Stuck in the Closet

A/N: I dedicate my first-ever high school AU to my good friend, Shalina (teamfreewifi). She's the biggest fangirl I know, next to me. A big thank you for reading my fictions front and back. Check out hers sometime; they come with a heartbreak guarantee!

"Soy un perdedor, hombre."

"Cas, you know I didn't take Spanish."

"Correction, you failed Spanish."

"Trenton hated me! Anyway, that's not the point. Perk up, man, there're bigger losers out there."

He wasn't wrong, even though the other senior wasn't convinced. Castiel was enrolled in three advanced electives this semester: Theatre IV, Concert Choir, and Engineering. And damn, if the first two classes hadn't gotten him laid by now, Dean had no hope in the blue-eyed, dark-haired SOB.

"Thanks," Cas sneered, "I thought you said you flunked Spanish."

"I did, but I had to tell my dad I learned something during a class that took a hundred fifty days out of my year—that and standard insults have limited shelf-life."

Cas scoffed, "You counted the days, but you couldn't learn uno word of Española?"

"Hey, math has uno interpretation; Spanish, muchos."

"Wait, is that why you called me a snot-nosed bitch for the last three years?" Sam exclaimed from the backseat.

"See, Sam's a freshman and he already passed his language class," said the rider in shotgun.

"Sam's a monstruo," Dean retorted, pushing his brother's face back with his free hand. He shifted briefly to his best friend, green eyes kind. "You're perfecto."

Cas reddened everywhere despite its platonic context—that definitely wasn't a word rooted in hate. Luckily, Dean had his eyes fixated on the darkened road ahead of him like a good escort.

"Oy, mierda," Sam groaned, "get a room you two."

"I don't know what you just said, Sammy, but watch the language."

Not even his pain in the ass brother could ruin this night. Dean was on his merry way to what was arguably the one of the biggest parties ever. Not that Dean cared about parties; in fact, being in auto shop and music theory didn't exactly classify him as frat material, anyway. It was who was on the guest list that made him beg his linebacker friend, Benny, for an invite. Everyone who was anyone was going to be there, including Lisa Braeden, the girl he had been courting pathetically for two years, and Meg Masters, Castiel's longstanding crush and thrower of said party. If tonight went well, both he and his best friend could wind up walking out with two beautiful women on their arms.

After four years, the young mechanic/musician still couldn't fathom how these things didn't peak Castiel's interest—or other things, for that matter. He'd never seen Cas rise for anything—not the acts he's performed, or the songs he sang, or even the train station he built from scratch sophomore year. Hell, it got so bad that at this point he was starting to believe that his best friend he thought he knew so well was asexual. Wouldn't that be something?

When they finally arrived at their destination, Sam filed out of the '67 Chevy without so much as Dean's consent. Cas was about to follow suit when he felt for the handle only to find it locked shut.

He stared at the dashboard, addressing his friend lamely, "Dean—"

"Look," Dean interrupted brusquely, but kindly, "I just want to say that I know you're not exactly comfortable being here. Have one conversation with her. I promise if Meg Masters doesn't fall head over heels for you within the first minute she talks to you, then we can leave. We'll go out for burgers or something, because if it turns out she doesn't like you—which I highly doubt—then she's the bitch."

He turned to find his friend's pensive face barely visible thanks to the miniscule light illuminating from the radio. Cas knew he should have been flattered, but Dean always had the better looks of the two of them. He'd never get over his perfect bright emerald eyes, perfectly chiseled jawline, or even just the way his mocha hair was perfectly parted, encasing his features. Dean could have anyone he wanted and he knew it, yet he spent all his time with Cas playing matchmaker.

Unfortunately, he also knew that Dean Winchester never went back on his promises.

He exhaled sharply as he turned to Dean, surprised at his own words: "Well what're we waiting for, the apocalypse?"

"That's my chico!" exclaimed the other boy, popping open the doors.

