Chapter Text
Running a screwdriver through the hand of your foster father at age thirteen gets you a lot of things. It gets you livid social workers demanding to know what on earth would possess you to do that. It gets you time in juvie to consider your choices. It gets you tons of courses in anger management run by adults who look at you like you’re dirt under their shiny leather shoes. It gets you separated from your younger brother because you’re suddenly impossible to place. What it doesn’t get you is any glimmer of hope for a bright future.
So sprawled on a run-down couch of his Frat in the epicenter of his first college party, yeah, Dean feels like a fraud. He’s even here on a football scholarship for Christ’s sake. It’s an All-American wet dream and Dean is still reeling from the whiplash of receiving the acceptance letter and partial scholarship in the mail. Is still reeling from the very recent turn of events that made it possible to even consider applying.
Dean resists the urge to pick at the yellow stuffing sticking out of the frayed fabric of the arm of the couch. Instead he focuses on trying to hear the dare being issued over a heavy bass line. He misses the actual dare, but it’s easy enough to fill in the blanks when Bela shrugs, feigning resignation as she straddles Victor’s lap. Her strappy heels are in a heap on the floor, leaving her barefoot on the couch, black dress riding up her thighs to expose even more of her perfectly shaped legs. Victor is staring, mouth hanging open and hands hovering without touching when she leans down to kiss him. Her boyfriend raises his middle finger at the issuer of the dare even as he’s hooting along with the rest of them. Dean takes a nervous swig from his lukewarm bottle of beer, eyes scanning for a burst of possessive anger that never comes.
With a flick of her honey-brown ponytail, Bela retracts her tongue and gets back to her feet. She ends on a sardonic curtsy before fixing her eyes on Dean, ”Truth or Dare, Winchester.”
”Dare,” Dean replies without missing a beat. He’d rather swallow an entire spoonful of cinnamon – risks of pneumonia or plain old choking included – than he wants to expose any shred of vulnerability to his teammates and their girlfriends, i.e. people he needs to get along with for several years if all goes well.
From the wicked smile spreading on Bela’s face he immediately knows that it was the wrong choice. ”I think we would all love to see that bisexuality out in the wild.”
Told you that in confidence, you absolute asswipe. Dean doesn’t say that, instead he smiles conspiratorially at her and braces himself for being asked to kiss a reluctant straight guy. Not how he wanted the night to go.
Bela drums slender fingers against her glossy lips, making a show of pretending to get an idea that Dean would be willing to put money on her having had from the beginning, ”You know, I think Castiel Novak could use some fun, now that he’s decided to grace us with his presence for once.”
Dean has no idea who the guy is, but he already has a real bad feeling about this. It gets worse when several people in their group let out uncomfortable laughs. There’s even a low, “Bela, leave it.”
Bela does no such thing. Instead she sticks out her chin and tells Dean, ”I dare you to make out with him.”
It’s pretty clear that the guy, whoever he is, isn’t part of their game. It’s so over the line. But looking around he’s only greeted with anticipation in the faces around him. Even the girl who tried to intervene just rolls her eyes and swats Bela’s thigh with a long-suffering laugh. There’s no way of getting out of this one without making a scene.
Dean clears his throat, ”Would probably be easier if I knew who I’m looking for.”
At first Bela’s nod towards the dance floor doesn’t make him any the wiser. Sweaty couples grind together to a remix of some pop song. Next to giant floor speakers students clasping plastic cups are yelling to hear each other over the music. Through the arch to the kitchen he can see a girl in a cheerleading uniform attempt a keg stand.
And then he spots him. Probably. Hopefully he’s wrong.
Because the thing about Dean? He’s never kissed a guy. They make him fucking nervous and not a single part of the guy leaning displeased against the back wall is improving that situation.
For most people, the deterring factor would probably be the scowl or the way his attention is fully on the phone in his hand. But for Dean, the more damning component is that he’s gorgeous. Angled cheekbones, straight nose, pink lips – the works.
