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Castiel is sitting with his head ducked so low that his forehead is almost touching the filthy lunch table. This is the first thing that Dean notices when he enters the cafeteria on Friday. Either Cas is asleep or it’s just another one of those days. Knowing him like he does, Dean would bet his life on the latter.
“Hey, Cas,” he says breezily, plopping down in the seat beside him as though nothing is amiss.
Castiel grumbles something that vaguely resembles a response. He doesn’t dignify Dean with eye contact, but he does lift his head just enough that Dean can see bags under his eyes, only half-hidden under a mop of dark hair. Even on Cas’ good days, his hair kind of resembles a bird’s nest, but this is by far the worst its been in a while. Dean can usually determine Cas’ mental state by how much disarray his hair is in, and if this is anything to go by... they’re in trouble.
“What’s up?” Dean asks. He unzips his backpack and pulls out a BLT that his mom made for him last night. Usually he brings two because he knows how much Cas loves them, but last night he hadn’t thought to ask. He doesn’t want it to come down to this, but Dean is fully prepared to share or even donate his entire sandwich to Cas, depending on how dire the situation is.
Castiel doesn’t say anything. He only moves enough to reveal a folded piece of paper that had been tucked under his arms. His nudges it across the table to Dean with one finger, like it’s poisoning him to touch it.
Dean wordlessly unfolds the paper and scans it over quickly. He doesn’t have to look hard to see what the problem is. At the very top, scribbled in the hellish bright red that teachers use for marking papers, is a large 59 that is circled and then underlined for good measure.
It’s a paper for his Philosophy and Literature class. Dean knows this is strange because despite the awful teacher Castiel has - some douche with perpetually angry eyebrows called Zachariah Adler - Cas is aces at understanding the convoluted diatribe of philosophers throughout the centuries. He has the memory capacity of the all of the volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica combined, and he never gets a question wrong on any of the comprehensive exams. Adler resents him for this, but he can’t argue with numbers, so Cas is untouchable on the multiple choice tests. The essays are a different story. Though Adler has a history of being a harsh grader, he goes after Cas like he has a personal vendetta against him, his entire family, and his cat.
Dean glances down at the paper and sees a dozen tiny red marks in the first paragraph alone. In the margins there are snide comments and questions like “is this really necessary?” and “citation?” Adler is picking his writing apart to a ridiculous degree because he can’t take points off for lack of technical skill. Castiel’s grammar and spelling are excellent; Dean uses him as a human spellcheck on a regular basis.
“Condescending prick,” Dean mutters. “You know you’re better than this, right?”
Castiel doesn’t answer. He just makes a miserable sound in the back of his throat and refuses to look up. He mumbles something that Dean doesn’t quite catch.
“What’s that, buddy?” Dean leans halfway over the table to hear him. He is distantly aware that they make a strange sight; two boys sitting at an otherwise empty lunch table, one who is doing his best impression of a turtle in its shell, and the other who is lying almost entirely on top of the table surface to get closer to him.
“Michael is going to slaughter me,” Castiel repeats.
Ah, yes. Michael Novak. Possibly the worst older brother on the face of this planet. He makes Dean look like a saint in comparison. Whenever Sam thinks to mouth off to Dean while Cas in the vicinity, Castiel will give Sam a pointed look as if to say, ‘at least your older brother doesn’t lock you in your room on Sundays after church for daily prayer and reflection.’
Dean scoffs. “So don’t show it to him.”
Castiel sighs and fixes Dean with a decidedly unimpressed scowl. “Michael knows Zachariah. He’s a family friend. Word will get around soon enough.”
Jesus, Dean thinks. Is there anyone in this town Michael doesn’t know?
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Dean says stiffly.
“It’s very endearing that you believe you can protect me,” Castiel says, “but I think we both know this is a hopeless situation.”
Dean looks down at the glaring 59 on the paper and makes sure Castiel is watching him when he tears it right down the middle. Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean crumples the two halves of the paper in his fist and shoots them into the nearby trashcan. They both bounce off the rim and fall to the floor. That has to be a bad omen.
“There. It’s almost like it never existed at all.”
“What’s the point?” Castiel laments. “Zachariah’s going to give me a failing grade on every paper I write this year. I might as well drown myself in the water fountain and get it over with.”
“Quit being so melodramatic,” Dean snaps. “You’re worth more than some shitty paper about ancient philosophy. Who the hell is Camus, anyway?”
