Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd
In russet yeas and honest kersey noes:
And, to begin, wench,--so God help me, la!--
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
They move in together during the fall of junior year. It’s not as eventful as Dean expected; after all, they’ve been sharing a room for two years now. The only thing that’s really new is the king-size bed. Dean doesn’t have a lot of belongings for their new apartment, but Cas has enough books to compensate.
Dean borrows a ladder from the engineering school and paints the whole apartment a pale blue. They go grocery shopping together on Sundays. Dean even lets Cas buy his weird whole-grain cereals. At twenty, Dean feels less like a college student and more like an adult: a functioning, self-sufficient, home-owning adult. It’s a nice feeling. Living off campus is freeing.
And not that he’s really said it – or signed it – but Dean has a feeling this is it for him. Living with Cas, sharing a bed and a kitchen and a newspaper, is it for him.
They throw a housewarming party, once everything’s settled and steady. It’s nothing big, just a couple of friends and some decent beer. Anna and Gabriel come, of course; Anna signs shyly as she slips off her shoes, while Gabriel struts right in like it’s his name on the lease.
Nice place, he signs. You got your Casa Erotica subscription set up yet?
Dean groans and surrenders himself to an evening with the guy. It’s not like Cas has a lot of deaf friends to choose from – and when it matters, Gabriel’s got a good heart.
Charlie arrives next, shoving boxed sets of Star Wars and Indiana Jones into Dean’s hands. “Because everyone knows about your thing for Harrison Ford,” she says. “And now that you’ve got your own place, you need to start up a collection.”
Dean hugs her, presses a kiss into her hair. “You’re the best, you know that?”
“Second-best,” she reminds him, and nods to Cas. “Looks like you two are settling down, and at twenty. Jeez. It’s for good?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says, voice going soft as he follows her gaze. Cas is signing with Anna in the kitchen, his expression gentle. God, he looks so good. Dean’s eyes get caught on his hands, on the sureness and the solidness of them, on the watch tan left over from last summer’s road trip. Cas has really, really nice hands.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to go make out with my boyfriend,” Dean says, and then he does just that.
Cas makes a surprised but enthusiastic noise. Dean winds arms around his waist, pushes him back up against the counter. Anna laughs and Charlie catcalls, and then the doorbell rings. Oh, right. Because they’re in the middle of hosting a party, and here they are making out like teenagers. Dean pulls away to see Cas’s wide-eyed stare. The doorbell just rang, he signs in explanation, kisses Cas once more through his smile, and then goes to answer the door.
It’s Benny and Victor, who lived across the hall from them freshman year, who’ve been some of Dean’s best friends here at KU.
“Hey!” Victor says. He slaps Dean on the back as he passes. A little clumsily, he signs, brought a toaster, hope that’s okay, to Cas.
It’s perfect, Cas says. He gives Dean a look, sighs dramatically, and then tucks back in the hem of his shirt.
“Did we interrupt something?” Benny asks.
“Nah,” Dean says.
“Just Mulder and Scully being their usual disgusting selves.” Charlie winks at Dean.
“God, I know, right? You’d think after nine months they’d get tired of each other,” says Victor. He laughs at his own words.
“Come on, come on, guys. Let’s get drunk or something, instead of just standing around.”
So they do. And it’s a blast. And when everyone’s gone, Cas and Dean fall into their bed together – their bed, Dean likes the sound of that.
“Man, that was awesome,” Dean sighs, even though at this angle Cas can’t read his lips. He’s too drunk to sign properly, and too tired.
They lie side by side, Cas’s shoulder digging into Dean’s ribs, and stare up at their ceiling.
Dean could get used to this.
Cas rolls onto his side, and Dean follows. He puts his arms around Cas’s waist, folds one hand in the shape of I love you over Cas’s heart. Slides the other hand under his shirt, to splay across the warm skin there.
There’s this saying about relationships, that the first six months is the honeymoon phase and after that it gets hard. And, yeah, it’s kind of true. Things aren’t perfect. But Dean is over-the-moon happy, even on his bad days.
He’s really fucking in love with Cas. That honeymoon phase never happened, or at least it never ended, because they’re in this for the long haul. Nine months in and Dean finds it hard to imagine sleeping alone ever again.
But there are bad days. There are always bad days. There are the days Cas comes home and locks himself in the bedroom. Once he feels better, he lets Dean in. He always does. And Dean just kisses him, makes him dinner, watches an old Twilight Zone rerun with the subtitles on. The bad days usually get better, with the two of them together.
Sometimes, though, Dean only makes it worse. Spring term does not start well.
Dean’s in the bedroom one day, bogged down in calculations for a multivariable calculus class, tapping his pencil with an urgent restlessness. The door swings open, Cas storms in, and he flops down on his side without a word – or a sign.
Dean pauses, pencil wavering. He puts down his work, leans over to comb a hand through Cas’s hair.
“Hey,” he says, then signs, What’s wrong?
Cas shakes his head, then rolls over onto his stomach.
“Dude,” Dean says. “You gotta look at me.”
Not like that’s going to do any good, when Cas has his face buried in a pillow. Dean flicks him on the back of the neck until he rolls over again.
Talk to me, he signs.
Bad day. But Cas sits up, folds his legs and then folds his hands between them. There are worry lines on his forehead.
Tough classes?