In spite of the underventilated space, the guy is wearing a black leather jacket as if he’s not planning to stay long enough for it to get uncomfortable. Greyscale tattoos peek out from the collar of a white shirt. His dark hair looks like someone has recently been running their hands through it. Add in the stubble running along his defined jaw and the whole thing should probably lend an unkempt atmosphere. Unfortunately it doesn’t. Instead it just looks like he’s never given a fuck in his entire life. Heat coils tightly in the pit of Dean’s stomach. As if knowing that he’s being watched, the guy lifts his eyes – striking blue – the silver ring running through a full lower lip glints in the dim light. Dean quickly looks away to avoid getting caught.
“Pissed-off guy in the leather jacket?” Dean’s voice comes out sounding impressively normal. The broadening of Bela’s feline smile confirms it.
His pulse is loud in his ears like when he’s just finished a game and his threadbare Springsteen shirt is starting to stick to his back. There’s just no version where this doesn’t end with Castiel laughing in his face while this entire group watches the whole fiasco play out.
”You gonna chicken out on us, Winchester?” Bela taunts.
And frankly Dean would rather crash and burn in plain sight than give her the satisfaction. Leisurely he downs the dregs of his beer. It’s gone flat and bitter by now, but that’s the least of his worries. With a carefree grin he says, “Nah, I’m doing it.”
In the responding whooping, Dean hands Bela his empty bottle with a wink as he passes her.
Making his way across the room, Dean almost wishes that he’d slip and crack his head open on the disgusting floor. He doesn’t. Instead he weaves through the press of bodies, discreetly wiping his hands on his jeans as he goes.
The trip is way too short for his liking. When he stops in front of Castiel, he somehow still hasn’t conjured up a good opener and he’s seconds from hand-wringing territory when Castiel speaks.
“I’m not selling,” Castiel tells him in a too-deep voice without looking up from his phone.
The heat in Dean’s stomach takes a more incendiary turn at the disrespect, which makes it a lot easier to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “Well, that’s fine, because I’m not buying.”
In a flash of piercing blue, Castiel finally looks up. Unfortunately it’s to do a once-over of Dean’s body, and not in the fun way. His eyes sweep from scuffed boots, up jeans with an unsanctioned hole in them and over a shirt that’s a full size too small. Even before landing on features that disparaging voices have described as ‘delicate’, the lines of his face draw together in something that can only be a sneer building.
So Dean sticks out his hand to cut off whatever remark is working its way up Castiel’s throat before it can land between them and draw the trenches deeper, “Dean Winchester.”
It’s not necessarily a prudent choice he realizes as Castiel just stares mystified at the offered handshake. It makes for a very visual rejection, the kind that can be easily spotted from across the room.
“I promise I don’t bite,” Dean says, plastering on a grin, “Unless you ask nicely.”
His delivery is too shaky and the grin doesn’t reach his eyes, but Dean is about ready to pump a fist in the air at even managing to push the words out in the face of broad shoulders and lithe muscle. Unmistakably male.
Castiel’s gaze dips directly to Dean’s unconvincing grin, lingering on his mouth for long enough that Dean can feel everything slipping. Castiel’s expression is unreadable. The furrow between his dark eyebrows deepens along with the lines under his eyes. The skin there is tinted purple as if he maybe sleeps as bad as Dean does.
Castiel’s Adam’s apple bobs once and then he shifts the phone, pocketing it with one hand while his other wraps around Dean’s waiting palm.
“Castiel Novak,” he replies. With the boredom stripped from his voice, all that’s left is the deep gravel, easily cutting through the thumping bass that has Dean speaking at an uncomfortable volume.
“Yeah, I know,” Dean slips his hand from Castiel’s grasp, his calluses sliding awkwardly over Castiel’s smooth skin. He rubs at his neck, “So, uh, I actually have kind of a favor to ask.”
He’s getting no help whatsoever from Castiel, so he plows ahead with the smile still painted on, “See those assholes over there? Yeah, they think this is middle school so they dared me to make out with you. I know it’s… But it’s my first semester and I kinda need them to like me. So could you maybe do me a solid? I would owe you big time.”
Castiel raises a single eyebrow at the whole pathetic display, ”You want me to kiss you. As a favor.”
The strained grin turns more apologetic, ”Pretty much.”
“Since you’re new here I’ll do you a real favor and say no. You don’t want your delightful frat brothers thinking you’re queer.”
”That train has already left the station I’m afraid. Bela just told everyone that I’m bi.”
”As a joke?”
”Maybe,” Dean says, not backing down from the intense eye contact Castiel has initiated, “It’s the truth, though.”
