Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel Shurley doesn’t have a lot of free time as a college senior, but he always makes time for his favorite show, The End. It may not be the most well-written show, but he’s been watching it since high school and it, and the fandom, has gotten him through some pretty tough times in his life. He and his brother used to watch it together. So every Thursday, without fail, he tunes in to watch his favorite characters navigate the post-apocalyptic world. 

Occasionally, he even makes entries in his ever-growing doc of plot bunnies. Castiel has never written a fanfic; he’s much more of a reader than a writer, not that you would guess that from the size of the document… 

Every time he thinks about seriously putting in the effort to turn one of his ideas into a fic, he talks himself out of it. It’s not that he doesn’t want to write, it’s that writing has become work. Every story he pens is picked apart in workshops, analyzed for theme and technique, assigned a grade. The idea of spending more time writing, only to risk hating every word of it, feels like inviting failure.

And what if he isn’t good at it? What if the stories he wants to tell don’t measure up to the ones he rereads at 2 AM, the ones that make his heart ache in the best way? Maybe it’s better to stay a reader than risk ruining his love for it.

He wishes he had as many good ideas for original work as he does for fanfiction. Castiel attributes at least some of that to the chemistry of the two main characters, the human hunter Kade Kane and the mysterious Silas.

Sometimes, Castiel scrolls through his favorite fics, each one holding a little part of his heart. He’s left countless comments, some more enthusiastic than others, but every time he stares at that blinking cursor in his own document, he convinces himself it’s not worth the effort.

Castiel sighs and takes a sip of his tea. He’s using his Camp Chitaqua mug, a relic from the show’s second season. The design had faded from too many trips through the dishwasher, but he can’t bear to replace it. It had been a gift. Castiel sits his mug on the coffee table, beside a half-finished notebook, its corners curling from being shoved under too many textbooks. 

The apartment is small but comfortable. Dimly lit by the warm glow of a lamp in the corner, casting soft shadows against overstuffed bookshelves. The shelves aren’t meticulously arranged, some books stand upright, others stacked haphazardly, a few marked with sticky notes and folded pages. The coffee table is a battlefield of scattered highlighters, a nearly empty tea tin, and a single book, Charlie’s D&D Player’s Handbook.

The episode is almost over when Charlie bursts into their shared apartment, and luckily, it’s a commercial break, so he doesn’t miss anything when she flops onto the sofa beside him.

“Dude, I hope the spring semester is easier than this. I think my professors are all teaming up against me. I feel like everything is due at the same time,” she complains to him.

They are about a month into the fall semester. Charlie is a senior as well, but a computer science major. They were in the same orientation group freshman year and had become fast friends despite being so different from one another. Frankly, Castiel thinks their differences—and separate social circles—make them better roommates. They can complain to one another without putting the other in any kind of awkward situation with the rest of the friend group. While Castiel has met some of Charlie’s friends, he doesn’t know them well.

“I’m in the same boat. I think I have two major papers due next week. I have a 5,000 word short story due for Knight and 6-8 page comparative analysis for Fitzgerald.”

“How long is 5,000 words? That doesn’t seem too bad.”

“You would think that. It’s about 20 pages double spaced.”

Charlie whistles. “That must be why Dean was in the library late. Every time I see him, he’s typing like he was trying to break the keyboard.”

Castiel stills for half a second before taking a deliberate sip of his tea. Dean Winchester.

He has to stop himself from rolling his eyes or making some offhand remark. While he may not know many of Charlie’s friends, he’s had the misfortune of being in a number of classes with the guy. For some reason, the mechanical engineering major keeps taking upper level English classes. Castiel has only been in a couple of the same classes as Dean, but they’re in the same graduation year and a lot of the other English majors have been in a number of classes with him. He had to listen to Anna gush about the guy non-stop last year when they were both in the same section of the Contemporary Literature class. She started going to the library all the time in hopes of getting a chance to talk to Dean who apparently “practically lives at the library” and was “always working on something.”

Castiel suspects that a lot of his classmates are just infatuated with Dean because of the way he looks and the fact that he’s an engineer taking 300 and 400 level English classes. Like watching a dog ride a bike. Alfie once told him that Dean had a “natural storytelling ability”. 

If Dean was truly that talented of a writer, why was he an engineering major and not an English major?

Castiel and Dean were in Literature and Identity together last year. Dean barely spoke, and when he did, his insights were... frustratingly good. Not groundbreaking, but just enough to impress the professor and earn nods of approval from their classmates. Castiel hated that.

But he can’t say any of this to Charlie because Charlie is friends with Dean. So instead he says, “Yeah, Knight is a real demon. This Advanced Fiction Writing class is notorious among the English majors. Everyone knows how much of a bear it is but everyone always talks about how much they learn so it’s a trade off. It’s hard to get into so if you do, everyone just builds the rest of their schedule around it. Maybe Dean didn’t know what he was getting himself into.”

Advanced Fiction Writing was the class for seniors like him—the one that could make or break his grad school applications. Yet somehow, Dean Winchester, an engineering major, had managed to steal one of the coveted spots.

Charlie tilts her head a little and looks at him. It takes a beat longer than he expects before she responds, “I think he knew what he was getting himself into.” Charlie is Dean’s friend, so it isn’t like Castiel can tell her how Dean’s presence feels like an affront to everything he’s worked for.

“Frankly, I’m surprised Dean’s stuck with engineering,” she says and grabs one of the sofa pillows and hugs it to her chest. “The dude tells stories all the time. Not like telling stories, but, like—okay, he’ll get an idea for something, right? And he won’t shut up about it until he’s worked out the perfect way it could play out. But then he never actually does anything with it. It’s so annoying. I keep trying to get him to at least DM for us once in a while, but he says he’s too busy for it.”

Thankfully, Castiel is saved by having to respond further when the show comes back on and he can turn his attention back to it. Charlie sits silently with him as they watch the survivors in Camp Chitaqua start getting sick. Right before the end of the episode, Silas shows up to tell Kade he knows what’s causing it. Silas has been absent from the last few episodes so Castiel is excited to see what happens next week. There’s just something about the way Kade and Silas look at each other—lingering, unspoken things that never quite get said. It’s frustrating, but it’s also what keeps him coming back every week.

“Always ending it on a cliff hanger to keep you coming back for more,” Castiel groans and hands Charlie the remote. “Did you want the TV?”

Charlie takes the remote but doesn’t change the channel. “Dean has tried to get me into this show,” she tells him.

Castiel’s head jerks up slightly. “Dean watches The End?”

“Yeah. Hey, maybe next week Dean can come over and we can all watch it together? It’ll get him out of the library before midnight for once and you two can try to convince me what makes it good. And I saw Silas was back. Dean was complaining that there hadn’t been enough of him this season.”

Castiel frowns. Watching his favorite show should be relaxing, not a social experiment with Dean freaking Winchester sitting on his sofa. “Maybe.”

Charlie sighs and turns off the TV. “I’m going to go work on some of my projects. Have a good night, Castiel.”

“You too, Charlie,” he responds and heads to his own room to start working on the short story for Professor Knight. If Dean is busy working on it in the library, he probably better get moving on it too.

Yet when he gets to his room, instead he opens up the Kilas Discord server he’s a part of to join in the conversation about the night’s episode. Everyone is as thrilled as he is about Silas’ return and what it could mean for the rest of the season.

The Kilas Discord server is already buzzing about tonight’s episode. Castiel barely has time to skim the chat before the notifications piled up.

@Hexy Witch: HOLY SHIT SILAS IS BACK!!!

@CoffeeOverload: Ok but did you SEE the way he looked at Kade?! Like tell me that wasn’t longing. Tell me.

@KilasEndgame (mod): Reminder to keep theories in the spoiler channel! But yes, it was delicious.

Castiel smiles to himself as he scrolls. This is what he loves most about fandom, not just the show, but the community. The way everyone dissects every lingering glance, theorizes what it meant, makes memes and headcanons and fanart in real-time.

He types a quick message: 

@CommaPolice: Silas being gone for four episodes was torture. We better get a full episode of him next week.

A second later, his screen lights up with responses.

@KilasEndgame (mod): RIGHT? I feel like they’re setting up something BIG.

@gremlin: If he dies I’m suing the CW.

@CommaPolice: We riot at dawn.

Tearing himself away, he opens his laptop with every intention of getting started on his short story. He even pulls up the document, staring at the blinking cursor on the blank page, willing words to come. He flexes his fingers over the keyboard, staring at the empty document, willing himself to start. Just one sentence. Just a first draft. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

The cursor blinks at him, steady and unrelenting.

Five minutes later, he’s on AO3.

It isn’t a conscious decision. His fingers navigate there like muscle memory, like some part of his brain had decided this is a better use of his time. His browser auto-fills the URL before he even types it, and suddenly he is scrolling through his bookmarked fics, his gaze lingering on a title from ApocalypseAndChill he must have read at least five times already.

He knows he should be working. He knows he’s procrastinating. But the moment he sinks into the opening lines of Apocalypse’s fic, the weight pressing down on his chest lightens, just a little.

Chapter Text

Writing fanfiction carries an embarrassment that reading it does not.

When it comes to reading fanfiction, Castiel justifies it by telling himself that everything he reads will make him a better writer. And while he can’t speak for every fandom or every ship, he thinks that The End and the Kilas shippers, in general, have some very good writers. His favorite author is ApocalypseAndChill, but there are tons of others he follows, and he’s always finding new authors. While he doesn’t read WIPs from unfamiliar authors, he keeps an eye on recently completed fics. He’s also in a few Discord channels for the fandom, where people are always posting recommendations or discussing WIPs.

The trouble is that fanfiction feels a little bit like dessert. It’s okay to have it once in a while, but it shouldn’t be your whole diet. These authors haven’t been formally trained. They don’t know about narrative or themes the way his fellow classmates do. So, he tries to limit how much fanfiction he reads. 

But he’s like a sugar addict. Sometimes he just can’t stop himself. Just one more fic. 

Castiel wishes he could say he spent the whole weekend working on the short story due for Knight. 

The truth is, he rushed through it Sunday night when he realized he was nowhere near finished. It’s not his best work. is brain is always brimming with fanfiction ideas that would make great stories, yet when it comes to original work, he feels uninspired. His brain always wastes its creative energy on fanfiction. He takes the first piece of writing advice he ever got from his dad, “Write what you know”.

In the end, he does finish. He writes a magical realism story about a young boy dealing with the death of his mother and his alcoholic father. The boy is given an origami book and papers and finds the things he folds come to life. 

He prints off two copies at the library, one for the professor and one for the peer editing exchange. Part of being a good writer is knowing how to analyze literature. So, in addition to the writing assignments, students are also expected to analyze the works of their peers. Honestly, Castiel is looking forward to reading what his peers are writing as well as getting feedback from someone who isn’t a professor. 

Castiel is just leaving the library when Dean walks by. Unfortunately, the other guy notices him and smiles. 

“Heya, Cas! Heading to class?” he asks.

“Obviously,” he deadpans. “Did you finish your short story?”

Dean nods and they start walking toward the Humanities building. “Yeah, got it done last week. Trying to stay ahead of things. So, what’s yours about? I’d love to read some of your stuff. Anna and Charlie keep telling me how talented you are.”

Castiel kind of hates how Dean is able to keep up with all of his classes. He always feels like he’s barely keeping his head above water. It doesn’t seem fair. He always thought that engineering classes were hard, but if Dean is able to take those in addition to these high level English classes, maybe they aren’t as hard as he thought they were.

Dean nudges Castiel with his shoulder, “Cas? You okay? Looking a little angry there, buddy.”

Castiel realizes he hasn’t answered Dean. “My story is about a boy dealing with the loss of his mother and an alcoholic father.”

Dean stops, and Castiel looks back at him, puzzled, “Dean?”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. His fingers flex on the strap of his backpack. “That sounds… uh, really personal,” he finally says, voice quieter than before. “Bet it’s good, though. Hey, maybe we can exchange our stories with each other? Get some extra practice?”

Castiel barely manages not to scoff. Of course, Dean would say that. Because, of course, Dean isn’t worried about his work. He probably wrote the whole thing effortlessly in a single sitting, never second-guessed a single paragraph, never agonized over whether his characters felt real.

Dean breezes through everything. Castiel doubts he’s ever second-guessed himself, and that’s what makes his teeth clench.

“If Professor Knight assigns us as peer review partners,” Castiel says.

“No, I mean, even if he doesn’t. Just to get extra feedback. I mean, I’d love to read something you’ve written. I’m sure you give excellent feedback.”

“Maybe,” Castiel responds. He honestly doesn’t want Dean reading anything he’s written. He suspects he won’t get quality feedback from an engineering major and taking on the extra work to read and give Dean’s story feedback just doesn’t seem worth it.

Dean doesn’t say anything more, but he seems more subdued and isn’t smiling. Dean is always like this. He tries so hard to get everyone to like him, like an overeager puppy and then seems put out when people don’t instantly love him. 

Thankfully, they get to class shortly after that and Castiel doesn’t have to think about Dean anymore. With the class being limited to 20 students, it’s more of a workshop. They sit around a table and discuss. Castiel tries to be strategic about where he sits so he doesn’t have to see much of Dean. He keeps the other guy relegated to the corner of his eye. 

Professor Cain Knight clears his throat as a way to signal to the group that it’s time to start, “I hope you are all as excited as I am to read each other’s stories. We’ve spent a lot of time in the past month talking about some of the areas I want you all to work on over the course of the semester. Some of you are going to be stronger in some of these areas than others. Not everyone will be great at world building. Others might struggle with structure or pacing. Not all works will be strong in all of the different areas we’ve discussed.”

Knight makes a point of looking around the entire circle, “The purpose of this class is to get yourself out of your comfort zone. To challenge yourself to do things differently. To try things you might not have tried before. This is the first major assignment of the semester. This is a chance for me to get a baseline on where each of you are. You are all capable writers or you wouldn’t be in this class at all. I want to push you to be better.” A few of the students shift uncomfortably under the man’s gaze. Castiel can’t blame them, he wants to do the same, especially knowing how half-assed his story is.

“Today I’d like to focus on peer critiques and how to give feedback. Everything we've discussed about developing your own writing still applies here, but what are some ways for you to give your peers constructive feedback in a productive way?”

“The hamburger technique?” Alfie volunteers. “Start off saying something nice, tell them what they need to fix and then finish it with something nice?”

Knight nods, “Yes, we want to not only highlight the things you think need work, but also the things your peers do well. If all we do is criticize, it will demoralize them. If we only compliment them, then they won’t improve. What else?”

“You need to be specific,” Dean says, “if you tell someone ‘I don’t like this part’ without telling them why they won’t understand why it isn’t working. In order to improve we need to know the specifics. You can say something like, ‘The pacing slows down in the middle, and trimming some of the exposition might help maintain tension.’”

“Someone did the reading,” Knight comments and nods to Dean who smiles, “What else?”

“Phrase things as questions. Sometimes a writer has a reason for their choices, even if they don’t realize it yet. Asking questions may help the writer think things through verses just telling someone to do or not to do something.”

“Great suggestion, Tessa. I also suggest using ‘I’ statements. ‘I found the protagonist’s motivations lacking.” Or, ‘I had trouble following who was speaking, you may want to rework this section.’ Overall, this first round of peer editing should be focusing on the big picture. No need to get into the nitty gritty of commas and sentence structures. We want to focus on the structure, theme, and character arcs. Ask yourselves, does this story achieve what it sets out to do? Now I’m going to break you into pairs. I want you to chat with your partner about your individual stories and exchange papers. You have until Thursday to get your feedback on your partner’s story turned in. You are being graded on your feedback as much as you are getting graded on your short story. Take your time with these.”

Knight looks around the room and starts pairing people off. Castiel had been hoping for Meg but she is teamed up with Lilith. As more people are paired off, Castiel realizes that he and Dean are the only two left.

“And that leaves Castiel and Dean. I think you two will make a good team,” Professor Knight says. 

“Thanks, Professor!” Dean says and collects his things and moves to where Castiel was sitting. 

“This worked out well, don’t you think?” Dean asked. “I was hoping I’d get to read your story.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says and hands his paper over.

Dean hands his to Castiel as well, but it is thicker than he is expecting. He flips through it to see if the font was larger or the spacing was off, but no. It is definitely more than 5,000 words. 

“How long is this thing?” Castiel asks.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I got inspired and kept going,” Dean says and ducks his head, “Sorry if that’s a problem.”

Yeah, having to do extra work because Dean is an overachiever seems on par. Castiel sighs and looks up at Dean, “It’s fine. What’s it about?”

“I kind of treated this assignment like a prologue for a potentially larger story. It’s a science fiction dystopian. The main character is recently discharged from the military. Abusive father. He’s working all the time because of financial pressures. He gets tasked with fixing a sex bot and then it explores the friendship between the two. What makes someone human, the lies we tell ourselves and others. How loneliness can destroy.”

“Please tell me there isn’t sex in this,” Castiel groans. He may read fanfiction with sex in it, but no way does he want to read any sex scenes Dean writes. He thinks he’s read a fanfic with a similar premise. 

“Uh no. I mean, the android is a sex bot but there’s no sex. It’s not that kind of story,” Dean says, his cheeks going red.

“Good,” Castiel says. “I already told you a little about mine. I really wanted to explore loss. How you can lose people in a lot of different ways. Grief and healing. How people cope in different ways.”

“I’m excited to read it. I think I’m really going to like it.”

“I’m not sure it’s your speed. I’ve heard you tend to stick to the sci-fi genre. You may not like it so I’m really just hoping you can help with the ‘big picture’ stuff like Knight was talking about. Point out if things don’t make sense or if you have trouble following the plot,” Castiel says. Dean seems to dim a little as he talks but he nods along.

“Sure, Cas. I can do that.”

Professor Knight claps his hands together at the front of the class, “Time is up. I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

The sound of chairs scraping and the shuffle of papers fills the room. Castiel tucks Dean’s short story into his bag, already dreading the extra work it’ll take to get through all those extra pages. Dean, on the other hand, moves like he doesn’t have a care in the world, stretching his arms over his head before slinging his bag over one shoulder.

“Alright, time to go convince Charlie to buy me lunch,” Dean announces to no one in particular, his usual easy confidence settling back into place.

Castiel barely suppresses an eye roll as he gathers his things. Dean’s ability to move through life like everything was just handed to him has always been infuriating. And yet, people love him for it.

Charlie, waiting near the door, snorts. “And what do I get in return for this alleged free lunch?”

Dean winks, stepping up beside her. “The pleasure of my company, obviously.”

Charlie scoffs, shoving his shoulder. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna cover the cost of a burger, Winchester.”

Dean grins, undeterred. “Alright, I’ll throw in my expert movie recommendations.”

“Better than your music recommendations,” Charlie quips back.

Dean gasps, clutching his chest theatrically. “How dare you? My taste is impeccable.”

Charlie laughs, nudging him with her elbow. “If you were born in the 1960’s.”

Dean starts singing, loud and off-key, “Like a drifter, I was born to walk alone!” Thankfully he stops when Charlie pokes him in the ribs.

It’s so easy for him, Castiel thinks. The way he moves through conversations like he’s been best friends with everyone for years. The way people just… gravitate toward him. Even Charlie, who should see through him, plays along.

Dean turns his attention to Tessa, who’s lingering by the door. “What about you? You joining us? Or do you have better things to do than bask in my radiant charm?”

Tessa raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Always.”

Dean clutches his chest like he’s been shot. “Damn. Two for two today. You guys are gonna destroy my fragile ego.”

Charlie snorts. “Dean, you don’t have an ego. You have a monument to yourself in your own head.”

Dean smirks, utterly unbothered. “And yet, you’re all still here. What does that say about you?”

Castiel tightens his grip on the strap of his bag, irritation flaring. It shouldn’t be that easy. Dean shouldn’t be able to coast through life, coasting through classes, charming his way into everything while Castiel works and struggles and fights for every inch.

And yet, here he is.

Dean turns, catching Castiel watching. His grin shifts, tilting into something knowing. “How ‘bout you, Cas? Wanna tag along? You can even pick the place.”

Castiel adjusts the strap of his bag and shakes his head. “No, thanks. I have things to do.”

Dean shrugs, unbothered, and flashes him a grin. “Suit yourself. See ya Thursday.”

Then, just like that, he’s gone, effortlessly sweeping Charlie and Tessa along with him, the sound of their laughter fading as they disappear down the hall.

Castiel exhales sharply and heads in the opposite direction. 

It isn’t until later that night that Castiel takes his first look at Dean’s short story. He’s procrastinating on Fitzgerald’s poetry assignment. Castiel suspects maybe his undergrad major was psychology because their most recent assignment is to write a poem where they have to explore loss. The professor somehow caught wind of the “tell me X without telling me X” and the assignment for the poem is, “tell me you’ve lost something without telling me you’ve lost something.”

Castiel doesn’t want to do this assignment, so much so that he’s looking at Dean’s paper to avoid it. The real problem is the story is good. The pacing is good, the surprise ending is good, but when he flips back, he sees plenty of foreshadowing he missed in his first read.

He keeps reading but he frowns at the next paragraph, his pen hovering over the page. Something about it is familiar. The phrasing, maybe? He shakes his head. He’s probably just imagining it. The tropes in sci-fi dystopias can be pretty similar sometimes.

But then he turns the page.

And then another. And another.

And his stomach twists as the familiarity sharpens, condenses into something undeniable.

He knows this story.

His fingers tighten around the edge of the paper, and he pulls out his phone, heart hammering as he searches AO3.

ApocalypseAndChill.

Top of their recent works: The Android. 10,482 words.

Cas’s hands are clammy as he clicks it open. And there it is. Sentence after sentence is stripped down and renamed, but still undeniably the same. Dean fucking stole it.

He changed the names of the characters from Kane and Silas to hide that he stole someone’s fanfiction. He’s a thief and he’s plagiarizing, and Castiel isn’t going to let him get away with it.

Castiel considers, for a moment, confronting Dean directly, but he knows he can’t. Dean would talk him out of it. Dean with his freckles and easy smile and just-enough self-deprecation to seem humble. Dean with his effortless charm, his too-casual way of leaning against tables, the way he makes people want to listen to him. 

He would convince Castiel that he’s never done this before, that this was the first time he’s ever stolen someone else's work. He would tell Castiel how much turning him in for an honors violation would ruin his life, hurt his chances of graduating.

Dean is always ahead in class. Dean is always doing so well. Everyone is always complimenting him. Dean is succeeding in ways he is not because he’s cheating.

It isn’t fair. It was hard enough just thinking that Dean taking creative writing classes as an elective was better at this than him, who is a fucking English major with a concentration in creative writing, who wants to do this as a profession, but no, Dean is getting ahead by stealing. Everyone thinks he’s this great guy and he’s not.

No.

Dean isn’t getting away with this.

Castiel types up an email to Professor Knight. He outlines what he’s found, links to the fic on AO3, and sends it to his professor. 

Once it’s sent, Castiel expects to feel better. He expects to feel vindicated, but he doesn’t. Instead, he feels cold and alone. Angry and sad. His jaw aches, and he realizes he’s been clenching it too hard, too long. He forces himself to breathe, but it’s like trying to sip air through a cracked straw. He’s known jealousy before, tiny pinpricks of it when other students got published or praised, but this? This feels like betrayal, like something personal.

Chapter Text

The first thing Castiel does the next morning is check his email. He feels a little nauseous when he sees an email from Cain Knight, and he doesn’t feel much better when he opens it.

All Knight says is: “Thank you for sending this along. I will take the next steps.”

The email stares back at him, cold and impersonal. He reads it again. And again. He wishes it had more, an explanation, a reassurance, but all he has are those clinical words, sharp and final. He rolls back over in bed, closes his eyes, and takes deep breaths. Elsewhere in the apartment, he can hear Charlie puttering around. Just thinking Charlie’s name fills Castiel with dread. Charlie and Dean are friends, good friends. There’s no way Dean won’t know that it was him who turned him in. There’s no way that Charlie won’t be pissed at him for turning her friend in.

He likes Charlie, but he and Charlie are roommates. They’re friendly but not friends. Not the way she and Dean are. Not the way Dean is friends with seemingly everyone he meets. What if Dean turns this against him somehow? No, Castiel tells himself, he has proof. Dean may be popular, but cheating is wrong. Plagiarism is wrong. Theft is wrong.

Castiel realizes he’s on the verge of having a panic attack. He closes his eyes and clenches his fists. He takes long breaths and holds them. He can hear the sounds of the TV in another room. He can smell freshly made coffee. Castiel opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling and the crack in the wall above the door. He can feel his sheets under his hands. And… and he needs to brush his teeth.

Castiel closes his eyes again and takes another deep breath. He did the right thing. He did the right thing. He knows that. He keeps repeating it, like if he says it enough, it will settle into his bones instead of clawing at his insides.

He says this over and over to himself as he gets ready. As he takes his shower, brushes his teeth and hair, and gets dressed. He tells himself this as he puts his laptop and assignments in his messenger bag. He tells himself this as he walks out of his room and into the kitchen where Charlie is eating lucky charms and watching a video on her phone.