Stupid teachers. Cas hesitates, hands hanging in the air. Since classes just started, not all of them know me. One of my teachers wanted a passage read aloud today in class-
“And he called on you,” Dean says. This has happened before, and it ruins Cas’s day every time. The teachers should know better, but sometimes there are miscommunications in the first few weeks of classes, and… “Oh, Cas.” He groans, leans in to rest his forehead against Cas’s. I’m sorry, he signs.
Cas puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck. With his other hand, he signs, It’s okay. Just embarrassing.
You don’t have to be embarrassed, Dean signs. It was your teacher’s mistake, not yours.
Cas kisses him once, a little unevenly. Then he pushes Dean away. You should do your homework. I’ll get over it.
Okay, Dean signs, as he gets to his feet. He pauses halfway back to his desk. He bites his lip, weighs his words, and says, “Cas- have you ever, I mean, have you ever considered getting one of those…” He taps two fingers behind his ear, the sign for cochlear implant.
And he must have said something wrong, because Cas goes from weary to angry in two seconds flat. He starts signing so quickly, hands a blur, that Dean can barely parse his meaning. He thinks it’s something like: You think there’s something wrong with me right now? I don’t need to hear – or maybe that was I don’t want to hear. Then, You think I should get a CI? You think I need a CI?
No, that’s not what I- Dean starts to sign, but he lets his hands fall.
Deafness is not a disability. He punctuates this by saying Dean’s name through clenched teeth. It may be frustrating, yes, it may be hard at times, but it is my life. It’s the only life I know.
“Cas,” Dean says. “Cas, I know.”
It’s different, Cas signs. Not better or worse. Just different.
Dean taps his temple. I know. He takes a step back to Cas, then stops. I’m sorry.
There are so many better uses for $50,000 than allowing me limited hearing capabilities.
And of course Cas would think like that – for Christ’s sake, he puts up Save the Bees posters in their apartment building, he goes to student protests, he gives his spare change to homeless folks on streetcorners. But Dean knows it’s about more than the money. It’s not like Cas wouldn’t have considered that before. If he wanted a CI, he’d have one.
Cas slumps over then, looking tired and off-kilter. I didn’t mean to snap at you.
I get it; you’ve had a long day. You’re right, anyway.
Cas rakes a hand through his hair. I’m going to go, I think. I’m not in a good mood and I don’t want to take it out on you.
Dean sighs, stuffs his hands in his pockets and lets Cas go out. They can resolve whatever that was – he’s not sure if it counts as an argument – later. Cas is stressed and unhappy, and Dean wants to do what he can to help, but sometimes that just means giving him space.
Living together, off-campus, means there isn’t a lot of personal space. Sometimes it gets a little suffocating. And even though Dean’s committed to this, he know he is, it still scares him sometimes. The power of it. Relationships are hard work. Dean doesn’t know if he can hold up his end of the deal.
He fucks up a lot of stuff. He doesn’t want to fuck up Cas.
So Dean stews. He can’t concentrate on his calculus anymore. He just wants Cas back here, happy.
And Cas does come home, eventually. He always does. He unlocks the door with a heavy sigh, hangs his keys on their hook, kicks off his shoes in the kitchen. He goes straight to Dean.
“Dean,” he sighs. Dean swings his legs off the bed and lets Cas lean against him. He buries his face in the folds of Cas’s jacket.
“I love you,” Dean says, because he’ll never get tired of saying it aloud.
Cas puts his hands, then his lips, on Dean’s face. I’m sorry, he signs.
You don’t have to be.
Cas takes off his trench coat and hangs it up in the closet. Dean watches as he walks back, as he picks up Dean’s papers and notebooks and pencils and stacks them on the bedside table. He unbuttons his shirt one button at a time, and strips down to boxers and a t-shirt. He leaves his clothes in a pile on Dean’s side of the bed.
I just want to go to bed, Cas signs.
Dean swallows. Okay, he signs. Okay, that’s fine. Do you want me to sleep out on the couch?
No, Cas signs. I’m not angry at you. I was never angry at you.
Can I- can we talk about it?
“Dean,” Cas says. Sleep.
Okay, yeah. I get it.
I just want to be with you, Cas signs. His face crumples.
“Oh, babe,” Dean says. He pulls Cas down into his arms. That’s what he wants too. That’s enough for him.
The one where Cas and Dean get stuck in an elevator together. ~1,300 words.
Crossposted at AO3
Of all the times to get stuck in an elevator, he has to get stuck with Cas. Cas, the grumpiest, rudest, hottest asshole in the building. Like, seriously, are the karma gods just fucking with Dean now?
And the elevator isn’t just stuck – it’s stuck during a power outage. Plunging Dean and Cas into pitch-black darkness.
“Is this a joke?” Dean snaps, when he realizes the elevator isn’t moving anymore.
“It must be the whole building, Cas says in that awful, whisky-and-gravel voice of his. Goddammit. That voice. It’s so much harder to handle in the darkness.
“Yeah, no shit,” Dean says. He slumps against the wall, tucks his knees up to his chest.
“I guess we’re gonna be here a while.” Cas is still standing, stock-still, in the middle of the elevator. Dean can’t even hear him breathe.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.” Dean puts his head in his hands.
More silence. Dean taps his foot a couple of times, just for something to do, but it’s awkward.
“So,” he says finally, “you, uh, got a cell phone on you or anything? I left mine upstairs.” He was just headed down to the basement for a laundry exchange. The elevator’s caught between floors seven and eight, a tantalizing two floors from Dean’s apartment.
Cas sighs. “I forgot to charge mine.” Dean gets the feeling he does that a lot.