“Ca-mou,” Castiel pronounces succinctly. “He’s a french philosopher and the author of--”
“Nevermind,” Dean says quickly, waving his hand in an attempt to clear away the smell of pretentious bullshit. “The point is that you know this stuff, and the only reason he failed you is because he hates you. Which is ridiculous, because you’re a goddamn genius.”
Castiel’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Dean can see the wheels turning in his head, can practically hear the grinding of gears as Cas works hard to formulate a protest. Coming up blank, he eventually snaps his mouth shut and slumps in his seat.
“Why doesn’t he like you, anyway? You’re practically a ray of-- well, okay, you’re not really a ray of sunshine. Like, at all. But that smarty pants know-it-all thing you do is usually a teacher’s wet dream.”
And usually Dean’s wet dream, he carefully does not add. What? It does things to him when Castiel reads aloud to him or when he contributes to a mundane conversation with entirely unhelpful but interesting facts.
“It probably has something to do with the fact that I called him a miserable, myopic misanthrope last week.”
“Wow.” Dean blows out a long breath and tries not to look intensely amused. “That’s poetic.”
“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Were were discussing alliteration. It was fitting.”
Dean’s mouth pulls into a grin without his consent. Sometimes he can’t help it; he’s just so goddamn fond of Cas. It is hard to believe that they have only known each other since middle school, because Castiel knows him better than anyone on the planet - possibly even better than Sam or Mary.
“Man, you’re even more wound up than usual. Any particular reason?”
"It's nothing," Castiel says on an exhale. Then, completely to Dean's surprise, “Do you have any weed?"
Dean quirks an eyebrow at the change of subject but nods. “‘Course. Always have a stash on hold in case of emergencies. You know that.”
“Are you willing to share?”
“Dude,” Dean says, grin stretching even wider. “Is that even a question? Name a time and place.”
“Eight o’clock tonight. Crenshaw Park.”
“The one by the rich people golf course?””
“Yes,” says Castiel. “I happen to know for a fact that Zachariah goes golfing there every other Saturday.”
“Oh?” Dean’s not sure where this is going, but he has to say, he really digs this rebellious streak in Cas. “Cool. I’ll be there.”
-
True to his word, Dean arrives at the park at exactly 7:59 pm. There are only a couple of trees in the park, because any more than that would probably disturb the perfectly manicured lawn. There are tiny man-made ponds dotting the grounds and meticulously placed rows of tulips and roses lining the sidewalks. This isn’t a park like the ones Dean grew up in; this is a farce, a place where freedom and spontaneity comes to die.
Dean feels his skin crawl a little bit more with every step he takes. Cas better have a damn good reason for dragging him all the way to the other side of town.
“Dean.”
Dean startles and spins on his heel. Castiel is leaning against the large stone building that has an embossed sign hanging above it. The script is gold and glossy, and it catches in the moonlight just enough that Dean can make out what it says: Crenshaw Country Club.
“What are you doing there?” Dean hisses, sprinting over to him. “Aren’t there, like, security cameras all over the place?”
Castiel snorts and points to the two cameras on either side of the entrance. “Those are decoys. Turns out rich people don’t like expending funds on security in a neighborhood that they think is safe.” Castiel shrugs. “Besides, we’re not technically breaking in.”
Castiel pulls a set of golden keys out his pocket and swings them around his index finger a few times. “Perks of being the community organizer’s brother.”
“Dude.” Dean has never been so in awe of another human being in his life. Is that a halo over Castiel’s head or just the glare from the streetlamp?
Castiel unlocks the door in one try. For a moment Dean is nearly blinded by how white everything is. The walls, the ceiling, the floor - all of it a pristine as a bleached bone. When his eyes adjust, he is able to make out the golden trim of the wallpaper and a bunch of scalloped columns with tiny marble figurines set atop them. One is of a cherub blowing into a miniature horn.
“Aren’t country clubs supposed to be all rustic and obsessed with yachts and billiards and stuff? What’s with all the angels?”
“My father donated a lot of money towards renovation a few years ago. Predictably, he went for a religious theme,” Castiel said. “There is a billiards table in the back, however.”
Castiel gestures to the long granite table off to one side. Dean glances at it, then at the stiff-backed plush chairs that are arranged beside it, and feels vaguely nauseated.
