Chapter Text
When Dean first met Cas, he was already six months into his first semester.
Not in class—at least, not that Dean had noticed. And Dean noticed people. It was a survival instinct, growing up the way he did. You learned to clock exits, threats, and opportunities in the same glance.
No, Dean met Castiel Novak because of a neon green flyer and his rapidly declining bank account.
The flyer was still taped crookedly to the cafeteria bulletin board, half covered now by ads for tutoring, band auditions, and some guy named Kyle offering “professional massage therapy” with way too many exclamation points. Dean had written his in thick black Sharpie:
ROOM FOR RENT. OFF CAMPUS. CHEAP. TEXT OR CALL. — DEAN
He’d drawn a little phone number tab section at the bottom like people did in movies. Someone had taken two. Neither had worked out.
He’d managed to score the apartment off campus through sheer dumb luck and a landlord who didn’t ask too many questions. Two extra bedrooms, decent kitchen, two bathrooms, but the price had been good enough that Dean hadn’t asked questions he probably should have.
It had felt like freedom.
Right up until the bills started stacking up.
Working part time at the garage barely kept gas in the Impala and food in his stomach, and he’d be damned if he asked Sam for help. Sam already had enough on his plate with Stanford and his scholarship and his future.
And John Winchester?
Yeah. No.
Dean would sooner sell a kidney.
So he’d put up the flyer.
And then the parade of weird had begun.
Garth had been the first.
He’d shown up wearing boat shoes. Boat shoes. In landlocked Kansas.
He’d bounced on the balls of his feet when Dean opened the door, smiling so wide Dean could see his molars.
“Hiya! Garth Fitzgerald IV! But you can call me Garth.”
Dean had blinked slowly. “Wasn’t planning on calling you anything else.”
Garth had laughed. Too loud. Too long.
He’d talked about essential oils for twenty minutes. Had gestured wildly while explaining his podcast about “mindful living.” Had asked if Dean was open to “occasional drum circle gatherings.”
Dean had told him he’d call him.
He had not called him.
Benny had been worse.
Not because he’d been weird. Because he’d been hot. Like, stupid hot.
Tall, broad shoulders stretching his Henley, dark eyes that lingered just a second too long. He’d had a Louisiana accent thick as molasses and a smile that made Dean forget basic motor function.
Dean had spent the entire interview staring at his mouth.
He’d imagined what that mouth would look like wrapped around his—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
He was not living with that kind of temptation.
Dean had practically shoved him out the door.
Jo had been…
Well.
Jo had been Jo.
Blonde. Sharp. Pretty in a way that made Dean immediately nervous.
She’d walked in, looked around, nodded approvingly, and then looked Dean up and down like she was appraising livestock.
“You clean?” she’d asked.
“Yeah,” Dean had said defensively.
“You loud?”
Dean had paused.
“…Define loud.”
She’d smirked.
They’d flirted.
They’d laughed.
They almost—
Yeah.
No.
Living with someone you might sleep with was a terrible idea. Dean knew that from experience.
They’d mutually agreed it was a bad call… to live together. Moments later, that didn’t stop Dean from fucking her against the wall and she left almost an hour later.
Charlie had been his favorite.
She’d walked in wearing a Legend of Zelda shirt and carrying a laptop covered in stickers.
She’d immediately asked about the Wi-Fi speed.
Dean had told her.
She’d nodded solemnly.
“Acceptable.”
They’d talked for an hour. About movies. About games. About everything.
Dean had almost thought that was it.
Until they sat down and did the math.
Her face had fallen.
“Yeah,” she’d said gently. “I can’t afford this.”
Dean had waved it off, pretending it didn’t feel like a punch to the ribs.
They’d exchanged numbers anyway.
“Friendship is still on the table,” she’d said.
“Good,” Dean had replied.
And he’d meant it.
By the end of the day, Dean had been ready to tear the flyer down and accept his fate as a broke bitch with a decent apartment. He’d been standing in the kitchen, staring into the fridge like the answers might magically appear between the ketchup and expired milk.
That’s when he heard the door open.
Dean’s head snapped up.