She does a double take when she sees him. The sound on her phone stops abruptly and she puts it face down on the kitchen table. “You okay, Cas? Those dark circles are looking a little worse than usual.”

Castiel can’t even look at her. She’s going to hate him. This is the last conversation she’s going to have with him without hating him.

There’s coffee in the pot. Charlie always makes extra for him. Fuck. This is going to mess up his entire living situation. He should have kept it to himself. No one would have found out. Who would have guessed he’d read enough fanfiction to be able to know when someone stole the work?

“Cas?” Charlie asks again and she’s standing behind him with her hand on his shoulder. “You okay? You don’t look so hot. You getting sick?” Her voice is too careful, like she’s bracing herself.

Castiel shakes his head and he can feel his eyes start to water. Charlie looks even more concerned when he looks at her. When she puts her hand up to his forehead, he can’t help the sob that claws its way out of him. He bites the rest of them back, but his chest is heaving as they fight to escape him, either through his mouth or by punching their way out of his chest.

Charlie steers him to one of the chairs and kneels down on the ground so she’s looking up at him.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, and he shakes his head.

“Are you going to hurt yourself?” she asks, and he shakes his head no again.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” she asks, and one of those sobs escapes. After that he doesn’t hear what she’s saying to him although he can tell she’s talking to him. Charlie is saying something. He catches words like “Cas” and “breathe”, but they feel like they’re coming from underwater. She’s holding his hands and then she’s gone and then back. Time seems to stretch and then ricochet back because then he’s near the door and she’s putting his jacket on him. He feels like he’s stopped. Like someone put him on pause. Things have at least stopped trying to escape from his chest.

Then he’s in a waiting room. Then he’s sitting on the stiff paper-covered table in the campus clinic, Pam shining a light in his eyes. He blinks and pulls back.

“Well hello there, Castiel, nice to have you back with us. You gave your friend a real scare.”

“Pam,” he gets out, his voice sounds more gravelly than usual.

“Good to know you know my name. Do you know where you are?”

“Your office. Health center on campus. Is Charlie okay?”

Pam nods, “She’s in the waiting room. Gave her quite the scare. You taking your meds?”

Castiel drops his head in lieu of an answer.

Pam sighs and sits on the stool and wheels it over, “Castiel Shurley, you need to take your meds. Did you try any of the techniques Mia has talked about?”

“I did, this morning, and then I started… and then I started thinking about some things and I couldn’t stop. And then I tried to hold it in and…”

“Do you want me to call your dad?” Pam asks.

“No,” Castiel spits out.

She sighs again and says, “All right. But at some point if I feel like you are a danger to yourself, I’ll have to take next steps. You need to take care of yourself. When’s your next appointment with Mia?”

There are a few moments of silence and then, “Castiel,” she says it as a chastisement. She gets her laptop from the table and starts clicking around.

“She has some openings on Monday. I can see if I can get you on the waitlist if anyone cancels. Can you do 3PM?”

Castiel nods.

“Great. 3PM on Monday then. You might get a call sooner if someone else cancels. Now, can we talk about why you aren’t taking your medicine or going to see your therapist?”

Castiel feels so tired right now. He knows he should be doing those things, he just… doesn’t want to. He shouldn’t need to.

“I shouldn’t need to. I should be better by now,” he says.

“Why?” Pam asks, “I know you know that that’s not how grief works. There’s no set schedule. No timetable. It isn’t a linear progression. If you aren’t okay, you aren’t okay, and that’s okay.”

He nods and he starts crying. Not the big sobbing tears that were trying to get out earlier, these are just little leaks, sputters of too much pressure as his emotions get moved along.

“It does get easier. Dr. Moseley has a group that meets-”

“No,” Castiel interrupts her and then softer, “No. Not interested.”

“I can’t force you to do anything. I wish I could. I wish I could make all you kids eat your vegetables and go to bed at a reasonable time… but I can’t. I can tell you what I think you should do, I can make suggestions, but I can’t force you to do any of it. I want you to feel better, but you also have to want that for yourself,” Pam says and pats his knee.

There are more tears at that, but he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie and nods.

“Great, come on then, let me walk you back to your friend,” Pam says and opens the door. Castiel follows her out to the waiting room where Charlie is looking at her phone, her finger moving over the screen. She looks up when she hears the door and smiles at him. She bounds up to him with a smile.

“Feeling better?” Castiel nods and she gives him a hug.

“Thank you, Ms. Bradbury.”

“Of course, Doc! Can’t have my friend feeling bad.” Pam smiles and heads back inside the clinic.

“How you feeling, Cas?” Charlie asks, looking him over.

“I’m okay, thanks for bringing me here. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

She shrugs like it’s no big deal and starts walking to the door. “I’m here if you want to talk, but I’m not going to push you. Want me to walk you back to the apartment?”

Castiel shakes his head no. They don’t live far from campus, but there’s no need for Charlie to walk him back when she needs to be on campus for her own classes. He’s pretty sure he’s missed his first class. He pats himself down and finds he has his keys, but no phone and no bookbag.

“You sure? I don’t have class until this afternoon. I was going to meet Dean in the library but I let him know something came up,” Charlie says and Castiel feels the icy fingers of guilt drip down his head and onto his neck.

His face must betray some of it because Charlie says, “Did…” but then decides against whatever she was going to say and just trails off.

“I’ll be okay. Go do what you need to do. I’ll see you later.”

She sighs and gives his arm a squeeze, “Okay, Cas. I’ll see you later.”

When Castiel gets back to their apartment, he goes to his room and closes the door. He strips down to his boxers and tshirt and climbs into bed. He leaves the lights off and pulls up all of the blankets around him. He even pulls the weighted blanket that normally lives in a pile at the corner of his bed up and on top of him. When he opens his phone, he finds a text from Meg asking him where he is.

He texts her back saying he’s not feeling well. He takes a moment to send emails to the two professors he has today apologizing for missing class and that he’s not feeling well. Marv (as he has insisted Castiel call him) will excuse it because of who he is. Hanscum, his advisor, is more likely to offer to bring him soup than to hold a missed class against him.

With those chores taken care of, Castiel sets his phone to “do not disturb” and opens up AO3. He goes straight to ApocalypseAndChill’s page and finds one of their fluffier works and downloads it to read it in the books app. Once he finishes, he goes to GhostInTheTags’s and catches up on their latest WIP. He’s a couple chapters behind and they’re always a good one to read when he’s having a bad day. They use a lot of fun tags like “idiots in love” and “Kade Kain is bad at feelings”.

Every fic feels like a lifeline, something to cling to when everything else feels like it’s slipping through his fingers. He scrolls past angst fics, skipping anything too close to reality. He doesn’t need angst.

Castiel spends most of his day in bed like that. He takes a nap later in the afternoon and wakes up around 3. The apartment is quiet, so he goes to the kitchen, eats a yogurt and grabs some almonds, and takes them back to his room. He dozes off and on for the rest of the day and it isn’t until he hears a knock at his door that he wakes back up.

“Yeah?” he calls, and Charlie peaks her head in.

“Hey, Cas. You doing better?” she asks, and he nods and pulls himself up into a sitting position.

“Thanks again for your help this morning,” he tells her, and she sort-of smiles. It's forced and she hesitates in the doorway. Her posture is all wrong and he knows that Charlie knows what he’s done.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s sorry she had to help him and he’s sorry that he’s put her in an uncomfortable position with her friend. Castiel looks up at her and he can tell that she knows what he’s saying. Everything he’s saying sorry for.

Charlie gives a small nod and says, “I hope you feel better,” before closing the door.

His eyes water a little bit and he sinks back under the covers. That didn’t go as bad as he thought it might. Charlie didn’t curse at him or yell at him. She didn’t bring Dean over to yell at him. His body aches and he wonders if it’s his body’s way of telling him how stressed he is.

He needs a distraction. Something safe, something predictable. Something that won’t twist in his hands and turn into something ugly.

AO3 is muscle memory. Click, scroll, search. His fingers move before he even thinks about it, like an instinct honed over years. He doesn’t want angst, doesn’t want anything that might remind him of reality. He needs fluff, something soft and stupid and safe. Something that will make him forget the way Charlie hesitated in the doorway, the way his chest still feels tight, the way his whole body aches from the tension he’s been carrying.

He goes back to ApocalypseAndChill’s author page. All the fics are gone.

He refreshes the browser but nothing shows up.

Castiel checks to make sure he’s signed in and when he sees that he is, he signs out and back in to see if it populates, but the page remains blank.

He goes to his book app, find’s Apocalypse’s fic and clicks the link at the end that should take him directly to the fic, but all he gets is a broken link.

No. No, no, no. Castiel hits refresh, his pulse pounding so loud in his ears he can barely hear the click of his mouse.

Nothing.

He types the name into the search bar, his hands shaking. Still nothing.

It’s like ApocalypseAndChill never existed, like all the comfort and escape he’d found in their words has been wiped away in an instant.

@gremlin: Does anyone have backups??

@CoffeeOverload: I was literally in the middle of reading their latest fic 😭 WTF happened??

He goes back to the beginning of the chat and at first it was a lot of “pulling this all into this one channel since we don’t want to clog up general” and “does anyone know what happened?”. And no one knows what happened.

Searches for specific fics does at least seem to confirm that they’re deleted, not abandoned. There are people lamenting how they hadn’t gotten around to reading this particular story or that. Then there’s a conversation about if anyone has any copies.

Then people start asking who was friends with Apocalypse and if anyone has reached out. It sounds like people have but haven’t gotten any answers yet.

No one seems to know much of anything. It’s chaotic and stressful and Castiel can’t handle it. He darkens the screen and tries to sleep.

Chapter Text

Castiel does not sleep well. His brain seemed intent on waking him up frequently through the night. He’s refreshed his browser several times, but nothing shows back up under ApocalypseAndChill’s username. It can’t be a coincidence. It has to be a coincidence. When his alarm finally goes off, he has trouble getting out of bed. He feels heavy and climbing out of his blanket cocoon seems excessively difficult. When his second alarm goes off, he wrenches himself out of bed, and his eyes land on the pill bottle on his nightstand. He shakes one out and swallows it dry.

He never did his assignment for Fitzgerald. Castiel emails the professor and asks if he can turn it in late, acknowledges that he knows he won’t get full credit and gives the same lame excuse of “not feeling well” that he gave Armstrong and Hanscum yesterday.

Speaking of, Marv Armstrong excuses him with a comment about how all great writers struggle—then adds that Castiel is a talented writer, just like his dad. Donna Hanscum tells him not to worry and asks if he needs anything. He responds to both of them with a general, “I’m feeling better today, I’ll be in class tomorrow”.

He goes through the motions of getting ready. Fortunately, it’s all so routine that it's easy enough. Charlie, thankfully, has an early class on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so she isn’t in the apartment when he emerges from his room. He can still smell the coffee and a part of him is a little surprised to see that not only did Charlie still make extra coffee for him, but that she did the dishes in the sink, including his The End mug which is placed right beside the coffee maker.

Charlie still made him coffee. She washed the dishes. She set his favorite mug beside the machine. That says more than words could. He had mentally accepted that Charlie would hate him after what he did to her friend. He’s a little shocked that things seem to be okay between the two of them. Maybe she doesn’t know what he did yet.

Castiel makes his coffee and sits at his laptop. With Fitzgerald’s assignment his mind went to the obvious choice, but maybe he could write about losing a friendship. A spiteful part of his brain suggests that maybe he could write about losing the works of his favorite fanfiction author. He puts some ideas in a word doc. It doesn’t have to be a long poem. He could do this.

By the time he’s finished his coffee, he has a very rough first draft, mostly just ideas on paper. He can go to the library between classes and work on it. He might even have something to turn in to Fitzgerald before class.

Castiel pulls on an oversized hoodie and walks to class. It’s only about a 15 minute walk to the Humanities building but each step toward the building feels like wading through wet sand. The weight of his backpack drags at his shoulders, and the usual chatter of passing students feels muted, distant.

Along the way he tries and fails not to stress out. He has no idea if Dean will be there. Even if Dean is there, he might not say anything. What if he’s gone? What if he’s been kicked out? Kicked out of the class, kicked out of school. His palms start sweating and he wipes them on his jeans and shakes them out, trying to get rid of the tingling feeling.

He keeps glancing at his phone, waiting for a message from Charlie. Something. Anything. But there’s nothing.

What if Dean already knows? What if Charlie knows? What if everyone knows?

Two students across the quad laugh at something on one of their phones, and Castiel’s stomach drops like a stone. He knows it’s irrational, but for a second, he’s convinced they’re laughing at him.

When he gets to class, Knight is standing at the door collecting everyone’s papers as they walk in. Castiel goes to walk right past him when his professor stops him.

“Castiel? Where is the paper you edited for Dean?” he asks.

“Oh,” Castiel says, stopping short, “I… uh… didn’t know if I needed to do that.”

Knight nods. “You do. I should have communicated that. Bring it to my office hours tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Castiel agrees and sits down. Why would he still have to give feedback on a plagiarized short story? He knows why. He doesn’t want to know. He’s nauseous the whole class. Dean never shows. Knight doesn’t mention his absence.

The class discusses each other’s papers. Things they liked, how they were able to use the techniques they discussed last class, and then Knight passes their own short stories back to them. They have until next week to make revisions and turn them back in. Castiel gets his short story back as well. He flips through the pages, expecting a few obligatory notes. Instead, Dean’s handwriting is everywhere.

Underlined sections. Margins filled with neat, slanted handwriting. Not just corrections, but insightful feedback: thoughtful, careful, precise. He’s highlighted his favorite lines, written comments about the emotion of the piece, even asked questions about Elliot’s grief. Castiel blinks down at the final page, where Dean has written:

"Overall, this is really beautiful. I can feel the grief that Elliot is going through, but I don’t think his story is over where you stopped. Life goes on."

His throat feels tight. His stomach twists.

Castiel puts his head down on the table. He takes in deep long breaths and lets them out slowly. He counts to ten. He can hear someone else moving around the classroom. He can smell the cleaning agent they use on the classroom tables. He can feel the table under his hands, smooth laminate. He opens his eyes and he sees the thoughtful feedback Dean has given him. He licks his lips and he can taste salt. He rubs his eyes as he sits up.

Professor Knight is sitting at the table, watching him. The other students are gone and it’s just the two of them in the classroom.

The professor nods at his paper, “I agree with Dean. You’ve got a good start and I think your protagonist has gotten a push in the right direction. He wants to get over his mother’s death. He knows he needs to learn how to live without her, even if he knows the pain won’t ever really go away. Moving on with your life doesn’t negate the impact a person has on you. Doesn’t make their love for you die. Doesn’t mean that you didn’t love them. What I find most helpful in dealing with my own grief is that I know my wife wouldn’t have wanted me to die too. She wanted me to live. To find joy in a world without her. It took me a long time to be able to do that, but I know she wanted me to move on.”

Castiel nods. He knows his eyes are red and watery, but he’s not crying. Professor Knight stands up and pushes the chair back in. He walks over to Castiel and pats him on the back, “This too shall pass. Get me Dean’s revised paper tomorrow.”

“I will,” Castiel says and watches Knight leave. He sits there a few moments longer in the empty classroom. He listens to himself breath and the air vents blow. He hears students moving in the hallway. He puts his revised paper in his bag and leaves for the library. He feels a little bit like everything will be okay.

The normal swarm of students between classes has mostly died down. The quad is quieter now, but Castiel feels watched. The weight of his own thoughts presses against his skull, making the world feel too sharp, too bright.

His hands are tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, head down, when he hears it.

“Shurley!”

It’s not just the name, it’s the way Dean says it, fury laced into every syllable. Castiel stops dead.

He’s tempted to run. Dean sounds so angry. Will Dean hit him? He could run. He was on track in high school, he could probably outrun Dean. He doesn’t run though. Instead, he feels frozen, out in the open. A couple of nearby students are looking at him. He doesn’t even turn towards Dean, he just stays right where he is like a deer caught in the headlights of a passing car.

“You fucker!” Dean swears. Castiel can hear Dean coming from behind him but he still doesn’t move.

“You absolute fucking asshole!” he says and now he’s right in front of Castiel’s face. He looks up and makes eye contact with the other guy. Dean looks so disheveled. Castiel has never seen him look like such a mess. His hair is messy on one side and flat on the other like he slept with wet hair. His eyes are red and he has dark circles under them. Dean’s chest is heaving and he steps close to Castiel like he’s going to push him and Castiel finally moves and steps back.

He knows, he knows, but still he asks, “What did I do?”

Dean’s hands twitch—half a second from grabbing him—before he clenches them into fists instead. “You know what you fucking did, you absolute asshole!”

“I found the work you turned in elsewhere and let the professor know. I’m not the one who plagiarized someone else’s work,” Castiel says, and he’s surprised to find his voice calm. If he didn’t know the chaos in his own head, he might think he was unaffected by this whole situation. It appears as if Dean interprets him that way because he lets out a strangled half yell, half growl and clenches and unclenches his fists again.

Dean laughs, sharp and humorless. “Did you fucking google sentences from my story? Is that how you found it? Do you hate me that fucking much?” His voice cracks, just slightly, and that… that throws Castiel.

Dean shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight his voice comes out strained. “God, what did I ever see in you?”

See in me? Castiel’s stomach twists. That phrasing… he doesn’t have time to dwell on it before Dean keeps going. “I’m such a fucking idiot. Charlie too. She told me…” He cuts himself off.

“I didn’t google parts of your story, I recognized it and then went back to confirm,” Castiel defends, and he feels his spine grow straighter and his shoulders push back.

“Oh yeah, really? You recognized fanfiction? Like you would ever be caught dead reading fanfiction. I’ve heard you talk shit about it.”

Castiel opens and closes his mouth. He probably has disparaged fanfiction in front of his classmates. It’s come up before, but he wasn’t about to admit that he reads fanfiction. He can’t defend that. So instead he says, “Just because it’s fanfiction, doesn’t mean it’s okay to steal someone else’s work, Dean!”

“It’s my fucking work! I didn’t steal anything!” Dean screams at him.

That stops Castiel short. His pulse slams against his ribs. His breath catches, shallow, stuttering. The ground beneath him tilts, and for a terrifying second, he feels weightless.

No. No, no, no.

“You are not ApocalypseAndChill.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it’s as if the words split the air between them. “No. No, you can’t be. You can’t be my favorite fucking author.”

Dean flinches like Castiel just struck him. His lips part, but no words come out. His throat bobs in a hard swallow, and—fuck. Fuck. Castiel sees it. The truth is right there, written across Dean’s face like one of his own damn stories.

And Castiel… Castiel feels like he can’t breathe.

Because the pieces are clicking into place, too fast, too loud. The writing style, the themes, the turns of phrase he’s read over and over. The way Dean always seems to be in the library, typing furiously. The way he knows exactly what to say in class, the way people hang onto his every word. The way he…

“Why couldn’t you have fucking talked to me, man?”

“You, you’re always charming everyone. You’re always flirting and getting your way with everyone. I wasn’t going to let you manipulate me too. And I knew you would have! Guys like you always get what they want. You charm your way into anything you want! You get into my fucking creative writing class that’s JUST for English majors! You don’t belong!”

There’s a flash of hurt in his eyes before the anger takes over. Dean steps back again. His jaw is clenched. “Fuck you, Shurley,” he says and turns and walks away.

No. He couldn’t be wrong. Dean always had everything handed to him. Always smiling, always coasting through life. But what if… what if I’ve been wrong about him all along? The thought burns, and he tries to shove it down, but he knows, he knows.

He feels sick. His pulse is hammering, his breath coming too fast. The world is tilting, slipping sideways beneath him.

Somewhere, people are laughing. Footsteps echo across the pavement. The wind rustles the leaves overhead. The world keeps moving, indifferent to the fact that Castiel’s just had the ground ripped out from under him.

Dean is gone.

His stomach lurches, and he barely makes it to the nearest bench before his legs give out. He presses his palms against the wooden seat, grounding himself. The wood is solid. The air is real. He’s still here, still breathing. But everything feels wrong.

Chapter Text

Castiel has hidden himself on the third floor of the library, near the Special Collections Room. The area is almost always empty, and even though the whole floor is supposed to be the “quiet floor” it's especially silent here. It’s one of his favorite places to hide to get work done.

Which is why he isn’t at all surprised when Meg unceremoniously dumps her backpack on the table and demands, “What did you do to Winchester?” She doesn’t even bother whispering, earning a sharp glare from him.

“We had a disagreement.”

“Uh huh. Must have been one hell of a disagreement from the way people are talking,” she says and this time at least has the decency to drop her volume. Thankfully there isn’t anyone else around to eavesdrop.

“What are people saying?” he asks.

“Winchester cussed you out and people thought he was going to hit you. And I repeat, what could you have possibly done to Winchester to make him that angry?”

Castel sighs and finally makes eye contact with his friend. “I turned him in for a possible honor violation.”

“Holy shit. What did he do?” Meg says and she finally sits down instead of standing over him.

“I’m pretty sure I was wrong, but I didn’t know it at the time. I did what I thought was the right thing.”

Meg raises an eyebrow at him. “I feel like there is a lot packed into what you aren’t saying, Clarence. So you thought Winchester cheated on something, you turned him in, but he had proof he hadn’t cheated, and now he’s pissed at you.”

Castiel nods.

“Wow,” she says and sits back, “I knew it had to be serious for Winchester to go at you.”

“Why?” he says scoffingly and Meg lets out a little laugh and gives him a ‘Really?’ look. Castiel shakes his head and raises his palms out towards her in a ‘go on’ gesture.

Meg raises an eyebrow. “Oh my god. You really don’t know, do you?”

Castiel frowns. “Know what?”

“Holy shit.” She leans back in her chair, laughing to herself. “Okay, wow. This is so much funnier than I thought it was.”

Castiel’s stomach knots. “Meg…”

“Winchester has been gagging for you since freshman year, dude.”

“Dean does not have a crush on me. He flirts with everyone.”

“Winchester is charming AF anytime you are around. He’s especially nice to people who are friends with you. He’s even nice to me and I’m a bitch to him, but he bites his tongue since he knows you and I are friends. The guy has had a crush on you since freshman year. He’s always talking about how smart you are, how talented you are. I love you, but that guy is gagging on you,” Meg says and rolls her eyes.

She smiles, “It’s kind of funny, not only did you get him in trouble but you probably broke his stupid heart too.”

Castiel opens and closes his mouth. He should say something. He wants to say something, “No… No…”

Meg waves her hand dismissively. “He’s a big boy, he’ll get over it. You’ve always hated the guy, who cares?”

“Fuck,” Castiel says and slams the lid of his laptop closed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He threads his fingers through his hair and leans over. He breathes in deep through his noses and then out through his mouth.

Meg, with all the grace of a drunk giraffe, smirks, “I always kind of wondered why you hated him so much. I’m guessing you don’t actually hate him and you had no idea he was mooning over you.”

“Fuck,” he says again, not moving.

Meg sighs, “Can you fix it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m guessing he’s not actually getting kicked out of school.”

“No,” Castiel says, “I don’t think so. I don’t think he did what I thought he did.”

“So no permanent damage. You bruised his ego, hurt his feelings, but he’s also liked you for nearly four years at this point, I’m sure if you batted your baby blues at him he’d get over it,” Meg concludes flippantly.

Castiel looks up at her and glares but she smiles wide in response.

“I don’t like you,” he tells her, even though both of them know he doesn’t mean it.

Meg shakes her head and gets up, “Love you too, Clarence.”

Somehow, Castiel makes it through Fitzgerald’s class. He doesn’t participate, but he’s there. He only vaguely pays attention. But he’s there and he’s present.

He’s not surprised when Fitzgerald asks him to stay behind after class.

“Hey Castiel!” he says in his overly friendly voice, “Listen, I was thinking maybe I could modify that last assignment for you. It’s a good one to get people in touch with their feelings but most people don’t… None of the others have gone through what you did last year. If I had been thinking I would have modified it before the semester even started. So how about you find some other emotion to write about? Dealer’s choice!”

Castiel nods, working hard to keep his face neutral. “Yeah, that would be helpful, thanks.”

Fitzgerald claps his hands together, “And you can have until next class to get it to me. No rush! I mean, rush in that you have to give it to me then, but don’t feel like you need to email me anything tonight!”

“Thank you, Professor,” Castiel says.

“Of course, and I told you, call me Garth! No need to be so serious. Now, do you need a hug?”

Castiel takes a step back and shakes his head, “Uh, no. But thank you. I appreciate the extension and I’ll have something by our next class.” He waves and escapes from his overly jovial professor. He likes Professor Fitzgerald, Garth, but the man is always so happy that Castiel just isn’t sure how to react to him.

With his final class for the day finished, he makes his way back across campus towards his apartment. The walk back feels longer than usual, every step heavy with exhaustion he can’t shake. He dreads facing Charlie. He knows he’s fucked up with Dean, even beyond turning him in for plagiarism.

It’s late September and the crisp air should wake him up, should clear his head, but it doesn’t. His mind loops back to his conversation with Meg. Dean has a crush on you. It just doesn’t jive with the idea he had of Dean. Why would someone like Dean like someone like him? He’s nerdy and antisocial. Dean is charismatic and charming.

