reply, though Dean didn’t really expect him to while he was driving. The way that Castiel hurtled down I-70 from Alma fast enough to be at Charlie’s in just over twenty-five minutes told Dean everything he needed to know, anyway. When the doorbell flashed, Castiel’s excited, wondrous expression as he stood on the “Roll for Initiative” mat outside the front door didn’t hurt Dean’s good mood, either.

As Dean expected, Castiel was wearing his usual trench coat over a dark navy suit, his white dress shirt a little crinkled and his blue tie flipped and askew.

“Hey,” Dean said, grinning as he stepped aside to let him in. “You got here quickly.”

With a sheepish grin Castiel moved inside and signed, “I drove fast.”

“First time for everything,” Dean teased.

Castiel gave him a half-hearted glare, but it melted away as Dean reached across to give him a welcome kiss, his lips lingering just because they could. He couldn’t resist getting his fingers on Castiel’s tie, either, flipping it over before using it to gently pull him in for another kiss.

“Pizza should be here any minute,” Dean said when they finally made it inside.

“Great,” Castiel signed. “I’m starving. For some reason, at these church things it’s always either overly sweet cakes or heavy casseroles…nothing in between.”

Dean was distracted, watching as Castiel shrugged the trench coat from his shoulders, hanging it in the hall, and ran one hand down his front to pop open the single button of his jacket. Castiel tilted his head, clearly puzzled, and followed Dean’s gaze downward.

“Oh, come on.” Dean laughed. “I’m allowed to drool a little.”

“You’re certainly allowed, I just have no idea why you would,” Castiel signed as he stepped into the living room.

Dean snorted. “Dude, you usually wear so many layers that watching you take off a couple is basically a strip show. If you plan on loosening your tie, give me some warning so I can get a stack of ones from the bank.”

Flirting with Castiel was fun, and new, and perfect, but Dean fully expected for Castiel to laugh or roll his eyes—he certainly didn’t anticipate a coy grin, dark pupils, and a pillowy lip tugged by one sharp canine, rolling slowly out from between Castiel’s teeth as he deliberately lifted his hand. He hooked one finger through the neck of his tie and steadily pulled. The blue silk loosened smoothly, inch by inch, and Dean’s mouth fell open in sync with it.

“Like that?” Castiel signed innocently, pointing to the loose, unknotted tie that hung around his neck once he was done.

“Yup,” Dean gulped. “Like that.”

The doorbell flashed. Pizza had never seemed so unappetizing.

When Dean didn’t immediately move to go get it, Castiel let out a laugh and shook his head, giving Dean a little shove. “Get the door,” he signed. “You’re extremely attractive, but I’m still hungry.”

By the time Dean returned with the pizzas, Castiel was cross-legged on the couch, caught up in the episode of Dr. Sexy, M.D. that Dean had put on to pass the time.

“You like this show?” Dean asked, opening the pizza boxes on the coffee table. (One meat and one four cheese—because he hadn’t known if Castiel had a preference, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to order a vegetable pizza.)

Castiel nodded, slowly dragging his eyes away from the screen to Dean. “Yes, it’s one of my favorite shows, actually.”

“And here I thought you couldn’t get any more perfect.”

In the end, they didn’t put on a movie; one episode of the show rolled into another, and they ate and drank side by side on the couch, quiet and content.

“Another beer?” Dean asked, pushing up off the seat.

“Yes, please,” Castiel said, reaching down to grab his empty bottle from the floor near his foot and passing it up to Dean. Their fingers brushed around the partially peeled Texan Star label, and Dean found himself biting back a goofy smile.

After taking a moment to rinse their empties and toss them into the recycling, Dean pulled two frosty, fresh beers from the refrigerator and headed back toward the couch. He paused near the end of it, leaning his shoulder on the large, heavy set of bookcases that held all of Charlie’s board games.

He took a moment just to look, absorbing the fact that Castiel was on his couch in socks and an undone tie, one foot pulled up onto the edge of the seat with his arm resting on his knee, fully absorbed in the sexy scandals of an entirely fictitious hospital. Castiel was gorgeous, that was a given, but Dean liked him like this the best; just slightly undone, relaxed, unprofessional in a way that spoke of closeness and trust. And the way his hair was messed up from running his hands through it and leaning back against the couch, damn… Yeah, that did something.

Castiel looked up, spotting Dean watching, and offered him a tiny smile. They stayed silent but their shared gaze held, and Castiel shifted his weight fractionally onto his side as Dean sat down, so that he was facing Dean more than the busy TV screen.

“Thank you,” he signed silently, taking the beer Dean offered and bringing it up to his mouth for a long sip.

Dean watched his Adam’s apple bob. A stray droplet of white foam clung to his bottom lip.

Castiel stretched over to place the bottle down on the coffee table, and as he relaxed back onto the couch Dean couldn’t help but reach out. He slid two fingers along the edge of Castiel’s jaw to draw him in close and felt his gentle gasp as the space between them shrunk. Castiel was still as Dean dipped forward, sucking the beer foam from the center of his plump lower lip.

When Dean made to pull back, the bitter tang of fresh beer somehow tasting different from someone else’s mouth, Castiel brought his hand to Dean’s neck and waylaid him into another kiss. The second kiss was somehow both deeper and softer, and Dean loved the way their clinging lips didn’t quite seem to want to part, still sticking gently even as their eyes fluttered back open and their breaths fell softly between them.

Castiel smiled, biting his lip endearingly as his forehead pressed into Dean’s.

Not looking away, Dean lowered his own beer bottle to the table, untouched. Castiel went easily down onto the couch on his back as Dean pushed forward, crowding his space.

Dean got his hands up into Castiel’s hair, sinking his fingers into the thick, silky strands at his crown. As their mouths clung and pressed and slid, Castiel found the dip in Dean’s spine right above his tailbone and traced the curve upward with his fingertips, vertebrae by vertebrae, under Dean’s loose shirt.

Making out on the couch, lazy and slow, was one of Dean’s favorite activities; he loved sex, sure, but sometimes this could be just as intimate, just as satisfying. Their bodies shifted and rolled, and as Dean’s mouth began a journey southward to suckle its own unique, bruising signature onto Castiel’s collarbone, Dean lowered his hips. The press of his groin against Castiel’s front sparked a rumbling sensation in Castiel’s chest, and as Dean pulled back he saw that Castiel’s head was thrown back against the arm of the couch, his mouth hanging open, his jaw shifting with pants of air.

