After their tryst in the library, Dean insists on walking Castiel back to his dormitory — "It's the gentlemanly thing to do," he points out with a shrug, even though Talbot Hall sits in the other direction from Dean's room, despite Castiel's declaration that he doesn't need an escort and that it's better if Dean doesn't see his room. Dean responds by trying to grab Castiel's backpack, which he does not succeed in doing. Perhaps Castiel isn't some muscle-bound jock, but he can carry his own things — and, besides, Dean has his own backpack to worry about. Regardless of who carries what, they leave the library together, and Castiel pauses to lock up behind them. The custodial staff has off tonight anyway, and it's just as well; the only names on for the late shift are Novak and Winchester, Castiel wouldn't want them figuring out who had sex between the stacks.

As they wander up the path and past the barren trees, it starts to snow — like they really needed more of that, with another layer of shimmery flakes lilting down onto the other piles of powder. Salt crunches under their shoes, but Castiel supposes that it's better the grating sound than slipping on ice; they pass the dining hall that specializes in diner fare and to-go orders, and they pass the long trellis that goes up a separate path to Harvelle's main offices, with the leafless branches twining around the wood. They say nothing about the bottle of pills Dean found, or about how Castiel put them back into his pocket before they left, refusing to leave them behind. Going down a little hill brings them to Talbot's Tudor-style brick building, overlooking the dormitories further down; Castiel uses his student ID to get them in and, leading Dean to the staircase, he tries to tune out the other young man's complaints about the lack of elevators.

"…all I'm saying is that practically every other place on campus has a damn elevator," he gripes, as they round a corner. Castiel points out that they hardly need the assistance getting up three flights. "Need it, no — but I didn't say anything about needing it. I just want it."

Castiel sighs. "Then you should feel lucky that I didn't get housed on the fourth floor. …I almost had them relocate me. The view up there is better."

"Cas, seriously… you are insane."

With a little chucke, Castiel leads Dean down the corridor to his room, without further acknowledging whether or not Dean has a point. The haze of sex is still thick inside his head, and he doesn't really wish to argue with Dean right now, not when they're effectively collaborators — conspirators, thick as thieves, fighting together against their homophobic fathers by defiling the library. On his door is the same purple construction paper that his RA put there, with his name written on it in glitter and red marker; hanging just above it is the poster of Nina Simone that he picked up at a yard sale. He lets them in with the clink of his key in the lock — he flips on the lights that came with the room — but it's not until Dean follows him in and makes a sound of audible discomfort that Castiel remembers why he doesn't normally bring people over.

The translucent orange bottles rest against the back of his desk, stacked up in a pyramid, the same way that Castiel's seen beer cans stacked in other people's rooms. He sets his backpack by the door and busies himself with the needless task of rearranging his bookshelf, of picking out the library books that he has until tomorrow to return. He tries ignoring the sound of Dean disassembling the structure, narrating as he picks through the different bottles — "Adderall… Adderall… more Adderall… Jesus Christ, Cas, you know this stuff is like cocaine with a PG label, don't you?" Castiel shrugs, and stays focused on his books. "Even more Adderall," Dean continues — and then he stops. "…Not Adderall."

Castiel swallows thickly, and starts rearranging his science-fiction paperbacks — alphabetically by author's last name, instead of alphabetically by title as he's had them, then arranged chronologically by publication date — but Dean thumps on the side of the shelf, and he has to look up into those green, green eyes. "So… as far as I know," he says, "Zoloft's not a study drug." Castiel concedes that it is not. "You want to tell me why you've got it? And why the prescribing doc isn't your Doctor Feelgood down in town?"

Matter-of-factly, Castiel sighs and explains: "Try being gay…" He puts the Heinlein back on the shelf; he only has the one, anyway — Stranger In A Strange Land… "and try living with a vocally religious father…" Next, he re-shelves the HG Wells, and wonders if he shouldn't just sell them at the annual February book drive… "who, by the way, would all but kill you if he knew, and who has no qualms about calling homosexuality an abomination unto God." The Asimov's going to need more time to get it right. Castiel simply lumps all those books together and makes a mental note to look up the exact publishing chronology later. "…And figuring it out in high school, which is bad enough on its own? Feeling worthless and helpless, moreover feeling hopeless…" The collection of Philip K. Dick shows the same story: he can alphabetize them, but, for the life of him, Castiel can't remember the order in which they got published. "Not to mention figuring this out in a religious high school…"

He shoves his The Stars My Destination back into place with the other Bester novels. By now, Dean's gone silent; the sound of paper hitting wood sounds louder than it is, clear as a bell, like a smack to the face. "…All I am saying, Dean, is that sometimes, in desperate situations, a sixteen-year-old might look at a razor and find it very appealing."

Dean says nothing back, not immediately; instead, he pries Castiel's closer hand away from the anthology of women sci-fi authors and nudges down the long black sleeve. The scar he finds is faded — not entirely, but it has had almost five years to heal — no longer violent red, but a more passive-aggressive pink. Castiel shivers, and tries to wrestle his wrist away — but Dean's hold is too strong for him. He expects a smack, or another lecture on not doing things that Dean considers dangerous, but what he gets is the soft, warm brush of Dean's lips against the remnant of his wound. Dean repeats this process with the other scar; both kisses come tenderly, with pensive sighs on the skin they leave behind.

For all he wants to lean in and just claim Dean's mouth as his own again, Castiel turns and looks out the window. The snow's falling faster now — their last day before break might be a snow day, at this rate. "Why don't you stay the night?" he whispers. "…Walking across campus at this hour might be unsafe. Especially with the snow."

Dean responds with a kiss on Castiel's lips, and when they sleep, it is tangled together on the mattress.