“Is there anywhere else we can sit? Somewhere a little less... sterile.”
Castiel gets a very, very devious look on his face then. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
Before Dean can question him any further, Castiel takes off. Dean follows him, weaving carefully between the columns, trying very hard not to knock over any of the cherubs.
They turn a corner which opens up into a wide, slightly less ornate corridor. There are about eight separate rooms on each side, four of which are marked with silver placards. Castiel leads him past all of the rooms to one at the very back. The placard on this door says: Library.
Castiel uses another one of the keys to get inside. Dean can immediately see why it was locked. It’s a relatively small room, but each wall is absolutely packed with books from floor to ceiling. Most of the spines look old and have words in a foreign language inscripted on them. There are only a few of which Dean recognizes - the Holy Bible amongst them.
The room is windowless and and stuffy, but it looks comfortable. Lived in. Even the carpet is a little more worn that Dean would expect given his tour of the rest of the building. This is also the only room he has seen so far where the walls aren’t white. Instead, they are a rich emerald that nicely complements the maroon and gold of the paisley carpet.
“This is where Zachariah spends a lot of time grading papers,” Castiel says. “I know because Michael is always complaining about him being a recluse during club meetings. Never contributes to anything, apparently.”
“We’re gonna smoke in here?” Dean asks incredulously. “There’s no ventilation and the smell will hang around in the books forever.”
“Exactly.” Castiel doesn't look smug, exactly, but he’s certainly pleased.
“Oh my god. That is so just deserts,” Dean says gleefully, sitting down on the carpet and leaning against the bookshelves. Castiel follows suit. Dean hurriedly fishes out the bag of weed he had stuffed into inner coat pocket earlier and holds it out to Castiel along with his lighter. “Already rolled a few.”
Castiel takes a joint out of the bag and observes it for a moment. It’s expertly rolled, if Dean must say so. Never let it be said that he doesn’t have steady hands.
“Dean, I have something to confess,” Castiel says seriously.
“What?”
“I’ve never smoked before.”
Dean laughs, but not unkindly. “Okay, no big deal. There’s not much of a learning curve. You’ll probably just cough a lot.” Dean takes the joint from him and lights the end of it. “Here. Watch.”
He puts his lips to the end that’s not smoking and draws in a deep breath, holding it in his lungs for a moment before blowing it out slowly. “You got it?”
“Uh...”
“I’ll do it again.” Dean repeats the same steps, but this time on the exhale he puckers his lips just slightly and blows out a series of smoke rings. Castiel is staring at him with his eyes quite literally glazed over, mouth ajar. Dean smirks. “That last part isn’t for beginners, though. Ready to try on your own?”
Dean goes to fish out a second joint, because he’s wasted a good portion of this one on demonstration, but Castiel’s arm shoots out to stop him. “No!”
“You don’t want to?” Dean is not upset with him, but he can’t keep the slight edge of disappointment from his voice. He had really been hoping to share this experience with Castiel, especially if it was his first time.
“I do,” Castiel assures. “I’m just... worried about my lungs. And I don’t want to waste a whole joint because of my ineptitude.”
“Well, you know...” Dean wipes his hand across the back of his mouth and shifts on his feet. “It’s less potent if you shotgun. You ever heard of that?”
“Yes,” says Castiel quietly. “That sounds sensible.”
“Nothing about this is sensible, Cas.” Dean snorts and holds the joint over the flame for a moment to get it burning again. “Okay, I’m gonna take a pull and then you lean in right after and I blow as much as I can into your mouth. Got it?”
Castiel nods mutely and Dean breaths in a lungful of smoke. Castiel takes that as his cue and ducks his head in close, opening his mouth. Dean parts his lips a few centimeters from Cas’ and blows out as much of the smoke as he can. Castiel inhales immediately, but a lot of the smoke is lost to the surrounding air. They are too far apart to get a proper seal. Dean swallows and debates telling Castiel that, but in the end he doesn’t have to say a word.
“I hardly inhaled any of it,” Castiel complains indignantly.
“Hey, I didn’t say it was a perfect system.” Dean scrubs a hand through his hair and finds he can’t meet Castiel's eyes. “But first tries are never perfect. Wanna go again?”
“Fine,” Castiel concedes, “but this time we do it right.”