“I’m, uh, Dean, by the way. I live-”
“I know who you are,” Cas says automatically. Then, more gently, “You made me pie when I moved in.”
Dean’s surprised he remembers. “Yeah, well, that’s what you do for new tenants.” Cas had stared at him, taken the pie, and slammed the door in his face. Didn’t exactly make Dean feel appreciated. He’d put effort into that pie.
Not that he’d ever admit it now, with how much Cas hates him, but he’d kinda thought Cas was cute at first. He’d kinda been hoping Cas would invite him inside, maybe they’d chat, and Dean could… ask him out for drinks. Or something.
He shakes his head at the memory. He’s been one hell of an idiot.
Out of the blue, and after several long minutes of silence, Cas says, “I liked it. The pie. It was very nice.”
Dean grunts some kind of approval. He doesn’t want to talk about that goddamn pie.
“My brother Gabriel,” Cas continues without prompting, “he has a sweet tooth. He suggested I ask you to make me another.””
“Yeah?” Dean asks gruffly. “So why didn’t you?”
There’s a pause. Dean feels like he’s on the edge of something, something that could tip either way. Cas says, “You- ah, you’re not very approachable.”
“I’m not very approachable?” Dean laughs, the sound hollow in the dark elevator. “Dude, like you have the right to say that.”
“What do you mean?”
Dean bites down on his lip, hard. “It’s just- nevermind. Forget I said anything.”
“Okay,” Cas says, and they’re back to uneasy silence.
Except this is really hard for Dean. He’s been trying to ignore the building pressure on his chest, but the elevator is really small and stagnant and-
“Fuck,” he says, raggedly, and rubs a hand over his face.
“Are you okay?” Cas asks, with soft concern in his voice. Dean wouldn’t have expected that from him.
“I’m fine,” Dean says, probably a little harsher than he needs to. Cas goes still. “Sorry,” Dean tries. “I’m just not one for small spaces.”
“Oh,” Cas says. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nah,” Dean says. He swallows the lump in his throat. “I, um, I was in Afghanistan for a couple of tours, and I- it’s just-”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Dean,” says Cas, and Dean thinks he’s never felt so relieved.
He tries not to let it get to him. He focuses on being here, with Cas, in this elevator in his apartment building in Lawrence, Kansas. But it keeps slipping away from him, like water through his fingers.
His breathing goes haywire, and then Cas is shifting, moving across to sit by his side. Unwarranted, Cas takes Dean’s hands in his and rubs slow, smooth circles on Dean’s palms.
It helps. Dean tries to say so, muttering, “Thanks, man. That, uh-”
“I have an anxiety disorder,” Cas explains. Oh- oh. Dean didn’t know that about him. Well, of course he didn’t – they’ve only talked a handful of times. Cas always frowns and squints at him in the hallway. They’re not friends.
Dean doesn’t know what to say, but apparently neither does Cas. He pushes away again, scoots back to his side of the elevator. As Dean’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he can just make out the shape of Cas’s profile.
“Do you, um, do you not like me or something?” Dean asks – after the five minutes of silence in which he works up the nerve to do so. “’Cause I’ve been trying to figure it out for a while now, and-”
“What are you talking about?” Good God, he actually sounds confused by the idea.
“You slammed the door in my face, dude. When I brought you that pie. What was I supposed to think?”
“I did?” Cas asks. He makes an embarrassed noise. “Oh. That was not my intention. I was, um, surprised. You’re very good-looking.”
So he didn’t mean to- wait. Did Cas just say what Dean thinks he just said?
No, no, that can’t be right. Cas never talks to him. Cas doesn’t like him. It’s obvious.
There’s a pause, and Cas takes a breath like he wants to say more. “Dean, I don’t dislike you. I actually, well, I actually feel quite the opposite.”
It takes a moment to sink in. “Oh. That’s. I mean. So you- okay.”
He stands up, because suddenly this elevator seems even smaller than before.
“I thought you didn’t like me,” says Cas.
“Jesus, Cas, why would you think that?”
“Because you’re- well, you. You’re funny and handsome and you bring lots of men and women back to your apartment. I only live three doors down, you know. You’re rather – er – loud.”
Dean can feel heat rise to his cheeks, and he’s glad for the darkness. “Yeah, but I mean, you’re you too.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Now Cas is back on his feet too.
“Well, you’re, y’know, really attractive – in an intimidating sort of way, I guess – and you’ve got that voice and that damn ugly trench coat and-”
-And Cas is crossing the elevator and pushing himself into Dean’s space, kissing him with an open mouth. His breath is hot and his lips are soft and oh, Dean tilts his head, angles closer, pushes up into the kiss. Cas has stubble and he tastes like black coffee and something else, something Dean likes, something he can’t get enough of. An ache builds in his chest, but it’s a good ache this time. He slides his hands up under Cas’s jacket. He tugs out the back of Cas’s shirt and splays his hands against warm, warm skin. Cas pushes closer, pushes himself between Dean’s open legs, and man, is it good. Maybe better than pie.
When they break apart, pink-cheeked and out of breath, Dean knocks his forehead against Cas’s. “Do you, uh, do you want to go out for drinks sometime?” he asks. Better late than never.
“I’d like that,” says Cas, and that’s when the power comes back on.
There are so many people that use 'following your dreams' as an excuse to not work, when in reality, following your dreams, successfully, is nothing but work.
Sophomore year starts off slow and predictable. Classes are tough, the homework is tougher, but it makes Dean happy. He loves engineering. He loves school. He loves Cas.