He hadn’t heard a knock.
His stomach dropped immediately.
Someone breaking in.
Great.
Fantastic.
Perfect end to a perfect day.
He stepped into the living room, fists already clenching.
And stopped.
The guy standing in his doorway didn’t look like a burglar.
He looked like a problem.
“I’m here about the room for rent,” the stranger said. “I’m Cas.”
His voice was low. Calm. Flat.
Dean blinked.
“Oh.”
He looked him up and down before he could stop himself.
Long-sleeved black shirt.
Black jeans ripped at both knees.
Heavy boots.
His hands were tattooed, creeping black ink disappearing under fabric like secrets.
His fingernails were painted black.
Black.
Dean’s eyes traveled back up.
Dark hair.
Smudged eyeliner.
Intentional.
Messy in a way that wasn’t messy.
And then—
The lip ring.
Right through the center of his bottom lip.
Dean’s brain short-circuited.
“…Right,” Dean said intelligently.
He gestured down the hall.
“Room’s down there. Left side. Got your own bathroom. Kitchen’s yours too. Just—”
The guy brushed past him.
Just walked right past him.
Close enough that Dean felt it.
Felt the whisper of fabric.
Felt the heat of him.
Felt—
Fuck.
Dean turned, watching him go.
No apology.
No hesitation.
No asking permission.
He disappeared into the room.
Dean stood there like an idiot.
Five minutes later, he came back.
He stopped close.
Too close.
Dean instinctively leaned back.
“You uh,” Dean said. “You like it?”
Pause.
The guy studied him.
“How much is the rent between us?”
Straight to business.
Dean swallowed.
“Six hundred each. That’s everything. Internet, water, power.”
A beat.
“You require deposit up front?”
He stepped closer.
Dean smelled him.
Something dark. Clean. Expensive.
Dean’s throat went dry.
“Yeah,” Dean said.
The guy pulled out his wallet.
A chain dangled from it, clinking softly.
He pulled out cash.
A lot of cash.
He handed it over.
Dean stared.
“…What’s this?”
“Twelve hundred,” he said.
Dean blinked.
“…Why?”
“Two months advance.”
Dean stared at him.
Counted it automatically.
Exactly twelve hundred.
He looked up.
The guy was staring at him.
Head tilted.
Eyes sharp.
Dean’s brain helpfully supplied:
Cute.
What the fuck.
“…Okay,” Dean said slowly. “Guess I’m done searching.”
Silence.
“I can move in tomorrow,” the guy said.
And then he left.
Just like that.
Door shut.
Dean stood there.
Holding twelve hundred dollars.
“…Well,” Dean said to nobody.
He walked to the kitchen.
Set the money down.
Opened the fridge.
Grabbed a beer.
Cracked it open.
Took a long drink.
“…That was fucking weird.”
***
Dean thought having Cas move in would’ve been a breeze.
And for the first week, it was.
Cas moved in quietly. Efficiently. Almost eerily so.
Dean had expected chaos. Boxes everywhere. Loud phone calls. Maybe questionable music at three in the morning.
Instead, Cas moved like a ghost.
In and out.
Silent.
Most of his stuff was new. Dean noticed that immediately.
Still in packaging. Tags hanging off things. Plastic wrap crinkling in the trash.
New dishes.
New sheets.
New towels.
New everything.
It was weird.
Not suspicious, exactly.
Just… weird.
But Dean didn’t care enough to question it.
What he cared about was the fact that he finally had a roommate.
A roommate who had paid two months in advance.
A roommate who wasn’t a complete psychopath.
A roommate who meant Dean could breathe again.
No more calculating every purchase.
No more choosing between gas and groceries.
No more sitting awake at night staring at the ceiling wondering how the hell he was going to make it another month.
He wasn’t a broke bitch anymore.
Well.
He was still broke.
Just less catastrophically so.
By day ten, Dean had relaxed completely.
This worked.
This was fine.
This was—
Fine.
It was a Thursday evening when things started to get weirder.
Dean had just gotten out of the shower, hair still damp, wearing a pair of old gray sweatpants that had seen better days and a Zeppelin shirt so soft it was practically tissue paper.