Just making out could be as satisfying as sex. But right then, Dean wanted his mouth on every inch of Castiel.

Dean caught Castiel’s face between his hands, kissing into him deeply as he rocked his hips forward more deliberately, letting his already half-hard length drag up the inside curve of Castiel’s left hip bone. Satisfyingly, Castiel’s chest stuttered against Dean’s own and his lips fell slack.

Pausing, Dean retreated enough to watch as his fingers dragged across stubble and up to Castiel’s mouth, tracing his lips.

“Is this okay?” Dean asked, his throat feeling sticky and husky, like he’d just woken from a long sleep. “You’ve never done this,” he added, trying to be clear about what he was asking, even if his body was dissolving into pyrotechnics beneath Castiel’s wandering hands.

In answer, Castiel tilted his chin up and stretched his neck, sucking two of Dean’s fingers beyond his lips. His eyes fluttered shut and Dean felt him hum around his digits, hot and wet, and circle them with his tongue.

When Castiel’s eyes flashed back open, his starving gaze left no question.

Groaning his delight into Castiel’s skin, Dean returned to work on his neck as their bodies lowered back together. The friction of fabric between them was tantalizing; not enough to get either of them off, but enough that Dean could feel the needy thickening of Castiel’s cock through his thin dress pants where it pressed tight against his thigh.

Castiel’s tie had slipped down to the couch already, a striking blue line against the black leather of the chunky sectional they were sprawled upon. Dean’s fingers made it to Castiel’s shirt buttons, resting there questioningly until Castiel’s hands came up to meet his and open the first of them, giving unspoken permission for Dean to continue.

When Castiel’s shirt lay open, parting to reveal his tan stomach muscles and firm chest, Dean pressed a line of biting, wet kisses down his sternum to his bellybutton, savoring the slightly salty taste of his skin. Sitting up to catch his breath, the sight of Castiel lying below him on the leather was like a gut punch: this was his. Only his.

Dean was gonna make this so, so good for him.

Shuffling down to the floor to kneel in front of the couch, Dean tapped on Castiel’s hip. Moistening his lips, he rested one hand on Castiel’s thigh as he said, “Sit up for me.”

Castiel’s gaze was almost hazy, like he’d been kissed out of all sense, but he complied easily and settled himself in the middle of the couch with his shoulders against the back cushion. He reached for Dean, pulling him up into another deep, sloppy kiss.

Trailing his mouth from Castiel’s flushed lips across his cheek to his ear, Dean simultaneously slid his hand across the front of Castiel’s thigh and over, dipping down between his legs and pushing up to cup him in hand. “Yeah?” Dean questioned, his own shaking breaths hitting his face from the curve of Castiel’s ear.

With a slight turn of his head, Castiel’s lips grazed Dean’s cheek as he nodded. It felt like he mouthed, “Yes,” against Dean’s jaw, and the drag of his mouth sent a gush of warmth through Dean’s chest, a heated tingling that his heart began to pump around his whole body.

Fuck, Dean wanted to take him apart so bad.

With another kiss beneath Castiel’s ear, Dean whispered, “I’m gonna take care of you, sweetheart. Gonna make it so good for you.”

Castiel’s fingers slid into the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck, tightening and then releasing, a pleased tug. Dean pulled back and lowered himself to his knees between Castiel’s legs. With one hand flat on each of Castiel’s thighs, Dean pressed out with his palms and pushed them apart.

Above him, Castiel watched with wide, dark eyes, his hand still knotted gently in Dean’s hair. He let go only to push up on the couch a little, lifting his hips and settling into the perfect position.

“Condom?” Dean asked, spelling out the letters with a tilt to his head. Yeah, there was probably a sign for that, but now really wasn’t the time.

Castiel shook his head. “Virgin,” he finger-spelled back, smirking. “Your choice.”

Without breaking eye contact, Dean leaned in and pressed his lips to the front of Castiel’s navy slacks, nosing and kissing at his hard cock through the fabric. Castiel’s other hand flew to Dean’s shoulder, gripping tight, but he only held on for a moment before both hands abandoned Dean entirely to go to his own belt, flicking the leather through the metal loop with swift, practiced movements until it hung open, only the button and zipper of his stuffy suit pants between Dean and what was underneath.

Dean could smell the musky heat of him through the thin pants, and he closed his eyes to mouth over the slowly twitching length behind the zipper. He felt thick under Dean’s lips and tongue. Dean looked up, then, deliberately gazing at Castiel from beneath his eyelashes as he wandered his stroking hands toward Castiel’s waistband, teasing along his bare stomach before his fingers closed around the button. He popped it open and tugged the front of Castiel’s dress pants apart with his thumbs. There was a flash of orange beneath.

Surprised, Dean grinned down at the bright boxer briefs that were revealed as Castiel lifted his hips and shoved his pants down. He leaned back so that Castiel could release his legs from the tangle of fabric, then settled straight back in, his hand moving to press flat to the front of Castiel’s underwear, sliding firmly upward.

Castiel’s ribcage rose sharply, then fell. Looking up at Castiel once more, Dean trailed one finger around the outline of Castiel’s cock as he said, “Orange? Didn’t picture that.”

Lifting his hips again, Castiel laughed, the vibration of it travelling through his body and into Dean’s hands. He looked down at Dean, carefully saying, “They’re lucky.”

Dean smirked, and Castiel grinned sheepishly back for just a moment before he slid the orange underwear down past his ass. Dean took over then, hooking his fingers into the thick elastic at the waist and pulling them slowly down Castiel’s thighs. For a moment they caught on Castiel’s eager erection, before giving in to inevitability and releasing it to smack against his abdomen.

God, what a sight. Dean rocked back on his heels, just taking in the view.

Castiel still had his shirt on, open and pooling at each side of him on the black leather sectional. His chest was flushed red, and one gorgeously muscled shoulder was exposed. His hair was already fucked, sticking up in thick tufts above his forehead. His lips were parted, highlighting how pink they were, and his darkened gaze was locked completely on Dean.