Dean doesn’t bother asking what Cas means by that; he suspects he’ll find out. He takes as big a drag as possible off of the dwindling joint, and as soon as he does Castiel is on him. Like, one second Dean has an abundance of personal space, and the next he has an abundance of Castiel. Dean has time only to register the vivid blue of his eyes and pink part of his mouth before their lips are touching and Dean is spluttering the smoke into Castiel's mouth more than he is gracefully exhaling it.
Castiel takes this in stride and inhales; Dean knows because he can feel Cas' chest expanding against his own. Castiel has his hand around the back of his neck, presumably to keep Dean from jerking away after the initial contact. Eventually, very, slowly, Castiel draws back from him and lets the smoke out of his lungs. His eyes are hazy when they focus on Dean.
“Better?”
“Much,” Castiel murmurs. “We should do that again.”
“Um,” Dean says eloquently. He tries very hard not to stare at Castiel’s mouth and fails very spectacularly. Christ, what did he do to deserve such a hot best friend? This has got to be, like... there’s gotta be a law against this.
Dean realizes with a full-body thrum of pleasantness that the pot is taking effect. He feels lighter, especially when he looks at Castiel’s pretty face. In fact, he feels so light he thinks he might float away. Huh. Weird. It usually doesn’t hit him this hard this fast.
Castiel sets his hand overtop Dean’s and says something that goes completely over Dean’s head. “What?”
“I don’t feel anything yet,” Castiel repeats indignantly.
Dean sighs and stares up at the ceiling for a while, contemplating. He means to tell Castiel that they can shotgun again and finish the rest of the joint off, but instead he gets distracted by an oddly shaped water stain in the corner and ends up tracing it with his eyes for at least five full minutes until Castiel shakes him.
Dean snaps back to attention and notices Cas fiddling with the lighter. It’s not igniting, and there’s a tiny furrow between Castiel’s brow that deepens with every flick of his thumb. Cas looks unreasonably cute like this, which Dean thinks isn’t fair because Castiel is frustrated and Castiel deserves to have a good time. Why isn’t he having a good time?
Wow. He probably shouldn’t have had that beer before he left the house.
“Give it to me,” Dean manages to say after a few long seconds of deliberation. Castiel hands him the lighter and the rest of the joint. Dean flicks his thumb once and the flame bursts to life. He lights the joint and takes a quick puff because there isn’t much left and he isn’t keen on burnt fingertips.
This time, Dean goes to Castiel first. He fits his hand around the sharp edge of Cas’ jaw and uses it like a handle to pull him closer. Their lips meet sideways, and it’s a little sloppy, but it ultimately does the job if the quiet, pleased sound Castiel makes is any indication.
Castiel starts to pull away then, but Dean’s stupid lizard brain joins the fray for a moment and decides that it would be a good idea to slide his hand around to Cas’ neck, mirroring the position Cas had used just minutes earlier to keep him in place. Then Dean realizes, shit, they’re out of smoke, and whatever Castiel inhaled is now slowly seeping out from the seams of their lips, so he no longer has an excuse to keep Castiel close to him.
Defeated, Dean retracts just enough for the rest of the smoke to trail out of Castiel’s mouth. His eyes are heavy-lidded and relaxed; there’s absolutely no indication that he notices anything awry in Dean’s clingy behavior.
“Are you fee--” The rest of Dean’s sentence is swallowed up when Castiel suddenly surges forward and reclaims Dean’s lips. For a long time, Dean has absolutely no thought in his mind besides one resounding fuck yes. Because this is satisfying in a way that nothing else Dean has ever experienced is. It’s something he never thought he would have, either.
Sure, he’s thought about it before. More than once. Castiel is good-looking from an objective standpoint if the whispers around school are anything to go by, and to Dean, who knows every single nuance of his deceptively placid expressions, he is the goddamn modern Mona Lisa. No, he’s every Caravaggio painting all in one - he is the embodiment of every single one of those beautiful young men, but he’s even better because he’s made of flesh and blood, and he’s pressed warm to Dean’s side, and his mouth tastes like earth and the wintergreen gum that he’s always chewing.
Dean hates that fucking gum, but on Castiel’s tongue it is suddenly the holy grail of all of the flavors on Earth. It’s the best tasting gum ever simply because Dean can lick the taste of it from Castiel’s molars and the roof of his mouth, and because Castiel makes soft noises that are completely contrary to his sandstone and gravel voice when Dean nips at his bottom lip.