He’d collapsed onto the couch, half-watching some rerun he wasn’t actually paying attention to.
That’s when Cas sat down next to him.
Not on the other end.
Not in the armchair.
Next to him.
Dean slowly turned his head.
And froze.
Cas had made himself comfortable.
Too comfortable.
He was wearing an old black muscle shirt with a neckline so stretched and torn it hung low across his chest, exposing slivers of pale skin and black ink.
Dean’s eyes immediately betrayed him.
His hands weren’t the only things tattooed.
His arms were covered.
Dark lines. Shapes. Symbols Dean didn’t recognize.
They disappeared under the fabric.
Reappeared lower.
His chest.
His collarbone.
His thighs.
His legs.
All the way down.
His feet.
Which were currently—
On Dean’s coffee table.
Dean stared.
The audacity.
The absolute fucking audacity.
Dean dragged his eyes back up.
Cas was watching TV like nothing was wrong.
Like he didn’t have his feet propped up on someone else’s furniture.
Like he didn’t look like a goddamn sin wrapped in black cotton.
Dean cleared his throat.
“Mind getting your feet off my coffee table, man?”
Cas didn’t react immediately.
Of course he didn’t.
He lazily turned his head.
Looked at Dean.
Dean stared back, channeling every “don’t test me” look he had.
Cas’s eyes lingered.
Then—
Slowly.
So slowly.
He pulled one foot down.
Then the other.
He crossed one leg over the other instead.
Dean exhaled.
Victory.
Small victory.
He turned back to the TV.
“You care if I smoke?” Cas asked.
Dean snapped his head toward him.
“Smoke what?”
Cas looked at him like that was a stupid question.
“Weed.”
Oh.
Dean blinked.
Opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Before he could answer, Cas was already reaching into the pocket of his shorts.
He pulled out an old Altoids container.
Popped it open.
Dean watched, helpless, as Cas pulled out a blunt like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Then came the lighter.
Black Zippo.
Of course it was black.
Everything about this guy was black.
Dean ran a hand down his face.
“…Fuck it. Fine. Go ahead.”
Cas didn’t thank him.
Didn’t hesitate.
He lit it immediately.
The flame illuminated his face for a split second.
His eyes.
His lips.
That stupid fucking lip ring.
Dean looked away.
He didn’t have anything against it.
Really.
Cas paid rent.
Cleaned up after himself.
Cooked… sometimes.
Smelled good.
Looked fucking good—
Dean’s brain screeched to a halt.
Nope.
Not finishing that thought.
Cas took a long drag.
Held it.
Exhaled slowly.
Smoke curled into the air between them.
Dean watched it drift.
Watched it disappear.
Watched Cas’s chest rise and fall.
Watched his throat move when he swallowed.
Watched—
“Wanna hit it?”
Dean flinched.
Cas was holding it out to him.
Smoke drifted into Dean’s face.
He coughed immediately.
“…Nah,” Dean said quickly. “I’m good.”
Cas shrugged.
Like he didn’t care.
Like Dean’s heart hadn’t just tripped over itself.
He brought it back to his lips.
Took another drag.
The room slowly filled.
Dean could feel it.
Not high.
Not really.
Just…
Warm.
Heavy.
Soft around the edges.
Cas leaned back into the couch.
Relaxed.
Completely at ease.
Dean, meanwhile, was hyper-aware of everything.
The heat of him.
The smell of him.
The way his thigh was just barely—
Barely—
Touching Dean’s.
Dean didn’t move.
He didn’t breathe.
He didn’t dare.
Eventually, Cas put it out.
Slipped it back into the Altoids container.
They sat there.
Side by side.
Watching the TV.
Neither of them paying attention.
Dean stared forward.
Brain loud.
Heart louder.
He was suddenly, painfully aware of one thing.
Having Cas as a roommate?
Was not going to be as easy as he thought.
***
It started with the clothes.
Or rather—
The lack of them.
At first, Dean thought it was an accident.
Laundry day.