Dean rested one hand on Castiel’s chest, feeling it rise and fall for a moment before he slid his hand slowly down to rest on his abdomen, caressing Castiel’s abs. Right there, before Dean’s face, Castiel’s cock stood impatiently, thick and proud. Nestled in a curly patch of dark hair, it jutted out just an inch or two above his stomach, hovering. As Dean licked his lips, it twitched, like Castiel was beckoning him.

A droplet of glossy, clear pre-come beaded on its tip, and Dean gave in, darting his tongue out for a taste.

Still gazing at Castiel, Dean got to see his head dip back before coming forward to look again, the distinctive shape of “Fuck!” clear on his lips.

Thin and watery-tasting, Dean lapped up the pre-come leaking from Castiel’s slit, savoring it.

Dean trailed the tip of his tongue down the underside of Castiel’s cock, past his frenulum, down the shaft, to where the hardness softened and transitioned into his balls. Dean used his other hand to cup them softly, rolling them in his palm as he kissed his way back up to the tip.

Flexing his fingers on Castiel’s abdomen, Dean watched Castiel’s reactions. He cataloged the way his chest stuttered whenever Dean would gently tug his balls away from his body, sliding them around in his palm. He made note of the way Castiel’s hands—one on the edge of the couch and one in Dean’s hair—would tighten whenever Dean swirled his tongue under the ridge of his cock just so. He memorized the way Castiel’s eyes would widen with pleasure when he rubbed his lips near the base of him, just a little more pressure than he could take higher up.

When Castiel was breathing shakily, his thighs tense on either side of Dean’s shoulders, Dean pushed up a little more on his knees and reached for Castiel’s hand, taking it from the couch to entwine their fingers before he slid Castiel fully into his mouth.

Castiel squeezed his hand so tight that Dean felt his fingers crunch, but he didn’t stop his movement, burying his nose deep in the thick, curly hair around Castiel’s base.

It had been a while since Dean had done this, but even so, he remembered how. With his other hand at Castiel’s hip, soothing small circles around the sharp jut of bone with his thumb, Dean slid a fraction further forward. The smooth tip of Castiel’s cock slipped across the roof of Dean’s mouth and back, into his throat, as Dean breathed out through his nose and relaxed, loosening his jaw.

Around Dean, Castiel’s thighs twitched and jumped.

Then Dean sucked in a gulp of air and sealed his lips, swallowing around Castiel’s head.

He managed to do it a couple more times, bobbing his head and sucking hard in between, wrapping one hand around Castiel’s base and twisting his fingers, before Castiel was tapping at his shoulder, somewhat frantic—a warning.

Dragging his lips up the length of Castiel before releasing him, Dean rested the slick head of Cas’ cock against the corner of his mouth as he asked, “Gonna come for me, Cas?”

Lips shaking and flushed, Castiel nodded, reaching to settle his hand back into Dean’s hair.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” Dean murmured, before sinking back down and sucking him in deep.

Dean hummed and sucked, feeling the shaking throb of Castiel’s cock against his tongue before he spilled, gushing into the back of Dean’s throat. Dean gagged, sticky trickles escaping his lips and dripping down his chin and his hands where he worked Castiel through it. He didn’t pull back, swallowing all that he could, savoring the salty, earthy taste—it wasn’t the greatest flavor, but it was Cas, raw Cas, and Dean didn’t want to waste a drop.

Castiel was trembling beneath him as Dean pulled off, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hands. He smiled, and Castiel reached for him—all unfocused expression and shaking fingers—and pulled him forward, into Castiel’s lap, shamelessly kissing deep into his still-sticky mouth.

Dean felt Castiel hum against his lips, no doubt tasting himself, and wrap his arms firmly around Dean’s waist.

Slowly coming apart for air, Dean scattered little kisses around Castiel’s face before shifting to adjust himself in his pants. He was still hard from the taste and the scent and the feel of Castiel, and having his dick poking down his boxer leg was uncomfortable.

Castiel looked down and reached out, his hand heading for the waist of Dean’s jeans, even though his expression was still hazy.

Dean laughed, catching Castiel’s hand with both of his. “How about we wait a minute, huh? Take this to the bedroom, and then you can get those gorgeous hands on me.”

Castiel didn’t answer; he wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist once more, tight, and stood, lifting Dean with him.

Yelping and laughing in surprise, Dean grinned into Castiel’s temple. “Oh, fuck,” Dean murmured against his heated skin, “it is so damn sexy that you’re as strong as me.”

Feeling Castiel’s chuckle, Dean pulled back to look at his face, wrapping his legs around Castiel to steady them. Castiel moved from the living room but hesitated, until Dean raised a hand to point to the right door.

“Bedroom’s that way,” he said helpfully.

Moments later, Dean’s shoulder blades hit the mattress, and the overhead light was momentarily blocked by Castiel crawling above him, kissing him down into the pillows.

What followed was sloppy but perfect, with Dean spilling quickly over Castiel’s hand as he leaned over him, coaxing out the last drops with an array of kisses to Dean’s throat. They cleaned up roughly with a handful of tissues before Castiel stumbled out to his car to grab his overnight bag, and that was the last Dean remembered as he was pulled into Castiel’s arms to sleep.

Chapter Text

Dean’s pillow smelled of…lemons? Still half conscious, he inhaled deeply, sucking in the scent. Something tickled his nose, and he felt the fabric of the pillow rub against his cheek as he surfaced further from sleep. A grin spread across his face before he even opened his eyes.

Castiel occupied the other half of Dean’s pillow, his own abandoned and cold on the far side of the bed. Hazily highlighted in the low light from the hallway, he was beautiful. With his chin tucked into Dean’s neck, the beginnings of stubble prickled against Dean’s skin. Castiel’s shoulder twitched in sleep, his lips parted, and with a sleepy smile he let out little puffs of his dream onto the bolt of Dean’s jaw.

Warm and content, Dean peered down at him for a few moments, letting his chest swell and buzz as much as it wanted. And it wanted, a lot. Maybe it was too soon to feel as intensely about Castiel as Dean did, but it had taken them so long to get here that he couldn’t care.

The crack in the curtains showed Dean that it was still dark out, far too early to wake on a Sunday. So, smiling down into Castiel’s crown, Dean snuggled him closer and drifted back to sleep, lulled by warm arms and citrusy shampoo.