When he finally reaches the apartment, he hesitates at the door, fingers curling around the doorknob. He can’t avoid Charlie forever. She deserves... something. He doesn’t know what, but she’s been patient with him, far more patient than he deserves. He fortifies himself and opens the front door.

Inside, the apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the TV in the living room. Charlie is curled up on the sofa, laptop balanced on her knees, scrolling through what looks like code, but she glances up when he closes the door behind him and turns off the tv.

“Hey,” she says, voice careful but not unkind. “Feeling better?”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away. He sets his bag down by the door and sinks onto the opposite end of the sofa, rubbing at his temples. “Not really.”

Charlie shuts her laptop with a soft click and places it on the coffee table before she turns to face him. “I saw Dean today.”

He flinches, just barely. “I figured.”

She watches him for a long moment before sighing. “Look, I get it. I understand why you thought what you did. But, Cas...” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Some of the things you said today were really shitty.”

He wants to argue. Wants to defend himself. But the words won’t come. Because Charlie is right. “I know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charlie nods, giving him space to continue, but he doesn’t. He was shitty to Dean and he’s not going to make excuses for it.

She seems to accept he isn’t going to say anything more. Charlie sighs, rubbing her hands over her face. “I’ve cut you a lot of slack, you know?”

Castiel looks up at her. She’s not just disappointed—she’s exhausted. Like she’s been carrying this weight for a while.

“I know what you’ve been through this past year,” she continues, voice quieter now. “I get it. But you’ve made a lot of assumptions about Dean, and you don’t even know him.”

Castiel swallows hard, fingers gripping the hem of his hoodie. “He’s always just been... everywhere. In all of my classes, acting like it’s easy for him. Like he belongs.”

Charlie shakes her head. “Dean works his ass off. You think he got into your fancy writing class because he charmed his way in? No, dude. He got in because he’s a damn good writer. He’s had a lot of practice, but I guess you’ve figured that part out, huh?”

Castiel lets out a bitter laugh, rubbing at his face. “I’ve had this idea in my head about who Dean is and it’s been completely shattered.”

Charlie nudges him and gives a small smile, “You know what they say about assuming, right?”

He shakes his head, “Believe me, at this point, I am well aware I’m an ass.”

“I can’t argue with that. I will say this, I did not peg you as a fanfic reader. I mean, I knew you were as obsessed as Dean with The End but I didn’t think you would be on AO3. And not only that, but Kilas? AND Dean was apparently your favorite writer? I mean, the tags write themselves, amiright?”

Castiel groans and his head falls back onto the back of the sofa. “I don’t blame him for hating me. I deserve it.”

“Nah, Dean doesn’t hate you. I think, more than anything, he’s hurt. But you can fix it.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he admits.

“Well, figure it out, but maybe... stop being such an asshole about it. And…” she hesitates, “it's not just about Dean. I’ve been worried about you. And maybe I should’ve said something sooner. I am here for you.”

“Thank you, Charlie.”

“Want some tea or something? You look like you need it,” Charlie says and pats his leg before standing up and stretching.

Castiel shakes his head, and Charlie gives him one last look before disappearing into the kitchen. He sits there and just takes a moment to assess. He can hear Charlie moving around in the kitchen. He moves his hands up and down his jeans, feeling the soft texture of the material. He can see the dark TV, and their shelves of books and DVDs on either side.

He wants to just roll over and give up. He wants things to be better. He wants to keep moving. He is at war with himself. There’s a constant push and pull of what he wants right now in this moment and what he wants to keep working towards. Castiel runs his hands through his hair. Just keep moving, he tells himself.

Castiel stands up and realizes he’s hungry. Appetite is a good thing. He makes himself pizza and Charlie goes back to whatever she was doing on her computer. After he finishes eating he works on his poem for Fitzgerald. He gets a first draft done and puts it away. He’ll look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow.

With that assignment out of the way, he pulls out Dean’s short story. The one he recognized as being fanfiction. He hesitates, pen hovering over the paper. Dean’s words are still echoing in his head, every note full of kindness and insight Castiel hadn’t deserved. He could just give it back with minimal feedback, avoiding anything too personal. But that wouldn’t be fair.

He takes a blue pen, not red, and starts leaving notes. He’s read the story before, so it makes it easy to highlight the foreshadowing, the hints about the character's true motivations here and there. He underlines some sentences. He circles other parts.

When he’s finished, he searches through his AO3 email notifications and finds where ApocalypseAndChill responded to his original comment. Thankfully, although the original fic is gone, he still has the record of it. He copies the same comment he left on the original fic onto the end of Dean’s paper.

Wow, this was incredible. Your writing completely drew me in, and I couldn’t put it down until I finished every word. The way you portrayed Silas as both calculating and deeply human (even though he technically isn’t) was phenomenal—his struggle for autonomy felt so real and heartbreaking. And Kade? His internal conflict is so well done. You can feel the weight of his choices in every interaction.

The tension between them is chef’s kiss—I love the subtle moments of connection with the suspense of Kade’s impossible situation. It adds so much depth, and it’s agonizing (in the best way).

He doesn’t even change the names. That’s how he first read the story, so it seems fitting that that is how he leaves his final comment. Castiel wonders what Knight will make of it, but he decides that this is a first step at making things right with Dean.

Maybe it was never really about Dean. Maybe it was about Castiel and all the ways he felt like he wasn’t enough. Because if Dean Winchester, the cocky engineer who made everything look effortless, was better than him at writing, the one thing Castiel had dedicated his life to, then what did that say about him?

Castiel goes back to his email inbox and sees a message from Archive of Our Own. [AO3] ApocalypseAndChill posted I’m not dead.

His thumb hesitates before tapping it open, and when he does, it’s not a new fic. It’s just a message, really.

  Hey guys.  
  So, uh, I know I kinda vanished. Sorry about that.  
  Here’s the deal: I’m in college, and I used some of my fics for class assignments (with the names changed, obviously). Someone in my class thought I plagiarized and reported me. I was able to prove it was my work, but... yeah. It was a mess.  
  I’ve taken my fics down for now. I don’t know if I’ll put them back up. I don’t know if I’ll be back at all. School’s kicking my ass, and I need to focus on graduating.  
  Just wanted to say thanks to everyone for the support over the years. The Kilas fandom has been... everything to me. You guys got me through some really tough times.  
  I’m okay, though. Just taking a break.  
  Stay awesome.

Castiel stares at the screen, his stomach twisting. His fingers go numb as he scrolls through the post again. He reads it once, twice, three times, like maybe the words will change if he just looks hard enough.

But they don’t.

Dean loved this. Loved writing. The fandom wasn’t just a hobby for him; it was something he cared about deeply, something that had helped him. And now it was gone. Because of him.

And he understands. He understands because this fandom means the same to him. It had helped him too. After his brother died, sometimes looking forward to someone’s next chapter or newest fic got him through his day.

Castiel reads the message again, his fingers tightening around his phone. He remembers nights spent refreshing his inbox, waiting for the next update, those tiny bursts of hope that got him through long, empty days. He imagines Dean, no, ApocalypseAndChill, sitting in his dorm, pouring himself into stories.

It wasn’t just words on a screen; it was someone’s heart, their solace.

He used to think fanfiction was just a guilty pleasure, something to be hidden away like an embarrassing secret. But now? Now, he sees it for what it really is, a lifeline. A way to cope. A way to feel something when everything else feels too hard. And Dean… Dean had built something beautiful, only to have it ripped away because of him.

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat and closes the app, and climbs into bed. He pulls the covers up over his head and closes his eyes. All the guilt settles on his chest, pressing him into the mattress.

What have I done?

Chapter Text

Castiel feels gross when he wakes up. His body aches in that bone-deep exhaustion, the kind that makes every movement feel like wading through cement. His mouth is dry and stale—a reminder that he never even brushed his teeth last night.

He stares at the ceiling.

He should get up.

His alarm blares again.

Cas swallows, pushes himself up, and forces himself to move.

It’s Friday, which means he has the weekend to get shit done, but it’s also a day closer to his appointment with Mia and a day closer to when he has to see Dean.

He asks himself if he’s going to let the overwhelming everything get the better of him or if he’s going to keep moving forward. He fights the part of himself that wants to give up. He takes one of his pills and gets ready. He showers and does the basic hygiene.

Thankfully he just has two classes today. Hanscum’s class is always easy, and Armstrong—who worships his dad—is a jerk to most students but seems to think sucking up to Castiel will achieve something. If only he knew that he doesn’t talk to his dad.

When he gets to the kitchen, there’s still coffee in the pot waiting for him. Castiel had been so worried, so convinced that what he did would mean that he and Charlie wouldn’t even be cordial with one another. He thought for sure that she would choose Dean over him. He tears up a little at the realization that Charlie isn’t just his roommate, she’s his friend. While she may be mad at him, she still cares about him, she still worries about him. It’s nice to have that. Honestly, he thought that the only person he really had in his corner was Meg.

Speaking of Meg, Castiel shoots her a text, thanking her for yesterday’s pep talk.

She sends him the eye roll emoji. He sends her the black heart.

Even though he knows it will stress him out, he gets on the Kilas Discord server to see what people are saying.

The server is full of grief. Castiel should close the tab. Shouldn’t read it.

But he does.

@KadeKane4Life: I hope A&C is okay. They were one of the best. Their fics got me through some really rough times. I left them a comment telling them that.

Castiel’s stomach drops.

He swallows and scrolls.

@gremlin: It just sucks, you know? Knowing that someone out there reported them.

@Hexy Witch: Aww, they were so great, I wonder how someone found out they wrote fanfiction

@theories_and_angst: do you think it was one of us who turned A&C in?

Castiel slams his laptop shut before he can read any more.

Yeah, not at all helpful to his mental health.

He exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face, then pushes himself up from the desk. He needs water. Or more coffee. Or something to keep his hands occupied so he doesn’t spiral.

Padding into the kitchen, he stops short.

Charlie is sitting at the kitchen table. He hadn’t even heard her come back in. But there she is, Castiel’s short story in her hands, flipping through the pages.

His breath catches. He hadn’t meant to leave it out—hadn’t even thought about it, honestly, in the midst of everything else. But there it is, Dean’s handwriting scrawled through the margins, the same comments that had sent Castiel spiraling back in class.

Charlie’s expression shifts as she reads. Her brows furrow. Her lips press together in a thin line. She chews at her bottom lip like she’s thinking too hard about something.

Then, softly, almost like she’s talking to herself—

“Shit,” she murmurs. “This is Dean’s handwriting. He read this?”

Castiel swallows, stepping forward. Why does she sound… concerned?

“Yes,” he says. His voice comes out rough, he hasn’t spoken in hours. Charlie looks up at him, expectant, so he adds, “It was part of the class assignment. We exchanged papers.”

Castiel frowns. “Didn’t you already leave for class?”

Charlie doesn’t look up. “Forgot something.” Her voice is distracted, her focus still on the pages in front of her. Something flickers in her expression.

“When?” she asks, then clarifies, “When did Dean read this?”

“Before the whole mess started,” Castiel admits. “We read each other’s stories and had to give feedback, and well…” He trails off. They both know what happened next.

Charlie sighs and sets the paper on the table. She looks down at it for a long moment, fingers drumming against the first page.

“I wish he would talk to me about these things,” she says finally.

Castiel blinks. “What things?”

Charlie hesitates. Her fingers still on the paper.

“If he didn’t tell you,” she says carefully, “then I don’t feel like it’s my place.”

A chill settles deep in Castiel’s chest.

“Charlie,” he says, stepping closer, but she shakes her head.

“I mean it, Cas,” she says, pushing up from the chair. “It’s not my story to tell.”

And just like that, she walks past him, disappearing into her room and leaving Castiel standing there, his own damn story sitting on the table like a loaded gun.

The words swirl in his head as he grabs his bag and heads for the door.

It’s not my story to tell.

His feet move on autopilot, the cold air biting at his skin, but his thoughts are louder.

What am I missing?

By the time he registers his surroundings, he’s already standing outside Knight’s office, his fingers flexing against the strap of his bag.

He exhales sharply.

One problem at a time.

Knight is one of those professors that either has a line of students waiting to talk to him or no one at all. Today, for better or worse, there’s no one else.

Castiel gives a short rap on the door with his knuckles when he gets to his office. Knight waves him in and motions to one of the chairs in front of his large imposing desk. The man finishes whatever final thought he was typing before he turns his attention to Castiel.

“Got Dean’s paper?” he asks and Castiel hands it over. Professor Knight immediately starts looking over it and Castiel gets the impression he’s supposed to stay put. After a few moments of Knight reading through it and then flipping back and forth he looks up at Castiel.

“No matter what happens in this world, we learn a lot about ourselves in how we choose to react to a situation.”

Not really knowing what to say, Castiel just nods. Knight sighs, slides the paper to the side and laces his fingers together and just looks at Castiel. It takes a lot in him not to squirm under his gaze.

“You know, my late wife Colette hated me when she first met me. I can’t say that I blamed her. I was rather rough around the edges, it was a defense mechanism from a rough life. Some people get hard, some people find other ways to cope. Maybe if you’re told often enough that you aren’t smart enough, aren’t good enough, you work extra hard to prove those people wrong. Maybe if you are used to people not liking you, you try extra hard to be everyone’s friend. Maybe you pretend to be someone you’re not, as a way to protect yourself. You understand what I’m saying?”

Castiel nods, “Yeah. I was reminded recently about the dangers of making assumptions.”

“Good,” his professor says and pauses. “All of my students are going through something. Experiences, good and bad, have the potential to make you better. A better writer, a better person, a better friend. Even when a student isn’t one of my advisees, I get to learn about them through their writing. Everything you write, to some extent, has a piece of you in it. And if I am lucky enough to have a student as an advisee, I learn a lot more. One of my seniors has had a tough life. A lot of people telling him that he doesn’t belong. Doesn’t belong in college, doesn’t belong in some of his classes, and as a way to compensate, he tries really hard. I think that he’s trying to prove to everyone, including himself, that he does belong.”

Knight looks down and taps absently on his desk. “The hardest thing is knowing he belongs but watching him doubt it at every turn. Watching him tear himself apart trying to prove something he already is. And no amount of positive feedback from me seems to help.”

The professor sighs and sits back in his chair. Castiel looks down at his lap, “I don’t know how to fix it.”

“I wrote poetry for my late wife. Fell in love with her and poetry. Ended up getting a Doctorate in Fine Arts.”

“Are you suggesting I write poetry?” Castiel asks.

Knight snorts, “No, Mr. Shurley, I am not. I wrote poetry for Colette because that’s what she loved. If she had loved music maybe I would have learned to play an instrument.”

He sighs and turns back to his computer, “I’ll see you in class on Tuesday.”

Recognizing he’s been dismissed, Castiel heads to his first class.

On his way to Hanscum’s class, Castiel shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets and focuses on the familiar rhythm of his footsteps, the weight of Knight’s words pressing down on him. He thought calling Dean out was doing the right thing, but maybe it was just a way to prove something—to himself, to everyone else. Maybe he was more like Dean than he realized.

The thought doesn’t sit well.

When he reaches Hanscum’s classroom, the familiar scrape of chairs against linoleum grounds him, but his stomach still twists.

Anna is in this class with him. They’re friendly, but Castiel would not consider them friends. Anna is a notorious gossip, so it doesn’t surprise him at all when she beelines for the seat beside him.

“People are saying you and Dean got into a fight!”

“Hello to you too, Anna,” Castiel says dryly.

“Cas!”

Knowing that whatever he tells Anna will make its way around to the other students, he decides to just get it over with, “I was an asshole and Dean, rightly, was upset with me. There was no fight, just some yelling.”

“What did you do? Dean is like, the nicest guy.”

Castiel is not going to tell her the truth. Dean doesn’t deserve to have people digging into things. It’s better if people think poorly of him instead, “I said some things that were very unkind. I think I was angry and jealous. I was mad that Dean got a spot in Knight’s class when he isn’t even an English major.”

Anna looks at him funny, squinting her eyes, “Dean is an English major.”

“Dean is an engineering major,” Castiel says.

"Dean is an English major and an engineering major."

Castiel’s brain stalls. That’s… not right. It can’t be.

Anna gives him a look, the kind people give when someone says something so profoundly stupid that they have to process it for a second.

"Cas. Babe. Sweetie. What the hell do you think he’s been doing in all of our classes?"

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it.

"Wait, really?"

"Duh," Anna says, tossing her hair. "Why else would he be in multiple writing workshops? Just for fun? Do you think he’s that much of a masochist?"

Castiel feels like a chair has been pulled out from under him. His brain scrambles for something… anything… that makes this not true, but the more he thinks about it, the more it clicks into place.

“I thought… I thought he was just taking electives.”

“No, he transferred in with a bunch of core requirements from his time at the community college. He got started late or something. That’s why he’s older than us. He was like, his brother’s guardian, so he didn’t start college until his brother did.”

“Oh.”

The word feels too small for how much he didn’t know. He didn’t know Dean was an English major, or that he was older, or that he even had a brother. He doesn’t really know much about Dean at all.

His stomach twists as Charlie’s voice echoes in his head. “If he didn’t tell you, then I don’t feel like it’s my place.”

He rubs his knuckles against his jaw, brow furrowing. Charlie had looked at him differently this morning—like she expected him to understand something he didn’t. Like she was waiting for him to catch up.

And now he gets it. No parents. A brother to raise.

The realization lands like a stone in his gut.

Class starts, but Castiel barely registers Hanscum’s voice. He drums his fingers against his notebook absently while his mind spirals.

The Dean he had in his mind has little resemblance to the real Dean he is learning about. Dean wrote fanfiction to deal with tough times.

Castiel rubs a hand over his face, feeling the weight of his own ignorance pressing down. He’d built Dean up into something he wasn’t—an outsider who didn’t belong, when in reality, Dean had carved his own space here, piece by piece, without anyone’s permission.

And Castiel had almost taken it all away—because he never once thought to look deeper.

He thinks of ways he can say sorry to Dean. He doesn’t have his number, but he could probably get that from Charlie. Sending a text seems so low effort and calling is out of the question. Even if Dean answered, what would he say? He knows he’ll apologize the next time he sees him, but it doesn’t feel like enough. Castiel could write an email but that too doesn’t seem like enough.

Castiel wonders if stories, fanfiction, even, can be a way to fix things, to rewrite the parts that went wrong. Maybe it’s stupid. But maybe it makes sense. Dean wrote fanfic to process things. Maybe Castiel could, too.

In The End Castiel always identified more with Silas. The supernatural outsider who is helping the group of humans led by Kade in the post-apocalyptic world. Silas so badly wants to be one of them, one of the humans, but he’s not. He doesn’t fit in, and yet, Kade still befriends him. Kade still cares about him. Kade and Silas become best friends despite their differences.

Castiel sits on the sofa later that night, staring at the blank screen of his laptop. Writing fanfiction feels ridiculous, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s easier than facing Dean in person, easier than looking him in the eye and saying everything he needs to say. He just doesn’t know how.

When Charlie walks in the door she stops short, assessing the situation.

“You okay, buddy? You’re sitting in the dark looking at a blank screen,” she says warily.

Castiel sighs and looks at her, “I need to write fanfiction.”

“Okay…” she says, drawing the word out.

“And I don’t know how,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow at him and starts turning on the lamps. “I know you have an AO3 account and I know you know how to write fiction, so what part are you getting stuck on?”

Castiel sets his laptop on the coffee table, “I need to write a fanfic for Dean.” Writing fanfiction to fix things felt ridiculous. Apologies should be direct, personal, not buried in metaphor and narrative. But then again, Dean never knew him outside of class, and Castiel never knew Dean outside of his stories. Maybe this was the closest they could get to honesty.

Charlie sits beside him and raises an eyebrow. “Okay…”

He sighs, “It’s like his love language. I… I need to fix things. I need to apologize. But saying sorry won’t be enough. I just… I have no idea who Dean is. I don’t know him, at all.”

Charlie is quiet for a while. She taps her fingers atop of her jeans seemingly weighing her words. “You’re right, you don’t know Dean, but you do know ApocalypseAndChill.”

“Oh,” Castiel says and the metaphorical light bulb goes off in his head.

“How long have you been reading Apocalypse’s works?”

“Years,” he says.

“Dean identifies with Kade. That’s the only other thing I’ll say, but I know you’re a smart boy and can figure it out from here,” Charlie tells him and smiles.

She stands up and Castiel grabs her hand and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

We leave a part of ourselves in everything we write. Was Dean ever an android technician? Or an outlaw or a sheriff in the wild west? Or a petty thief who caught the eye of a Russian mobster? No. But Dean was someone who felt responsible for his brother, his family, and others. Someone who had too much on his shoulders. Someone who felt like he had to prove himself. Someone who had trouble asking for help.

ApocalypseAndChill is notorious for his hurt/comfort, fix-its, angst with a happy ending, Hurt Kade Kane, Kade Kane is bad at feelings.

Castiel might not know Dean, but he knows Apocalypse through his works and his author notes. He knows there were a lot of late nights. Double shifts. That he didn’t often get enough sleep.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. His mind drifts back to one fic. One that he’s read over and over.

Kade Kane is exhausted. He hasn’t slept in days, and the weight of the world is crushing him. He thinks he has to carry it alone, because that’s what he’s always done.

And then Silas just…sits beside him. Doesn’t say anything. Just sits. And after a while, Kade talks. And Silas listens.

Castiel closes his eyes. That’s who Dean is. Not just Kade Kane, the action hero. But Kade, the guy who shoulders too much, who doesn’t know how to ask for help. The guy who writes stories at 3 AM because it’s the only thing that makes him feel less alone.

He breathes out. Then he starts to type.

He can’t write a fanfiction apology for Dean, but he can write one for Apocalypse. He can write a thank-you fanfic for Apocalypse.

Chapter Text

For years, Castiel has kept a Word doc that contains all the different plot bunny ideas that have struck him as he has watched The End. Some are canon-compliant: fix-its or one-offs. A lot have been alternate universes where the boys end up in situations completely different from the show. He’ll see someone’s Tumblr or Discord post and think, “This would make a great Kilas fic”. Or sometimes it’s a YouTube video. He loves watching existing media and thinking, “How could this be a Kilas fic?” and trying to decide who would play which part and which supporting characters would best fit this universe. Sometimes when he’s trying to sleep, he’ll tell himself stories. Each night, he picks up where he left off before falling asleep.

None of the ideas he’s kept will work for this. Castiel has gone through the list but none of it works. He needs to write something, but now that he’s committing to actually writing a fic, nothing is working.

Castiel stares at the cursor like it’s personally mocking him.

He’s been thinking about this fic all night, and yet, every time he starts typing, it feels wrong. Too impersonal, too indirect, too... not enough.

He’s written three opening paragraphs and deleted them all.

His fingers hover over the keys.

Just start.

Kade turns to Silas, betrayal flashing in his eyes—

No.

He exhales sharply, shoving a hand through his hair. The cursor keeps blinking at him, steady, patient. It’s infuriating.

“I hate you,” Castiel mutters at the screen. It doesn’t reply. Doesn’t mock him. Just keeps blinking. Blink. Blink. Blink.

His stomach twists. It’s never been this hard before. Why is this so hard?

He lets his forehead drop to the table, groaning into his folded arms.

For someone who’s spent years reading fics, analyzing fics, leaving long-ass comments about every narrative choice, why is it so damn hard to actually write one?

He sits back up and at his screen. Glares at it.

His fingers are poised but unmoving. This... this feels different. It’s not just about writing a story. It’s about getting something right. It’s about saying something he’s not sure he can say in person.

He goes to bed Friday night having started and abandoned a dozen different ideas. When he wakes up on Saturday he’s still got nothing. He takes one of his pills and makes himself coffee, extra for Charlie if she gets up at a reasonable time, and decides to instead catch up on the episode of The End that he missed this week while he was having his existential crisis over Dean.

The episode is pretty good. Last week Silas returned after having been away for a few episodes. He swoops in and very much saves the day and helps the human encampment with the supernatural virus that was going around. There’s some dramatics between Silas and Kane, including a long lingering hug that makes Castiel sigh into his mug.

It was revealed a season ago that there are fallen angels living on earth and Silas is connected to them. Kade, of course, doesn’t know that yet. Castiel and a lot of the fandom are speculating that Silas is either a fallen angel or a nephilim offspring. But the fallen angels have been creating a lot of trouble for the humans and Kade and the other humans have a great dislike for them.

It seems pretty clear to Castiel that the writers are setting things up for the season finale that Kade is going to find out what Silas is from someone other than Silas and it’s going to create a big rift between the two friends. Castiel wonders if anyone has posted a fic like this yet.

Then, mid-sip of coffee, it clicks. His heart stutters. What if he writes something like that?

His heart kicks up in his chest. The mug slips in his grip, coffee sloshing over the rim, but he barely notices. His brain is already moving, ideas slotting into place so fast he can barely keep up.

Kade finds out about Silas from someone else. Silas doesn’t get the chance to explain, doesn’t get to control the narrative.

Just like Dean.