Late night. Normal roommate stuff. Cas would wander out in a loose shirt, hair messy, eyes half-lidded with sleep, grabbing water from the fridge before disappearing again.
Dean hadn’t thought much of it.
He had. But he pretended he hadn’t.
Then the shirts started disappearing entirely.
Not all at once.
Gradually.
First it was no shirt in the mornings.
Then no shirt in the evenings.
Then—
Apparently—
No shirt whenever the hell he felt like it.
Dean was not prepared for it.
Not even a little bit.
Because Cas’s back—
Jesus Christ.
It was covered.
Not cluttered.
Not messy.
Intentional.
Black ink stretched across pale skin, sharp lines and dark shapes flowing over muscle Dean hadn’t realized existed.
He wasn’t bulky.
He wasn’t huge.
He was lean.
Defined.
Every movement shifting something under his skin that Dean absolutely did not need to be noticing.
Dean started avoiding the kitchen.
Which was his kitchen.
Which was ridiculous.
Which made him mad.
Which made him go back into the kitchen out of spite.
Which made everything worse.
It was late one night when Dean walked in and made a critical error.
Cas was cooking.
Half naked.
Only wearing joggers.
Low on his hips.
Too low.
Dean froze in the doorway.
Cas’s back was to him.
His shoulders rolled as he moved, stirring something in a pan.
The muscles along his spine shifted.
Tattoo ink flexed with him.
Dean’s brain stalled.
Completely.
Just—
Nothing.
No thoughts.
Just the sudden, overwhelming realization that his roommate had no business looking like that in a shared living space.
Dean should leave.
He didn’t leave.
Cas turned slightly.
Not enough to face him.
Enough to know he was there.
Dean’s heart jumped.
Cas reached behind him.
Opened a cabinet.
Grabbed something.
Dean watched every second of it like he was witnessing something illegal.
Cas turned fully then.
And walked straight toward him.
Dean didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
Cas didn’t stop.
He didn’t slow down.
He walked right up to him until Dean’s back hit the counter.
Trapped.
Cas stepped closer.
Close enough that Dean could feel heat radiating off his skin.
Dean’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Cas lifted his arm.
Reached past him.
Above him.
His chest—
Right there.
Right there.
Dean’s eyes dropped without permission.
Ink stretched across his chest.
Words.
Latin.
Memento Mori. Memento Vivere.
Dean didn’t know Latin.
But he knew enough.
Remember you must die.
Remember you must live.
Dean swallowed.
And that’s when he noticed—
The piercings.
Small.
Silver.
Through both nipples.
Dean’s brain short-circuited.
Fully.
Irrecoverably.
Cas’s voice cut through everything.
“Can you move please?”
Flat.
Dry.
But his eyes—
His eyes knew exactly what he’d done.
Dean snapped his gaze up.
Met his stare.
Cas wasn’t embarrassed.
Wasn’t shy.
Wasn’t anything.
Just watching him.
Waiting.
Dean pushed off the counter so fast he almost tripped over himself.
“Yeah,” Dean said hoarsely. “Yeah, sorry.”
Cas didn’t move right away.
He stayed there for half a second longer.
Close.
Too close.
Then he stepped back.
Grabbed the glass he’d reached for.
Turned away.
Like nothing had happened.
Dean stood there.
Useless.
Burning.
Humiliated.
Confused.
Dean grabbed the nearest thing he could find.
A beer.
Of course.
He opened it.
Hands shaking slightly.
Took a long drink.
Cas went back to cooking.
Like Dean hadn’t just had a near religious experience staring at his chest.
Dean stared at the back of his head.
And realized something.
That hadn’t been an accident.
Cas knew.
He had to know.
And worse—
Dean had a horrible, sinking feeling—
He’d done it on purpose.
***
A week later, Dean found himself in the library studying for some Math exam he knew he was going to fail or barely pass.
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that washed-out, sickly academic glow that made even the most motivated student look like they were fighting for their life. Dean had been staring at the same equation for the last ten minutes, the numbers swimming on the page, rearranging themselves into absolute nonsense.