“She outed you?” Castiel asks with danger slithering underneath the words. It’s an unnerving shift to prince on a white horse. Or maybe more like Vlad the Impaler. If looks could kill, Bela would be a steaming pile of mush on the floor right now.
“Nah, it’s not like that,” Dean hurries to course-correct, dragging Castiel’s attention back to himself. It’s like pinpricks all over his skin. “I just hadn’t exactly planned on leading with it with guys I’m sharing a locker room with. So it’s just like, logistics. I’m not being hate-crimed or anything.”
It’s the truth. He might’ve fallen hook, line, and sinker for the brittle pain evident behind the shiny front Bela’s putting up. Fellow damaged kid. But even if he’s still having a hard time learning the lesson that hurt people hurt people, he’s old enough to know that while you can breadcrumb some truths, the real bad shit you keep to yourself. Nothing good comes from sharing it.
Castiel’s tongue pushes against the lip piercing. He slowly nods, ”Okay.”
Dean doesn’t get the chance to ask what Castiel is saying okay to before strong fingers are gripping the back of his head and there’s a warm mouth on his own. The whimper Dean lets out is from surprise, but that doesn’t stop Castiel from laughing against his mouth. Asshole.
In retribution Dean fists a hand in the front of Castiel’s shirt and drags their chests together. The zipper of Castiel’s jacket hits Dean’s nipple piercing painfully, but the low grunt the motion produces in Castiel seems like an acceptable pay-off.
While he’s busy congratulating himself, Castiel gets the back of his neck in a tight grip and adjusts the angle. And suddenly it’s not an awkward press of faces. Instead it’s lips sliding slick and hot and the taste of nicotine in his mouth. With a hand on his hip, Castiel pulls them closer. Somewhere between cold metal against his mouth and the drag of Castiel’s tongue Dean forgets that their kiss is for show.
He’s panting when Castiel uses the hand on his neck to pry him off. They’re still close enough to share air and Dean can’t for the life of him rip his eyes from Castiel’s pink lips. The ring is shiny.
”You have a room here?”
With his last remaining braincells, Dean manages to make a sound of assent.
“Do you want to do this properly?” Castiel asks with a slightly manic glint in his eyes.
”Sure,” Dean replies, not completely sure what he’s agreeing to. Because ain’t no way that Castiel is referring to… But at the same time, between fingers inching closer to his ass and the intense way he’s being watched, Dean isn’t feeling at all certain that they’re just speaking about the dare anymore.
Castiel drops his hands, leaving twin cold spots on Dean’s body, ”Lead the way, then.”
Dean jerkily nods. As he turns around and starts leading Castiel to the stairs he hears a burst of whooping from his teammates. He gives them the finger, following it up with a smile, before concentrating on their trek upstairs.
In the upstairs hallway he turns and is almost surprised to see that Castiel is still there. He’s carrying a half-filled bottle of wine that he must have filched somewhere along the way.
Dean opens the door to his room, belatedly remembering that he left his soggy football gear in a pile in the middle of the floor. Well, nothing to do about that right now. He holds the door open for Castiel to walk in and see the entire mundane spread of Dean’s belongings.
”Fucking straights,” Castiel mutters, ”Just have to make the two queer guys kiss.”
And even though it’s not fully a surprise, the bottom still drops out of Dean’s stomach. He forces a laugh, glad that his back had been turned while closing the door, hiding his expression. He turns to face Castiel, ”It’s pretty cliché,” he agrees.
Castiel puts the bottle down on the corner of Dean’s battered desk. Dispassionately studying Dean’s shit scattered over the surface, he asks, ”You gonna lock the door? Don’t want anyone walking in on us not having sex.”
”Beats someone walking in on us while we are having sex,” Dean jokes. He locks the door anyway, Castiel’s point is valid enough.
Castiel lets out a low laugh as he ventures further into the room. He goes to the single window, cracking it open before settling on the deep windowsill. Before Dean can take it as a, warranted, comment on the musty smell, Castiel pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket. He stops with the smoke in his mouth, in the middle of lighting it, at the look on Dean’s face. He finishes lighting it and holds it out to Dean, ”You want one?”