Castiel sets his mug down so fast it nearly tips over. His pulse thrums in his ears. His fingers are already reaching for his laptop.

This is it. This is the story he needs to tell.

He restarts the episode and starts making notes. Then he thinks about the episode where they start hinting at what Silas is or at least the group of supernatural creatures he’s affiliated with. A quick google search tells him the season and episode so he queues that one up and watches it, pausing at points and more taking notes. As he watches, he comes up with more ideas. Soon enough the show is autoplaying in the background while Castiel works on a general outline. He’s not shooting for anything big. Honestly it’s going to be a short one shot, but he makes bullets of the things he wants to hit.

Outline finished, he writes his first very rough draft. Just to get the words down. It’s really more of a skeleton at this point. He goes back to the beginning and starts really filling it in.

Charlie snaps her fingers right in front of his face and he looks up, a little surprised to see her even though this is her apartment.

“How’s the zone treating you?” she asks, amused.

He smiles, “Pretty good actually. But I probably need to take a stretch break.” Castiel checks the time and sees that he’s been going at this for four hours or more. He tilts his head side to side to stretch his neck and stands. He takes a bathroom break and gets some food, eats one of his yogurts and refills his coffee. Charlie, bless her, had made more. He goes back to his laptop and turns the tv on to have The End playing in the background.

Castiel finishes the second draft that night and sets it aside. This isn’t just an apology; it’s proof. Proof that he gets it now, that he understands Dean better than he did before. Maybe Dean won’t see it that way, maybe he won’t read it at all, but at least Castiel will have tried.

He wants to keep working on it, but he has other work he needs to do. He has his poem due for Fitzgerald and he has reading to do for all of his classes. He downloads all of the reading on Blackboard and figures out which books he’ll need to have with him if he goes to the library. He looks at his syllabus and realizes he has an upcoming paper for Armstrong at the end of next week and starts a list of all of the things he needs to do this coming week.

He texts Meg and asks if she wants to meet at the library tomorrow morning. She tells him to meet her at the coffee shop near campus and that they’ll walk to the library together. She asks if he wants to come to a party with her. He thanks her but declines. He may like Meg, but he doesn’t care for a lot of her other friends. Thankfully she never pushes.

When he goes to bed that night, he feels good not only about having had a productive day, but also because he feels like things will be okay. He feels hopeful.

Thankfully he wakes up feeling the same. He gets up at a decent time, before his alarm ever goes off, takes his pill and gets ready. By the time Meg shows up at the coffee shop, he’s already had his first cup and has finished his assignment for Fitzgerald. He emailed it to his professor but also let him know that he’ll bring a hard copy into class on Tuesday.

Meg eyes him suspiciously when she sees him. She doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow at him and orders. After she finishes she sits across from him, her chin cradled in her hands.

“You didn’t buy someone’s adderall or something, did you?”

He scowls at her, “No. It’s nice to see you too, Meg.”

“If I ever greet you normally, it's a pod person,” she says with a smirk. He rolls his eyes and saves the document he’s working on before shutting the lid and slipping the laptop into his bag.

Castiel lifts his empty cup to her, “I need a refill before we go.” Meg waves him off. Refills are thankfully free here as long as its standard coffee and not one of the fancy drinks. He gets his refill and grabs Meg’s cup when her name is called. She takes the drink from him and they walk together to the library.

“You look better today,” she tells him apropos of nothing.

“You look lovely today too,” he responds.

Meg stops him with a hand on his bicep. “I’m serious, you look better… I’ve been worried,” she says, and for once, there’s no teasing in her tone.

Castiel swallows. She won’t push, but the weight of her concern settles between them, unspoken. He nudges her with his elbow, grateful for the unspoken understanding.

Castiel knows his friend is pretty allergic to talking about feelings or expressing concern, so he knows just how serious she is. He smiles and wraps his arm around her shoulders to give her a sideways hug.

“I’m feeling better. The start of the semester has been rough, but I feel like it’s going to get better.”

She hums but doesn’t say anything else. They stay on the first floor of the library since they have drinks and the third floor has a very strict, “No talking. No food. No drinks.” policy and no one wants to get on Mrs. Butters’ bad side.

Meg gives him a subtle kick under the table. He barely has time to glare at her before he looks up—just in time to see Dean heading toward the stairs. His stomach clenches when Dean’s eyes flick to him, even for a second. Castiel wonders if Dean’s jaw has always been set that tight, or if it’s just because of him. He almost stands, almost moves to follow, but the sheer certainty that Dean wouldn’t stop keeps him rooted to his chair.

“You gonna go talk to him?” Meg asks.

Castiel shakes his head no.

“You aren’t going to apologize? How hard is it to say sorry? Usually humans say that to one another when they want to be forgiven,” Meg says like he’s an idiot who forgot how to be a person.

“I don’t think he’ll listen to me right now. I have something planned though.”

He watches the empty space where Dean disappeared upstairs and exhales, feeling the weight settle deep in his chest. Writing the fic won’t fix everything, but it’s a start. Maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to show Dean he cares.

She leans in closer with a raised eyebrow, “Oh? Do tell.”

He debates on what or how much to tell her. Even if he asked her not to, she’d probably tease Dean about writing fanfiction. She would definitely try to read it and he doesn’t like the idea of her reading any of Dean’s works, especially the more explicit fics. And she would absolutely read whatever he posted.

Castiel goes with the half truth, “I’m writing something for him.”

Meg side-eyes him. Hard.

"You're writing something for him?" she echoes, slow and deliberate, like she’s turning the words over in her mouth. Then her smirk grows.

"Wait." Her smirk turns downright wicked. "Is this... a love letter?"

Castiel chokes so hard on his coffee he nearly dies. "No!"

Meg leans in, practically vibrating with amusement. “Love… story?”

His face burns. "Shut up."

"Oh, this explains so much."

"Meg," he warns.

"You’ve been obsessed with Winchester for years, haven’t you?"

"Stop talking."

She takes a slow sip of her drink. "You know," she muses, "I did always wonder why you hated him so much." Then she smirks. "Guess I have my answer."

Castiel drops his head onto the table. Kill me now.

Chapter Text

Castiel sinks into the well-worn couch in Mia’s office, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie. The space is familiar, he spent a lot of time here last year. The overhead light is off, instead the room is illuminated by several lamps to give the space more of a welcoming feel.

It should be comforting, but today it feels suffocating.

His knee bounces, his fingers pick at the hem of his hoodie, and he really, really doesn’t want to talk.

Mia gets her notepad and walks from around her desk to sit at one of the chairs across from Castiel. She watches him with that calm, patient expression she always wears, her pen poised but not writing.

“So,” she says, voice light but firm, “Pam told me last week was a little rough.”

Castiel huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s an understatement.” He looks down at his lap, picking at a loose thread. “It was… a lot.”

Mia tilts her head. “Want to walk me through it?”

He sighs, sinking further into the couch. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he starts, voice quiet. “I found something out about this guy in my class... I thought he plagiarized a story, so I reported him.” He swallows thickly. “Turns out I was wrong. And now he hates me.”

Mia doesn’t react right away, letting the words settle. “How did you find out you were wrong?”

Castiel presses his lips together, considering his answer. “He confronted me.” The words feel heavy. “Told me the story was his. He writes fanfiction, and I… I just assumed…” He shakes his head. “I never even considered it could be his.”

Mia leans forward slightly, her voice gentle but probing, “Why do you think you assumed the worst?”

Castiel shrugs, but he knows she won’t let him off that easily so takes a deep breath.

He knows the answer. It’s right there, buzzing under his skin, but saying it out loud?

He exhales, sharp and slow.

“Because…” He exhales, slow and deliberate, fingers curling tight around his sleeves. “Because he’s not like me.”

Mia doesn’t react, just waits. Always waiting.

Cas forces himself to keep going. “He’s… he’s charming. Everyone likes him. He’s in all my classes, and I thought...” He swallows hard. “I thought he was just taking up space that belonged to someone like me.”

The words taste ugly. Bitter.

And the worst part is?

He doesn’t even know if it was ever about Dean at all.

Mia nods, her expression thoughtful, “And what does ‘someone like you’ mean?”

Castiel frowns and he twists the strings of his hoodie between his fingers, “Someone who actually belongs there.” His voice is quieter now, and he hates the way it cracks at the end.

She takes a beat before responding. “That’s a lot of weight to carry, feeling like you have to prove you belong.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, just pulls his sleeves over his hands. He’s tired of this, of carrying around the constant exhaustion of not being enough.

Mia leans forward slightly, her voice probing but gentle, “Why do you feel like you have to prove you belong?”

Castiel stiffens, looking away.

Mia waits, and he knows she won’t fill the silence for him. He’s grateful and resentful in equal measure. “It’s just,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“After Jimmy...”

Castiel stops. His throat locks up. The words press against his ribs, heavy, suffocating.

He grips the hem of his hoodie, staring at the loose thread between his fingers, his vision blurring at the edges

Mia stays quiet, but he can feel her watching him.

“It’s like—I have to be twice as good.” The words tremble as they escape him. “Twice as successful. Like I have to make up for him not being here anymore.”

His heart pounds.

And then it’s out there, hovering between them, raw and too real.

The words feel raw, like he’s exposed something he’s kept hidden even from himself. It takes a lot not to cry, and he knows it would be okay for him to cry, but he doesn’t want to.

Mia nods slowly. “You’re carrying a lot of weight, Castiel. That’s understandable. But do you really believe you need to make up for Jimmy’s absence?”

He looks down, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like—like if I don’t, then what’s the point? Dad sure as hell isn’t trying.”

Mia’s expression softens, “Have you talked to your dad recently?”

Castiel shakes his head, jaw clenching, “No. And I don’t want to.”

Jimmy would’ve known what to say. He always did. ‘Let it go, Cas,’ he’d probably say with that easy grin. But Jimmy was better at that sort of thing. Better at seeing the good in people. Better at people.

He could call his dad. He could send a text. But what would he even say? ‘Hey, remember me? Your surviving son?’ Castiel laughs at the thought.

“What would it take for you to forgive him?” Mia says and leans back, her gaze steady.

Castiel scoffs, a bitter sound, “Him actually being a father would be a good start.” He crosses his arms tightly over his chest. “He wasn’t there when… Not really. He was busy drinking or focused on his fictional characters while I was the one dealing with everything. And now he acts like we should just… move on.”

Mia lets the words settle before speaking. “And what about you? Have you moved on?”

His breath catches. Castiel hates the way it feels like she’s seeing straight through him. “I don’t know how,” he finally admits.

Mia studies him for a moment, “Maybe forgiving your dad isn’t about excusing what he did or making it okay. Maybe it’s about letting go of the hold it has over you.”

Castiel’s stomach twists, and he looks away, “I’m not ready.”

“And that’s okay,” Mia says, “But I do want you to think about something… what does holding onto this anger do for you?”

Castiel bites his lip. He doesn’t answer, because deep down he knows it doesn’t do anything but eat him alive.

Mia continues, “You said something earlier, about wanting to prove yourself. Do you think, maybe, some of that has to do with your dad? Trying to prove that you’re okay, that you’ve got it together, even when you’re struggling?”

Castiel sighs and rubs his face, “Maybe.”

“And when you thought Dean didn’t belong, did it make it easier to believe you did?” Mia’s voice is gentle, but it strikes a nerve.

He exhales sharply, like the words have punched him in the gut. “I guess so,” he admits, his throat tight. “It felt... easier. Easier to think of him as the enemy. Easier to put him in a box and keep him there.”

Mia offers him a small, kind smile. “But people don’t stay in the boxes we put them in, do they? Growth is uncomfortable, Castiel. Learning things about ourselves, especially things we don’t like, isn’t fun. But it’s necessary.” She pauses, “So, what are you doing now to make it right?”

He shifts in his seat, thinking about the fic he’s been working on. “I... I’m writing something for him,” Castiel admits, hesitant. He shifts, feeling awkward as hell. “Not an apology exactly, but maybe a way to say I get it now.”

“So you’re using storytelling to communicate something you don’t know how to say out loud?”

Castiel freezes.

Because… Shit.

That’s exactly what he’s doing.

And wasn’t that exactly what Dean was doing too?

“You’re both in this creative writing class for a reason, you both have a love for stories. It sounds like you’re speaking to him in a way that means a lot to both. I think that sounds like a step in the right direction.” She glances at him thoughtfully, “But Castiel, you can’t control how he’ll respond. You know that, right?”

“I know,” he says softly. “I just... I want him to know I didn’t mean to screw things up.”

“That’s fair,” Mia says. “You know you can’t fix everything overnight. And you can’t rewrite the past, even if you are writing fiction. No time machines or magic wands in the real world, no matter how much we may want them.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from him, and Mia takes it as a win. “One step at a time,” she reminds him.

Castiel nods, looking down at his hands. “Yeah. One step at a time.”

He exhales and leans back into the couch, feeling lighter but still burdened. “I don’t know if it’s enough.”

“Maybe not,” she says, “but it’s a step forward. And that’s what matters.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says.

Mia checks the clock. “We’re about out of time, but before you go… have you been keeping up with your meds?”

He hesitates, then sighs, “I’m doing better at taking them.”

Mia’s brow lifts slightly, and Castiel rubs the back of his neck, “I know, I know. I should be more consistent.”

“You should,” she agrees gently. “You’re doing the work, Cas. Just don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be.”

He nods, feeling a little lighter as he stands. “Thanks, Mia.”

“Anytime,” she says, smiling warmly as he heads for the door. “And hey, give yourself some grace, okay?”

Castiel nods, but he doesn’t know if he actually can.

He just knows he has to try. He wants to do better. He wants things to be better. He wants to keep moving. He doesn’t know if he can fix things with Dean. But maybe—just maybe—he can start fixing himself.

Chapter Text

Castiel imagines the moment over and over in his head. He wants to apologize to Dean in person. Yes, the fic will be an apology, but he also wants to do it face to face. He’s crafted the words carefully in his mind—something sincere but not overdone, an acknowledgment without sounding defensive. He envisions the different ways Dean might react: anger, understanding, disappointment.

None of them prepare him for what actually happens.

Dean walks past him without so much as a glance.

Castiel has been waiting outside of Knight’s classroom, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, nervously tugging at the frayed hem of his hoodie. When Dean appears at the far end of the hall, Castiel feels his stomach twist, but he pushes off the wall and approaches him with as much confidence as he could muster. “Hello, Dean,” he says, his voice steady, carefully neutral. “Can we talk?”

Dean doesn’t break stride, doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate. Just keeps walking.

Castiel blinks. His brain short-circuits for a second, scrambling to catch up.

Nothing.

The air leaves Castiel’s lungs in a sharp exhale, and he stands there, frozen, feeling the burn of embarrassment crawl up his neck. He watches Dean disappear through the classroom door without so much as a flicker of recognition. It was like Castiel was a ghost, something not worth acknowledging, not even worth hating.

He should have expected it, but he hadn’t. He thought Dean would at least say something. Maybe snap at him, maybe glare, maybe roll his eyes with that biting sarcasm he’s known for.

But not this. Not indifference.

It’s worse than a fight. Worse than yelling. Because at least yelling means acknowledgment.

But Dean just walked past him like he didn’t exist.

And God, that burns.

Castiel swallows around the lump forming in his throat and follows him into the classroom, keeping his eyes low as he takes his usual seat. Dean’s already sitting at the far end of the table, shoulders hunched over a notebook, pen tapping absently against the page. He looks… rough. His hair is slightly unkempt, the bags under his eyes more pronounced, and the usual easy charm that seemed to follow him everywhere is nowhere to be seen. He’s quiet, eyes fixed on the blank paper in front of him, and the sight makes something heavy settle in Castiel’s chest.

Castiel wants to say something, anything, but the weight of the moment is crushing. Instead, he pulls out his own notebook, pretending to focus as Knight strides into the room and begins class.

Dean, normally one of the first to contribute to discussions, stays silent. When Knight prompts the class for thoughts on character development, Dean doesn’t chime in. Castiel watches from the corner of his eye as Dean’s fingers tighten around his pen, his jaw clenching at something the professor says. There’s a subdued tension radiating from him, the kind that feels like an open wound just barely held together.

Knight, perceptive as always, picks up on it, “Mr. Winchester, any thoughts on how conflict shapes internal character growth?” There’s no malice in his voice, just that careful encouragement that suggests he knows something is off.

Dean blinks, slowly, like he wasn’t even aware he was being addressed. “Uh... no, sir. Not today,” he mutters, his voice flat, devoid of its usual confidence. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and returns to his notebook, scribbling nonsense just to have something to do with his hands.

Knight nods once, his expression unreadable, and moves on. But Castiel notices the professor’s eyes linger on Dean a second longer than necessary before focusing back on the discussion.

Castiel swallows thickly, his chest tight with guilt. Dean wasn’t just mad. He was hurting. And Castiel had been the one to twist the knife into wounds he hadn’t even known existed.

It’s one thing to know you’ve messed up. It’s another to see the consequences of it written so clearly in the slump of someone’s shoulders, in the way they hold themselves like they’re trying to disappear.

Dean takes up space. Always has. Even when he’s quiet, there’s an energy around him—tapping his pencil, stretching in his chair, that restless shift of movement that makes it impossible to ignore him.

But today? Today, Dean is small.

The rest of the class is a blur. Castiel spends most of it sneaking glances at Dean, who doesn’t look his way once. It’s like there’s an invisible wall between them, and Castiel doesn’t know how to break through it.

When class ends, Dean is the first out the door, moving quickly, his bag slung over one shoulder. Castiel starts to follow, hesitating for just a second too long.

Knight’s voice pulls him back. “Castiel, a word?”

He watches Dean disappear down the hallway before sighing and turning to face his professor. Knight gestures for him to stay as the other students file out.

“You’re not going to fix things by staring at him like a kicked puppy,” Knight says, settling into his chair.

Castiel flushes, caught. “I know. I just… I don’t think he’s ready to hear me out.”

Knight steeples his fingers and studies him. “He is. You just need to find the right way to deliver the message.”

Castiel nods and leaves the classroom feeling more conflicted. The apology fic feels like the right move, but seeing Dean like this makes him wonder if it’ll be enough.

One step at a time. That’s what Mia had said.

Later, when he’s home and tucked into bed, he reflects on his relationship with fiction. He grew up loving reading. He was the kid who was reading by flashlight under the covers. Jimmy would tease him good naturedly about it. His father, a published writer, always encouraged it. His house was filled with books and Chuck, for better or worse, never told him what he could and couldn’t read. He read plenty of things that were not age appropriate.

Before he ever picked up a pen, before he ever knew what fanfiction was, he told stories to Jimmy.

A lot of the time they were based on something that had happened during the day, or on a tv show they had been watching, or toys they had been playing with.

Jimmy always had a million ideas.

“Tell me a story about a T-Rex and a GI Joe teaming up against aliens,” he’d demand, eyes bright, feet swinging off the edge of their bunk bed.

And Castiel would.

He found himself putting them into the worlds of their TV shows, weaving them into the stories they loved. He wouldn’t realize until years later that he had been writing self-insert fanfiction before he even knew the word for it. He had no idea there was a name for the stories he would tell Jimmy about them meeting up with the Scooby-Doo gang to solve mysteries.

When he was older, he would write things down and let Jimmy read what he wrote. Jimmy was constantly asking him to write new stories. They would chat back and forth and while Castiel was doing the majority of the story telling, Jimmy was always there to push him along. Sometimes it was Castiel who came up with the idea. Other times Jimmy would ask, “Do you have an idea for the next story, because this is my idea!”

As they got older, Jimmy cared more about his other friends than telling stories with his brother. Sure, Jimmy was still supportive, but he didn’t want to spend his time working on new stories the way Castiel did. Jimmy wanted to play baseball, ride bikes, play in the river, or chase after girls.

Castiel wanted his stories. Jimmy tried to pull him along, but Castiel knew that Jimmy’s world and his world were diverging, and at the time, that was okay, because they were still each other’s home base. Jimmy still read Castiel’s stories, but had less to say and stopped asking him to tell him new tales. Castiel stopped asking Jimmy for more ideas. They both had their own interests.

Castiel had been surprised, but thrilled when Jimmy started watching The End with him. He had been watching it on his own for a season or two when his brother started joining him. It became a ritual for them. No matter what Jimmy had going on, he made time to watch the show with his brother. They even went to a convention together once. It was Jimmy who bought Castiel his Camp Chitaqua mug.

Then Jimmy went off to college on a baseball scholarship and Castiel stayed closer to home. They would video chat during episodes, but Jimmy got busy with baseball between games, practices, weight training. Then… Then he was gone.

The thing about The End? It was never really the end. Death wasn’t permanent. Characters always came back—resurrected, rewritten, given another chance.

Castiel and Jimmy used to make jokes about it. In a way, after the accident, it was comforting to have his favorite characters live on. To keep surviving. To come back as a revenant or a vampire. He loved the fanfiction for all of the “what ifs” and alternate universes. What if Jimmy hadn’t been driving that night. What if the other driver had turned left instead of right. In a different universe, Jimmy would have survived the car crash.

And maybe that’s why he clung to The End so much.

In that world, Jimmy could have come back.

Jimmy never got a second chance.

But in fanfiction? He could.

Maybe that’s why I never stopped reading.

Castiel signs into AO3 under his username, CommaPoliceArrestMe. He pastes the story into the text box and makes sure it’s formatted correctly. In the “Gift this work to” box he types in “ApocalypseAndChill”, thankful that Dean didn’t delete his whole account.

He adds a note:

I don’t usually write fanfiction, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. This show means a lot to me, and it’s gotten me through some things I’d rather not get into. I’ve always thought fiction was a way to escape, to get away from real life. But maybe it’s also a way to face it. To say the things that are hard to say out loud.

So, uh… this is for someone.

I hope it says what I can’t.

Castiel’s cursor hovers over the 'Post' button. In one of ApocalypseAndChill’s old fics, there was a line that stuck with him: 'Sometimes, we write what we can’t say.'

Castiel presses his lips together.

Click.

It’s done.

The fic is out there now, in the same digital space where Dean once built entire worlds. It’s not an apology. Not exactly. But it’s the only way he knows how to say what he can’t.

Chapter Text

Castiel wakes up to his phone vibrating incessantly. A dozen direct messages on Discord. More tags than he can count in the server. The pit in his stomach returns before he even opens the app.

Still half-asleep, he rubs his eyes and taps into the #Apocalypse-Apocalypse channel, the most active thread in the Kilas fandom discord right now. His username is scattered across the screen like confetti, and scrolling through the messages makes his chest tighten.

@VangBanner: omg so out of the loop. @CommaPolice and AO3 CommaPoliceArrestMe are forsure the same person.

@GhostHost: idk. I know people have tried reaching out to @CommaPolice and not gotten a answer.

@CoffeeOverload: I know someone who knows A&C and they asked him about it.

His fingers tingle. His breathing is too fast—shallow, uneven. He presses his palm against his thigh, trying to ground himself.

Then he sees it.

@VangBanner: how shitty must you feel to turn in someone for plagiarism and find out you turned in the actual writer not a thief. yikes

His ears are ringing. His throat is tight. He needs to close the app, needs to stop reading, but he keeps scrolling like a masochist.

@ShadowSnacc: Imagine having to explain to your professor you write fanfic. I would be dead. 💀

@KilasEndgame (mod): imagine going to uni with A&C!

Castiel’s breathing tightens. It’s too much.

@QueenNotB: Chill people. Leave CommaPolice and A&C alone right now. Let them work out their shit.

@VangBanner: Do you know something @QueenNotB??

Castiel slams his phone down harder than necessary, the screen going dark as he exhales shakily. He doesn’t know why he thought the fandom might have moved on, instead his fic was like pouring gasoline on a fire.

But it’s not just the Discord. He checks his email linked to his AO3 account and finds a handful of notifications. Kudos, a couple of supportive comments, but… none from Dean.

He hates the way his chest sinks at the realization. He knows Dean might not even have seen the fic yet. Or maybe he did, and it didn’t matter. Castiel buries his head in his hands. What did he expect? That an apology wrapped in metaphor would magically fix everything?

Still, part of him hoped.

He spends most of the day avoiding Discord. He knows the comments aren’t malicious, most of them, anyway, but being the center of attention is exhausting. Charlie finds him curled up on the sofa with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees and raises an eyebrow.

“You’re sulking,” she says, dropping a bag of takeout onto the coffee table.

“I’m not sulking,” Castiel mutters without looking up.

Charlie flops down beside him and starts unpacking food. “Okay. Brooding, then. Or a Silas impression. Whatever you wanna call it. Either way, you look like you’re about two bad comments away from throwing your laptop out the window.”

He doesn’t respond, eyes glued to the blank document on his screen.

She nudges him with her elbow, “You still freaking out about Dean?”

“Not freaking out,” he says, deadpan, and Charlie snorts.

“Uh huh. Look, if he didn’t comment on your fic yet, that doesn’t mean he didn’t see it. Or he’s probably just processing.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Or ignoring you because you were an asshole.”

Castiel groans, sliding further down the sofa. “You’re not helping.”