Yeah. He does. It all falls together in one moment halfway through September. He and Cas are sitting on a park bench, drinking shitty drip coffee and signing about something woefully unimportant. Cas makes this little expression where his nose scrunches up, halfway between laughing at Dean and glaring at him, and Dean gets it. He finally gets it. This thing he’s been feeling, it’s not just a crush.
Cas takes a sip, sets down his cup to sign, You said something?
Dean’s hand stutters, fumbles. Nothing, sorry.
And Cas gives him another look, eyebrows pulling together, and fuck, all Dean can think about is how much he loves this. Loves Cas.
Sitting on that bench, Dean realizes: this is it for him. This is it.
So much has passed between them in the last year. Dean thinks of all the ways he knows Cas, backwards and forwards and inside-out. And Dean doesn’t believe in destiny or fate or any of that mumbo-jumbo, but here with Cas, he begins to wonder...
He puts it in the back of his mind and keeps on moving. Tries to focus on school, on friends, on anything else but this. But it keeps on coming up.
One of the best things about ASL is that it’s silent, which means he and Cas can talk at any hour without disturbing others. Late one night in their room, they’re deep in conversation about what the future holds. Cas is signing softly, his motions gentle and unhurried, something about teaching English to deaf kids. When he asks Dean about his own dreams, Dean sits up, thinks for a long minute.
He reaches for the whiteboard, empty on the nightstand between them. Carefully, he writes, I want to be a fireman.
He knows the signs, could easily shape them. But those words are too valuable for his hands to carry. He barely trusts himself with them.
Cas reads, blinks, and looks up at Dean. He signs, I didn’t know.
I’ve never told anyone that before, Dean signs. He chews his lip, wipes out the words with the pad of his thumb. Keeps his eyes low.
Cas knows about his mom. The truth came out while they were in South Dakota; Dean hadn’t wanted to talk about it but he had wanted Cas to know. So Cas knows what this dream means to Dean.
Dean lets himself look up, through the dim light, to Cas. Cas reaches out slowly, surely, and cups Dean’s face in his hand. Dean doesn’t know what this means, but Cas doesn’t sign any explanation, his other hand still.
“It’s not a big deal,” Dean says, even though it is. And what Cas is saying – without really saying – that’s a big deal too. Dean feels a warm, heavy pressure on his chest.
He thinks he’s in danger, here. There’s no going back, no pushing it aside. He thinks he should be concerned, or upset, but what they have just feels right. This, here, this is what Dean needs. This is who Dean needs.
And then there are the lighter, easier moments, to remind him how much he loves Cas. Like the time Dean tries to explain music. It’s such a big part of his life, of his personality, and one of the hardest things about being with Cas is that he can’t share that. Cas doesn’t know it, doesn’t mind it, but he’s missing out, and Dean doesn’t like that. He tries to describe, through signing, what it’s like. What it means. He talks about Hey Jude, and his mom. He talks about Houses of the Holy, and growing up in the car with Sam. Dad changed cassettes every week, but Zep remained a fixture in the car. He talks about Dust in the Wind, and how much he thinks Cas would love it.
Music is how Dean makes connections, so not being able to share that with Cas is hard for him.
Except one day, Dean comes back to the room after a long, tough exam, and when he opens the door it’s to the guitar riff of Who Do You Love? by George Thorogood. Cas is cross-legged on the bed, rifling through Dean’s cassette collection, when he looks up, eyes blue and lively. Dean is three seconds away from pushing Cas down and kissing him all over, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t act on any of it. He wants to, yeah, but it’s not… practical. He doesn’t know how Cas feels. And he’s content just to be friends. He’s content just to be around Cas.
Being more, it would- it would change things. If it didn’t work out, if they ended things, it would end their friendship too. What they have right now is so good; he doesn’t want it to fall apart. He doesn’t think he could bear that.
So he ruffles Cas’s hair, signs you’re awesome, and then, when Cas isn’t looking, he says, “I love you.”
It becomes a habit. Dean starts saying it every day, every time Cas looks away. He’s not the kind of guy who says that a lot, not even to Sam or Bobby. But he gets used to saying it to Cas. He makes it casual.
“I love you,” he says, when Cas makes him coffee at three in the morning.
“I love you,” he says, in the line for lunch on a Wednesday afternoon.
“I love you,” he says, walking Cas to class every morning.
One weekend they pick up a rake from the gardening club and go to the quad together. They trade off raking leaves into a pile, the oranges and browns of early November, and when they have a substantial pile, they hold hands and jump in.
They should be too mature for this. It shouldn’t be this much fun. They have homework to do. But Dean is laughing and kicking leaves, and when Cas resurfaces he has three little orange leaves stuck in his hair.
“I love you,” Dean says through a wide smile, reaching up to pick the leaves out. He flicks them off his fingers one at a time, and when he looks back up, Cas is staring at him wide and unblinking.
“Uh, Cas?” Dean asks.
What did you just say? Cas signs.
And Dean’s brain catches up with him. His muscles tense, his stomach drops, his knees go weak. This isn’t- he didn’t really- Cas is just staring at him, and-
They’re staring at each other and Cas isn’t signing anything and Dean is turning red as the leaves under their feet. Cas licks his lips, and fuck, Dean loves him, he can’t do this anymore.
I should return the rake, Dean signs, sloppily, and he grabs it and runs.
Well, he tries not to run. He speedwalks in a dignified manner.
He hears the crunch of leaves behind him, but he just goes faster, because he can’t deal with this. He said it, he said it when Cas was reading his lips. He fucked up big time.