Meg Masters lived on a cul-de-sac a couple miles north of Dean's quaint little apartment complex. It was a simple enough house from the outside, but the inside was the true Pandora Box. Already thirty minutes in and place was flooded. From raving lunatics (mostly the pre-fraternity major athletes, with the exception of a few lowly freshmen) to the DJ tucked in the rear corner playing upbeat pop music (not like Dean knew any of the artists anyway, but it was still pretty cool), the party had everything. Dean found his other friends—Charlie, Garth, Kevin, and Ash—idling in the corner farthest away from the music, blabbing about something. If he had to guess: technology, Doctor Who, or listing the hottest girls on a scale of one to goddamn.

Dean's "date" had a couple friends from Engineering, Gadreel and Samandriel, but neither would ever think about presenting themselves for such an occasion. He didn't blame them; this was public humiliation at its best. Unfortunately, Cas also had a popular best friend, even though Dean insisted that he was anything but. Dean knew athletes, student counsel, marching band, theatre kids—hell, even fandom groupies and wannabe punk rockers.

He couldn't decide if Dean befriended people easily, or if everyone just took an immediate liking to him. Cas didn't mind these other friends of Dean's, but he couldn't help but feel left out if he went off somewhere else, chatting it up with someone far more interesting than he.

"Hey, are you doing okay so far?" the aforementioned boy said, returning from what felt like the other side of the universe.

Cas had just been wandering around aimlessly with his hands shoved in his pockets, hardly eavesdropping on what little intellectual conversation he could pick up. Sometimes it was Charlie and the gang; others it was Sam and his "nerd group" as Dean so casually put it, and split the rest of his time hanging by the refreshments.

Cas nodded. "Yeah, fine." He hated not having a good time. He felt like a burden on the social butterfly's shoulders.

"Have you seen her?"

"Uh—no, she's pretty busy," Cas replied shyly, hiding his face behind a foam cup.

Dean scoffed, throwing his head back. "What could—?" Then, scanning the room, he saw the direction Castiel's eyes had followed. Currently, Meg was grinding up against a really handsome dude. "Oh."

"Yeah, it's her party; I guess that's how, uh, she entertains."

"Or she's just a w—"

"Dean," Cas said curtly, "let it go."

Dean crossed his arms and smiled nastily. "What? I was just gonna say wholesome bitch." Cas shook his head, crinkling his nose as a small attempt to smile.

"You look like you're having fun," he drew, pointing his still untapped cup of what he hoped was lemonade toward a few guys turning heads in Dean's direction. One exception happened to be Lisa Braeden, the girl Dean pined over since sophomore year.

Dean waved the deduction away faster than he'd disappeared from the fickle crowd. "No, actually most of these people are real dicks," he said, nudging Cas in the side, "I already suspect a few of them have, like, a dozen skeletons holed up in their closets."

"Oh really, is that before or after they resorted to cannibalism?"

"Hard to say, I think some just dump bodies for safekeeping."

Cas shook his head woefully. "That's such a waste of good human flesh."

"Not unless you dice up the liver and serve it with a nice side of fava beans," Dean noted, trying out his best Hannibal impression before substituting for a full-bodied smile. Cas broke into a fit of laughter, having to grip the island behind him for support. Dean shifted his eyes to the people ahead of them. "See, I can't have these conversations with anyone else here."

"Then why are we here?" Cas asked more seriously after sipping from his cup. He might as well look like he was doing something productive.

Dean drew in a sharp breath, exhaling just as so. "I uh— I may have had an ulterior motive."

The blue-eyed boy narrowed his eyes accusingly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Seven Minutes in Heaven—that was the game. Getting laid—that was the underhand aim. Dean Winchester was sneaky, Cas would give him that. Dean was the kind of guy who pursued risk. The time that he replaced Sam's shaving cream with whipped cream ("Like he needs it anyway," Dean retorted, amid planning the future catastrophe, "the dude's twelve he probably doesn't even have pubic hair yet.") and not only had big marble burns splayed across his face for days, but their neighbor Shelia's cats clawing at him, only barely proves that theory. Cas has never been pranked himself, to which he's been thankful. Dean's never pressured, name-called, or swapped his shampoo bottle for Elmer's glue (which "may or may not" have also happened to Sam, according to the eldest), but today Dean was doing what he did best: pursuing risk.

