Chapter Text
The heat clung to everything. September in Lawrence still had the stubborn sweat of August, air sticky against the back of Dean’s neck as he hauled another box out of the Impala’s trunk. He muttered under his breath, adjusting his grip before trudging up the stone steps of Whitmore Hall.
“Would’ve killed us to pick a school in, I dunno, Alaska?” Dean huffed.
Charlie trailed behind him, her bright orange hair already plastered to her temples, arms full of bedding and a desk lamp. “Alaska doesn’t have Wi-Fi this good, Winchester. Besides, we’ve got central air waiting upstairs.”
“God bless technology,” Dean said, shifting the box on his hip. “Remind me why we signed up for the fourth floor again?”
“Because,” Charlie said with mock patience, “you wanted the view of the quad and I wanted easy access to the library.” She grinned sideways at him. “Compromise, remember? Just like our relationship.”
Dean barked a laugh, nearly tripping over the stairwell landing. “Right. Can’t forget that.”
They made it to the fourth floor, sweating and a little winded, but Dean couldn’t help smiling at the sight of the long hallway. Open doors spilled music and chatter, families dragged in suitcases, nervous freshmen clung to clipboards. For the first time, it felt real. College.
Charlie nudged him. “Ready to wow the masses with our perfectly curated, hetero-as-hell love story?”
Dean shot her a grin. “Babe, we were born ready.”
They reached their door—Whitmore 417. The gold plaque gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Dean balanced the box awkwardly, fishing out the key they’d practically begged the housing office for. Getting approved as a “couple” had taken both charm and paperwork, but Charlie was nothing if not persistent, and Dean played the role of doting boyfriend like he’d been born to do it.
The door swung open to a room half-furnished with institutional blandness: twin beds, desks shoved against opposite walls, a dresser between the windows. It smelled faintly of floor wax and new carpet.
Charlie dumped her load on the left bed and clapped her hands. “Home sweet home!”
Dean set his box on the right desk, looking around. “Could use a little… character.”
“That’s what fairy lights and throw pillows are for,” Charlie said. She grabbed his arm, pulling him close. “Come on, smile. We made it. Pact fulfilled.”
Dean rolled his eyes but slung an arm around her shoulders anyway. “Yeah. We did.”
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The introductions happened later, when the hall grew noisy with reunions and meet-and-greets. Sam had texted Dean to swing by his new dorm, same floor—just down the hall in 421.
When Dean knocked, it was Jess who opened the door, all sunshine in cutoffs and a loose Kansas t-shirt. She beamed. “Dean!”
“Jess.” Dean grinned back. He liked her—always had. She was good for Sam, grounded and sweet but sharp enough to keep up with him.
She ushered them in, where Sam was halfway through stacking books on his desk, tall and broad-shouldered in a Stanford sweatshirt that looked a little too smug for Dean’s taste.
“Dean!” Sam straightened, smile splitting his face. “You made it.”
“Course I did.” Dean clapped him on the back. “Wouldn’t miss my little brother pretending to be a real adult.”
Sam rolled his eyes but hugged him anyway.
Charlie waved from the doorway. “Hey, Sammy. Don’t forget, we’re the fun couple in the building. You guys are just nauseating.”
“Love you too, Charlie,” Sam said warmly.
Dean glanced around the room, noting the half-unpacked boxes, Jess’s careful touch already softening the corners. Then his eyes landed on the other bed.
And the guy standing next to it.
Dark hair, messy like he hadn’t bothered with a mirror. Blue eyes startlingly bright even in the dim dorm light. A posture both guarded and tired.
Sam gestured between them. “Dean, Charlie—this is my roommate, Castiel Novak. Cas, this is my brother Dean and his girlfriend, Charlie.”
Dean automatically reached for Charlie’s hand, threading their fingers together. They smiled like they’d rehearsed it—which, in a way, they had.
“Nice to meet you,” Dean said.
Castiel tilted his head, studying him in a way that felt too direct, like x-ray vision. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Likewise.”
For one strange, suspended moment, Dean’s gaze caught his. Something in Cas’s expression shifted—curious, maybe even intrigued. Dean felt his chest tighten. He looked away first.
Charlie squeezed his hand lightly, and the moment passed.
Jess launched into chatter about the floor’s amenities, the communal lounge, the laundry room that supposedly ate socks. Dean smiled and nodded, but every so often, he caught Cas’s eyes flicker back to him, unreadable.
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Later that night, when the noise in the hall had settled and Jess had gone back to rearranging Sam’s posters, Dean and Charlie lay on their twin beds in 417, a string of fairy lights already strung above her desk.
Charlie had her laptop open, tapping at something while Dean stretched out, arms behind his head.
“Well,” Charlie said, not looking up, “your brother’s roommate is cute.”
Dean snorted. “Didn’t notice.”
Charlie arched a brow. “Please. You notice everyone.”
Dean didn’t answer, staring at the ceiling.
Charlie shut the laptop, rolling onto her side to face him. “Hey.”
He glanced over.
“You good?” she asked softly.
Dean huffed. “Yeah. Just—first day jitters, I guess.”
Charlie reached across the space between their beds, her hand brushing his. “Remember the pact,” she said. “We’ve got each other. Always.”
Dean met her gaze, a rush of gratitude swelling in his chest. “Yeah. Always.”
They lay like that for a while, the quiet hum of the dorm filling the space. Dean didn’t think about Castiel Novak’s eyes again that night.
Not too much, anyway.
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