The second time that Dean awoke, he had the pillow all to himself. The other side of the bed was cold, but Dean’s frown was easily chased away when he sat up and spotted the backpack that Castiel had retrieved from his car the night before, lying on its side near the foot of the bed.

Stretching out across the bed like a starfish, Dean shook the sleep from his limbs and rose up out of the comforter, shoving it down the bed to air out for a few hours. Pulling back the drapes that covered the bedroom window showed him a winter wonderland outside. It was the perfect amount of snow for Dean; a wintery blanket, not a wall of white that he’d have to dig through, like further north.

A trip to the bathroom showed Dean a sink which already had splashes of water in it, and a toothbrush placed on the side to dry that wasn’t his or Charlie’s. He smiled at it stupidly while he brushed his own teeth.

After pulling on some fresh, red-plaid pajama pants and a simple gray t-shirt, Dean shuffled his way toward the kitchen, barefoot. At the end of the small hallway that separated the bedrooms and bathroom from the rest of the apartment, he paused and peered around the corner.

In the kitchen, Castiel was busy. Inhaling, Dean caught the smell of warm batter wafting from the waffle maker, and a pan full of bacon was just having the gas lit beneath it. Castiel looked to have music playing; his phone was lit up where it was propped on the counter, leaning against the coffee machine. As Dean watched, Castiel’s hips dropped and moved this way and that, swinging out a fast beat in front of the stove.

Dean took a moment to observe. Castiel was wearing the same stretchy gray pants that Dean remembered from his impromptu hospital visit and a tight black t-shirt of some kind that hugged the muscles of his back as he moved, reaching across the kitchen counter to pull clean utensils out of the wooden holder that Dean had stuck them in when he’d cleaned up.

Adorably, Castiel raised both hands—a wooden spatula in one, a mixing spoon in the other—and tapped out a beat above his head, matching the thrusting of his hips.

Dean cleared his throat, biting back a laugh.

Castiel’s head whipped around, one hand going to his chest in surprise, the other immediately reaching out to his phone to tap the screen and pause whatever he was listening to, spatula still curled in his hand.

“Dean!” he said, his lips forming the name familiarly as he placed the kitchenware down on the counter so that he could sign. “I didn’t think you’d be awake so soon.”

Dean grinned, strolling into the kitchen. “Woke up just a few minutes ago. I thought I said I’d cook you breakfast?”

Castiel smiled, turning to grasp the spatula and poke at the bacon while Dean stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around him from behind. Once the bacon was flipped, Castiel turned in his arms to sign.

“I wake up at six every day to run. Stopped by the store down the street on the way; figured that you would never say no to bacon.”

Dean nodded appreciatively, dropping a quick kiss to Castiel’s minty-fresh mouth before he stepped back to answer. “Hell, yes. I will never say no to breakfast in exchange for waking up alone. Though—” Dean paused to wink, “—if you ever want to get your exercise in bed in the mornings, I’m totally down for that, too.”

Castiel laughed, his shoulders shaking gently as he wrapped his fingers in the fabric across Dean’s sternum, reeling him in for another, longer kiss. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he signed when he was done. “Did you want coffee? I haven’t tackled the coffee maker yet.”

“Yeah, I’ll get it,” Dean said, sidestepping to pull the beans from the cupboard to Castiel’s left.

Turning back to the bacon, Castiel went back to cooking, his head bobbing slightly in Dean’s peripheral vision. If he had to, Dean would have guessed that he was humming, though he had no idea what, of course.

Once the coffee machine was grinding away and Dean had liberated two mugs from the dishwasher, he walked over to lean on the counter next to the stove and watch Castiel cook, smiling at the way he cheerfully bopped around the kitchen.

“What’re you dancing along to, goofball?” Dean asked, gazing affectionately at Castiel as he checked on the waffles.

Castiel grimaced. “A song we danced to at the party the other night,” he confessed. “It’s been stuck in my head ever since.”        

“Ahh,” Dean said, “there’s an advantage to being Deaf, I suppose. Immunity to earworms.”

Rolling his eyes as he moved, Castiel opened a cabinet and frowned, searching, before trying another. “Plates?” he signed, straightening back up.

“Oh, here—” Dean stretched past and reached for them himself. “—I’ll get them.”

Castiel swayed his way happily back to the stove, giving the bacon one last turn.

Dean watched, his heart feeling a bit too big for the space he was used to it occupying. “You’re a dork when you’re happy,” he noted aloud, moving to finish off the coffee.

Plating the waffles and bacon, Castiel didn’t answer until he’d placed their breakfast down on the kitchen island. “You’re right,” he signed, leaning one hip on the counter edge. “I’m more reserved with people I don’t know. But with you…”

Dean’s heart got bigger again as Castiel trailed off and shrugged. “I like it,” he reassured, smiling warmly before he mimed zipping his lips. “I’ll keep the fact that you’re actually adorable to myself. Secret’s safe with me.”

Dean brought their coffees over and tugged out two stools, placing them so that they could plop down opposite each other, and went to dig out some forks.

“Thank you,” Castiel signed after taking his.

“Thank you for cooking,” Dean said. “No one’s cooked breakfast for me since my dad died. And he wasn’t the best cook, let me tell you. I used to feed Sammy so that Dad wouldn’t send him to school on carbonized toast.”

“I’m not a great cook, either, but I can handle breakfast. Beyond that, it’s pretty much PB&J and frozen burritos.”

“You’ll have to let me cook dinner for you the next time you come over, then,” Dean said, tugging his coffee toward himself. “It’ll be nice to have someone to cook for again.”

Castiel’s grin was soft. “You miss taking care of your brother—that’s why you stay here with Charlie, isn’t it? It’s not actually driving to school from Lawrence that bothers you.”

Dean shrugged awkwardly, caught red-handed. “Charlie’s one of those cloud-brained people. She’ll be thinking about coding satellite software or something crazy like that, and she’ll put spoons in the microwave. Safety first.”

Castiel’s gaze rested on Dean a moment more, warm and heavy, and Dean knew that Cas could see right through him. But he said nothing else on it, digging into his waffles instead. One of the things Dean liked best about Castiel, he decided, was all the things he chose not to say out loud.

After complimenting Castiel on his waffles—effusively, more than once—Dean pushed his plate aside and asked, “Got any plans today?”