In this case, the pursuing part was entirely in the affections of a lucky lady for his best friend on the spin the bottle. The risk part, well, let's just say that tomorrow Dean'll have more than enough earful to feed an entire orphanage.

"What's the matter, pussycat, afraid of the dark?" chimed Raphael. Though he was one grade below Cas, standing at a soaring six-foot one and nearly two hundred pounds wrapped in dark skin, well, even macho man Dean could blatantly admit he was one tough chico. Luckily his personality didn't extend beyond small talk. Dean wouldn't have hesitated pounding his skull into a steaming back burner by now.

Next to him, his friend Gordon chuckled. "Even Dean-o can't protect him from the dark. What's he gonna do, beat it up?"

Half of the group erupted into laughter. Dean felt Cas tense up against his side, lent out his arm, and began to etch spherical patterns into his friend's shoulder with his thumb. Dean hardly ever got offended in all the time Cas has known him—a trait Cas wished deep down he possessed.

"Ha! There he goes guys," senior student council leader Zachariah hooted, "comforting his boyfriend, what a fuckin' loser."

A few butts down and an exasperated sigh came from Balthazar, a junior with little patience under his rather fashionable belt. "Jesus Christ, are you girls done with your mani/pedi? I'd like to start this game before we all grow lady parts."

"Ya'll need to shut the fuck up," added Benny, next in line to shove all three of their said parts into a meat grinder, "I'm about to go tiquando on your asses."

Gordon laughed, "You don't know tiquando."

"No, but I'm about to get my first fuckin' lesson if you run your mouth sommore."

That broke the entire gang into pieces. Even Dean, Miyagi of comebacks, had to give his second-to-best friend props on that one. Cas still hadn't felt any better. This was public humiliation at its best—and the game hadn't even started yet.

The first few rounds were mediocre. Jocks were paired with the wrestlerettes, thespians with choir kids— even two of the most incredibly hot chicks at school somehow got paired to heat things up behind closed doors. Cas breathed a sigh of relief. Neither he nor Dean was chosen. Honestly, he would rather join the mile-high club than be abandoned by his best friend.

Then, what would you know, the bottle landed on Castiel. This was it. This was a do or die (quite literally). Castiel and a freshman girl, Hannah, were chosen. Even worse: Dean's friends in the group were legit howling. Charlie had her hand raised in a thumb up and Ash was chugging his beer like there was no tomorrow.

Gabriel Novak, twice-year senior and older brother of Cas's, tossed him a congratulatory wink, mouthing a sly Go get 'em, tiger.

Cas gulped—what the hell had Dean gotten him into?

She ran out. After hours of being trapped in a bad high school remake of Animal House and playing someone's grand scheme to get laid, this was what Castiel Novak had to show for.

When they got into the closet (more like forced on Cas's behalf), Hannah didn't even admit she didn't want to kiss him; instead, she picked the only moment of blindness to ditch him.

What Cas didn't know was that the brunette scrambled for the nearest exit because she was actually too nervous to kiss him. Perhaps this would've been far more becoming information when he was being barricaded in a closet against his own will by what was most presumably his idiot brother and Dean's so-called "friends".

They were drunk. They were all drunk. Why else would they be hooting and hollering and pounding on the door? And, more importantly, why would he be trapped inside a claustrophobic den of inequity when there were other willing volunteers to utilize it? If there's one thing Cas learned after four years of this shit, it's that high schoolers can keep their liquor down, but they could never keep it in their pants.

Then the most miraculous thing happened. The ear-deafening pounding stopped. Someone walked in. Seizing his cheek, someone grabbed him, reeled him into their lips. It seemed almost forged, but when a tongue slid into his mouth, it was like feeling the hairs of the same brush that da Vinci used on the Mona Lisa. Between lips and tongue, he tasted extraordinary colors like electrocution dabbling on his imagination.