Fuck. Dean clenches his fingers around the rake and speeds up.
And then he hears, from behind him, an unfamiliar voice call his name.
He turns, stares openmouthed across the quad at Cas. Cas is still standing amidst the leaves, in that ugly brown scarf and matching mittens, jaw set and eyes wild.
“Cas?” he asks.
And he hears again, “Dean.”
And Cas is marching towards him, and then he’s shoving Dean backwards, fisting his hands in Dean’s coat, signing angrily, you idiot, you complete fucking idiot, over and over and over again.
“Cas-” he says, but Cas cuts him off.
“Dean,” Cas says, and he signs, I love you.
He doesn’t sign the shorthand version. It’s something genuine.
Dean’s mind is still scattered, but he gets it together for long enough to kiss Cas.
Or maybe Cas kisses him. He’s not really sure, but now they’re kissing, and Cas still has leaves in his hair. Dean’s hands are still shaking, but now they’re winding around Cas’s waist, lifting him onto his tiptoes.
“Dean,” Cas says, like a fucking broken record. Except Dean doesn’t care because Cas is saying his name. And fuck, his voice is sexy as hell, which Dean stores for later reflection, but right now he’s a little distracted.
I didn’t mean to- Dean starts to sign, but Cas covers his hands with his own. The ASL version of being interrupted, Dean supposes.
I don’t care, Cas signs. I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out for months.
And Dean gets it. Cas knew, all along, was just waiting for Dean to get his head screwed on properly. Because he’s spent his whole life second-guessing things, and this is no different. Because he’s an idiot. Because he knows this is what he wants but he’s too afraid to reach for it.
I don’t know- Dean signs, and again, Cas cuts him off.
I do, Cas signs. I do. Okay?
Dean looks at Cas’s eyes instead of his words. And carefully, he signs against Cas’s hands, okay.
So Cas kisses him again, and then signs, Don’t walk away from me like that. I don’t like it. Calling after you is hard.
And Dean signs okay to that too. It’s all okay right now. Even better than okay, maybe.
You have leaves in your hair, Dean signs. He’s going to pick them out, but then Cas is kissing him again, and everything is as warm and orange as fall trees.
Dean gets a call four days later, when he’s standing in the kitchen with Sam, arguing over whose turn it is to do the groceries. He takes it as an excuse to shove the responsibility on Sam, then shove him out the door. The phone number is unfamiliar, but he answers.
“Hello?” he says.
“Um,” says- wait. Is that Cas? “You said I should call.”
“I suppose that would be me. Is this a good time?”
Dean licks his lips, glances out the window to see Sam grumpily driving off. “Sure. What can I do for you?”
And it’s maybe the most stilted proposition Dean’s gotten, but it’s also kind of sweet. “You’re serious? Your art?” Dean feels a grin spread across his face, his mood going from grumpy to giddy in three seconds flat.
“I have a good portion of my works, both finished and unfinished, in my apartment. If you wanted to come by… Dinner would be included.”
Jesus, it’s like he’s planning a business meeting, not a date. “Sure. I’d like that. Can I come over now?” There’s a moment of hesitance, and he realizes maybe he spoke too quickly. “Uh- I mean, shit, that was a little forward of me. Tomorrow?”
“No,” Cas says slowly, “now is fine.”
Cas rattles off an address, Dean leaves a vague message on the fridge for Sam, and then he’s on his way to Cas-the-super-hot-artist’s apartment.
He takes the apartment stairs two at a time, has to compose himself before he knocks. Wipes a hand over his jaw, runs it through his hair. This is really happening. Jesus.
The door swings open. And it’s a little awkward at first, the nervous energy humming between them. Cas looks good. Really fucking good. He’s got that rakish look about him again, wild hair and a five o’clock shadow. His skin is splattered with paint, but his clothes are unusually clean. Dean wants to sling his fingers in the belt loops of those jeans and-
Fuck. He might be in a little over his head. “So. Can I see your art?” Dean has to remind himself several times that he’s good at this. He’s Mr. Smooth.
Cas shows him. The whole fucking apartment might as well be a canvas, with the way he’s treated it. Books, clothes, paintbrushes strewn everywhere.
“I,” Cas says. “I was going to clean up. But then you asked for today, and…” He shrugs.
Dean ignores it, crosses to the wall. A row of unframed paintings hang there, mostly portraits. On the opposite wall, rough figure and motion studies in charcoal. “These are all yours?”
“Yeah,” Cas says, coming to stand at Dean’s side. He’s warm; Dean can feel it even with the empty air between them. “They’re not like your tattoos, not at all, but I like to think all artists can have a mutual appreciation for art.”
“They’re- they’re really good,” Dean says, because they are. The portraits are his favorite, he thinks. Dean doesn’t know anything about art, but Cas’s style reminds him something of Van Gogh. The colors are more muted, more blended, but there’s something familiar in the manic application of paint. In some places it’s applied generously, gobs of it thick on the canvas, and elsewhere in thin, flat strokes.
But there’s something haunting about the eyes. They draw the focus, complex and harrowing in their rendering. Dean feels the intensity digging underneath his skin even when he looks away.
He looks at the last one in the line, a young woman. Rich, red hair and ghostlike eyes.
“My sister, Anna,” Cas says.
“You’re- I mean, my tattoo stuff, that’s nothing like-”
“Don’t put yourself down, Dean.” Cas fixes something stern on him. “They’re too different to compare.”