Castiel nodded. “Several of my siblings have plans this afternoon, and they’ll expect me to go with them. So, I should probably head home in a little while.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, recalling their conversation on the quad. “They’ll expect you to? Are these things you want to do, or things you do just because you feel like you have to?”

For a moment, Castiel’s lips parted but his hands froze. Then, after a beat, he gave Dean a little lopsided smile. “You’re right. Maybe I’ll tell them I want to binge Netflix, instead.”

“You’re welcome to stay here and binge,” Dean said, hopeful. “If you want. I’m just going to be studying all day, and it’s not like the noise will bother me.”

“More cramming?” Castiel asked, his head tilt looking more concerned than disapproving.

“Well, not everyone is as smart as you, and some of us are at a disadvantage. I gotta do everything I can not to fail these stupid exams.”

Frowning, Castiel put down his fork and pushed his plate away, next to Dean’s. “I hope you’re not trying to say what I think you are,” he said, brows lowered. “You’re not somehow lesser than anyone else, Dean.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Dean tried to brush it off, but Castiel reached across to squeeze his arm before he continued signing.

“I’ve watched plenty of students take finals since I came to work at K State, you know,” Castiel pointed out. “Several every year. While the odds for attempting college the way you did before weren’t in your favor, with equal access, statistics say you have just as much of a chance to pass as everyone else. A level playing field. That’s the point.”

Dean looked down at his coffee mug for a long minute, but he knew Castiel would just wait him out. So, he looked back up and admitted, “Doesn’t feel that way.”

“I get it. But I’m proud of you, you know. You work really hard, Dean,” Castiel said, his expression so open and honest that Dean felt something in him loosen. “If, for some reason, you don’t come out of finals with the grades you’re hoping for? I promise you that it’s just perfectly normal, ordinary college woes. It’s nothing to do with you being deaf.”

Dean gulped hard, swallowing down the prickles that threatened the back of his eyeballs. The welling feeling inside him was hope, and relief, and just a little bit of giddy happiness, too.

Tugging Castiel off his stool so that they could make out lazily against the kitchen counter, Dean allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, Castiel could be right.

Finals week was progressing much, much better than Dean had ever dreamed it could. Though, in all honesty, it had less to do with the finals themselves and more to do with the fact that Castiel had very little work to do all week, so they’d found perfectly reasonable excuses for him to stay over almost every night.

He’d been home a few times to grab clean clothes and help his family with things, but otherwise, they’d been joined at the hip. Dean had even taken Castiel with him to an appointment at the campus health center because...why not? It was definitely his business to know what was up. Castiel might have been a virgin up until a few days ago, but Dean was far from it. After the all-clear from that little trip, Dean had seen no reason at all to keep Castiel out of his bed.

Charlie was brazenly invested in Dean’s love life and welcomed Castiel into the apartment with open arms. Sam was a little less excited, but only because once Dean turned in the keys to his old place, Sam was stuck sleeping on the couch at Charlie’s within—he claimed—earshot of Dean’s bedroom door.

Waking up on Thursday with Castiel’s body pressed against his, Dean took a moment to be grateful for Jo, who’d invited Sam out for drinks the night before. No one who drank with Jo was ever out of bed before lunch, so Sam was unlikely to make any annoying comments about earplugs.

Snuggling back into Castiel’s chest, Dean turned his head back to catch a glimpse of dark, tousled bedhead and a flash of blue eyes. Castiel’s hand rose up in the air and gave a little wave before coming to rest on Dean’s shoulder.

Yeah, waking up like this could make even finals week feel pretty damn spectacular.

Castiel’s palm skated down Dean’s bicep, leaving a trail of shivers in its wake. Reaching back, Dean gripped Castiel’s hip, pulling him in closer. “Good morning,” he said, sleep slipping away rapidly. “No run this morning?”

Dean felt Castiel leaning forward. One of his hands slid up Dean’s abdomen until it reached his sternum, and his chin hooked over Dean’s shoulder.

“No running today,” Castiel spelled out in front of Dean’s chest. “I thought I’d exercise here, instead.”

Dean stretched his neck, turning his head to the side so that he could kiss Castiel’s cheek and press his grin into warm skin. “That so?”

Castiel’s fingers splayed on Dean’s chest, and Dean felt the scratch of stubble against his own as Castiel smiled. His hips pressed forward, morning wood pressing into the curve of Dean’s ass.          

“Not gonna hear any complaints from me,” Dean said as he pushed back. “Not a single one.”

Dean arched his back, preparing to roll over, but as Castiel’s lips moved from his cheek to his neck and on down his shoulder, all he could manage was to melt down into the pillow instead. He felt Castiel’s hand at his chest lift once more and flicked his eyes down to take in the careful letters that he formed.

“I have a complaint,” Castiel signed.

“Oh?” Dean asked, tilting his head further into the pillow, opening up more to Castiel’s lips.

Castiel’s hand slipped down to pluck at the elastic of Dean’s pajama pants, a cozy pair he’d gotten as an early Christmas gift from Ellen.

“Off,” Castel signed. “Now.”

Well, then.

Dean reached down and kicked his legs, pushing the pants down and ditching them off the side of the bed. For good measure, he sent his boxers down after them.

He felt a rumble of approval spread through Castiel’s chest against his shoulder blades. Settling against him, Dean reached back to squeeze at Castiel’s impressively muscled flank. All that running…it was really a blessing to them both. Sliding his fingers south, Dean slipped the tips under the waistband of Castiel’s underwear suggestively.

Castiel’s pelvis rolled in agreement, and Dean teased his touch a fraction further past the elastic. He edged down inch by inch, stroking his fingers across Castiel’s soft skin, trailing his nails gently over the tight muscle of his ass and the sharp, ruinous rise of his hipbone.

He kept it up for long minutes, loving the feel of Castiel’s hot, pliant skin under his hands.

Castiel tilted his head forward; his forehead pressed into Dean’s shoulder as he shifted back and forth, almost begging.

“Want something?” Dean teased.

Castiel nipped playfully at Dean’s shoulder, causing him to laugh.

“Alright, Cas. I got you.” Dean spread his fingers and pushed Castiel’s boxer briefs down, the cotton bunching up around his wrist as he guided them across Cas’s thighs.