Dean shakes his head and decides to let it go. Judging by the general state of the room he has taken over, this likely isn’t the worst thing anyone has smoked in here. The carpet is worn almost through in places and the wooden furniture that came with the room is all rickety as hell. Still, he appreciates not having to shell out on a bedframe, dresser or desk. And the built-in shelves between the dresser and the foot of the bed are a nice bonus. All he’s had to add is a new twin size mattress and the few belongings that has managed to survive the relentless moving, haphazardly thrown into trash bags when he’s had to pack up his entire life in fifteen minutes yet again. At least until this last move where he was gifted the second-hand duffel peeking out from under the bed.
Castiel shrugs and takes a drag. He at least has the courtesy to exhale the cloud of smoke in the direction of the open window. Dean takes a mouthful of wine to occupy himself. It’s sour and unpleasant on his tongue, washing away the lingering taste of Castiel.
”So you’re a football player?” Castiel finally says, eyeing Dean’s body in a way that seems designed to make him self-conscious. He knows he’s not as fit as some of the other guys.
”Yeah,” Dean replies. He pulls at the hem of his shirt to hide the sliver of skin revealed when Castiel had his hands on him not even five minutes ago.
”Mm, and let me guess, you’re doing some sort of bullshit communications degree to go with that?”
”Er… No. Mechanical Engineering.” When he’s not fake-picking up antagonistic guys it would seem.
That gets him Castiel’s attention, ”Not putting it all on a professional sports career after college?”
”Nah, man, I’m not even very good. I barely know how I managed to get a scholarship. But, well, here I am, suddenly able to go to college after all,” he sweeps his arm in a weak ta-da motion, gesturing to the shitty little room that might end up being the most stable place he’s ever lived. If he doesn’t manage to fuck it up. He usually does.
Castiel tilts his head, studying him intently. Probably in an attempt to figure out what the hell is wrong with him. ”I’m an English Literature Major,” he just says, not letting Dean in on whatever revelation he’d just been having.
”Cool,” is the extent of Dean’s reply.
Then, to Dean’s horror, Castiel’s attention goes to his meager collection of tattered paperbacks. Castiel slides down from the windowsill, bringing his cigarette with him to the shelf.
”Oh, wow, this is very straight,” Castiel tilts the books out one after another, finally holding up Dean’s copy of On the Road with a ’really?’ expression.
Dean crosses his arms, ”Well, I like it,” he says tartly, ”And, straight? You coursing through that literature degree with just the cliffs notes or is it just all unreadable experimental shit up in your ebony tower?”
For some inexplicable reason Castiel starts smiling, ”Well, would you look at that. You do have a spine.”
”I’m sorry?”
”Just the whole peer pressure display,” Castiel vaguely gestures to the floor below with Dean’s book.
”Wow, you’re an asshole,” Dean stalks over, wrenching the book from Castiel’s grip, ”Just because I want to make friends. Why are you even here if we’re all beneath you?” He slams the book back in its place with more force than necessary. Castiel is doing that uncomfortable stare-into-his-soul thing again.
”I don’t think you’re beneath me,” Castiel says. It’s unclear who’s included in that ’you’, ”And I’m here because my friend hounded me to come. Although that was before she discovered that there would be coke,” Castiel shrugs as if his friend stranding him for a buzz is inconsequential. His voice softens, ”You have a very nice book collection, Dean.”
It’s suddenly hard to overlook the fact that they’re standing close together. Very close. He can feel the heat radiating off of Castiel. In spite of his best efforts, his eyes dip to Castiel’s mouth. Before he can conjure up some inane question about the piercing to cover it, he’s saved by stumbling steps and giggling outside of the door.
”Ah, your friends,” Castiel says. And Dean can’t even argue with the sardonic tone. Fucking hell.
Castiel moves over to the window, puts out the cigarette on a roof shingle before carelessly throwing the butt into the dark. Dean makes a mental note to pick it up from the wilted lawn tomorrow. The sudden sound Castiel lets out startles him. He follows it up with the worst set of grunting Dean has ever heard.
”What the hell are you doing?”
Castiel settles on the windowsill, making another ungodly noise before replying, ”Making it sound like we’re having sex.”
Dean stares at him, ”That’s what you sound like? My condolences to your partners.”
Castiel unrepentantly makes another terrible sound and someone really needs to show him how it’s done.