Dean looks at Cas and thinks he’d very much like to kiss him. But he doesn’t, because it’s still early in the evening; instead, he crosses to the other wall.
Cas is as good with motion as he is with stillness. He’s no grand master, no virtuoso, but he has a deftness with art that Dean admires.
“I have some works in progress,” Cas says, “if you’d like to see. They’re in my bedroom.”
“In your- in your bedroom?”
“Yes; if you wait here I can go get them.”
“Right, yeah, of course.” Mr. Smooth.
Cas pads down the hallway, tugging at the belt loops of his low-slung pants as he does. Fuck, those are huge on him, slipping off his hips. And Dean realizes, slowly, that Cas put on his nice jeans for Dean, his clean ones. The only ones he doesn’t get paint on: in other words, the only ones he doesn’t wear, because they don’t fit.
Well, that’s not a problem. If things go well, they won’t be on for much longer anyway.
Cas reappears with a sheath of papers in his hand. He shoves the clutter on the coffee table to one side, spreads out the sketches.
“I’ve been experimenting with gouache,” Cas explains, like Dean knows what the fuck that is. He only works with one medium – ink.
Portraits again, but rougher this time, hazy edges and half-drawn features. More experimental, more abstract. And then- Dean blinks, not sure he saw correctly, and slides one paper out from all the others. Cas turns a violent shade of red.
“Is this me?”
“It’s- um. Yes?”
“You drew me?”
Cas rubs his hands nervously. “Your facial structure is. Well. I couldn’t stop thinking about you- it. It. That there was just a warmup sketch to get the idea out of my head.”
“Is this your way of telling me I’m hot stuff?”
Cas regains his composure, straightens. “You’re lukewarm stuff.”
“Thanks. Yeah, thanks for that.”
“But I’ll say this much: if you were willing to sit for a portrait, I wouldn’t say no.”
Dean looks at it, looks at the way Cas has flattened the curves of his face into geometric planes, all half-finished lines and vague crosshatching. The lines are a rich, dark green. He swallows the lump in his throat.
“That, uh, I could do that.” He sets down the thin paper. Cas looks at him for a few seconds too long.
The moment oscillates, and then it shatters. Cas gets to his feet.
“I’ll start dinner,” he says.
Dean takes one last look at the sketch, the familiar shape of his face outlined in an unfamiliar way. Then he pushes it back under the rest. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m starving. You want help?”
Cas, it turns out, has a pathetically empty pantry. It comes with being in school, he explains. Which, yeah, Dean gets. He and Sam were getting low on food too, hence today’s earlier argument. But Cas has, like, nothing. A box of pasta and some dubiously old red sauce in the fridge.
“Cas, man,” Dean sighs, looking at the expiration. “Next time you ask a guy on a date, make sure you can feed him.”
Cas pauses, a small smile breaking on his face. “We’re on a date?”
“Uh- aren’t we? Shit, I thought-”
“No, no, that’s fine. I just wasn’t… sure.”
Dean crosses the small kitchen to hover at Cas’s elbow. “That’s okay?”
Cas laughs, elbows Dean gently. “Yes, Dean, it’s okay.”
“I mean, after this – if you want – I’ll take you on a real date. You know. Dinner and a movie, the works. Flowers, if you like.”
Now he really laughs, throws back his head and everything. “I’m not a flowers person,” he says, “but I’ll take you up on that offer.”
Dean likes this. He likes how easy it is, how happy it makes him. Cas is making pasta in clean jeans and there’s a splotch of yellow paint behind his ear. Dean thinks he could get used to this. And that should be a scary thought, when they’re this new. But he’s weirdly okay with it. Slipping into this – it feels like slipping underwater.
He quietly watches Cas cook. He thinks about reaching out, wrapping himself around Cas. Thinks about pressing his lips to the curve in Cas’s neck. There’s a tenderness in his feelings here, something soft and precious about them.
He likes Cas’s hands: long, tan fingers, paint-stained nails, curled softly around the wooden stirring spoon the way they would around a paintbrush. He likes Cas’s eyelashes. He likes Cas’s upper arms. He likes Cas’s lips. He’d like to kiss them.
“Cas,” Dean says, softly, like he’s holding something made of glass. “Can I kiss you?”
Cas’s fingers fumble the spoon, and then he’s turning. And he’s putting both of his hands on the sides of Dean’s face, and he’s kissing Dean sweetly. The water is boiling over but they keep kissing, and Dean wraps his arms around Cas’s waist and lifts him onto his tiptoes, and Cas’s lips are soft and warm and giving. And giving. And giving.
Yes, Dean thinks he could definitely get used to this.
Dean first tries signing to Cas halfway through October. After six weeks of ASL, he’s learned plenty, but has always been too shy to share it with Cas. Too worried that he’ll mess up or make a fool of himself. But this is getting ridiculous. Six weeks of whiteboard messages and it’s about time he lets Castiel know he’s learning ASL.
So there they are, studying together in their dorm room as usual. It’s a Sunday afternoon and Cas is sprawled across his bed, working lazily through some paperback novel. Dean is trying to study, he really is, but he keeps looking over at Cas instead.
He closes his book. He stands up, crosses to the foot of Cas’s bed.
“Um,” he says. Cas must sense the tension in Dean’s posture, because he looks up. He cocks his head to the side.
Dean skids his palms on his jeans. He signs, clumsily, Do you want to eat lunch with me?
Cas shoots up, book falling to the side. His eyes go wide as moons. He reaches for the whiteboard on the desk, but Dean scrambles forward and catches his wrist.