Castiel reluctantly drew back for a moment, the mattress bouncing as he twisted to discard his underwear, kicking them out of the way. When he rolled back against Dean again he felt ten times hotter, his chest burning against Dean’s back as he slid back into his spot.

Dean could feel the hard length of Castiel’s cock riding against him, even warmer than the rest of Castiel’s skin as it settled in the crevice of Dean’s cheeks.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean murmured, reaching back automatically to grab a handful of his ass.

Castiel’s hand slid back around to Dean’s front, stroking up his stomach before tapping lightly at Dean’s chest, asking him to look down.

“Can I touch you?” Castiel signed, letter by letter.

Even though it was clear what he was asking only a couple of words in, Dean still held his breath and let him finish.

“Yeah,” Dean said, a little breathless. “Always, Cas.”

Something back behind Dean’s breastbone warmed at the fact that no matter how many times they did this, Castiel never stopped asking.

Castiel’s hands were softer than Dean’s, a fact that Dean marveled at every time Castiel’s long fingers wrapped around the length of him. He didn’t have rough calluses from working like Dean did, yet his hands were strong and sure and sexy. Dean would never confess it to a single soul, but he was pretty sure he was developing some kind of fetish for those fingers.

A very specific fetish, just for the hands that touched him with the same determined care that they spoke to him with.         

Working Dean slowly, his hand loose, Castiel rutted up against Dean. Twisting, Dean reached back to kiss whatever he could reach, and was rewarded with the rough stubble of Castiel’s chin.

Castiel’s fingers tightened around Dean’s shaft as Dean kissed his way up his jaw.

“How’re you already so good at pressing my buttons?” Dean asked as Castiel’s thumb slipped up over his slit. He felt the gentle squeeze as Castiel coaxed out a drip of pre-come and the wetness spreading over the head of his cock.  

Another rumble spread through Castiel’s chest as he groaned, pressing himself harder between Dean’s cheeks. Dean could feel a tiny spot of telltale wetness forming at Castiel’s tip, too, leaving a minuscule damp trail in the vee beneath Dean’s tailbone.

Not wet enough, though, Dean decided.

“Here,” Dean said, releasing Castiel’s butt long enough to tilt his body forward over the mattress and reach toward the nightstand. With a shudder of cheap, ill-assembled wood, the drawer jolted open. Shoving his hand inside, Dean groped around until his fingers closed around the half-empty bottle of lubricant, some drugstore KY knockoff.

Pressing back into Castiel behind him, Dean flipped open the cap and squeezed out a few drops into Castiel’s waiting hand.

“Hey,” he said, before Castiel had time to wrap his fingers back around Dean. “Lemme show you something.”

Castiel’s chin pressed against Dean’s shoulder as his head gave a questioning tilt.

Squeezing a good amount of the lube into his own hand, Dean tossed the bottle onto the surface of the nightstand before he reached back behind him, looking back over his shoulder.

Castiel caught up with Dean’s intentions and helped, guiding his eager, red cock into Dean’s hand with a press of his thumb near the base. Dean felt a puff of air against his shoulder as he stroked Cas up and down slowly, taking his time slicking him up with the lube just because he could. Looking up to check on Castiel, Dean was met with a hooded gaze and blown pupils.

“Try this,” Dean said, tilting his pelvis and lifting one leg as he guided Castiel into place.

Dean wiped the rest of the lubricant that was clinging to his hand onto his inner thighs before closing them, clamping them firmly—but not too tight—around Castiel’s dick.

Against his taint, Dean felt Castiel’s cock twitch involuntarily. He watched Castiel’s face, grinning when his lips formed an ‘o’ shape.

“Good?” Dean asked, taking himself in hand. He began to stroke himself firmly as Castiel shifted his lower hand, previously just resting on the bed between them, up to grip at Dean’s shoulder and pressed his hips forward.

Slowly, cautiously, Castiel thrust into the hot, slick space that Dean had created.

Dean lost track of Castiel’s lips after “Oh, God,” his body buffeted as Castiel began to fuck into the tunnel of his thighs in earnest.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean murmured in approval, tightening his grip as the momentum of Castiel’s thrusts helped push his cock through his fist, over and over.

Castiel’s hand curled around Dean’s hip, his blunt nails pressing into the skin as he picked up pace.

Pressure beginning to build low in his abdomen, Dean experimented with squeezing his thighs, reaching back to encourage Castiel to go for it. He loved the feeling of Castiel thrusting at his back, the smooth head of his cock smacking rhythmically against Dean’s perineum with just the right kind of pressure to add a little something to the twist of Dean’s hand over his shaft.

“Fuck, feels good, Cas, so good,” Dean encouraged, turning to look at the side of Castiel’s face.

Watching Castiel fall apart was always a privilege; his lips parted as he gulped in air, the hum of his chest giving Dean an impression of the low sounds he was helplessly making.

“Dean,” Castiel’s lips formed, over and over again. “Fuck, Dean…”

Dean grabbed at Castiel’s thigh, digging his fingers into tight muscle as he hauled Castiel more firmly against him.

Pleasure jolted through Dean at the sight of serious, sensible Castiel so lost to sensation. He delighted in the knowledge that no one but him got to see Castiel like this: trembling, desperate, a bead of sweat clinging to his temple as his body slapped against Dean’s, heat building between them.

“Close, sweetheart?” Dean asked, letting go of Castiel’s thigh to curl his arm up and around Castiel’s neck, caressing his cheek in a sweet counterpart to the sweat and friction of their bodies.

Castiel nodded into Dean’s palm, then slipped his hand forward to Dean’s chest once more. His teeth grazed Dean’s neck softly as he signed, “Mine.”

Dean chuckled, reaching back down to take his bobbing cock in hand, unable to resist any longer. “All yours,” he agreed. “Any way you want me.”

The way that Castiel could be a little possessive in the bedroom, while being the furthest thing from it outside of the sheets, only added to how incredibly, scorchingly hot their sex life was fast becoming.

Sure, Castiel was a little unsure about some things—but he wasn’t afraid to ask, and Dean was more than happy to teach. Step by step. They were in absolutely no rush.

“I want,” Castiel finger-spelled shakily, “to come on you.”

The pressure in Dean’s stomach shot up, reaching the familiar point of inevitability. “Oh, hell yes,” he said, gulping in air as he nodded. “Go for it.”