“Sure I am,” she says, unbothered. “I’m keeping you grounded in reality. Which, by the way, includes eating. Come on, you look like you haven’t eaten in a week.”

He doesn’t argue. It’s easier to let her boss him around than fight the gnawing pit in his stomach. They eat in companionable silence, the TV playing some crime procedural in the background. For a moment, Castiel almost forgets about the mess he’s made of everything. Almost.

“So, I guess you figured out I posted my fic. How did you find it?” Castiel ventures after a bit.

Charlie snorts, “It’s almost like you haven’t met me.”

“Did…” Castiel swallows, “did you read it?”

“Duh,” she says with an eye roll. “It wasn’t bad. A little heavy handed on the metaphors but whatever floats your boat or sinks your ship.”

He tilts his head, trying to parse out what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but eventually decides it isn’t worth trying to decode it.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the company, but… shouldn’t you be playing ‘supportive best friend’ to Dean? He’s your actual best friend. I’m just your inconvenient roommate,” he says and shoves more food into his mouth to keep himself from saying anything more.

From his peripheral vision, he sees Charlie set her food on the coffee table and turn and look at him. “Cas,” she says in a soft voice, “look at me.”

Just the tone of her voice forces him to have to blink away the moisture in his eyes. He takes a moment and turns and looks at her.

“You know you’re my friend too, right? I’m not an Dean exclusive accessory. Yes, I care about him and I’ve seen a lot of him in the past few days, but I care about you too. I think you’re both dumbasses and I wish I could lock you in a closet together and force you to talk instead of passing notes or fanfiction back and forth, but I do care about both of you.”

Castiel presses his lips together, his mouth shifting side to side in a slow, deliberate motion, as if weighing the words before letting them escape. “Thank you,” he settles on, “I know that I’ve been a difficult person to room with this past year and while I may not have always said it, I have noticed how hard you’ve been trying to be a good friend, even when…” His voice cracks, catches in the back of his throat. Charlie takes his food and places it down on the coffee table and puts her thin arms around him and hugs him tightly.

Charlie doesn’t say anything as he cries. She doesn’t shush him or tell him it’ll be okay. She just lets him fall apart, her arms holding him together like a lifeline.

Castiel hates how much he needs this.

It’s been so long since someone just let him be like this. No expectations, no sharp words, just presence.

After a while, the tears slow. He sniffs, trying to pull himself back together.

“It’s a shitty club to be in, but I can tell you from experience, it does get better. Losing someone sucks and it is always going to hurt, but it does get easier to keep living, to keep going. It’s okay to be sad. Just… keep in mind that this club is a big one and you never know who else is a part of it, okay?” Charlie gives him a final squeeze and then pats him on the back twice.

“Better?” she asks.

He exhales shakily, swiping at his face, “No.”

She snorts, ruffling his hair before picking up her food again. “Yeah, well. Progress, not perfection.”

Castiel lets out a weak laugh. “Did you get that off a bumper sticker?”

“Maybe.”

The moment lingers, warm and safe.

Castiel manages to avoid checking his phone for the rest of the day.

It takes everything in him not to.

The second he opens Discord, he knows he’ll be stuck in an endless spiral of reading, refreshing, second-guessing. He forces himself to keep his phone face-down, forces himself to focus on anything else.

But when he finally picks it up before bed, his resolve cracks.

His heart is hammering before he even unlocks the screen. His fingers hesitate over the email app, hovering like maybe—just maybe—not looking will make everything easier.

He taps it open.

His breath catches when he sees it: [AO3] You’ve got kudos! ApocalypseAndChill left kudos on Never Too Late.

For a moment, he stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the notification. The word feels heavier than it should. Kudos. A kudos is nothing. It’s a single click. A second of effort. It could mean anything.

It could mean everything.

He can’t tell if it’s relief or dread tightening his chest. His mind races with possibilities: Did Dean read the whole thing? Was it acknowledgment? Forgiveness? Or just… politeness?

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, setting the phone down and staring up at the ceiling. He feels a confusing mix of emotions swirling in his chest: gratitude, hope, guilt. It’s messy, but maybe that’s okay.

Dean didn’t leave a comment, but the kudos was something. A small step. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

Castiel isn’t sure, but as he pulls the blanket tighter around himself, he feels the tiniest ember of something warm.

Chapter Text

When Thursday rolls around, Castiel isn’t ready to face Knight’s class again. But skipping isn’t an option. He makes his way to the Humanities building early, hoping to avoid running into Dean before class starts.

No such luck.

Dean’s already there, sitting at the table with his notebook open but untouched. He doesn’t look up as Castiel enters, his shoulders hunched, radiating a kind of quiet misery that makes Castiel’s chest ache.

He hesitates in the doorway, clutching the strap of his bag. Castiel swallows hard and takes his usual seat, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. His jaw is tight, his fingers gripping the edge of the notebook like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice barely carrying across the room.

Dean doesn’t respond. Castiel waits, just for a second, expecting… something. Anything.

But Dean just turns a page in his notebook, like he isn’t even there.

Castiel clenches his fists under the table. This is worse than yelling.

At least anger means you still care.

The rest of the students filter in before he finds the courage to say anything more.

Professor Knight strides in, right on time, his usual commanding presence filling the room. He doesn’t waste time, diving straight into the day’s discussion on the role of collaboration in creative writing.

“Writing can be a solitary endeavor,” Knight says, pacing in front of the whiteboard. “But the best stories often come from collaboration. From people pushing each other to dig deeper, think bigger.” He stops and turns to the class, his sharp gaze sweeping over them. “Which is why, for your next assignment, you’ll be working in pairs.”

The groan that ripples through the room is immediate, and Castiel’s stomach drops. Knight doesn’t acknowledge the complaints, continuing with his explanation.

“You’ll co-write a short story. Something that reflects both of your strengths as writers. And before anyone asks, yes, I’m assigning the pairs.”

The class collectively deflates, and Castiel glances at Dean, who is staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable.

Knight starts rattling off names, pairing students together with a sharp efficiency. Castiel’s heart pounds as the list gets shorter, and when Knight finally says, “Winchester and Shurley,” the air leaves his lungs in a rush.

Dean doesn’t react. He doesn’t turn to look at Castiel, doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

Castiel risks a glance in his direction, hoping for some sign, but Dean’s face is like stone.

“Well,” Knight says, clapping his hands together, “you’ve got until next week to come up with an outline. Use your time wisely.”

The rest of the class moves to sit beside their partner if they weren’t already. He catches Meg’s eyes as she joins Alfie and she mouths, “Did you piss off Knight?” Castiel isn’t sure if this is punishment or a reward so he just grimaces.

He sits in the empty chair beside Dean who is still refusing to look at him.

After a beat, Castiel says, “Dean, I’m-” but he’s cut off by Dean’s, “Stop. Enough, Cas.”

The nickname lands like a sucker punch.

Castiel flinches. It sounds wrong. Not warm, not teasing. Just… exhausted.

He barely gets out, “Can we at least talk about the assignment?” before Dean shuts him down again.

Dean shakes his head, “Just give me a moment.”

He nods and just sits in silence as the rest of their classmates talk and Knight walks around the pairs. For better or worse, the professor seems to be giving them some space. Honestly, Castiel isn’t sure what the man was thinking, pairing them up knowing everything that’s transpired between them.

He looks up when he feels something bump against his hand and he looks down to see that Dean has slid his phone over to him.

Castiel stares at it, his breath catching in his throat.

The screen is unlocked, open to a new contact.

His fingers tremble, just a little, as he takes it. He types in his name, his number, and slides it back.

A second later, his own phone vibrates in his pocket.

[Unknown Number: This is Dean]

Castiel exhales. Something tightly wound in his chest loosens, just a fraction. He uses the number to create a contact for the other guy and saves it. He texts back, “Hello Dean.”

Dean’s phone buzzes. His lips twitch.

It’s barely anything.

But Castiel sees it.

He doesn’t try to engage with Dean any further. He’s not going to push. He doesn’t want Dean to feel trapped or forced into a conversation with him. They’ll need to figure out something for the assignment, but Castiel figures that, worse case, they can email back and forth if Dean wants to continue avoiding him.

When the class ends, Dean doesn’t say anything and leaves immediately. Castiel isn’t far behind, not eager to have another heart-to-heart with Professor Knight. While he might have been fast enough to escape Knight, he’s not fast enough to escape Meg, who takes his elbow and pulls him onto one of the benches right outside of the building.

“Is Knight torturing you or Dean?” she asks, looking a little appalled. “I don’t understand why he’d pair you up again after last time.”

Castiel drops his head back and groans, “I actually think he’s trying to help.”

“Help reduce his class number by one?” she quips.

“Knight has given me some ‘fatherly advice’ the last few times I’ve been alone with him. I think he thinks highly of Dean and I and is trying to help us get past our differences,” Castiel tells her and her jaw literally drops.

“Holy shit, he ships it,” she says in awe. “He’s slow-burn enemies-to-lovers-ing you.”

Castiel scowls at her, “Stop that. No, he doesn’t.”

Meg raises both her eyebrows and gives him a stern look, “Oh, he fucking does. Next class, start an argument with him over comma placement. Bonus points if you ‘accidentally’ touch his hand.”

Cas glares. “I will strangle you.”

“With love?”

“With both hands.”

His friend laughs for a moment and then gives him a considering look, “Seriously, what’s Knight’s endgame here? You guys co-write a story, win a Pulitzer, and name it after him?”

Castiel groans, “I think he’s just trying to get us to stop being a distraction.”

With a scoff, Meg says, “Distraction? Please. You two are the drama. I’d pay good money to watch you both sit there, glaring at each other like divorced parents at a PTA meeting.”

“I wasn’t glaring at him. And we’re not… God, why do I talk to you?”

“You need someone to keep you in your place,” Meg says with a smirk.

“I think I have that more than covered. You, Charlie, Knight.” Castiel sighs and slumps down. “I wrote something to apologize to Dean, and he acknowledged it and I thought things would be better today because of it, but they weren’t.”

“I love you, and I’m not Dean’s biggest fan, but if he had done to you what you did to him, would an apology, no matter how good it was, make you instantly forgive and forget? You can’t just kiss and make up…” Meg pauses and smiles, “You know, I think if you kissed him it’d help.” She winks and he shoves her playfully.

“I know. Everyone keeps telling me to give him time. And I want to give him time, I’m just having a hard time.”

“Not a hard enough time if you ask me,” she quips.

Castiel groans at her bad joke.

“In the meantime, maybe think about why he seems to get under your skin?” Meg gives him a meaningful look. “All jokes aside, I do care about you and I want you to be happy. I think… I think you haven’t wanted to be happy. But maybe it’s time to let that go. Jimmy wouldn’t want you to be sad forever.”

Castiel takes a very long and deep breath. He sits and watches the other students cross back and forth across the quad. Some heading towards the library, some inside the humanities building, and others further into campus.

He doesn’t think Meg is wrong. Maybe he wasn’t consciously choosing to be unhappy, but being happy felt like a betrayal. How dare he be happy when Jimmy wasn’t here. When Jimmy couldn’t be happy. His brother loved him, and wouldn’t want him to be sad forever. It just seems too hard to let go of that sadness, that anger. Who is he now without Jimmy? Having a twin meant never being truly alone, but now that connection is gone and he feels untethered.

Meg pokes him hard in the ribs and he squirms away from her. “Such a demon menace,” he says fondly.

“Library?” she asks.

Castiel shakes his head no, “I’ve got Fitzgerald.”

Meg groans, “I hated him. Took one of his classes last year, never again. He’s too nice.” She gags for dramatic effect.

“What’s wrong with nice?” he asks. “I’m nice, but you’re friends with me.”

“Nah, you’re an asshole, remember?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, Clarence, if I thought you were serious I’d love to move some furniture around, but I know which team you play for,” she says saucily with a dramatic waggle of her eyebrows. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I have work to do. Have fun with Garth!”

Class with Fitzgerald is fine although he feels a little on edge when the man asks him to stick around for a moment after class. There’s a low thrum of anxiety the entire hour and a half while he wonders why the professor has asked him to stay behind. He suspects he wants to talk about ‘how he’s doing’ or his poem. Castiel isn’t sure which is worse.

Although his professor said he hadn’t needed to do a poem about loss, he ended up writing one about a potential lost friendship. He had been thinking about Charlie when he’d written it and how he wasn’t sure if the fallout with Dean would mean for his relationship with her.

When the other students have left, the professor pulls the hard copy of his poem from his bag.

Fitzgerald smiles warmly as he hands over Castiel’s work. “There’s something raw here,” he says, tapping a finger against the page. “It’s not just loss. It’s the fear of losing something that’s not quite gone yet.”

Castiel swallows. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but, yeah. That’s exactly what it was.

“There’s power in admitting you don’t have all the answers yet,” Fitzgerald continues. “I think this is one of the strongest things you’ve written.”

Castiel nods, ducking his head. He doesn’t trust himself to say much in return. He tucks his poem back into his bag and steps outside. The air is cool, the campus quieter than it was earlier.

He pulls out his phone, scrolling to his last text. His fingers hover over the keyboard.

No more waiting for the right time. He exhales, typing out a message.

[Castiel: Hey. Library this weekend?]

He hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

A minute later, the text bubble changes to “Read 3:42 PM.”

Castiel stares at the screen, waiting. Nothing.

He exhales and shoves his phone into his pocket.

Chapter Text

Castiel wakes up before his alarm, his chest already tight with a nervous, crushing energy. His body hums with exhaustion, but his mind is too awake, too wired to rest.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. His phone is on the nightstand, face down, but he doesn’t need to check it to know.

No message.

He takes a deep breath. He should have expected this.

His fingers twitch before he even realizes he’s reaching for his phone. Just to check. Just in case.

Still nothing.

Castiel drags himself upright, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the weight pressing against his chest. It doesn’t work.

He forces himself to move—to grab his pills, to swallow one dry, to stand on autopilot—but his body feels like it's moving through water.

With a sigh, he drags himself out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen, where Charlie is already awake, sitting at the counter with her laptop and a steaming mug of coffee. She looks up when he enters, eyes sharp and assessing.

“You look like a guy who’s spent all night waiting for a text that never came,” she says, taking an obnoxiously loud sip from her mug.

Castiel ignores her and heads straight for the coffee maker. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charlie hums, unimpressed. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of Moondoor.”

He pours his coffee and focuses on not checking his phone again. He doesn’t need Charlie’s commentary on how pathetic he is this early in the morning. “So Dean told you I texted him.”

“Yup!”

He rolls his eyes and takes his coffee to the table, sinking into his usual seat. “Are you going to give me any insight?” he asks.

“Nope!”

Castiel glares at her over the rim of his mug.

Charlie smirks and returns to whatever she’s working on. Castiel, meanwhile, spends the rest of breakfast catching up on the Kilas Discord server. The #Apocalypse-Apocalypse channel seems to have died down for now. There’s a lot of speculation about himself and his fic, and the general consensus has the situation right. There’s no need for him to comment although at some point, if he ever wants to be anything more than a lurker, he’ll need to speak up.

He sighs, puts the phone in his pocket, and isn’t at all surprised to find Charlie staring at him.

“He’ll respond when he’s ready,” she tells him.

“I know,” he says. He does know. He just doesn’t know when Dean will be ready and their outline is due Tuesday. He’s not sure what happens if Dean ignores him all weekend.

Castiel’s first class of the day is The Craft of Storytelling with Professor Hanscum, a capstone course that should be engaging, but today, nothing sticks. The discussion is on nonlinear narratives, and usually, he’d be all over that—analyzing structure, dissecting unreliable narrators, tracing how time folds in on itself to create something new.

Instead, his mind is stuck on one single unanswered text.

He barely registers Donna’s warm, enthusiastic voice as she prompts the class, “What does it mean to play with time in a story? How does it change our understanding of a character?”

Castiel forces himself to focus, but his thoughts are stuck looping in a different kind of time. Time he’s wasted, years of assumptions about Dean. How much of what he thought was true… actually wasn’t?

“And sometimes,” Hanscum continues, “by the time a character realizes the truth… it’s already too late.”

Castiel’s stomach twists and he fights the urge to check his phone. It hasn’t buzzed, hasn’t moved, hasn’t done anything except sit cold and silent in his pocket.

The discussion moves forward, students offering insights about memory and perception, how breaking chronology forces the audience to engage differently. He knows this. He’s read the books, written the essays. But right now, all he can think about is time as something else entirely.

Someone nudges his arm. He looks up to see Anna watching him from the corner of her eye.

“Where are you?” she whispers, leaning in.

Castiel blinks. “Huh?”

“You were staring at your notebook like it insulted your mother.”

He glances down at the page, where he’s absently scribbled a tangled mess of half-formed words and shapes. A sentence that doesn’t make sense. A half-written phrase that loops into nothing.

Anna raises an eyebrow, “You okay?”

He nods. Lies.

Anna watches him for a second longer, like she might say something else, but then Donna claps her hands together, signaling the end of class.

“Alrighty, folks! Keep thinking about how time plays into storytelling, and bring those ideas with you next week. And hey, don’t be afraid to experiment a little in your own writing! Break the rules. Just make sure ya do it on purpose.”

Castiel filters out of class with the rest of them, in no hurry to move onto the next stop of this day.

Once outside he checks his phone, just to see the time, and decides he doesn’t want to go to the library. Castiel knows Meg usually has a break around now, and sure enough, he finds her at her usual campus spot; she’s curled up on the stone steps outside the student center, boots propped on the edge of the bench, looking like she owns the place.

She’s mid-scroll on her phone, an iced coffee balanced on her knee, and barely glances up when he approaches. But then she does a double-take, eyebrows shooting up.

“Oh, look who it is.” She smirks.

Cas slumps onto the bench beside her.

Meg hums, taking a slow, exaggerated sip of her coffee. “Still no word from lover boy?”

Cas groans and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Don’t say things like that.”

She cackles, entirely too pleased. “I should start a betting pool. Tell me, do you wait for the third date to put out? Just so I have an advantage over the others. No, I bet he gets lucky after the first date.”

Cas stiffens, dropping his hands. “Meg.”

“I’m just asking,” she drawls.

She sips her coffee again, fully unbothered, while Cas tries not to spiral.

Meg sighs dramatically and changes course. “Anyway, you eat yet?”

“No.”

She digs around in her bag and shoves a granola bar at him with zero ceremony. “Eat. And stop looking like a lost dog. If he texts back, he texts back.”

Castiel takes it, unwraps it, but the anxiety lingers. “And if he doesn’t?”

Meg doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she gives him a look, one of the rare, serious ones. “Then that’s his choice.”

“What do you have this afternoon?” he asks, trying to change the topic.

“Shakespeare and Adaptations with Tapping,” Meg says with a sneer.

He laughs and shakes his head, “I’ll take too-nice-call-me-Garth Fitzgerald over her any day. I had her for Brit Lit freshman year.”

“I thought there’d be movies,” she grumbles.

“You should have known better than that. I thought you were a senior, not a naive freshman,” Castiel jokes.

“Yeah, yeah. I have to head to the writing center, you want to walk with me?” Meg asks standing up. His friend works as a writing tutor as many of his fellow English majors do. He’s lucky that his dad’s books are popular and even though they aren’t talking, he still pays all of Castiel’s bills.

He shakes his head, “I’ve got Armstrong here in a bit.”

“Theory?”

“Unfortunately,” he confirms.

“Save all your notes for me. And I’ll buy your books from you, I have it in the spring. I’ve been putting it off. I don’t like how that man looks at me,” Meg says with a sneer.

“Tell him you're my friend, he still thinks sucking up to me will get him points with my dad.” Castiel offers as they start walking away from the campus center.

“I don’t need your protection, Clarence. If he says or does anything I am more than capable of standing up to him myself.” She levels him with a look.

“I know. It soothes my male ego to feel like I’m protecting damsels in distress once in a while,” he jokes. They part ways and she follows the path towards the writing center and he heads back to the Humanities Building.

Castiel considers going on into the classroom, but considering his recent luck, Armstrong would be there early and try to talk to him. He pulls out his phone, scrolls through the Kilas server. GhostInTheTags has updated their latest WIP and people are gushing about it.

@KilasEndgame (mod): Did anyone read ghost’s latest update? Dying to gush to someone!

@Hexy Witch: Did anyone else have to pause and scream into a pillow or was it just me??

@gremlin: @GhostHost?

@Hexy Witch: GhostInTheTags on AO3, not our ghost.

@GhostHost: JUST FINISHED!!1111!!! 🧑‍🍳 💋🔥

@CoffeeOverload: She is killing me with these cliff hangers

@VangBanner: Link?

@KilasEndgame (mod): Here you go! [Link]

Castiel makes a note to read it later, but he can’t… or won’t be able to join in on the conversation. Not when he’s the one responsible for chasing ApocalypseAndChill, Dean, off of AO3.

Mood suitably depressed, he heads on into the building. Armstrong has a PowerPoint already on the screen and Castiel chooses a seat in the back where he can try to hide. Once class actually starts, the professor dims the lights, which seems like a bad idea to Castiel.

He takes notes as Professor Armstrong drones on post-structuralism, gesturing at slides filled with dense, jargon-laden text. It’s easy to tune it out and his mind keeps drifting. He shifts in his seat, resisting the urge to check his phone again.

“Language is inherently unstable,” Armstrong drones. “Meaning is never fixed. A text’s meaning changes depending on who is reading it.”

Castiel’s grip tightens on his pen. Meaning isn’t fixed. Things aren’t always what you think they are.

He thought Dean was the golden boy who charmed his way into everything.

He thought Dean didn’t take things seriously. That he coasted. That he wasn’t like Castiel.

He was wrong.

His fingers twitch toward his phone. Still no message. Still silent.

By the time Castiel is walking back to his apartment, the afternoon sun is casting long shadows across campus. His hands are in the pocket of his hoodie with his phone. He’s kind of resigned himself to not getting an answer. It’s been a day and there’s nothing.

Castiel considers his options as he walks. He could try emailing Dean, see if they can work on an outline asynchronously. He could text Dean again, see if that gets a response. He could do an outline on his own, just so he has something to work with in class, or he could do nothing and then figure out next steps come class on Tuesday. Maybe if he and Dean show up with nothing Knight will let them do the assignment on their own.

His phone vibrates. Castiel freezes. For a second, he just stares. Then—shit. He nearly drops the damn thing scrambling to unlock it, fingers fumbling at his hoodie sleeve like they suddenly forgot how to work.

[Dean: Library. Second floor near the study rooms. Saturday 1 PM.]

Short. Direct. Impersonal. But it’s something.

Cas exhales, forcing his hands to steady before tapping out a reply.

[Castiel: I’ll see you then.]

The message delivers. Marks as read.

No response.

Castiel stares at the screen, willing it to light up again, to give him more. But it stays dark.

The first-floor library is too loud, the third is absolute silence, but the study rooms on the second? They’re the in-between. The places people forget about.

Intentional isolation.

Castiel hates the study rooms. They’re horrible closet-like spaces, barely enough room for a desk and a chair. Some of them are a little bigger, but still, even when Castiel needs quiet, he finds those rooms too oppressive.

That’s what Dean wants. Distance. Control. A place where Castiel can’t slip through the cracks. Castiel presses his fingers against his forehead, exhaling hard. The fic wasn’t enough. Dammit.

What else can he do? How else can he prove that he understands?

Everyone keeps telling him to give it time.

Charlie. Knight. Meg. Mia.

But waiting doesn’t feel right. He feels like if he waits it’ll escape. Whatever possibility was there will slip through his fingers.

And if he doesn’t grab it now, he’s going to lose it. Lose him.

He shoves his phone into his pocket, pressing his fist against his chest, trying to rub the awful feeling away.

He can’t wait. He has to do something.

Chapter Text

By the time Castiel wakes up, he knows exactly what he’s going to do. He takes his pill, gets showered and dressed, makes coffee, eats breakfast, and is working on an assignment he has due for Donna next week by the time Charlie gets up.

Usually, Castiel does not wake up early on the weekends. He sleeps in and is an absolute bear until he’s gotten enough caffeine in him. So when Charlie stops short upon entering the kitchen, he’s not surprised.

His friend gets her coffee and doctors it to her liking without saying anything. He keeps working on his paper, typing away. Charlie sits down across from him and clears her throat. He glances up at her and then back down.

Charlie clears her throat again. Without ever looking up, Castiel asks, “You feeling okay?”

There’s a pause. “Should I be asking you that?”

“I’m great,” he tells her. She ducks her head, trying to catch his eye around the screen. He raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Yes?”

Charlie closes her eyes and shakes her head. She drinks her coffee in silence. After she finishes her first cup, she gets another and then walks out of the kitchen. “I hate both of you and I hope you’re happy together.”

Castiel smiles at that and yells back, “I love you too, Charlie!” He hears the TV turn on. He has a productive morning, fueled by entirely too much caffeine. It’s probably a bad idea considering he doesn’t want his nerves to be absolutely shot by the time he sees Dean, but he feels like he’s on a roll, so he keeps going. He keeps an eye on the time and gets himself lunch right before he needs to start walking to campus.

As he’s leaving, Charlie says, “Have fun on your study date! Don’t kill each other!”