“I’m, uh, learning sign language,” Dean says, his hands following the words. Cas watches the signs, and then his face breaks into a wide smile.
He signs something, but it’s too quick, and Dean’s already flustered. He makes a face, then makes the sign for don’t understand.
Cas huffs a laugh and signs again, more slowly. Where are you learning?
Dean’s brain is scattered and he can’t quite summon a response in ASL. He surrenders and says, “In class. I’m taking Intro to ASL this semester.”
Cas stares at him for a long, long moment. Dean can never look away from Cas’s stares. Then, with a soft smile, he signs, thank you.
Dean feels his cheeks coloring. He looks at the wall behind Cas’s head and says, “Yeah, whatever.” And then he signs again, Lunch?
Cas nods, closes his book, and goes to put on his shoes.
They talk on the way to lunch, in sign language. It’s the first time they’re able to have a mobile conversation, without pen and paper between them. Cas is grinning unabashedly. His signs are sloppier than Dean’s, more casual, but the ease is something Dean will get with practice.
Lunch is awesome. Made awesomer by the fact that ASL is the only language that allows Dean to talk with his mouth full. And Cas keeps signing thank you, over and over and over again. That makes it pretty worthwhile.
So Dean does get better. He starts talking almost exclusively in ASL with Cas, resorting to the whiteboard only for complex conversations. Cas teaches him new vocabulary every day. It’s true; immersion really is the best way to learn a new language. Sign language is different than anything else Dean has ever learned, but it’s a good kind of different.
Castiel grows to be his best friend. They have busy schedules and separate circles of friends, but they always find time to see each other. They eat breakfast together or they study together or Dean follows Cas to his ASL club meetings. It’s for deaf kids and their family members, basically anyone who can sign, and Dean figures it’s mostly so Cas has the opportunity to speak in his native language. It’s astonishing, the speed and fluidity with which he can sign. Dean likes to watch Cas in that environment – it lights up something warm in his chest.
Dean falls into university effortlessly. By the end of freshman year he’s happy and comfortable, excelling in his engineering classes. He’s going home to South Dakota for the summer, to Bobby and Sam, and he’s far more excited about that than he should be.
One afternoon in June, during finals, he’s telling Cas all about it, about Sioux Falls and how tall Sam’s gonna be. It was Bobby’s decision that Dean had to go to college at all – he himself would’ve been content working in the garage and caring for Sam – but one of the conditions was that Dean come home for the summers. He hasn’t been home all year, and damn, but he misses his little brother.
He wants to meet you, Dean signs. He’s slouched in his desk chair, casually facing Cas. You should come up in August, if you can. For a week or two.
Cas nods, and his hands flutter absently.
“Cas,” Dean says, and he waves to get Cas’s attention back. You’re nervous. What’s wrong?
Cas looks at him while he signs, then looks quickly away again. It’s nothing. I was thinking.
Dean raises his eyebrows, gestures for Cas to continue.
Next year. Do you want to room together again? I know you made close friends from the engineering school, but because I don’t know many people who can sign, it would be far easier for me to- he cuts himself off, waving his hands like he’s waving away smoke.
Dean leans forward. He signs, what?
I don’t want to start over with someone new next year, Cas signs, looking miserable. I like talking with you.
Dean huffs a laugh. Of course I want to stay roommates. You’re my best friend.
Cas tenses at that, then signs, thank you.
I thought it was obvious. I learned ASL because I figured I’d be stuck with you. With that settled, Dean leans back in his chair. He starts to open his book again.
Cas keeps signing without forewarning. You made this year good, Dean. I don’t know if I could have been happy here without your help.
Dean looks at him for a long, long moment. He’s been getting these urges lately, urges to grab Cas by the collar and kiss him. He’s getting one of those right now.
But Cas reaches for a book then, his cheeks a little pink, and Dean lets his mind move away. Right now he’s content; summer’s almost here, and it’s been a good, long year. He can cross that bridge another time.
Summer comes. Dean goes home to Sam and Bobby. Sam is a foot taller and still skinny as a stickbug, but nothing else has really changed. Nothing changes in South Dakota.
They didn’t talk much while Dean was at school, so he has a lot to catch up on. He takes Sam out to the movies, talks school and girls and sports. Sam’s fifteen now, just starting to think about colleges himself. He’s smarter than nearly anyone Dean knows. Nearly anyone, because Cas is pretty damn smart.
Dean wondered once, about the English literature thing. How someone who doesn’t speak English can study it. But Cas is fluent in English, damn good with words – just in writing. He once explained to Dean that as a child, with few people he could talk to, he read voraciously. His vocabulary is probably broader than Dean’s. It’s weird, because the way he talks in ASL is so differently than the way he writes in English, but they both have a distinct Cas voice to them. Dean likes that. It’s like Cas speaks English with an accent.
They text a lot, through June and July. It’s easier than Skype, where signing is unwieldy and cumbersome, and it’s obviously easier than phone conversations. Dean tells Sam all about Cas, except he keeps forgetting to mention the deaf part.
Which makes it weird when Cas shows up on Bobby’s doorstep in August. Dean’s excited, of course; they’ve been planning it for weeks now, and he’s missed the guy. But Sam and Bobby are overwhelmingly confused when they launch into a flurry of sign language.
How are you? How was your flight? Not too scary, right? Dean asks, as soon as he’s past the greeting hug.
Cas’s grin is infectious, wide and genuine. His hands are a blur. It was fine, of course. It’s good to see you again.