Then, as unceremonious as everything that's happened tonight, it was gone. The blinding light from the outside world spilled into the closet, seething hot on his dimmed eyes. Of course that supposedly liberating point, ironically, was when Cas was too paralyzed to move. And to make matters even worse, once his vision adjusted again, everyone was acting like they were having dinner with the Queen. The selective group was sitting quietly in their seats, especially his persecutors; allegedly the same ones that locked him in, which probably would have had his ears spewing steam like a teakettle if his mind wasn't so. . . blank.

"Hey, do you, uh—?" Dean began, yet seeing Cas so wired, went against his better judgment to finish his inquiry. Cas couldn't even will his head to move, just loomed over Dean with his sapphire eyes glazed over and mouth slightly agape. He reminded him of Cameron from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. "I always knew you'd be a lightweight," he joked lightly once they were halfway to the car.

He couldn't tell you when Dean stood up, or grabbed him by the arm to lead him out, or even when they stepped into Dean's Impala and left the night behind the exhaust pipe, but he did remember every detail of that kiss. . . and the excruciating weeks that followed.

"Cas, are you okay?" Gadreel asked, turning to his friend.

The senior raised his head from his soggy PB&J sandwich. Hunger wasn't in his schedule today, nor was it the days before that. His mind was still very much wrapped around two weeks ago's Friday night. His schoolwork was starting to suffer major consequences.

"And don't say it's 'family problems' again, Cassie," Gabriel said, sucking on what was presumably an orange from Cas's view, "I was in that house for sixteen years, the worst emotional trauma is getting sent to your room after disowning the dog."

(Back in freshman year during the early stages of harassment, Dean fabricated a surprisingly good spur-of-the-moment lie to get the bullies off Castiel's back: Cas's adopted parents died in a tragic hit-and-run and Cas was mute because he was still in shock. Eventually the rumor spread throughout the whole school, and since Castiel's real biological parents never fit in the time to go to a PTA meeting and Cas hardly ever talked during school hours, the teachers started to buy into it too.)

Gadreel shifted his head to the boy two years his senior (no pun intended). "Maybe it is family problems, Gabriel. A lot can change in two years."

"No," Gabe replied sternly, "you obviously don't know Cas as well as you think, buddy boy. There is nothing wrong with our family…minus being overly eccentric about Scrabble night. But I do know what's up with him."

Cas pushed his food away, suddenly too distracted to eat. "No, you don't. Even if you were the one barricading me inside, that meant that you had to have been drunk, or—"

"Or the best brother ever," he finished proudly.

"No, you were drunk."

"Maybe a little," he admitted.

Cas wrung his head, running a hand over his weary face. Talking to Gabe tended to have that effect on him. "Okay, now that we've proved the world still revolves around you, you haven't gotten to the point where you told me who it was that you shoved inside the closet with me."

"What makes you think I forcibly shoved them inside the closet with you?"

"You shoved someone inside a closet?" Gadreel said incredulously.

Gabriel scoffed sharply, "No, I didn't shove someone in a closet. I should have. He wouldn't have taken the bait if it was dangling by a piece of—"

"Wait," Cas said, preparing himself for the inevitable, "he?"

Both Gadreel and Cas were staring at the eldest of the Novaks like they had just seen a ghost, marveling at the new information. Cas's heart was pounding before Gabriel could even squeeze in the next sentence.

The first-born ran his hands through his shoulder-length chestnut hair. "I mean, you know…" He laughed to compensate for the odd looks he was receiving. "Shit."

"Thanks, Gabe," Castiel replied curtly, grabbing his lunch bag and backpack. In a little over an hour Castiel was going to raise a little hell.

Holding a kissing booth wasn't at the top of Castiel's bucket list, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He's been struggling for two weeks to fathom the idea that someone would want him—even if just for one night. Whoever it was—correction: whoever he was—Castiel was definitely interested, even if it turned out they weren't. He just needed to get to the bottom of things, find some closure. How did the saying go? Out of sight, out of mind? More like out of sight, out of his mind.