“If I don’t come back, you’ll know who did it.”

The walk to campus feels shorter than normal. He’s nervous but also excited. He feels like this is the right move. His fingers tap out an imaginary song in his hoodie pocket as he walks.

Castiel looks around the second floor when he arrives, but doesn’t see Dean. He takes a seat at one of the tables near the stairs and waits. A few students are scattered around, but the floor is mostly empty. He doesn’t wait long.

Castiel hears Dean before he sees him—heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by a long sigh. He sounds tired, resigned. When their eyes meet, Dean’s lips press into a thin line, his jaw tightening.

He strides right up to Castiel and asks, “Can we go to one of the study rooms?”

Castiel nods and Dean starts walking so he just follows. He chooses one of the rooms at the far left corner. It’s a windowless room, and even though it’s a little bigger than some of the others, it still feels suffocating. Dean drops his bag onto the table and pulls out his laptop and a notebook.

“Hope you’ve got something, ‘cause I’ve got jack shit.”

Castiel sits down across from him and pulls out his own laptop. “I have a lot of ideas. I can show you what I have and you can choose which you like. Just give me a few moments to get the document open.”

Dean nods but doesn’t say anything. Castiel looks over at him. His blond hair is usually “artfully” messy, but today it just seems messy and he has more scruff along his jawline than usual. Dean is looking down at his notebook and Castiel realizes that he has very pretty eyelashes. He never really noticed before. Dean looks up at him and they make eye contact. Castiel smiles and the other guy purses his lips and looks away.

Castiel checks to make sure he has the right document, and slides it over to Dean. He pulls it closer to him and starts reading. After a moment, Dean looks up at him suspiciously. Castiel just smiles. He turns back to the screen and keeps reading. He scrolls through, sometimes stopping for a few moments, sometimes scrolling by things quickly.

Finally, Dean sits back and crosses his arms defensively, “Is this you making fun of me?”

Castiel shakes his head no. “If you look at the details of the document, you can see when it was created.”

The other guy looks away, his fingers move over the trackpad, presumedly doing just as Castiel suggested. He bites his lip and looks back up. “I don’t get it.”

“Every time I get an idea I just stick it in there. I was never going to do anything with it, I kept getting ideas and honestly it felt good to get them out and ‘down on paper’ so to speak,” Castiel says and uses air-quotes.

Dean almost smiles. Almost, but then he frowns. “You hate fanfiction. I’ve heard you talk shit about it. When Alfie brought up Harry Potter fics, you wouldn’t shut up about how they’re a waste of time—bad writing, bad for you, all that crap.”

He nods, “I know. I… First of all, Rowling is a shit and I hate how she ruined my childhood love of Harry Potter by turning into a transphobe.”

“Agreed.”

“But… I was ashamed. And I thought if I disparaged it, no one would know I read it. And… I get all of these ideas for fanfictions and I have a much harder time writing original fiction. And even if I did, getting published is hard. I want people to read what I write. I want people to like it. I really want to write fanfiction and I get mad at myself for wanting that. I don’t want to want it.”

Dean snorts, “If you replaced being gay with writing fanfiction, I’d say you’re really struggling with your internalized homophobia.”

Castiel smiles, a little sad. “Ironically, not the thing about myself I have a problem with.”

Dean shakes his head and pushes Castiel’s computer back towards him. “Be that as it may, we can’t write fanfiction for our class project.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Dude, did you forget the past two weeks? I nearly got kicked out of school because of this.”

“No, you didn’t. Knight went directly to you, you explained, and Knight believed you,” Castiel says.

“Fuck Charlie. She wasn’t supposed to say anything to you.” Dean looks down at the table and runs his hands through his hair. It looks soft and Castiel has a strange urge to touch it and see if it’s soft, but he restrains himself.

“She didn’t say a word. But I feel like I know Knight and I know how highly he thinks of you.”

“Well, you could have gotten me kicked out of school. Lucky it was Cain that you went to and not one of the others.”

Castiel nods, “I’m really glad that I was wrong, and nothing worse happened. I am sorry.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean says and finally looks up. “We still can’t write fanfiction.”

He tilts his head side to side and smirks, “Or we could.”

“Cas,” he growls.

Castiel raises his hands in a placating gesture, “Hear me out. We write it as fanfiction, but for the stuff we turn in, we just file off the serial numbers like you did for the android fic. We don’t post it until we’re finished with the semester, or college. Your choice.”

“You’re serious.”

Castiel smiles, “Deadly.”

Dean licks his lips. Castiel’s eyes dart down.

“So I guess this means you’re obsessed with The End too?” Dean asks.

“Kade and Silas too. I’m on a Kilas Discord server. I don’t know how anyone can watch those two and not think that they don’t like each other,” Castiel admits.

“Maybe they just want to fuck.”

Castiel shakes his head no. “No, I think if it was just attraction Kade would have made a move by now. Kade loves Silas, and that’s what’s holding him back. That’s my headcanon anyway.”

Dean looks at him, “Yeah? Maybe he doesn’t know if Silas feels the same way, maybe he thinks Silas can’t feel the same way.”

Castiel reaches out slowly, giving Dean plenty of time to pull away. His thumb traces the freckles on Dean’s cheek, lingering at the curve of his jaw.

Dean doesn’t pull away.

But he doesn’t lean in, either.

“I think Kane doesn’t think highly of himself. I think Kane doesn’t think he deserves Silas’s love.”

Dean swallows and his voice is a little rough, “Then why doesn’t Silas make a move?”

Castiel’s fingers trace lightly over Dean’s cheekbone, thumb lingering near the corner of his mouth. “Silas is an idiot,” he whispers.

Dean lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained. “No arguments against that one.”

Castiel watches him carefully, waiting, hoping. Dean’s eyes dart away for a second, jaw tightening, his fingers flexing against the table. For the first time, Castiel wonders if he’s pushing too hard. If maybe, after everything, he’s reading this all wrong.

He starts to pull back, already bracing for the rejection…

“Cas.” Dean’s eyes drop… to Castiel’s lips, to his own hands, to the nothing between them.

The moment stretches so long it might snap.

“Good news for you though,” Castiel says.

Dean swallows hard, his throat bobbing. “Yeah?”

“Silas may be an idiot, but I’m not,” Castiel says and leans over the table and takes Dean’s face in his hands. The other guy’s cheeks are pink and he’s smiling when Castiel kisses him. It is soft and short and then he pulls back. Dean’s smile is bigger now.

Dean stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the floor.

Castiel barely has time to process before Dean takes one step toward him.

Then stops.

His hands clench at his sides. He takes a deep breath, like he’s about to say something, but no words come out. Something is shifting behind his eyes, something cracking wide open.

Then, before Castiel can ask what’s wrong, Dean moves.

He hauls Castiel’s chair back, climbs into his lap, and suddenly Castiel can’t think, can’t breathe, because Dean Winchester is kissing him like he’s making up for lost time. At the first touch of Dean’s tongue to his lips, Castiel gasps against Dean’s mouth.

His hands fly to grip Dean’s waist, not to push him away, never that, but to steady himself, to make sure this is real. Dean is warm and solid in his lap, his thighs bracketing Castiel’s, his chest pressed close enough that Castiel can feel the faint tremor in his breath.

Dean tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and Castiel feels it—heat pooling in his chest, blood humming under his skin. Dean’s fingers grip his shoulders, tight like he’s holding onto something fragile. Like he’s afraid Castiel might vanish if he lets go.

Castiel’s own hands slide up Dean’s back, feeling the tension there, the coiled energy in his muscles, the way he’s holding himself so tightly—until he isn’t. Until something in him gives way, and he relaxes against Castiel with a quiet, shuddering breath.

Dean pulls back just enough for their foreheads to touch, his breath shaky against Castiel’s lips, his eyes bright and searching. Castiel is still trying to remember how to breathe. Dean’s thumb traces along the edge of Castiel’s jaw, a barely-there touch, like he’s memorizing the shape of him.

Neither of them speak.

The silence is thick, humming with everything they aren’t saying.

Castiel’s hands return to rest against Dean’s waist, his fingers curled just slightly, like he’s afraid to let go.

Dean licks his lips, glances down at Castiel’s mouth, and sucks in a slow breath.

And then, almost hoarse, he mutters, “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Castiel tilts his head, not moving away. “Why not?”

Dean exhales sharply, like Castiel just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “Because you drive me crazy. Because I’m mad at you.”

Castiel hums, considering. “You’re still mad?”

Dean huffs out a breath, maybe a laugh, maybe not, and then leans in, pressing their lips together again, softer this time. It feels like an answer.

Castiel’s fingers slip into Dean’s hair, testing the softness he’d been eyeing. Dean makes a very interesting noise in response, and Castiel commits it to memory, feeling entirely too pleased with himself.

Eventually, Dean pulls back again, eyes flicking to Castiel’s lips like he’s already thinking about another kiss. Then, almost reluctantly, he shifts off Castiel’s lap.

He clears his throat, running a hand through his already-mussed hair. “We should, uh… probably work on that outline.”

Castiel watches him for a beat, taking in the faint flush on his cheeks, the way he keeps licking his lips like he can still taste him.

Finally, he nods. “Yeah. We should.”

Dean slumps into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still wearing that slightly stunned expression, like he can’t believe what just happened but also wouldn’t take it back.

Castiel smiles.

“So, any of my plot bunnies spark your interest?”

Chapter Text

When Castiel walks through the front door much later, Charlie bolts upright so fast that her laptop nearly crashes to the floor. She scrambles to grab it, barely saves it—but in the process, tangles herself in a mess of blankets and the power cord, toppling onto the floor.

Castiel sighs, extends a hand, and Charlie takes it with dramatic reluctance. “You okay?” he asks, watching as she detangles herself.

“Peachy!” she declares, standing up with all the dignity of someone who absolutely did not just fall in front of him. She plops back onto the sofa, shoving her laptop onto the coffee table, and levels him with a pointed look.

Castiel drops onto the other end of the sofa and, for the first time, notices The End playing on the TV. He raises an eyebrow. “You’re watching The End?”

Charlie shrugs, far too casual. “Figured it was about time. Plus, since neither you nor Dean were around for me to interrogate, I had to entertain myself somehow.”

Castiel doesn’t point out that she’s already halfway through season two, which means she definitely didn’t just start today. Instead, he just smiles.

For a few minutes, they watch in companionable silence. Except… Charlie keeps looking at him. Every few moments, her gaze flicks his way, sharp, assessing, practically vibrating with impatience.

Finally, she explodes. “PLEASE TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED.”

Castiel laughs. It feels good to laugh, like he hasn’t done it in a long time. “It went well,” he says simply.

Charlie gives him the biggest, most devastated puppy-dog eyes he’s ever seen. Her hands clasp together in mock desperation, her mouth forming a dramatic pout. “What does that mean?”

“It means we didn’t kill each other.”

Charlie groans loudly and turns to face him, arms crossed. “I have suffered over the past two weeks. No, scratch that—I have suffered over the past three years watching you two do whatever weird, emotionally-repressed mating dance ritual this is. I deserve to know.”

Castiel exhales, slumping further into the sofa. “We worked on the outline together. We have something to turn in.”

Charlie narrows her eyes. Her silence is pointed. Then, she wags a finger at him. “Something happened.”

Castiel fights a smile as he debates on whether he should torture her or put her out of her misery. She’s not wrong. But does she really need to know everything?

“What do you mean?” he asks innocently.

“Don’t give me that. You were acting weird this morning and now you’re all…” Charlie waves vaguely in his direction, “loose.”

He shrugs. “Not sure what to tell you.”

Charlie grabs a couch pillow and throws it at him. “YOU CAN’T JUST LEAVE ME WITH THAT!”

Castiel catches it with frustrating ease, smirking. “With what?”

“Oh my God, I hate you,” she groans, slapping both hands over her face. “I will hack your school email and send a love confession to Dean myself.”

Castiel laughs outright. “You wouldn’t.”

“TRY ME.”

Charlie stomps towards the door and throws her hands up. “Fine, whatever. Keep your secrets. I’m heading out anyway.”

“Oh, okay. Have fun?” he says.

She smirks at him as she’s pulling on her jacket. “Interrogating Dean will be fun.”

The second the door closes behind Charlie, Castiel exhales, sinking back against the couch.

His heart is still racing.

He kissed Dean. Dean kissed him back.

And now he’s grinning like an idiot at his phone, thumb hovering over Dean’s name.

Should he text? Wait for Dean to text first?

Would that be too much? He groans into his hands. This is ridiculous.

Screw it.

[Castiel: ⚠️ Charlie is on her way to you.]

[Dean: thx for the heads up]

Castiel has a productive evening. He takes care of all of his outstanding work that’s due for the next week. He does most of the reading, at least skims and takes notes. With all of the stress of the last week, he finds himself tired and having a lazier Saturday evening than he usually does. Not that he’s one to go out drinking, not his scene, but he sometimes at least attempts to be social.

At some point he hears Charlie come home. He braces himself for her to come in and get his side of whatever story she got out of Dean, but he counts himself lucky when she goes directly in her room.

He gets his phone out and opens up his messages.

[Castiel: You alive?]

[Dean: you couldnt have told her anything???]

Castiel huffs out a laugh. He hesitates for a second before typing back.

[Castiel: And what should I have told her?]

The typing bubble appears instantly.

[Dean: idk i wouldve thought that we kissed]

Castiel exhales sharply, heart skipping.

[Castiel: Sorry I left you to deal with Charlie all on your own. It does appear that you survived the ordeal though.]

[Dean: might need mouth to mouth]

Castiel stares at the message, stomach flipping.

He types out a response. Deletes it.

Types something else. Deletes that too.

[Dean: for lifesaving purposes of course]

The worst part is, Castiel knows Dean is flirting. Knows it.

But still.

[Castiel: Is this a flirtation?]

The typing bubble appears.

Disappears.

Appears again.

[Dean: I cant tell if youre fucking with me or not]

[Castiel: I had no idea you might be interested in me until a few days ago. I would caution you to assume I miss any flirtations. ]

The typing bubble jumps up immediately.

[Dean: I still cant tell if youre fucking with me or not]

[Castiel: If you can’t tell if I’m fucking you, I’m doing something wrong]

The typing bubble jumps up immediately.

[Dean: this does not help me at all. at. all. ]

Castiel waits. Just long enough.

Then…

[Castiel: 😉]

[Dean: menace. I need to get my four hour tho. Tmrrw?]

[Castiel: Goodnight, Dean.]

In the morning, Castiel still feels like he’s on cloud nine. He can’t believe that he kissed Dean. He doesn’t know where he got the courage to take the first step, it just felt right. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, even when Dean irritated him, he still thought the other guy was attractive. But looks were never enough to turn his head. He could admit someone was aesthetically pleasing without also wanting to do anything more about it.

He takes his pill, the routine feeling lighter than usual, and pads into the kitchen, surprised when he doesn’t smell the usual coffee brewing. He frowns, glancing around, and hears the low hum of the TV from the living room.

As he sets up the coffee maker, his fingers moving on autopilot, he wonders what Charlie’s watching. When he steps into the living room, he finds Charlie curled up in the corner of the sofa, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor, eyes fixed on the screen. She glances up as he enters, and immediately he can tell something is off, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, the tension in her shoulders.

“Morning,” he greets, forcing a lightness into his tone that feels like a lie.

Charlie’s eyes linger on the TV for a beat too long before shifting to him. “Morning.”

“You okay, Charlie?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

She nods but it’s hesitant. “Listen, I’m happy for you and Dean.”

“But…?” Castiel prompts, moving to sit on the other side of the sofa. He pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them, trying to read her expression.

Charlie pulls the blanket tighter around herself, like it might shield her from the discomfort of the conversation. “Dean really likes you. Like, really, likes you. He’s liked you since freshman year. Boy went out of his way to try to get your attention for years. He is head over heels for you.”

Her words feel like a confession and a warning all wrapped into one. Castiel’s brows knit together. “And that’s… a bad thing?”

“No.” She sinks deeper into the cushions, her fingers twisting together in her lap. “I am Team Destiel all the way, but I’m just worried things are moving too fast.”

Feeling genuinely puzzled, Castiel tilts his head. “We kissed. I’m not sure that’s moving too fast.”

“From the way Dean tells it, you practically confessed your love for him. And I just don’t want him getting hurt.” Her voice is softer now, and Castiel can see the genuine concern in her eyes.

“I’m not saying that I love him, but I do care about Dean a lot and I don’t want to see him getting hurt either.” He tugs at the sleeve of his hoodie, eyes dropping to the floor.

Charlie leans forward, elbows on her knees, as if trying to get closer to him. “Castiel, I’m your friend, but I’m Dean’s friend too. Dean went from hating your guts two days ago to being all heart eyes. You don’t know him.”

The sting of truth lodges itself deep in his chest. He lowers his eyes, the weight of his guilt making him feel small.

He bites his lip, processing her words. “I may not know Dean as well as I should, but isn’t that what dating is for? And I do know ApocalypseAndChill.”

“Knowing Apocalypse doesn’t mean you know Dean. That’s a parasocial relationship. You know his stories, you don’t know him!” Charlie’s voice edges with frustration, but there’s a plea in it, too.

Castiel breathes deeply, the weight of his own confession surfacing. “I’m not saying I love him because I love his stories. Yes, I love his stories, and yes, I do believe that the things we write contain pieces of ourselves. Everything we write, every character, every scene, contains a piece of us. We leave our fingerprints behind. No one else could write the same story as you. No one could write your story for you. But that’s just a piece of the puzzle. You can’t know a person by the things they write. You’re missing the rest of the pieces.”

His eyes meet hers, earnest and unwavering. “I’ve seen all of these pieces, but I’ve seen them on their own, not as a part of the larger picture. But I’m finally putting the pieces together. No, I can’t see the full picture yet, but I’ve seen enough to know that I like him, care about him. Not just because of his fanfics, but the pieces I’ve seen in class, from you, from the way he interacts with everyone else around him.”

Charlie’s gaze softens, her head tilting slightly as she listens.

“Dean is cute,” Castiel admits, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But he’s also smart and funny. Self-deprecating. He pretends to be confident because he actually has very poor self-confidence. He cares a lot about what people think. He wants to take care of those around him. He wants to forgive the guy who ignored him for three years and turned him in for plagiarism because he is a good and kind man who doesn’t want to be angry. The man who wants someone to know and see all of him.”

He releases a shaky breath, the corner of his mouth lifting in a soft, hopeful smile. “So no, I don’t have the full picture, but I can see the outline, and I’m so excited to see the finished piece.”

Charlie studies him for a long moment before her lips quirk into a small, hesitant smile. “Okay, Cas. Just… be careful with him. He’s really a marshmallow. He’s softer than he lets on. He plays it cool, but he’s been carrying a lot for a long time. And you?” She exhales. “This is a hell of a 180 from you. I just don’t want either of you getting hurt.”

Castiel nods. “I get it. I’m glad Dean has a friend like you.”

Charlie reaches over, giving his knee a light squeeze. “Alright, I’m gonna grab a shower. Coffee better be ready when I’m out.”

He nods, feeling lighter than he has in days. As she heads to the bathroom, he hears her mutter something about “idiots,” and he can’t help but smile.

Chapter Text

Charlie is long gone by lunch, dressed like she’s headed for war.

Castiel barely blinked at it. At this point, he was long past questioning Charlie’s antics. She could have looked him dead in the eye and said she was off to slay a dragon, free a kidnapped royal, or fight a duel at dawn, and he would have believed her without hesitation.

Instead of chasing that mystery, he settles on the sofa with leftover pizza, flipping open his laptop and half-heartedly scrolling through the Kilas Discord. He isn’t posting, of course. That would mean engaging with the absolute mess he’s left in his wake, and he isn’t ready for that.

The server has mostly moved on from debating him, but he still sees his username pop up in passing conversations.

@Midnight: Wonder if CommaPolice is ever gonna show their face again.

@ShadowSnacc: I don’t blame them for hiding, I’d literally die of secondhand embarrassment.

@Hexy Witch: Tbh the fic slapped so I forgive them.

@Night of Hell: They’ll be back

Castiel exhales through his nose, swiping past.

That’s when his phone buzzes.

[Dean: hey just emailed you the google doc link with our outline for knight. I made some edits and i started making some notes]

[Dean: no pressure or anything. I know we said we were done. We can keep what we did yesterday]

Castiel pauses mid-bite, cheese stretching from his pizza as he chews. He wipes his fingers on a napkin and thumbs out a reply.

[Castiel: I know we talked about doing a magical-realism story, but I was thinking maybe we could shift a little towards horror instead? It’s not a genre I often gravitate to, but I got this idea that instead of the bookstore being a “magical” place, what if it NEEDED people to choose a book. What if it didn’t take no for an answer? I’m thinking we could keep the plot mostly as it is now, but tweak the ending to fit the vibe.]

Dean’s response is immediate.

[Dean: holy wall of text.]

Castiel smirks.

[Castiel: Sorry. Got excited. And I know all we need to turn in this week is the outline, but I really want to start on this thing.]

This time, Dean doesn’t text back immediately. But the message is marked as Read.

Castiel drums his fingers against his knee. No typing bubble. No flicker of movement. He tells himself not to read into it.

Finishing his pizza, he decides to take a shower. Maybe it’ll clear his head.

The water is warm, steaming up the mirror. Castiel zones out beneath the spray, thinking about the story—not just the bookstore idea, but how right it felt, sitting next to Dean, bouncing ideas back and forth.

Dean had listened. Had cared.

The outline had started off feeling like a school project, but now? Castiel really, really wanted to write this story with him. It was fun. This is why he wanted to go to school for this.

When he steps out, towel slung around his shoulders, his phone is waiting with a new message.

[Dean: we could meet at the lib and get dinner together?]

[Dean: or just library]

[Dean: no pressure]

Castiel frowns, scrolling up to check the timestamps. The messages are spaced out.

Did he think I wasn’t answering on purpose?

[Castiel: Sorry, I was taking a shower. That sounds good to me. I can head that way soon. Second floor again?]

A moment later:

[Dean: no problem. So, dinner too? Or just the lib?]

Castiel rolls his eyes but can’t fight the small smile tugging at his lips.

[Castiel: Both. 🙂]

The reply is instant.

[Dean:cool]

The study room is the same as yesterday, small, slightly claustrophobic, but today, it feels different. For one, Dean looks better than yesterday. His usual energy is back, the tension in his shoulders less pronounced. His hair is still a little messy, but now it looks intentionally messy, like he actually tried instead of just rolling out of bed. Dean always has a magnetic energy around him. Like the sun pulling all of the planets in around him, Castiel can’t help but be pulled in. But unlike before, Castiel isn’t fighting it.

Castiel lets out a slow breath, dropping his bag onto the table. Charlie’s words from this morning echo, quiet but insistent.

Dean really likes you.

Dean has liked you for years.

Don’t hurt him.

He wants to flirt, wants to test the push and pull of this new thing between them, but the warning makes him hesitate. And Dean, Dean isn’t looking at him quite as easily today, like maybe he’s feeling the same nerves.

It makes Castiel realize, with startling clarity, just how much of Dean’s confidence is a facade. The realization settles something inside him. Dean isn’t some effortless golden boy. He’s trying. Just like Castiel is.

And suddenly, the space between them feels… lighter.

Dean scratches the back of his neck, clears his throat. “So, uh… horror, huh?”

Castiel nods, dropping into his chair. “I think it makes sense. It keeps the same structure but adds a stronger emotional through line. And, well…” His lips twitch slightly. “I did say I wanted to get out of my comfort zone.”

Dean grins, a little more like himself. “Yeah, yeah, expanding your horizons. I’m here for that,” he says with a wink.

He leans forward, pulling his laptop open. “Alright, let’s tweak this sucker.”

They start working, going through their original outline and shifting things to fit the horror tone. What does it mean that the bookstore is hungry? What is it eating off of? If it needs someone to choose a book, then why? Does it have to do with someone making a choice? Is choosing sacrificing all the other possibilities in their life? Losing their free will?

Dean’s the one who suggests they start fleshing out the outline more, taking it from rough bullet points to something closer to a full draft.

“We don’t have to,” Dean says, spinning his pen between his fingers. “But, I mean, we’re on a roll. Might as well get ahead.”

Castiel hesitates. “Knight only asked for the outline, though. What if he gives feedback that changes everything?”

Dean shrugs, easy. “He’s my advisor for English. He does this kinda thing all the time.”

Castiel stops typing. “So, uh…I didn’t realize you were an English major until last week.”

Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Dude. Seriously?”

Castiel crosses his arms, brow furrowing. “I just assumed you were taking these classes for fun. That you were one of those high-achiever types who overloads their schedule because they can.”

Dean leans back, stretching his arms over his head. “Well, that explains a lot.”

Castiel tilts his head and asks, “What does?”

Dean’s gaze flickers down, then back up, like he’s debating whether or not to say it. Then, “…Is that why you never liked me?”

The words hit.

Castiel stiffens slightly. “I never said I didn’t like you.”

Dean gives him a flat look. “Cas.”

Heat creeps up Castiel’s neck. He exhales, fingers tightening around his pen. “I…” He stops, shifts uncomfortably. Then, finally, “I was jealous.”