Shifting away from Castiel just enough to roll onto his back, Dean bit down on his lip and kept tugging as Castiel pushed up onto his knees, throwing one leg over Dean’s thighs.

Fuck, he looked good. Castiel was glorious naked, and Dean gazed at him openly as he reached his other hand down to squeeze and play with his balls.

Straddling Dean, Castiel’s chest was flushed red. He wrapped one hand around himself, stripping his cock furiously, his eyes fixed on Dean below him. His mouth hung open, wordless and still, and Dean could feel his thighs trembling against his own.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean coaxed, moistening his lips. “Let me see you come.”

With that, Castiel reached down and knocked Dean’s hand aside, wrapping his fucking glorious fingers around them both and jerking them rapidly, his chest heaving as he supported himself on the mattress with one hand.

Dean reached up to kiss him just once, hard and rough, before pressing their foreheads together and looking down so that he could watch Castiel come all over his stomach.

Three warm spurts of thick come splattered over Dean’s skin, streaking their way up from his belly button to just under his ribs. A fourth, weaker spurt dribbled across Dean’s cock, pressed against Castiel’s, leaving a white trail across his head—

And that was it, the sight of Castiel’s come marking Dean’s cock sent Dean over the edge, his own release covering Castiel’s on his stomach.

For a moment, they stayed still, and Dean watched Castiel’s ribcage rise and fall rapidly for a few seconds before calming and evening out. Once they’d caught their breaths, Castiel climbed off—his thighs noticeably shaking in a way that was very satisfying for Dean—and gathered up a handful of Kleenex from the nightstand.

Slipping back into bed, Castiel cleaned up Dean’s stomach before he smiled up at him, looking almost sheepish.

“Good morning,” he signed, once he’d tossed the damp tissues into the trash can beside the nightstand.

“Hell of a way to start the day,” Dean said. “Made me totally forget it’s the middle of finals week for a while.”

“Mission accomplished,” Castiel signed, before leaning in to press their lips together.

Dean could have laid there all day just kissing his gorgeous, fucking amazing boyfriend…but sadly, life had other plans. Beneath Dean’s pillow, the vibrating pad attached to his alarm clock began to shake.

He groaned.

“Come on,” Castiel signed, smiling indulgently as he sat up. “Let’s shower, and I can quiz you on your Engineering Core stuff for half an hour before you have to be at Cardwell Hall.”

“My classes are in one ear and out the other for you. Do you even know if I’m giving you the right answers?”

“Not a clue,” Castiel confessed as he swung his feet over the edge of the mattress. “But it makes you feel better.”

Laughing, Dean shoved Castiel off the edge of the bed.

“Dean-o!” Why Gabriel took the time to sign that extra damned ‘o’ every time, Dean had no idea. “How’d finals go for you?”

“Better than I thought they would,” Dean replied, smiling in relief as he stepped aside to let a tall woman with a giant tub of popcorn and a guy with an armload of hotdogs move past him toward the other end of the movie theater. “I think I did okay. I actually felt like I knew what I was doing.”

Gabriel was wearing a really garish shirt, and Dean had to focus to make sure he was paying attention to the movement of his hands and not the swirly, neon patterning going on behind them.

“Glad to know you’re smarter than you look, pretty boy,” Gabriel responded with a wink. “Though, I guess my brother wouldn’t date a complete dumbass. Or maybe he would, gotta be desperate for it after all that time by himself—”

“Okay,” Dean cut in quickly, raising both hands. “That’s enough of that, thanks. How did your finals go?”

“Walk in the park,” Gabriel said. “I am also not just a gorgeous face.”

Dean raised an eyebrow in amusement but refrained from commenting on that part. “What is it you’re studying, anyway?” he asked instead.

“Film,” Gabriel answered proudly. “I’m going to be an amazing porn director.”

Feeling his jaw drop, Dean wracked his brain for something to say in response. “Very...confident,” he observed. “That’s good. Will, uh, will your films have captions?”

“Of course,” Gabriel answered proudly. “I’ll keep you in mind, make sure you get advanced copies.”

Dean smiled weakly, certain that no matter what kinds of kinky shit Gabriel produced, he would never, ever, watch porn directed by his boyfriend’s brother.

Thank goodness, the concessions stand queue that they were both standing in chose that moment to move, and they shuffled up to the desk to put in orders for popcorn and, in Gabriel’s case, a ridiculous amount of candy.

Castiel had been visibly surprised (to Dean’s glee) when he’d cautiously revisited the idea of Dean attending some of the d/Deaf community events in Manhattan, and instead of balking or getting pissed, Dean had agreed.

Not that he was comfortable, or anything, but he thought he was holding his own pretty damn well. Castiel had jumped on the idea immediately, probably concerned that Dean would change his mind, and had booked them tickets to an open captioned movie in the city, the day after Dean’s finals wrapped up.

It was dumb to be nervous, Dean knew that. It was just a movie. He’d been to movie theatres a couple of times, but it was a baffling experience of indecipherable picture sequences in the dark when he couldn’t make out ninety percent of what the characters were saying. He hadn’t even known that there were special showings for d/Deaf people, until he’d met Castiel.

And Castiel had picked a great old movie for their first one: The Fifth Element, a late 90’s sci-fi movie starring Bruce Willis that Dean had seen before and loved. It was easy to watch movies at home, with the closed captions turned on, alone on his couch.

But this felt different, the whole experience. 

The popcorn smell, the hot dogs, the people…a lot of people. Dean had mentioned it to Sam, so of course, Sam had come to support him. Along with Jo, and Charlie. Castiel had mentioned the movie at home, so a whole truckload of his siblings had turned up, too. After all, who doesn’t love Bruce Willis movies?

While the concessions attendant totaled up their purchases, Dean’s eyes wandered across the large lobby to where Castiel stood near the door to their screen, talking animatedly with Sam. Sam was ginning, and Cas was showing him something with his hands, spelling out something. They both laughed, and Dean felt a smile building on his own face.

Sam really, really liked Cas. The fact that the two of them seemed to be getting along so well warmed Dean’s chest like a sip of Johnnie Walker. Castiel fit so seamlessly into his life, into his family. He was part of Dean’s family, already, and that alone was monumental.

Dean thought that he might already be pretty hopelessly in love with the guy, actually.