The setting up part was the least complicated. The sign took all of two minutes. He ended up finding a nice spot underneath a large oak tree just outside the perimeters of school, but not too far that anyone wouldn't notice the nerd idling outside the parking lot. It was the attracting the right people that was the real problem.

"Hey, Ralph, looks like Cas is lining up his victims," Gordon chided. He had his backpack slung over shoulder. Raphael was trailing a ways behind him, chatting with Michael, the varsity star quarterback.

He threw his head back, eyes landing on Castiel's blue across the gravel. "Aw, that's adorable," he cooed, "What, pussycat doesn't get enough pussy from his boyfriend?"

"I think it's because he got the big r-e-j-e-c-t at that party. Honestly, did he think he was gonna get laid?"

Cas coughed, managing a rough, "Guys, I'm right here." Whoa, where the hell had that come from, Novak? Apparently he wanted his ass creamed corn.

"What did you just say?" Gordon said, dropping his backpack and crossing the street. He saw him reaching for something in his back pocket. It was slick and shiny and reflected off his face for a whole second before a taller figure came up behind him, grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him back. Dean swiveled Gordon to face him. Gordon took a swing with the hand that possessed the knife but Dean was swifter. He grasped his wrist and twisted it back after kneeing him in the abdomen. The knife fell out of his hand, landing in the road with a clank, Gordon with a thump.

Raphael and Michael were on him next. Dean managed to fight them off too, but not before kicking the blade out of their reach. He ended up clocking Michael in the nose—did Michael really think he stood a chance at taking down a pissed off Dean Winchester? —and had Raphael in a headlock without a single scratch on him.

"If you…wanna kill me…go ahead. Do it… pussy."

"I don't think so," Dean breathed vehemently into his ear, "you're not worth it."

It took the three of them a moment to get their shit together, but they hadn't hesitated walking away—ever so dignified of course, in spite of their recent injuries.

Dean jogged up to Cas, exhaling a breath he had been holding for what felt and sounded like decades. He must not have been paying attention to what Cas was almost beat up for doing in the first place, because immediately he went in on an issue with the transportation home.

"So, I had to park a little farther day, in the fire station about four blocks over. I'll swing around and pick you up ASAP, depending on traffic. Sound good?"

"I don't need you fighting my battles, Dean." He wasn't sure if he believed that statement as much as the next guy, but it was worth trying.

"Yeah, well, I need the batting practice," Dean replied.

Minus his slightly pink cheeks, he was completely unfazed. Cas tried not laugh at the classic Dean he'd always known. "Yeah, sounds okay. I'll just need a couple more minutes, anyway. I have some homework to finish up."

"Cool," Dean replied, smiling and running a hand through his slightly skewed hairs—a habit that Cas had picked up on after the first two weeks they'd known each other.

"Do I even have to mention that parking inside a fire department is illegal, or…?"

"Oh, I guess I forgot to introduce myself when we met: Hi, Dean Danger Winchester."

Cas laughed, guiding him away with his hand, "Get out of here before you get arrested."

Once his best friend was completely out of view, he returned back to waiting. He didn't know why he lied, honestly. He'd never lied to Dean. But this time it was almost like an instinct.

He was close to closing down his little business until a diffident boy approached his stand. He was a few inches shorter than Castiel, but compensated with his striking looks. He had slicked-back brown hair, luminous grey eyes, and an even shyer smile. "I—uh, I saw your sign," he said in a small voice, "I had to wait until those guys left." He paused on his explanation before continuing: "That guy that beat them up, are you guys…together?"

Castiel laughed; his indirectness was already turning him on. "No, he's just a good friend."

"Oh," the guy said, stepping closer, lending out his hand and running his mouth a few times before speaking. "I guess I should introduce myself before I ask you for a kiss. I'm Ion."

Cas accepted his hand, smiling, "Castiel."