Dean’s expression flickers, something surprised, something almost soft, but he doesn’t interrupt.

Castiel runs a hand through his hair, staring at the laptop screen instead of Dean. “It just… seemed like things were easy for you. You’re taking engineering and high-level English courses, and you make it seem like nothing. You always looked so confident, like you belonged here in a way I never have. And you weren’t even an English major…” He stops. Winces. “Or, well, I thought you weren’t.”

Dean doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t get angry. He just… exhales.

“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, voice quieter. “That’s a fun illusion, huh?”

Castiel finally looks at him. Dean’s not smiling anymore. There’s something almost raw in his expression, something Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever seen from him before.

Dean lets out a slow breath, rubbing at his jaw. “I always feel like I have to prove that I belong. I mean, people know I’m a double major. And there’s been people…” His lips press together. “People like Lilith, who’ve straight-up told me to stick to engineering. That I don’t belong in these classes.”

Castiel’s stomach twists. He suddenly wants to find Lilith and punch her.

Outside, a group of students laughs as they pass through the hallway, their voices muffled by the heavy study room door. The low hum of the overhead lights fills the silence between them, an almost imperceptible buzz. Castiel watches the way Dean's fingers drum against the table—controlled, steady, like he’s used to keeping his emotions contained.

Dean shrugs, forcing a small, humorless smile. “So, yeah. I bust my ass to be twice as good, so nobody can tell me I don’t deserve to be here.”

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it. There’s a heaviness in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name. He might not have said the same words as Lilith, but he thought them. Regularly.

Dean shakes his head, like he’s shaking something loose, and keeps going. “Hell, I didn’t even think I’d end up at a college like this. Took classes at the community college at first. There wasn’t time or money for a real four-year school. Then Sam got a full ride, and I got an academic scholarship, and suddenly…. I’m here.”

He huffs a laugh. “But I’m older than everyone else. I’m twenty-four. Most of the other seniors are, what, twenty-one? I didn’t fit in in high school, and I don’t really fit in here either. I just…”

He trails off. Runs a hand through his hair.

“I dunno, man. I just wanted to be normal for once.”

The words hang between them.

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately. He should have known this. He should have seen it.

Dean, the golden boy, the one who always seemed so effortless, so annoyingly confident, had been fighting to belong all along.

And Castiel had been one of the people making him feel like he didn’t.

His stomach twists. His own assumptions feel uglier now, too small to hold onto.

Dean shifts, rubbing the back of his neck, like maybe he regrets saying anything at all.

Castiel exhales. He doesn’t want to say something trite, doesn’t want to deflect with a joke or a casual dismissal.

So he reaches across the table. Lays his hand over Dean’s.

Dean stills.

“You don’t have to prove yourself to me,” Castiel says, quiet but certain.

Dean blinks, his throat working as he swallows.

Castiel lets his fingers tighten slightly, grounding them both. “I mean it. You belong here.”

Dean exhales, slow and shaky. Then, almost unconsciously, he turns his hand over, threading their fingers together.

Castiel isn’t sure if Dean even realizes he’s doing it, like it’s second nature, like holding on is instinct.

Dean’s smile is smaller this time, but it reaches his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmurs, squeezing Castiel’s fingers. “You too, Cas.”

For the first time in a long time, Castiel believes it.

Chapter Text

By the time they leave the library, they have more than just an outline—scenes mapped out, dialogue sketched in, and notes on themes and foreshadowing threaded through. Dean is practically buzzing, like the excitement of the project is something he’s been holding in for a while, waiting for the right person to share it with.

Castiel should be exhausted, but he’s not. There’s something about working with Dean that makes the hours slip away unnoticed.

As they step into the warm glow of The Roadhouse, Castiel immediately notices the easy familiarity with which Dean carries himself here. The bar isn’t too loud for a Sunday evening, the atmosphere relaxed, filled with a mix of students and locals. The air is thick with the scent of grilled burgers and something faintly sweet and buttery, maybe pie.

As soon as they find a table, a blonde girl approaches with menus, her sharp eyes flicking between Dean and Castiel before landing on Dean with something halfway between amusement and knowing exasperation.

“I don’t normally see you here when you’re not working. Thought you’d be tired of this place,” she comments, crossing her arms.

Dean shrugs, too casual. “Wanted Cas to have some of the best burgers in the city.”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “Cas, huh?”

Dean visibly tenses before yanking the menus from her hand with unnecessary force. “Don’t you have, I dunno, work to do, Jo?”

Jo shakes her head and saunters off, her boots clicking against the scuffed wood floors. The low hum of classic rock plays from the speakers near the bar, blending into the quiet murmur of Sunday night regulars nursing their drinks.

Castiel watches the interaction with interest. Dean is actually blushing. The great, ever-charming Dean Winchester, flustered.

Dean pointedly avoids eye contact as he shoves a menu at him. “Burgers are good,” he mutters. “I think Benny’s on the grill tonight.”

Castiel glances over the menu but doesn’t really need to look. He’s more focused on Dean, who suddenly seems less sure of himself than usual.

“You work here?” Castiel asks, letting the curiosity sit naturally in his tone.

“Yeah,” Dean says, still distracted by pretending to read the menu. “Couple shifts during the week. My scholarship and loans cover most of it, but I’m trying not to borrow more than I can pay off, y’know?”

There’s something unspoken in that answer, a weight that Castiel doesn’t know how to touch yet.

Castiel watches as Dean absently rolls a discarded straw wrapper between his fingers. Somewhere across the bar, a burst of laughter erupts before fading into the background.

“I’m lucky,” Castiel admits after a beat, setting his menu down. “My dad takes care of my bills right now. I just have to focus on school.”

Dean huffs out a short laugh, but there’s an edge of something else beneath it. “Must be nice,” he mutters, the words casual, but Castiel hears the undercurrent of jealousy.

Castiel doesn’t have a good response to that. Because it is nice. Unfairly so.

Instead, he shifts gears. “Sammy is your brother, right? Anna mentioned you’re his guardian?”

Dean sighs, shoulders immediately tensing. He doesn’t answer right away, just taps his fingers against the edge of the table.

Castiel watches the hesitation flicker across Dean’s face—the way his mouth tightens, the slight curl of his fingers, like he’s bracing for impact.

He knows that look. Dean is preparing to tell a story he doesn’t want to tell.

So instead, Castiel asks a different question.

“Where does he go to school?”

Dean blinks, thrown for a second, then relaxes. The tension eases from his shoulders like a coil unwinding.

“He’s at Stanford,” Dean says, and just like that, his entire expression shifts. He brightens, sitting up straighter, eyes full of something proud and fond and entirely unguarded. “Kid’s a genius. Wants to be a lawyer.”

Castiel smiles. “I guess brains run in the family then.”

Dean snorts, ducking his head like he’s embarrassed. “Sammy’s the smart one. I got the looks and not enough common sense to know when to stop.”

Castiel hums, tilting his head in consideration. “I beg to differ. But we can agree to disagree.”

Dean looks up at him then, grinning. “So you don’t think I’m pretty?”

Castiel laughs outright, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re very pretty. And clever. And talented.”

It’s an admission, but Castiel doesn’t regret saying it.

Dean definitely wasn’t expecting that. His eyes widen just slightly before his ears go pink, and then—

Jo reappears at their table, eyebrows raised, clearly having heard the last part of the conversation.

“You might need to keep this one, Dean.”

Dean groans and drops his face into his hands. “Whatever,” he mutters, reaching blindly to shove his menu at Jo. “Just get me a damn burger with fries. And a Cosmic Cowboy.”

Castiel smirks, amused by Dean’s sudden flustered state. “Cosmic Cowboy?”

Jo grins, not missing a beat. “IPA.”

“Oh, in that case, I’ll have the same,” Castiel says smoothly.

Dean side-eyes him, but his mouth quirks upward despite himself.

The moment Jo is gone, Dean exhales and runs a hand over his face.

Castiel hates ruining the moment, but feels like he has to speak up. “So, uh… I’ve been avoiding mentioning the elephant in the room because I want to see where this thing between us goes, and I’ve convinced myself if I bring it up, everything will collapse before it even gets started. But then if I don’t mention it and we keep going, at some point I will and—”

Dean literally puts a hand over Castiel’s mouth to stop the avalanche of words. “Dude. Slow your roll.”

Castiel, momentarily stunned, nods. Dean sits back and sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah, we should probably talk about it,” Dean admits, eyes flicking toward the bar like he’s hoping for an interruption. When none comes, he drums his fingers against the table, collecting his thoughts. “Part of me still wants to be mad at you. Another part of me is just so fucking stoked that you seem to like me after I spent years trying to get your attention.”

Castiel swallows, lowering his gaze. “I know you’re probably tired of hearing me say this, and I do know that it only means something if there’s action behind it, but I am sorry. Sorry for not talking to you before I went to Knight. Sorry for assuming the worst of you—not just with your short story, but for the last few years.”

Dean’s fingers curl against the table, his jaw working like he’s chewing on the words. “I appreciate that, Cas. I do. And I want to forgive you, I want to move past it, but…” He trails off, glancing up just as Jo drops off their beers and disappears without comment.

Castiel watches Dean pick at the label on his bottle, like he’s trying to decide if he should keep going. “But I still hurt your feelings,” Castiel says quietly.

Dean lets out a long breath and takes a sip of his beer before shrugging one shoulder. “Honestly? I don’t even know why you’ve decided you like me now. And I guess that’s what has me second-guessing things.”

Castiel hadn’t really thought about it like that. He knew why—because Dean was brilliant, because he was charming and kind, because he had this relentless drive to be better. But how could he explain that to someone who had spent so long believing the opposite?

He leans forward slightly, voice softer. “I’m not sure if this is helping my case, but I had to try very hard to dislike you.”

Dean huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s edged with disbelief. “Yeah?”

“You are… naturally charming.”

Dean snorts. “I don’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.”

Castiel smirks. “Both.”

Dean shakes his head, amused but unconvinced. “It’s an act, y’know? The whole charming thing. I try to make people like me. Doesn’t come natural.”

Castiel tilts his head, considering. “Supernatural?” he deadpans.

Dean groans.

“Seriously, though,” Castiel continues, letting the humor fade, “Charlie expressed some concerns this morning too.”

Dean sighs dramatically. “Dammit, Red.”

“But Dean,” Castiel says, reaching for his beer, fingers tapping idly against the glass, “you’re cute, you’re funny, you’re smart. And while I will admit that you’re my favorite Kilas author, I think of that as more icing on the cake.”

Dean looks down at his beer, expression unreadable. “Not gonna lie… you yelling at me about it actually made me believe you.”

Castiel winces. “Not my best moment.”

Dean finally looks at him again, lips twitching. “Nah, might’ve been your realest moment.” He takes another sip of beer before adding, “I never really felt like I measured up as a good writer. Especially next to people like you. But having you be so mad—so mad—about how much you liked my stuff kind of made the whole situation easier.”

Castiel breathes out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Your fics got me through a lot of tough times.”

Dean nods, his thumb tapping lightly against the condensation on his glass. “Writing them got me through some tough times too. I guess they helped both of us in different ways, huh?”

The weight in Castiel’s chest shifts, something warm settling beneath his ribs. “I’m sorry you had to take them down because of all of this. Before I knew you were ApocalypseAndChill, I was… pretty devastated when they all disappeared.”

Dean shrugs, but there’s something tight in his expression. “I’ll put them back up when I finish school. I probably shouldn’t have been using them as schoolwork, anyway. I just have so many ideas for fanfiction—it’s easier to get myself started.”

Castiel hums in agreement. “You have been a very prolific writer. I wish I had your kind of output.”

Dean chokes on his beer. “Dude! That sounds so dirty out of context.”

Castiel rolls his eyes but smirks. “Anyway,” he continues, “Not saying this is some grand love story, but I see potential. And I’d really like to see where this goes.”

Dean watches him for a long moment. Then, finally, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. “I’d like that too.”

Jo reappears just as Castiel is about to say something else, setting their food down with a knowing grin. Castiel takes one bite of his burger and moans outright, because holy hell, this is the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Dean makes a strangled noise in his throat and promptly turns red.

Castiel swallows, catching Dean’s mortified expression. “Something wrong?” he asks, utterly innocent.

Dean takes a very large sip of beer. “Nope.”

They move on to safer topics as they eat.

Castiel sets down his burger and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “If you weren’t studying engineering or English, what do you think you’d be doing?”

Dean shrugs, swallowing. “Dunno. Mechanic, maybe. Grew up fixing cars in my Uncle Bobby’s garage. Always good at taking things apart, figuring out how they worked.”

Castiel hums, considering. “I can’t imagine studying anything besides English. I think I’d still write, even if no one ever read a word of it. I grew up surrounded by books. And I was always telling Jimmy stories.”

Dean doesn’t immediately respond. Castiel realizes, too late, that he’s said Jimmy’s name so casually, without bracing himself first. Usually, he goes out of his way not to think about his brother. Not to mention him.

But it just… slipped out.

Dean interrupts his thoughts before he can spiral. “Yeah, you would,” he says softly. “You get this look when you talk about stories—like you need them just to breathe.”

Castiel blinks at him. Something in his chest twists. He ducks his head slightly, focusing on the last of his fries.

Dean reaches across the table, brushing his fingers lightly against Castiel’s hand, thumb ghosting over his knuckles. The touch is brief, almost hesitant, but warm.

“You’re really good at dissecting fiction,” Dean says. “You see missing links, plot holes. It’s part of why I wanted us to swap short stories in the first place. I figured someone like you could make my stuff better. Had no idea I was already getting feedback from you in my AO3 comment section.”

Castiel glances up, surprised. “Oh. I thought with you deleting your fics, you wouldn’t have realized.”

Dean smirks. “Dude. You commented on every single one.”

Castiel groans. “God, please never show Charlie.”

Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh, you act like she doesn’t already know.”

Castiel takes a sip of his beer, watching Dean over the rim of his glass. “Fair. She knew as soon as I posted my apology fic. Though she already had a pretty good idea of what I was working on.”

Dean shakes his head, smirking.

“She was helpful, though, so I can’t complain.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? She give you some advice on your fic?”

“Not directly,” Castiel admits, setting his glass down. “Mostly, she told me you identified with Kane when I was trying to figure out what to write.”

Dean, mid-drink, chokes on his beer. He coughs into his fist, eyes wide. “She did what now?”

Castiel smirks, amused but not surprised by the reaction. “As soon as she said it, I saw it too. Sometimes we need an outside perspective to see things clearly.”

“Girl’s a menace.” Dean rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Jesus. What else did she say? That I am Kane?”

Castiel tilts his head, considering. “I don’t think you are. But I think… you understand him. More than most.”

Dean swallows, something shifting in his expression. “Oh.”

A beat of quiet stretches between them. The clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation from the bar, the distant sound of Jo laughing with another server, all background noise that feels strangely distant in the wake of the conversation.

Castiel watches Dean carefully, taking in the way his fingers tighten slightly around his beer bottle, the way his shoulders shift like he’s bracing himself.

Then, softer, Castiel says, “He’s always trying so hard to do the right thing. To take care of people. He’s a good man.”

Dean’s jaw twitches. He looks away, eyes fixed on the table like there’s something written there only he can see. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess he is.”

For once, Castiel doesn’t push. He just lets the words settle, lets the moment breathe.

Instead, he bumps Dean’s knee playfully and picks up a fry and asks, “You gonna finish those?”

Dean exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head, but he pushes his plate toward Castiel anyway.

The October night air is crisp, biting at the edges of warmth lingering from The Roadhouse. Streetlights stretch long shadows across the sidewalk, and the occasional car hums past as they walk.

Dean’s hands are shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket and he smiles at Castiel. Something easy and familiar passing between them. They’re silent, but it isn’t uncomfortable.

Castiel thinks back to their conversation at the bar, the way Dean had looked at him when he said that Dean reminded him of Kane. The way Dean had tightened his grip on his beer when Castiel had called him a good man. He wants to say something more, say something reassuring, but he doesn’t quite know how or what to say.

Words have always been his specialty, but he’s also learned recently that actions are powerful too. So he walks a little closer, bumping his shoulder into Dean’s every few steps.

Dean smirks and tilts his head towards Castiel. “So,” he drawls. “Be honest. That burger was the best you’ve ever had.”

Castiel hums, pretending to consider it. “It was… alright.”

Dean gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally attacked. “Alright? Cas, that’s offensive. You moaned over that burger.”

Castiel tilts his head, all mock innocence. “Hmm. Did I?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent with me. Jo is never gonna let me live that down, by the way.”

Castiel just shrugs, unbothered, and Dean narrows his eyes.

“I see how it is,” Dean mutters. “I bring you to the best burger place in town, I let you steal my fries, I bare my soul over craft beer, and this is how you repay me? Cold-hearted, man. Ice cold.”

Castiel chuckles, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He wants to reach for Dean’s hand but doesn’t quite know if it’s too soon, if Dean would mind.

But then Dean beats him to it, brushing the back of his knuckles against Castiel’s in a quiet, testing sort of way.

Castiel exhales, something uncoiling in his chest. He curls his fingers around Dean’s, grounding them both.

Dean stills for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, before lacing their fingers together and grinning like an idiot.

For a moment he thinks that it’s unfair how effortlessly charming Dean is, but now he knows better. Knows how much of this is a front, a shield meant to protect Dean from those who would be cruel. He wonders how much is a mask allowing him to fit in. Castiel wants to be a person that Dean can let his guard down with. He’ll do everything he can to prove he can be trusted with Dean’s soft underbelly.

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand and runs his thumb over the back of the other man’s hand. Dean keeps smiling at him, sending him these soft looks.

By the time they reach Castiel’s apartment, something heavy and electric has settled between them.

Dean leans against the doorframe as Castiel steps up to his apartment door. “I had a really good time tonight.”

“I did too, Cas. Any chance of getting a goodnight kiss?”

Castiel smirks, slotting his key into the lock. He glances up at Dean through his lashes and says, low and teasing, “I don’t think you’re aiming high enough.”

He feels the weight of the words the second they leave his mouth.

Dean’s expression flickers from surprise to something deeper, something darker, before his mouth splits into a slow, wicked grin.

There’s no hesitation this time.

Dean cups Castiel’s face, tilting his head slightly, and kisses him passionately. Messy and urgent, full of heat and pent-up frustration.

It’s a kiss that lingers, a kiss that says something neither of them have the words for yet.

Dean makes a quiet noise against Castiel’s lips, his hands sliding down, gripping Castiel’s ass, pressing him gently against the door.

Castiel exhales sharply, his fingers tangling in the fabric of Dean’s jacket, pulling him closer.

Dean nips at Castiel’s lower lip, then soothes it with his tongue, and suddenly, Castiel is feeling very warm.

Dean’s hands slide under the hem of his jacket, fingertips teasing against his waistline, just barely enough pressure to make Castiel’s breath hitch.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs against his lips, voice lower, rougher than before.

And Castiel, who has always been good at overthinking, at hesitating, at second-guessing, doesn’t hesitate

He tugs Dean inside.

The door clicks shut behind them. The apartment is quiet, except for the distant hum of the fridge and the soft rustle of their movements.

Dean barely has time to blink before Castiel is back on him, pressing him against the wall, mouth insistent and searching.

Dean laughs into the kiss, surprised but delighted, hands gripping Castiel’s hips, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of his shirt.

Castiel’s heart is pounding, his breath uneven, but he doesn’t care.

Dean’s here. Dean wants this.

Castiel pulls back just enough to look at him.

Dean’s pupils are blown, his lips kiss-bitten, and Castiel wants to memorize this version of him, wants to hold onto this moment forever.

“You sure?” Castiel asks, voice quieter now, careful.

Dean cups his face, thumb skimming along Castiel’s jaw, gentle despite the heat between them.

“Yeah,” Dean says, breathless. “I’m sure.”

And that’s all Castiel needs.

They don’t rush.

The heat is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but now there’s something else layered between it—something tender. Something that makes Castiel want to take his time, want to map out every inch of Dean with his hands, his lips, his body.

Dean is here. Dean is his. And that’s something Castiel never expected.

He drags Dean toward the bedroom.

If Castiel had even considered that Dean might be coming back to his apartment, back to his room, he would have cleaned up, changed the sheets, but while he’s worrying about what Dean might think, Dean is hitting the light switch.

Dean is kissing him again and then Castiel pushes him back against the door, slamming the door shut. His hands work quickly, tugging at Dean's shirt, pulling it over his head in a rush. Dean reciprocates, fingers nimble as he undresses Castiel, their clothes discarded in a trail leading to the bed.

Castiel pushes Dean onto the bed, straddling his lap. His hands skate over Dean’s chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle. Dean grips his thighs, his ass, pulling him closer. Their bodies press together, heat building between them.

Then Castiel leans in, catching Dean’s mouth again, kissing him slow, deep. Dean groans against him, hips rolling up, the friction sparking something desperate between them.

Castiel sits up, his eyes dark with desire. He reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down his thighs, and Dean follows suit, their underwear joining the rest of their discarded clothes on the floor.

Dean's hands return to Castiel's ass, pulling him back down on top of him. They rut against each other for a moment before Castiel pulls away to retrieve lube from his nightstand. He squirts some into his palm, jerks his own cock for a moment, before reaching to take Dean’s cock in hand, causing the other man’s breath to hitch.

Dean pulls Castiel down on top of him, their kissing becoming more urgent.

"Dean," Castiel gasps. "Oh, God, Dean..."

Dean's hand finds Castiel's length, stroking in time with their rhythm. "Come on, Cas," he urges, his voice hoarse. "Let go..."

Castiel's body shudders, pleasure overwhelming him. He comes with a cry, his orgasm spilling over Dean's hand and their stomachs. Dean follows soon after, his own climax tearing a groan from his throat.

The rise and fall of their breaths evens out, heat lingering in the space between them. Castiel’s fingers trace slow, absentminded circles against Dean’s skin.

"That was..." Dean’s voice is rough, wrecked. He swallows. "I really like you, Cas."

Castiel smiles, soft and genuine. "Yeah," he murmurs. "I really like you too."

Chapter Text

Dean is funny. And somehow, against all logic, he thinks Castiel is funny too.

It’s strange. Castiel doesn’t have much dating experience. In high school, he never really saw the appeal, and in college, the only real relationship he’d had was a brief romance with a British exchange student his sophomore year. So he doesn’t have much of a reference point for… this.

For the butterflies in his stomach every time Dean smiles at him.

For the way his chest feels tight and warm whenever Dean laughs.

For the way he can’t stop staring at Dean’s mouth when he talks.

For how his pulse jumps whenever Dean blushes.

It should scare him. But instead, he’s greedy for more.

Castiel has never been much of a texter.

He and Meg rarely text, their conversations are in person, before or after class. Even with Charlie, who practically has a device glued to her hand at all times, most of their interactions happen in their apartment.

But Dean? Dean is always texting him.

Dean texts good morning and good night.

Dean checks in during the day: How’s your class going? Did you eat lunch?

And sometimes, their conversations are just plain ridiculous.

[Dean: You don’t like classic rock????]

[Castiel: It’s fine.]

[Dean: Wow. idk if we can be friends anymore ]

[Castiel: I simply prefer things with… more depth.]

[Dean: Okay, that’s offensive. What do you listen to? Besides Radiohead? Tswift?]

[Castiel: Yes. Be careful what you say next or we are never ever ever getting back together.]

And sometimes, their conversations are serious.

[Dean: you ever think about what you want after college?]

[Castiel: I used to think I’d go to grad school. But I don’t know anymore.]

[Dean: yeah?]

[Castiel: Writing is the only thing I’ve ever been sure of. But publishing is… unreliable.]

[Dean: i get that.]

[Castiel: What about you?]

[Dean: honestly? no idea. feels like I’ve been running full speed to get here. Idk what happens next.]

But the strangest thing?

For the first time in his life, Castiel doesn’t feel like he has to overthink every interaction. He’s not second-guessing his words, not agonizing over whether he said something wrong.

With Dean, it’s easy. Natural.

And relaxing in a way he never could have anticipated.

By the time they’re back in Professor Knight’s class, they have more than just an outline. They have a rough first draft.

Technically, they’re only required to turn in the outline, but they’re already ahead. Castiel starts to see why Dean is always ahead in his English classes—when you’re actually excited about something, the work doesn’t feel like work.

Their story has morphed from magical realism into horror.

The bookstore is a trap. It lures in unsuspecting customers with impossible books: history texts about a past that never was, biographies of lives never lived, stories of moments that never happened.

And then—the main character finds a shelf about himself.

In one book, he’s rich.

In another, he’s famous.

In another, he has the perfect family—the kind of happiness he never even thought to want.

The shopkeeper tells him he has to choose.

They wrote it with Kade and Silas in mind, but when it came time to name the characters, they chose differently.

Kevin and Steve. Just enough to file off the serial numbers.

They sit beside each other in class for the first time. Their shoulders are almost, but not quite, touching. It’s not like it was before when Castiel was always hyper-aware of Dean’s presence in an annoying, unavoidable way. Now it’s easy… comfortable.