Dean just laughs and ruffles Cas’s hair. Without spoken words between them, their dialogue has become strangely physical – odd touches here and there, brushing shoulders to say hello.
“Dean,” Bobby says from behind them, “you want to tell us what the hell is going on?”
Cas looks past Dean to Bobby and Sam, then signs, will you introduce us?
Dean nods and steps aside to welcome Cas into the house. He has one suitcase, which he drops unceremoniously in the doorway.
“Guys, this is Cas,” Dean says, gesturing.
“You didn’t mention he was-” Sam says, before closing his mouth with an embarrassed noise.
“Deaf, Sammy, it’s not a dirty word,” Dean says, but he can feel his smile faltering.
Cas brushes his hand against Dean’s. He signs, you didn’t tell them?
Dean shrugs and hopes that’s enough. “Uh, yeah. Cas is deaf. Was that important?”
“No,” Bobby says, “although maybe the fact that you picked up sign language was?”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, I took a class. So I could talk to him. I’m sure I mentioned that. Didn’t I?”
But Sam is already recovering from the shock. “Hi, I’m Sam,” he says, extending a hand to Castiel. Then, to Dean, “Can he read lips?”
Cas rolls his eyes and nods as he reaches out.
Sam looks embarrassed yet again, but this time he directs his question at Cas. “But you can’t talk?”
Cas makes that little concentrated frown of his, then turns to Dean. He signs, Can you explain?
Dean says, “Yeah, he can talk. Or so he says. I’ve never actually heard his voice. I think he’s embarrassed. He was born deaf, so he doesn’t know what it sounds like, and he doesn’t know perfectly how to use it. But he’s not technically mute.”
Bobby looks a little uncomfortable, but he pushes his wheelchair forward to shake Cas’s hand too. And then – here’s the surprise – he fingerspells his name.
Cas and Dean recoil in unison. “You can sign?” says Dean.
“You pick up a thing here and there,” Bobby grunts. “I’m no good at it anymore, but I can try for your boyfriend’s sake.”
“He’s not my-”
“I know, I know, quit your yammering.” And then Bobby signs, a little inelegantly, Welcome. Dean says a lot about you. Castiel inclines his head gratefully.
Let me get your bag, and I can show you around, Dean signs. He picks up Cas’s heavy bag – heavy with books, probably – and lugs it up to the second floor. Castiel follows him, steps light on the stairs. It took a while for Dean to get used to Cas’s quiet. But it’s a nice, amiable kind of quiet.
Dean shows him the house, shows him the yard, shows him the garage.
This is my car, Dean signs, when they reach the Impala. He considers doing the sign for baby, but decides it won’t have the connotations in ASL that it does in English. Next year she’ll be at school with me. Man, he’s missed the car. It was his dad’s, one of the few things Dean has left of him.
They stand together, facing the car. Dean stuffs his hands in his pockets, which limits their conversation. Dean thinks about trying to explain what the Impala means to him. He doesn’t talk about his family much, doesn’t have the vocabulary for it. And Cas is pretty quiet about his own; it’s never been important between them.
It was my dad’s, Dean finally signs. He… Dean struggles to find the phrasing for the next bit, lets his hand hang in the air. He wasn’t a good guy.
Castiel looks at him with an open, curious expression.
But the car was something he loved. And I know- Dean curses, lets his hands fall. He tries again. I know he loved me too. But sometimes it’s easier to love the car than to love him. Or forgive him.
Dean tries really hard not to look at Cas, for a bit. He knows Cas is looking at him.
And slowly, Cas reaches out to take his empty hand. He laces their fingers together.
For someone who speaks with their hands, Dean thinks that means a lot. He thinks it might kind of be like kissing.
He lets his hand be held. He rubs at his eyes with the sleeve of his coat.
Dean loves Bobby – loves him for the care he shows them, gruff though it may be. Bobby is a better father, and a better man, than John ever was. It’s only been three years since John drank himself into a stupor and crashed the damn car, two since Dean took that car apart and rebuilt her from the engine up. Dean’s still figuring out where to go from here. But having someone like Cas – warm, kind Cas – by his side, it eases the ache.
Dean knows he likes Cas as more than a friend. He doesn’t know what his dad would have said about that, but he doesn’t know that he cares anymore.
They all eat dinner together, and Dean translates for Sam and Bobby the dumb jokes Cas makes. Sam gets pretty good at speaking clearly, so Cas can read his lips. It’s not as hard as it could be. Sam and Cas talk books, and Dean gets a little tired of translating, so after dinner he sends them off with a whiteboard and helps Bobby with the dishes.
“You’ve got something special there, boy,” Bobby says.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, he’s really something.”
Bobby looks at him with that skeptical, scruffy look of his. “You learned sign language for him, Dean. I’ve seen you show that kind of devotion to two other things: Sam and that car of yours. You know what that means, right?”
Dean looks at the plate in his hands, sees his dull reflection looking back out at him. “Yeah, Bobby, I know.”
Cas walks in to the kitchen, signing, can I help? Speak of the devil and all that.
He looks really good here. Blue jeans, blue eyes. In the center of Dean’s home.
Dean tries not to dwell on that. He tries.
He’s gonna do something about this. About them. Just not today.
Today, he’s gonna wash the dishes with Cas, and they’re gonna make dumb jokes in sign language, and they’re gonna watch an old movie with the subtitles on. Because that’s easy; that’s what he knows. But his feelings are uncharted territory. So he’s gonna ignore them, at least for today, at least until he finds a way to say them.