“Hey, Gabe,” Dean said as he tapped Gabriel on the forearm with two fingers, drawing his attention up from the candy stash awaiting him on the desk. “Can I ask you something?”

Gabriel shrugged, turning more fully. “Sure, what?”

“You can’t tell Cas. Not yet.”

A grin spread over Gabriel’s face and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. “Oh, hells yeah. I love secrets. And, despite what you may assume, I am a truly excellent secret-keeper. What’s up?”

A flash of warmth spread across the back of Dean’s neck, and he momentarily regretted opening his mouth to Gabriel, of all people, but…fuck it, he was here, now. “I was wondering,” Dean signed slowly, “if you would teach me the sign for ‘I love you.’”

Having to spell it out, letter by letter, took a few seconds, but Gabriel’s face broke into a grin only halfway through.

“That’s easy,” Gabriel said, holding up his hands to demonstrate.

First, he pointed to his sternum. Alright, simple—that was the “I” part, Dean could handle that. Then, with his hands in fists, Gabriel crossed his arms over the middle of his chest. “Love,” he mouthed, clarifying the new sign before unfolding his arms to point at Dean. “You.”

Gabriel repeated it again, a little faster. Point, cross arms, point. I, love, you. Easy.

Dean copied slowly. Gabriel reached out to nudge his arms up a little, then had him try it again.

“There we go, you got it,” Gabriel said once he was satisfied with Dean’s arm placement. “That’s a full-on ‘I love you’ kinda moment. For saying it more casually, you can do this.”

Gabriel held up a hand to demonstrate a single sign. He showed Dean the sign a couple of times, reaching over to adjust Dean’s hand as he mimicked it: thumb and index finger extended in an ‘L’, pinkie finger raised to join them, middle and ring finger touching his palm.

“And then just direct it at the person, of course,” Gabriel finished, once he was satisfied with Dean’s hand shape.

It looked familiar, but Dean had never connected it so literally to the word before. Love.

“Thank you,” Dean signed back. “That’ll be good to know. Would kinda spoil it if I had to ask Cas to show me.”

Gabriel laughed, nodding his agreement. “Sure would. Well, if you want to know any other signs that my brother wouldn’t be an expert on” —Gabriel moved his hands in a series of words that Dean was clueless about, but that he could tell from the waggling eyebrows he would not be asking for explanations for— “you know who to ask!”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, laughing weakly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Gabriel was the last person on Earth he’d be asking for kinky handspeak. He was pretty sure he could work out that dick sucking motion that Gabriel had demonstrated all by himself, thank you.

They waited for a couple more minutes, and Dean practiced the new hand sign secretly with his back to the room, committing it to memory. He wouldn’t use it yet…it’d keep, he thought, his gaze resting on Castiel as he smiled at Sam on the other end of the room.

He’d use it soon enough.

Once Dean had tapped his credit card and gathered up his popcorn, and Gabriel had loaded his pockets with his candy, they headed across the room to go meet Castiel, Sam, and the rest of their group.

“Ready?” Castiel asked, his attention snapping immediately to Dean as he approached.

Dean raised the huge popcorn tub he’d obtained for them to share and nodded.

“Excellent movie choice,” Charlie was saying. “A classic!”

“One of the best,” Dean agreed. “Cas says they have some really good captioned movies here throughout the year, old ones and new ones.”

Castiel nodded eagerly, turning his attention to Charlie. “Yes! They show all the big Marvel movies and have special days for older franchises, too. This time of year, near Christmas, they even have Harry Potter marathons.”

Dean watched Charlie’s eyes widen into huge circles, and he knew that without a doubt, he’d be attending those.

“Well, we better get a move on,” Sam pointed out, gesturing to the door. “Movie’s about to start.”

The interior of the theatre was predictably dim even with the low lights on, and smelled of stale popcorn and weird nacho cheese, laid over something vaguely like sweat and cheap bleach. Lovely. Eau de AMC.

Dean walked down the slope to the good seats near the middle with Charlie and Castiel in front of him and Sam behind. Anna and Jo were already seated. They had been spending a lot of time together since Anna started working at Singer’s, Dean had noticed—enough for him to be able to rib Jo about it constantly, anyway. Dean and Castiel filed in neatly behind them with the rest of Castiel’s family trailing behind.

There was some minor shuffling—Michael didn’t want to sit next to Gabriel, Raphael and Uriel weren’t allowed to sit together, and absolutely nobody wanted to sit next to Luke—which Castiel observed with a slow eye roll, and then, eventually, they all had their seats.

Castiel grinned across at Dean while the lights were still—somewhat—up. “Excited?” he asked.

“It’s just a movie,” Dean said aloud, his hands full of popcorn. “It’s a good movie, but I’ve seen it before."

Castiel smiled knowingly at him but didn’t say anything else as the lights dropped.

The screen was black and for a long moment the theatre was plunged into deep darkness, waiting for the commercials to begin. Dean busied himself settling the popcorn between his knees and shrugging off his jacket.

As the movie began and ancient, robotic aliens began to clunkily make their way through the Egyptian temple displayed on the huge screen, Dean found himself strangely…moved.

He’d never done this before, never had this simple thing—been able to share this kind of experience with friends, with people he cared about.

The priest in the temple desperately tried to persuade a young Luke Perry not to shoot his alien friends, and Dean understood, he got to react the same way as everyone around him; the movie went on and he laughed when they laughed, and gasped when they gasped, and by the time Leeloo was escaping through the ventilation system, Dean’s throat was tight and there was a strange prickling behind his eyes.

Nope, nope—Dean was not that guy. He was not about to get all emotional about this and cry in a freaking movie theater.

Castiel’s hand slipped into Dean’s, squeezing reassuringly, and a single tear slid down his cheek.

Their fingers stayed entwined for the rest of the movie, Castiel’s thumb slowly moving in soothing circles on the inside of Dean’s knee without saying a word.

In the dark, as Korben told Leeloo that he needed her, Dean drew his eyes from the screen to look at Castiel’s barely illuminated profile beside him. Castiel was enraptured, watching as Korben’s love declaration saved the world. He was blinking hard, caught up in the emotion of the scene, so Dean squeezed his hand back, grinning in the dark.

Yeah…he’d use that sign soon enough.