”Cas,” Dean’s voice is breathy and needy, a true A+ performance. He builds the desperation, the urgency, ”Fuck. Cas, please.”
Satisfied with his dominance, Dean turn his attention from the door to smirk at Castiel. The begging he’s gratuitously peppering in dies on his tongue as he realizes that his work isn’t meeting any recognition. Stricken is probably the most accurate word for the look on Castiel’s face. And yeah, shit, Dean is making this weird. He makes his voice comically shrill on the next ”Cas,” which earns him an eyeroll for his troubles.
Dean drops down on the floor at the foot of the bed and starts pushing against it, making the headboard bang against the wall. He keeps moaning, still peppering it with Castiel’s name, but keeping it deliberately over the top. Castiel has given up on participating, instead shaking with suppressed laughter. Dean winks at him when their eyes lock, ”Oh, yeah, right there,” he’s still doing the shrill voice that’s nowhere near the way he actually sounds during sex. Castiel tilts his head, but Dean is fully focused on building intensity to his performance before slowly winding it down. He mock-bows from his sitting position.
Castiel claps, making it soundless, even though the sudden quiet makes it clear that they no longer have an audience. Castiel goes to get the wine while Dean catches his breath. He sits down on the floor across from Dean, handing him the bottle. Dean gratefully takes a drink.
He almost spits it back out when Castiel asks him, ”You’re a bottom?”
He could laugh it off. Claim that it was just for the bit. Instead he replies, ”Maybe. I don’t actually know yet,” at the incredulous look from Castiel he adds, ”What? Guys are scary.” He hands the bottle back to Castiel.
”More scary than women?” Castiel asks before drinking.
”Yes. You don’t think so?”
”Oh, I do, but I’m not into women at all, so you can see how the lack of nerves makes that one easier,” Castiel passes the bottle back, their fingers brushing. At the next drink Dean has to make a conscious effort to avoid thinking about the fact that Castiel’s mouth was there seconds ago. His full lips wrapping around the dark green. His pink tongue chasing a stray drop.
”Please. Like you ever have issues with nerves,” Dean says. Castiel looks confused so Dean makes a sweeping motion of his whole look.
Castiel doesn’t comment on it, probably to save Dean from dwelling on the unfairness of the world. Instead he’s once again studying Dean with that intense expression, ”Was that your first kiss with a guy?”
Dean can feel the blush building on his face. He takes another drink before passing the bottle back, ”That bad, huh?”
Castiel laughs, ”I don’t think there’s really any big differences based on gender there. You’re avoiding the question. Does that mean the answer is yes?”
”Yes,” Dean reluctantly supplies, ”I’m not joking about guys being scary. My pick-up game is terrible, as you just experienced.”
Castiel’s face softens, ”I appreciate you telling me it was a dare.”
Dean grabs the bottle from Castiel’s fingers without it being offered to him, ”Christ, your opinion of my character is low. Of course I would tell you.”
”You really would, wouldn’t you?” Castiel sounds surprised, as if he’s having another one of the Revelations That Will Not Be Shared With Dean, ”I believe you said you would owe me.”
”Sure, what do you want? You can’t have any of my straight books.”
Castiel laughs before saying, ”I want you to pretend to date me.”
This time Dean does actually spit his wine out. Though it’s more of an unattractive run down his chin that ends as a wet spot on the front of his shirt, ”What?” he weakly asks.
”I want you to pretend to date me. As you’ve noticed I’m having an ’image problem’,” Castiel says, doing actual air quotes. It’s dorky as hell, except for the way it makes his sleeves ride up, revealing another inch of inked skin on broad forearms. Castiel takes his momentary lapse of focus as hesitance, ”Or are you too afraid of tanking your social standing?”
It’s a stupid taunt, but it works exactly as intended, ”No, I’m game. I just don’t think dating me – fake dating – is going to have any kind of positive impact on your image.”
”Oh, I disagree,” Castiel’s face is doing something vaguely predatory that Dean can’t decipher at all.
Truthfully there’s a long list of reasons that this is a terrible idea, but this last hour is the first time in god knows how long that Dean hasn’t felt like a fraud. And while it shouldn’t matter, it does.
”Then I guess we have a deal,” Dean says.
They solemnly shake on it. If nothing else, this might at least give him some exposure to being near a hot guy without his brain exploding.