"Oh, I know who you are, I . . . sorry, I'm off to a bad start. I usually don't . . ."

"It's fine," Cas said, "and me too."

Castiel and Ion went on a few dates, but nothing exclusive. Most of the time they spent as a couple was at school, whether it was holding hands, or just lessening their proximities around other people. Cas had forgotten just how much he wanted someone like this, someone to call his, until Ion kissed him, reminding him.

Was he positive that Ion was his kisser from last month's party? Nothing could ever be certain. All he knew was that at the kissing booth he met someone who actually dug him and that he dug back—and Ion wasn't that bad of a kisser. When kissed Cas it was slow, like extracting honey from a comb. Being a virgin to the act, Cas had a tremendous opportunity to learn from the experience. (Although he'd gotten Ion to open up more, he still didn't have the nerve to tell him he was seventeen and has never kissed anyone, but he had a feeling that that was why he took his time kissing him.)

The bullying was on a temporary standstill, and not because the perpetrators had reached into the depths of their soulless bodies and mined out goodness. One of Ion's good friends was Naomi, one of the most popular girls in school, also dating Zachariah, one of the douchebags from the party. Ion had joked that Cas could probably burn down the school because Mr. MacLeod owed Naomi some kind of huge favor for a "personal thing". (Cas also didn't have the heart to say that his best girl was probably shacking up with the principal.)

He knew they were thinking the same thing as Cas by the way they eyed him down the corridors: where the hell is Dean Winchester? Even if the bullies could get their hands on Cas, who would be there trying to spare the feeble boy from bloodshed? There just wasn't any game in it. Cas had begun to wonder himself. He hadn't seen him in… man, must have been weeks. Now that Ion was preoccupying his time and most of his thoughts, he couldn't keep track of the exact day he'd last seen him.

Dean hated school, but he also hated not being by Castiel's side more. It had to have been a family emergency. Their dad was always traveling to God knows where on short notice, maybe he had finally run into trouble. But they were best friends, he would have told him, right?

After school, Ion guided him to the building farthest away from school grounds. He started kissing him. Cas returned the embrace, but not after Ion began trailing more south than necessary, attacking his unguarded neck. At first the suction felt nice, tongue and lips outlining faint patterns on his skin, and then came the biting. And Ion didn't just nip like a cat would nip; he began eating his throat, retracting his tongue the further he went.

He wrapped one arm around his waist, steadying Cas's now quavering body while his other hand was propped behind Cas's head. Cas tried to push him away lightly. Ion hummed something he couldn't quite hear through his skin, dipping even lower to bite down on his collarbone. Cas pushed harder, heart pounding wildly in his chest when he felt the warmth and stickiness of blood pooling around his shoulder as he did so. Ion grew impatient; shoving him malignantly against the drywall, backside to him. Castiel let out a small, insignificant cry. Ion was surprisingly strong for a smaller guy.

The next thing Cas saw from his peripheral was Ion's body being bashed haphazardly into the wall next to him. Cas barely mustered the withdrawn courage to turn his head. He laid his eyes on familiar dense green.

"D-Dean?" he sputtered, gaping more at his best friend than at the body next to him that he couldn't exactly justify still had a pulse. He was shaking all over. He had to calm down or his vital signs would betray him and he'd be lying next to Ion.

Dean ran a hand through his hair and turned to the wide-eyed boy. He had to retrain himself from kicking that guy's ass any further. If there was one thing his daddy taught him it was never to beat a man while he was down—but boy, was this guy down on Cas. No one laid a hand wherever he pleased on his best friend, especially if it was just some guy who waltzed into the picture automatically claiming Cas his.

Dean led Cas to his car parked out front. Cas's shaking had stopped after a few minutes and turned into a paralyzed state. The other man wanted to wrap an arm around him, somehow shelter him from the storm that had raged on moments ago. Touching would only agitate him, Dean knew, so he just stood next to him, casting a glance every so often, giving Cas's brain some much needed comprehension time.