They break apart slowly so as not to disturb the carefully constructed atmosphere of tranquility between them. Dean keeps waiting for the inevitable disaster when Cas will look at Dean with a mix of vague disgust and disdain. Dean feels panic well in his chest like an impending freight train.
Instead, Castiel leans back against the wall and stubs the joint out before it disintegrates into nothing. After a short pause he says, “I was lying before.”
“What? When?”
“When I said I hadn’t ever smoked before. I have. More than once. With Gabriel.”
“Figures,” Dean mutters. He’s not terribly surprised. Gabriel is a heathen if there ever was one. “Why lie about that? You know I don’t care.”
“I wanted an excuse to shotgun.” Castiel says it like it’s obvious, like ‘how have you not picked up on that yet, Dean?’ Maybe it is obvious. Maybe Dean has been really stupid for a long time now.
“So, you...?”
“Like you?” Castiel finishes. He pinches another joint between his fingers - Dean hadn’t even noticed that he had taken one out of the bag - and lights it swiftly before he takes a toke. He breathes out smoothly without so much as a hitch of breath. Dean feels duped in the best way possible. “I do. Very much.”
Dean’s brain has a hard time picking up the thread of the conversation, because all he can see is the way Castiel’s mouth looks around a lungful of smoke and the way his eyes become something lurid and too-blue behind the haze. Then it hits him hard, all at once.
Castiel likes him. Enough to come up with some harebrained scheme just for an excuse to kiss him.
“How long?” Dean croaks.
“Remember when you punched Harry Aponte in the face in sixth grade after he called me a ‘fag with daddy issues’?” Dean nods, almost smiling at the memory. Harry had gone down like a sack of potatoes, and he hadn’t bothered Castiel and Dean for the rest of the year. “I was perfectly capable of sticking up for myself, and I think you knew that. But you did it anyway. For some reason, I thought it was charming. No one had ever defended my honor before.”
“Oh.” Dean flushes, staring at his shoelaces and letting the rest of the world blur out around him. He did not come prepared for the night to end like this. “I... um.”
“It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, Dean.” Castiel smiles kindly at him. “I just thought you should know.”
“No, I--” Dean swallows and tries to think past the thick layer of molasses smothering his brain. How does Castiel look so composed all the damn time?
“You’re great, Cas. More than great.” Dean laughs nervously and cards a hand through his hair, making it stand up in unruly little spikes. “And you didn’t have to come up with an excuse to kiss me, y’know. I would have done it if-- if you asked.”
“Yeah?” Castiel looks tentatively hopeful and Dean feels his heart literally swell to twice its size in his chest like a reverse grinch.
“I’ve pretty much been gone on you since that time you shared your Snickers bar with me in seventh grade.” Dean flushes even redder as soon as the words are out. Fondness always makes his tongue loose.
Castiel laughs then, and it sounds just like it always does only this time it strikes Dean as incredibly appealing. So appealing, in fact, that he is compelled to pluck the joint right from between Castiel’s elegant fingers and lean forward enough to press a shy kiss to the corner of his mouth. Castiel turns into the kiss, and Dean can feel him smiling against his lips.
Castiel pulls away after he has gotten his fill. He is looking at Dean in a way that is hard to stomach; soft, like Dean not only hung the moon, but handpicked each and every star as well; like the day starts and ends at Dean’s feet, like he is made of all things beautiful and shining.
Dean swallows past the lump in his throat. He’ll have to deal with the way Castiel feels about him, and the way he undoubtedly feels in return, soon enough. But right now there are other things to think about, such as the fact that there is incriminating evidence all over the place. The other joint has burnt itself out and left a pile of ash on the carpet. The entire room smells of earthy smoke.
“You think Adler is going to suspect it was you?”
“Zachariah has more pressing matters to attend to right now.” Dean raises an eyebrow and Castiel shrugs. “I may or may not have told Michael that he has been skimming from the country club’s annual funds.”
“Is that even true?”
“Probably,” Castiel muses. “I saw him driving around in a new Porsche a few weeks ago. No one can afford that on a teacher’s salary.”
“Oh my God, Cas.” Dean massages his temples carefully, half disbelieving of what he’s gotten himself into, half embarrassingly turned on. “You’re basically an evil genius.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing,” Castiel says, all stoic innocence. “Now pass me the last joint.”