And Castiel finds that he wants to be here in a way he hasn’t. He wants to be discussing themes, and structure, and character motivation. Not just in class or with Professor Knight and his classmates, but with Dean.

For the first time since Jimmy died, he remembers why he loves storytelling.

Class is good. Dean is back to speaking up, cracking jokes, engaging in discussion  and Castiel finds himself contributing more to the conversation than normal.

At the end of class as everyone is walking out the door and handing over their outlines, Professor Knight collects theirs with a knowing look. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you two came up with, I suspect you’ll make a really good team.”

Dean grins. Wide and proud.

And as they walk out of the building together, Castiel feels it too.

Dean bumps Castiel’s shoulder lightly. “Lunch?” he asks, hopeful.

For a moment, Castiel wants to say yes. He’s getting used to this, to the easy rhythm they’re falling into.

But then he spots Meg, lounging against a column near the quad, arms crossed, watching him with the smug patience of a cat who already knows the outcome of the game.

He stops walking, nodding toward her. “Raincheck?”

Dean follows his gaze and huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, alright. Try not to get yourself killed.”

Meg smirks as Dean walks off, waiting until he’s out of earshot before pushing off the column and falling into step beside Castiel. “So,” she drawls. “Looks like your love letter worked.”

Castiel sighs. “It wasn’t enough.”

Meg raises a brow. “No? Looks like it was from where I’m standing.”

He shakes his head, glancing down at the brick pathway as they walk. “Not a love letter or a story, thank you. But what I did wasn't enough. I had to show him I understood and it worked…”

Meg studies him for a second, expression unreadable. Then she smirks. “Huh. Look at you. Who knew you had it in you?”

Castiel huffs a small laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Well,” she continues, gesturing vaguely in the direction Dean disappeared, “Winchester is back to looking at you like the sun shines out of your ass, and you, my little unicorn, seem better. So I suppose I’m happy for you.”

Castiel smiles. “Thanks, Meg.”

Then, softer, more like a secret he hadn’t meant to say aloud: “I think he’s helping me find joy in writing again.”

Meg eyes him critically, something more thoughtful in her gaze.

“Yeah,” she says. “I can see that.” She nudges his shoulder. “Maybe he’ll help me get you out of your apartment this year. You’ve been a hermit for too long. And now it’s senior year—time to live it up before the real world hits.”

Castiel laughs, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

And for the first time in a long time, he actually means it.

Chapter Text

The classroom is buzzing as students chat and collect their graded outlines. Dean leans back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table while Castiel keeps his arms crossed, expression carefully neutral.

Knight hands back their outline with a nod. “Well done, gentlemen.”

Dean grins. “Yeah?”

Knight taps the paper, smirking. “I knew you two would make a good team, and this proves it.” He gestures toward his notes in the margins. “Smart structure, strong themes. If you keep up this level of work, I expect you’ll have something really special by the time you’re done.”

Dean nudges Castiel’s arm with his elbow as they leave. “See? Told you we’d kill it.”

Castiel huffs, glancing down at Knight’s comments. He feels an unexpected warmth in his chest. “I’ll admit… this is encouraging.”

Dean grins. “We’re kicking ass.”

Castiel doesn’t realize how tight he’s been gripping his pen until he feels the ache in his fingers. He relaxes his hand, flipping through Knight’s notes again, even as Dean chatters beside him.

Well done, gentlemen.

The words sit heavy in his chest, warmer than he expects. He’s used to constructive criticism, to always feeling like there’s something missing, but Knight’s notes aren’t just pointing out flaws. They’re genuine praise.

And for the first time in a long time, Castiel lets himself believe it.

With the greenlight from Professor Knight on their outline, Dean convinces Castiel that they should make an appointment at the writing center to have one of the writing tutors look over the first draft. Of course by this point their “first draft” had gone through a number of revisions but Dean argued that they needed outside perspective. Castiel reluctantly agreed.

The Writing Center is quieter than usual when they step inside, but Castiel has barely scanned the room before Meg’s voice cuts through the air. “Cas!”

Castiel considers leaving.  

Even Dean seems conflicted when Meg appears in front of them, arms crossed, eyebrow arched. “I saw your names on the schedule. I claimed this session. You’re stuck with me.”

Castiel groans dramatically. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Meg ignores him, pulling out a red pen like she’s unsheathing a dagger. “Sit. Suffer. ”

An hour later, their story looks like it survived a battlefield—barely. Meg’s handwriting fills every available margin, entire paragraphs are viciously slashed through, and at least one comment in all caps simply reads: NO. TRY AGAIN.

Dean drops his head against the table. “You love doing this to us.”

“I live for it,” Meg says, twirling her pen. “Also, you used ‘stomach twisting’ like, three times on one page. Get a thesaurus , Winchester.”

Castiel, reviewing Meg’s notes, purses his lips. “She’s right.”

Dean sits up, scandalized. “Whose side are you on?”

Meg beams. “The side of literary excellence.”

Despite the brutality, by the time they leave, the story is sharper. Stronger. Castiel knows it. Dean knows it too.

“By the way,” Meg calls after them. “Winchester, you owe me for this. Get Cas to come to one of my parties.”

Dean laughs. “Oh, that I can do.”

Castiel glares. “Excuse me?”

Dean just slings an arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, sunshine, don’t fight it.”

The library becomes their second home. Even when they’re not working on something together, they still find themselves in the same space—Dean sketching out physics problems while Castiel scribbles notes for an upcoming paper.

At first, Castiel keeps expecting the weight of the semester to crush him. It had felt impossible at the start. But now, sitting next to Dean, he realizes he’s ahead on his work. 

There’s a strange kind of stillness as Castiel looks at his planner and realizes… he’s not behind. No stack of overdue work looming over him, no 2 AM breakdowns over unfinished papers.

Instead, there’s just this: the soft rustle of pages, the muted sound of fingers tapping keyboards, the occasional thunk of Dean’s coffee cup against the table as he sets it back down after taking a drink.

Across from him, Dean is deep in his own work, his brow furrowed, lips slightly parted in concentration. It’s… nice.

It’s not supposed to be this easy, is it?

Dean flicks an eraser at him. “Dude, why are you staring off into the void?”

“I was just thinking,” Castiel says, tapping his pen against the table. “This semester feels… easier than I expected.”

Dean grins. “Maybe you just needed the right study buddy. ”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but he can’t quite suppress his smile.

The first few times Dean comes over, Castiel is a little wary of how Charlie might react. But after the third night in a row, she just raises an eyebrow and shrugs.

“As long as you keep any funny business in your room,” she says, sipping her beer, “I don’t care.”

Dean, lounging on the sofa, smirks. “Define funny business .”

Charlie gives him a flat look. “Dean, I will throw you out the window.”

Dean laughs.

It happens gradually. 

At first, Dean only crashes at Castiel’s place on late study nights.

Then, one overnight bag becomes two. One extra shirt in Castiel’s drawer becomes a whole stack.

Dean’s boots line up next to Castiel’s by the door. His aftershave lingers in the bathroom. A six-pack of his favorite beer appears in the fridge.

And at some point—so naturally that Castiel doesn’t even notice when—it stops being "his" stuff and "Dean’s" stuff.

It’s just theirs.

They start watching The End together, curled up on the sofa with takeout and running commentary. Charlie doesn’t love it like they do, but she still watches, rolling her eyes when Castiel and Dean pause to argue about Kilas .

“This show has ruined both of you,” she mutters one night.

Dean grins, slinging an arm over Castiel’s shoulders. “Nah. We were already ruined.”

It’s easy.

That’s what unnerves Castiel the most.

Dean being in his space, his space, his orbit, his life. Them spending time together, the effortless rhythm they’ve fallen into—it should terrify him. It should feel overwhelming, too fast.

But it doesn’t .

The soft hum of Mia’s office is familiar, the dim lighting casting warm shadows across the room. Castiel sinks into the couch, fingers absently fidgeting with the hem of his henley. Or rather, Dean’s henley. With him staying over all the time their clothes have gotten mixed up. The first time that he had worn one of Dean’s shirts the other man had been... feral. So now Castiel wears Dean’s clothes on a regular basis.

It’s been months since he was here last, but sitting in this space still makes something in his chest tighten… habit, maybe. Or muscle memory.

Mia gives him a moment to settle, watching him with that quiet, steady patience of hers. Then, as always, she starts with a simple, open-ended prompt:

“So. What’s on your mind?”

Castiel exhales, tilting his head back against the cushion. He should have an easy answer. Things have been good— better —but saying that feels… wrong. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Instead, he says, “You know the guy I told you about, the one I turned in because I thought he was plagiarizing?”

“I remember, you were feeling pretty distressed over his anger at you and were looking for a way to apologize. You were writing something for him,” Mia recalled.

Castiel laughs. “Uh… yeah. So we’re actually dating now. Uh… his name is Dean. Dean and I are dating.”

Mia’s lips twitch like she wants to smile or laugh. “And how is that going?”

“Good,” Castiel admits, then frowns. “Too good.”

Mia raises an eyebrow. “Too good?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s just… easy,” he says, voice quiet, like the word itself is suspicious. “I keep waiting for things to get complicated, for the big conflict, but it hasn’t happened. And that’s not…” He shakes his head, struggling to find the words. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Mia studies him for a second before leaning forward slightly. “Says who?”

He hesitates. “It’s just…”

“No, really,” she presses, tilting her head. “Who told you that a relationship is only real if it’s hard?”

He doesn’t have a good answer. Not one he’s proud of.

Mia softens, but there’s something firm in her tone. “Cas, a relationship takes work, sure. But love isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle every day. It’s not something you have to earn through suffering.” She pauses, letting that sink in before adding, “Sounds like the two of you had a rough start, but you worked through it. Have you two talked about the initial conflict?”

Castiel swallows, nods.

“Do you feel like there was anything left unsaid, anything that you two have avoided discussing that could cause problems?”

He shakes his head no.

Mia waits, watching him. “Is Dean the kind of guy to hold a grudge?”

Castiel shakes his head, voice quiet. “No.”

She smiles, leaning back in her chair. “So maybe stop waiting for the tragedy, yeah?”

He huffs a small laugh. “I’ll try.”

Mia watches him for another moment, then shifts gears. “You do seem lighter,” she notes. “Like you’re carrying less weight than you used to.”

Castiel hesitates, picking at the hem of his sleeve. “I think… I think that’s because of him, too,” he admits. “Dean.”

Mia nods, encouraging.

“He reminds me of Jimmy.” The words come out before he even fully thinks them, but they don’t hurt the way he expects them to. They don’t hit like a punch to the ribs. He exhales slowly. “Well, he’s nothing like Jimmy, but just… in the way he makes me feel. Seen. Understood.”

Mia’s gaze is steady, waiting for him to keep going.

“Jimmy always got me,” Castiel continues, voice softer. “He was the one who pushed me. Who reminded me why I loved stories. And I think… I think Dean is doing that for me now.”

Mia rests her hands on her notepad, fingers laced together. “That’s not a bad thing, Cas.”

“I know,” he admits. “And I think…” He swallows. “I think Jimmy would want this for me. He wouldn’t want me to be sad forever.”

Mia watches him carefully, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then, she smiles, small, warm, knowing. “No,” she agrees. “He wouldn’t.”

Castiel lets out a slow breath, something in his chest uncoiling.

Mia taps her notepad lightly against her knee, gaze sharp but kind. “I want you to sit with that for a while, okay?” she says. “The idea that you don’t have to suffer to deserve good things. You don’t have to suffer in order to have a relationship with Dean. And being happy doesn’t mean you’re forgetting Jimmy.”

Castiel nods, pressing his lips together.

But this time, it’s not just a reflexive nod. It’s something he’s actually trying to believe.

Mia smiles again, and something about it makes him believe her. Just a little.

She checks the clock. “We’re about out of time, but before you go… how’s the medication?”

Castiel sighs. “I’m doing better at taking it.”

Mia lifts a brow. “Better?”

He smiles, “A lot better.”

“Glad to hear that!” she agrees, amused. “You’re doing the work, Cas. Just don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be.”

Castiel stands, rolling his shoulders. He does feel lighter. “Thanks, Mia.”

“Anytime,” she says, watching him as he heads for the door. “And Cas?”

He glances back.

“Let yourself be happy,” she says simply. “I promise, it’s allowed.”

His throat tightens unexpectedly. He nods once, then slips out the door.

Maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to believe that.

Chapter Text

The first time Castiel lets Meg and Dean drag him to a party, he’s fully expecting to hate it.

The music is loud, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer and something vaguely citrusy. Bodies move in and out of the small apartment, laughter rising over the low thump of bass-heavy music. Castiel sticks to Meg’s side at first, a drink in hand, scanning the room for an easy exit strategy.

Dean appears next to him, grinning. “How’s it feel being a party guy now, Cas?”

Castiel takes a slow sip of his beer, unimpressed. “Loud. Sticky.”

Meg laughs, clinking her cup against his. “Give it time.”

And, to his own surprise, he does give it time.

By his third party, he’s holding his own in a drinking contest, much to the delight of Meg and Dean.

Dean slaps a hand over his chest dramatically after Castiel downs a shot without flinching. “You lied to me,” he accuses. “I thought you were gonna be a lightweight!”

Meg cackles. “Oh, I love this.”

Castiel shrugs, setting the glass down with careful precision. “My tolerance is just high,” he says, voice even.

Dean groans, flopping forward against the counter like he’s in distress. “I am so attracted to you right now, and that is so unfair.”

Meg smirks. “He’s gonna pay for this tomorrow.”

And she’s right. The next morning, Castiel regrets everything.

His head is pounding, and his mouth feels like it’s made of sandpaper. But when he pries one eye open, he finds Dean already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with a glass of water and two ibuprofen in hand.

Dean smirks down at him. “Morning, sunshine.”

Castiel groans. “Kill me.”

Dean just snorts, pressing the pills into his hand. “Nope. But I will take care of you.”

And he does.

*

They do, eventually, talk about their past traumas. 

Castiel is lying in bed, scrolling through his notifications, when Dean emerges from the shower, towel slung over one shoulder. He climbs into bed beside him and cuddles into his side.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Dean says. “You worried about your final papers?”

Castiel exhales through his nose. “Just thinking.” He weaves his fingers through Dean’s damp hair, ruffling it. Dean hums but doesn’t speak, just stays close.

“My brother, Jimmy, died last year,” Castiel says softly. “Car accident. The other driver ran a stop sign. And… It's been hard.”

Dean turns to look at him, expression unreadable. “Charlie told me,” he admits. “Last year, when you disappeared before finals. She didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.”

Castiel nods, unsurprised. “I never wanted it to define me, but it does.”

Dean shifts, sitting up so they’re shoulder to shoulder. “You know what defined me?” he says quietly. “Being Sam’s everything. Not because I had to be, I wanted to. My dad couldn’t…”

He doesn’t usually talk about this. Castiel listens.

“My mom died in a house fire when I was four,” Dean continues. “Dad survived, but… he stopped living. So I did the lunches, the rides, the homework help. Long before I was Sam’s legal guardian, I was already his parent.”

Castiel leans his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I didn’t know.”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t seem like it mattered.”

“It does.”

They sit there for a while, quiet but no longer silent.

Both of them are a little broken, fractures left by loss, pressure, and expectation. But somehow, when they press close, the pieces fit.

*

Castiel doesn’t apply to grad school.

The decision comes slowly, a quiet realization that settles in his chest over time. Maybe later, but not now. He needs a break.

“I think I’ve made my decision,” Castiel says one night, stretched out on the sofa. He exhales. “I’m taking the job at Seraph.”

Dean, sprawled beside him, pauses mid-scroll on his phone. “Yeah?”

Castiel nods. “Yeah.”

Dean sets his phone down. “You sure?”

Castiel exhales, considering. “I think so. Grad school will always be there. But this… it feels like the right next step.”

Dean nudges his shoulder. “Well, I think that’s awesome, sunshine.”

Castiel gives him a flat look, but Dean just grins. “What?” he teases. “I’m supportive.”

Seraph Publishing, the same company that publishes Chuck’s books, offered him a job as an editorial assistant. And while Chuck insists he had nothing to do with it, Castiel can’t shake the feeling that his father’s influence had something to do with the offer.

The office is in Chicago, just a short drive from Pontiac. Close enough that seeing his father isn’t impossible. And while things between them still aren’t fixed, they’re better. A few stilted phone calls turned into actual conversations.

Baby steps.

*

Dean applies for jobs all over the country at first, mechanical engineering firms in half a dozen states. “Gotta cast a wide net,” he says.

But the second Castiel officially accepts his position in Chicago, Dean’s focus narrows .

“Hey, uh.” Dean scratches the back of his neck, leaning against the kitchen counter. “So, I’ve been thinking… I’m gonna start applying more in Chicago.”

Castiel stills. “Dean—”

Dean holds up a hand, cutting him off before he can spiral. “Before you start overthinking this—yeah, I know you. I’m doing it because I want to.” His voice is firm, certain. “If I can be close to you, I’m going to be. I love you, even if you’re a dumbass.”

Castiel swallows, something warm spreading in his chest. “You’re sure?”

Dean gives him a look. “Cas. You are not a life decision I regret.”

So Castiel doesn’t argue.

Dean ends up getting a job offer from a Chicago-based firm that designs renewable energy systems. When he gets the call, he bursts into Castiel’s apartment, triumphant.

“Chicago, baby!” he announces, lifting Castiel off the floor in a hug.

Castiel laughs, holding onto him. “You did it.”

Dean grins against his neck. “We did.”

*

Chuck meets Dean for the first time at graduation.

The event is long and tedious, and the speeches drag, but Castiel finds himself stealing glances at the other graduates, particularly someone seating in the back with the W’s. 

When the ceremony ends, Castiel beelines it for Dean and drags him along to meet his father.

Chuck claps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, giving him a rare, genuine smile. “I’m proud of you, son.”

Something in Castiel loosens.

Dean stands beside him, shifting his weight, looking like he’s waiting for the right moment to introduce himself.

So Castiel does it for him. “Dad, this is Dean.”

Chuck sizes him up for a beat, expression unreadable. Then he nods, smirking. “So you’re the one.”

Dean flicks a glance at Castiel, then back to Chuck. “Should I be worried?”

Chuck’s smirk widens. “Not at all.”

And just like that, Castiel watches his father and his boyfriend fall into easy conversation.

Later, when they’re alone, Castiel exhales. “That went… better than expected.”

Dean wraps an arm around his waist, pulling him close. “Told you I’m charming.”

Castiel huffs. “That is not what happened.”

Dean just grins.

*

That night, as they sit on the hood of Dean’s car, looking out at the city skyline, Castiel finds himself feeling… settled.

It’s not a feeling he’s used to.

“Glad you called him?” Dean asks, voice low.

Castiel watches the way the lights flicker on the river below them. “Yeah,” he admits. “You were right.”

Dean hums. “I love hearing that.”

Castiel nudges him. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Dean laughs, tilting his head to look at him. “I mean it, though,” he says, softer this time. “I just… I wish I’d made peace with my dad before he died. And I didn’t want you to have that regret.”

Castiel swallows. “Thank you,” he says, because it’s the only thing he can say.

Dean squeezes his hand. “Always.”

*

Sam is in the middle of his own finals and graduation, but they’ve already made plans for a road trip to California before their new jobs start.

Meg is heading off to graduate school in New York City, having landed a teaching assistant position. When Castiel hugs her goodbye, she claps him on the back. “Try not to be miserable without me.”

Charlie, on the other hand, already left for a mysterious job that she refuses to give details about.

“She was so recruited by the CIA,” Dean insists.

Castiel shakes his head, but deep down, he doesn’t disagree.

And just like that, everything changes.

Meg is off to NYC. Charlie vanishes off the grid. Sam finishes his undergrad and starts getting ready for law school. And Castiel and Dean? They’re preparing for an entirely new chapter of their lives.

*

The car is packed tight, every inch of space filled with boxes, suitcases, and the accumulated pieces of two separate lives merging into one. Their respective apartments are now just memories, their next home waiting for them in Chicago.

Dean had reposted all of his old fics earlier that day. Castiel had felt a pang of sadness that all the original comments and kudos were lost, but Dean had been completely nonchalant about it.

“Fandom’s always growing,” Dean had said, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out an imaginary beat against the gear shift. “Maybe reposting means new people will see them. Maybe someone who missed them the first time gets to fall in love with them now. Maybe they’ll mean something different now.”

That, Castiel had to admit, was a very Dean way of looking at it.

And besides, there are new stories coming.

Earlier that day, Dean had posted the first chapter of "The Bookstore", their collaborative short story turned into something much bigger. Castiel hadn’t had the chance to check it yet, but from the sheer number of emails and Discord messages he’d received, it was getting quite the reception.

By the time they pull into a hotel for the night, Castiel is more than ready to be done.

Dean had driven the first stretch of the trip. Castiel had taken over somewhere past St. Louis. Now, his back aches, his brain is foggy, and all he wants is a hot shower and a bed that doesn’t require a car engine running beneath him.

But something’s off.

Dean had been quiet all day. Distracted. Castiel had asked more than once if something was wrong, but Dean had just brushed him off, his usual snarky deflections noticeably absent.

Castiel notices it in the way Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, not to the beat of the radio, but in a scattered, restless rhythm.

Or, when Castiel is the one driving, the way he keeps glancing at his phone, unlocking it, staring at something, then locking it again without a word.

Or the way he doesn’t tease Castiel about his bad highway playlist.

Even now, as soon as they step into the hotel room, Dean grabs his duffel bag and disappears into the bathroom without a single joke about showering together. That’s how Castiel knows something is up.

Alone, Castiel flops onto the bed, pulling out his phone. He still hasn’t checked the fic comments, so he scrolls through his email notifications.

They’re overwhelmingly positive.

But some of them don’t make sense.

“Tell us what he says!”

“OMG DID YOU GET AN ANSWER???”

“AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

Castiel frowns. He considers checking the Kilas Discord, but instead, he goes directly to the fic itself.

The author’s note catches his attention immediately.

"I almost stopped writing, but someone reminded me why I started in the first place. I’m back, and this time, I have a coauthor. Hope you enjoy. This is the first of a number of new stories."

Warmth curls in Castiel’s chest.

He scrolls, scanning through the familiar text of their chapter, looking for the thing that had everyone freaking out.

Then… he sees it.

The end note.

Cas,

I thought the day you turned me in for having plagiarized my own story was one of the worst days of my life.

But it turned out to be one of the best.

Because that was the catalyst that changed everything.

These last several months have been some of the absolute best of my life. I can’t imagine you not being beside me.

Will you marry me and coauthor our life together?

Castiel’s stomach flips.

His pulse hammers in his ears.

For a second, he can’t even breathe, let alone move.

The bathroom door swings open, and Dean steps out, towel slung around his shoulders, his hair still damp, a nervous kind of energy buzzing around him.

Their eyes meet.

Dean freezes.

“…You see it?” Dean asks, voice rough, barely above a whisper.

Castiel blinks. Then again.

“…You proposed to me on AO3?”

Dean winces, rubbing the back of his neck. “In my defense … ” He trails off, then shrugs. “Yeah, I got nothing.”

Castiel lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, hands gripping the edge of his phone like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

His phone trembles slightly in his grip.

His brain stutters, struggling to catch up, to process the words in front of him.

Will you marry me and coauthor our life together?

It’s stupid. It’s ridiculous. It’s so incredibly Dean that Castiel wants to laugh and cry at the same time.

He swallows hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. Dean doesn’t just love him… Dean has loved him for years.

And suddenly, there’s nothing left to hesitate about.

Dean takes a small step forward, swallowing hard. “Look, I—I know it’s soon. I know. But, Cas… I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Castiel is blindsided by the sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion that crashes into him.

Dean, his Dean, grinning through a beer in his hand, curled up on the sofa with him, arguing about Kilas theories. Dean nudging his foot under the table, stealing his fries, kissing him senseless against a library bookshelf. Dean, who loves him, who has loved him for years, who chose him over and over again.

Castiel’s phone lands somewhere on the bed—he doesn’t care.

He’s already moving. Two strides, then his hands are in Dean’s hair, and he’s kissing him like gravity depends on it, like saying yes isn’t enough, like he needs Dean to feel it.

When they finally break apart, Dean’s breathless, wide-eyed, hopeful.

Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s, smiling softly.

“I don’t have a ring yet,” Dean mutters. “Had this whole plan, but…”

“Yes,” Castiel interrupts.

Dean blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Yes,” Castiel repeats, laughing now, hands still cradling Dean’s face. “You absolute menace. Of course I’ll marry you.”

Dean’s body sags with relief, his breath hitching before laughter spills out of him. “Holy shit.”

Castiel tilts his head. “Wait, did you think I’d say no?”

Dean groans and pulls him in again, pressing a smile into Castiel’s lips. “No, sunshine,” he murmurs, grinning against him. “Just, you know, gotta be sure.”

Castiel just shakes his head, laughing as Dean kisses him again.

In the morning, they’ll keep driving to Chicago.

But for now, the world can wait.

They’ve got time, a story to write, and each other. And they’ll keep making it up as they go.