After a while, Cas made the extra attempt to walk the next block to the Impala and stepped in; that was when the silence was truly deafening. Dean had to admit, in a fully house; silence seemed like a gift wrapped in a silver bow. Silence was treasured. Silence was supposed to put a troubled mind to ease. This was not how silence was supposed to feel.

He ended up driving to his place, parking his car on the curb across from his house. Cas had stepped out and almost immediately sank soundlessly into Dean's arms. He wasn't crying, at least not yet, but his hands said otherwise. He practically clawed at the lapels of Dean's leather coat and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Dean instinctively wrapped one hand around his back and the other behind his head, smoothing out his matted hairs. He felt Cas breathing out slower breaths and waited for him to pull away before he did.

Neither of them said anything for a while. No words could do justice to the circumstance.

"I, uh, I got you a fresh change of clothes, they're on the bathroom seat," Dean said after they had long since migrated into his bedroom. It was weird hearing his voice after a few hours going without using it. "The Zeppelin shirt might be a little big. I have a reputation for wearing out the classics."

Cas sat in the corner furthest from the closet, legs folded upward. "Thank you, Dean," he said quietly. It was a miracle for the senior hearing his voice over anything else.

"You don't ever have to thank me, Cas."

"No, but I do," Cas replied, this time slightly louder. "I always have to."

Dean got up from his bed to sit with his friend of four years. He shifted sideways to look at Cas, face almost unreadable with his head bent down to look at his knees. He spoke prudently, using his big brother tone: "Alright, talk to me."

"I just—" Cas cut off sharply. Dean could tell he was bracing his words and pushing back tears stinging vehemently in his throat. "I just don't understand, Dean."

Dean shook his head. "Understand what, Cas?"

"Why they're never like you," Cas said miserably, lifting his head to look Dean in the eyes for the first time, "why every guy—or girl—can never just be like my best friend."

Dean laughed half-heartedly, "I don't think you want someone exactly like me…"

"Dean, you're the best person I know," Cas pressed, "you're smart, funny, loyal, respectable—not to mention incredibly brave. I should have kept tabs on how many times you've been close to pushing people's heads through pikes… not that I doubt you haven't before…"

Said man smiled warmly. "Cas, being your best friend is a full-time job. The pay's next to crap, but it's the best damn job I ever had."

"For once I just wanted it to be someone else's job," he said sadly.

Dean pursed his lips, unwilling to bring himself to argue with Cas anymore. Instead, he placed his hand over his and brought himself to say, "Get dressed, I have a surprise for you when you get back in."

"Dean, I think I'm fresh-out of liking surprises at this point."

"Trust me," he urged, looking dead at him.

Cas's eyebrows knitted into a perfect angle, creasing his tanned forehead. "Why me?" he asked. It was a question that had been on his mind since they'd first established their friendship over a lame fight followed by even lamer pop-culture references.

"Because," he said, "you're the best person I know."

"Whoa, hey," a familiar voice said, flooding the otherwise vacant corridor with sound, "…Cas? How have you been, man?"

Sam Winchester. If Dean wasn't the most talked about person around school, his little brother would be second in Castiel's life alone. He'd known Sam almost as long as Dean, just not as well as he'd like to. Nonetheless, Cas had watched Sam grow into a nice looking young adult, which makes sense since he adopted his aesthetic features from his brother.

Cas caught his breath; just bumping into Sam winded him easily. "Hey, Sam—sorry, it's been a busy couple of weeks, but," he paused, thinking of Dean and smiling. "I'm fair, and yourself?"

"I bet it has," Sam said. Grinning, he revealed two impish dimples on either sides of his mouth. Cas didn't know how to take the reaction. "I've been alright. You know, with IB I barely have time to breathe," he explained, "so I'm glad I got to get out of the house with that party."

"Oh, yeah, I almost forgot," Cas lied, "that was a crazy night."

"Yeah, really was. Didn't you get picked for Seven Minutes?"

"I wouldn't use 'picked' exclusively, more like dragged in by the skin of my teeth."

Sam laughed, leaning against the wall for added support. "Yeah, I never play those games; they're just there for people's sick amusement."

"You can thank your brother for that one," Cas said, recalling the event—the one that led to today's untimely fate—with self-resentment more than anything else. "But he was only trying to help, I guess."

"Yeah, well, you've only been exposed to his underhand schemes for four years, come back to me in fourteen years," Sam replied, "but yeah, you guys are best friends, I'm sure that's what it is." Sam paused, initiating the conversation again, except this time he had exchanged his naturally amiable persona for one more grave. "You have something on…"

The older boy glanced down. He had already changed into Dean's spare clothes—and yes; Zeppelin was definitely a classic arbitrating by the stonewashed colors—but he hadn't realized that the collar didn't cover all of his shoulders, leaving one, the one with the bite mark and now crusted bloody residue, exposed.

He didn't know how to explain himself. Luckily, Dean's door was cracked only slightly and he had his headphones on, waiting for his best friend to return, so all he'd bared witness to was his little brother talking to Cas about something.

"Anyway, it was good to see you, man," Sam said at last, replacing his frown with a kind smile before disappearing down the hall and into the neighboring room. Cas did the same, only having a hard time forgetting the strange looks the second born gave him when he brought up Dean.

"Your brother's acting really weird for some reason," he said.

Dean chuckled, storing his iPod underneath his twin double, "It's Sam he's always acting weird, he doesn't need a reason."

"I guess," Cas said, toying with a vagrant string of fabric on his borrowed shirt. "So what's this illustrious surprise?"

The taller boy's eyebrow rose. "Wouldn't you like to know," he said, then dismissed his mock-suspicion with a placated grin, "Alright, yeah, there's a surprise. And like the surprise, I, Dean Promises-Kept Winchester, am a man of my word."

"What happened to Dean Danger Winchester?" Cas asked curiously.

"He died sometime when his dad found out about his fifth parking violation this week."

Cas swayed his head side to side, unable to mask a grin, "Well hopefully this model is better."

"Yeah, well, you'll get to be the judge of that," he said, "it's in the closet."

The senior's sapphire eyes shifted from Dean to the closet in the corner. Whatever it was, it must have been big. When did Dean even have time to get him something? Dean said to trust him, which he did, so he moved across the room and stepped into the limited space.

From what little he could see, there were packages upon packages—one labeled 'Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock'. He smiled musingly, peering into the open box. Cassettes, they were all cassettes. Everything else, judging by the sweetly familiar musky smell, was leather jackets and more stonewashed band t-shirts.

"Dean, I don't think I see it," said he, peering through the half-lidded door. There wasn't anyone on the other side.

He frowned, debating whether or not to turn on a light when the door closed behind him. The owner of those smells felt around blindly for his cheek and then their mouths were mingling together. The only difference between last month's kiss and this one was the artist and the painting. Instead of da Vinci's bittersweet Lisa, he tasted van Gogh's stars as he kissed Dean back more than heartily.

Dean withdrew after a long moment's hesitation to turn on the light above them, illuminating his flushed face. "How about now?" he said, transfixed between Cas's eyes and his lips, most presumably where all of his color had gone.

"I don't know, I think I missed it," Cas replied, draping his arms around his neck. "Do you think you could you show me again?"

Turning out the light, Dean did just that—more than once.

Later that same night, Sam passed by his brother's room fleetingly. His lips turned upward into a faint smile when he bestowed his eyes on his bed, currently doubled in population. The youngest would have stood by longer had it not been weird enough that there was a stranger lurking by the doorway (and even worse, that it was his brother).

Sam Winchester didn't like to think he was a matchmaker extraordinaire, he was too ruthless. He hated shoving his brother and a good friend of his into a wardrobe closet, but hey, Romeo had to break down the castle walls to rescue his damsel in distress eventually. Sam just liked to think of himself as a middleman—nothing more, nothing less. And if Dean called him a monstruo for the rest of his existence, so be it; because now everything was absolutely perfecto.

END