He had a pen in his mouth, sucking on the cap—not really suggestively, not intentionally—but to anybody looking, it absolutely would’ve been.
His lips wrapped loosely around the plastic, his brow furrowed in concentration, his green eyes narrowed at the paper like he could intimidate it into making sense.
It was cute.
Too fucking cute.
And Dean had absolutely no idea.
“Dean!”
He looked up instantly, the pen still between his teeth, and the second he saw Charlie walking toward him, his entire face lit up.
He pulled the pen from his mouth and smiled properly.
“Hey.”
She plopped down into the seat next to him like she owned it, already opening her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced speed.
“I hear you have Castiel Novak as your roommate,” she said casually. “How’s that going?”
Dean slammed his book shut.
Not gently.
Not calmly.
He slammed it.
Then he sighed, long and suffering, dragging a hand down his face.
Charlie slowly turned her head toward him, peering at him over the rim of her glasses.
“That bad, huh?”
Dean groaned quietly, dropping his head back.
“No,” he said. “He’s not bad, he’s really—”
He stopped.
Because he didn’t have a word for it.
Because none of the words he did have were safe to say out loud.
“Okay,” Dean corrected. “It’s kind of bad.”
Charlie’s mouth twitched.
Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice instinctively even though nobody was paying attention to them.
“He’s so infuriating,” Dean said. “Always in my personal space. Like—sometimes I’ll come home from work, and the man is fucking walking around in his underwear. Or a towel.”
He paused.
Because that image alone was enough to derail him.
He forced himself to continue.
“He smokes weed in my apartment,” Dean said. “But I mean—I told him it was fine. And now that’s migrated to his bedroom, so whatever, at least he’s not hotboxing the living room anymore.”
Charlie hummed.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck.
“I fucking walked in on him watching porn and jerking off under the sheets,” Dean blurted.
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up.
Dean immediately regretted saying it.
“Should’ve knocked,” Dean said quickly. “Obviously. That’s on me. That’s—privacy violation. That’s my bad.”
He stared down at the table.
“He was not ashamed,” Dean added weakly. “Like. At all.”
Charlie leaned closer.
Dean swallowed.
“He kept eye contact,” Dean said.
His voice dropped.
“My brain short-circuited. Completely. I forgot why I even went in there. Just stood there like an idiot and then slammed the door shut.”
Dean’s ears burned just remembering it.
“I heard him laughing,” Dean finished miserably.
Charlie made a noise that was half sympathy, half delight.
Dean groaned again.
“But,” he said quickly. “Besides all that, he’s clean. He’s quiet. Minus the loud music when he’s showering, which is always something weird and depressing. And—”
“And he’s hot,” Charlie finished.
Dean rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt.
“That’s besides the point,” he grumbled, opening his book again like this conversation was over.
Charlie didn’t buy it.
She never bought it.
“Whatever, Dean,” she said lightly. “We’ve been friends for three weeks now, and I basically know your type.”
Dean snorted.
“Please enlighten me,” he said dryly. “Because Cas is not my type.”
He said it firmly.
Convincingly.
To her.
Not to himself.
Charlie closed her laptop slowly.
Turned in her chair.
Faced him fully.
“Dean,” she said gently, “you don’t have to convince me Cas isn’t your type.”
She paused.
“Because he is.”
Dean scoffed immediately.
“He’s tall… ish,” Charlie continued. “He’s smart. Sometimes funny. And I hear—”
She hesitated just long enough to get Dean’s attention.
“—he’s great in bed.”
Dean froze.
Charlie leaned closer.
“Very dom,” she added. “Possessive.”
Something low in Dean’s stomach twisted.
He ignored it.
“Psh,” Dean scoffed.
He waved a dismissive hand.
“Cas? Dom? Possessive? Please. He watches porn and keeps to himself. No way he’s good in bed.”
He shrugged.
“I doubt he has a body count.”
Charlie leaned forward slowly.
Folded her arms on top of her laptop.
Her expression turned conspiratorial.
“Dean,” she said quietly, “he may not look like he gets bitches…”
She leaned closer.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“…but I hear his dick is eleven inches.”
Dean nearly choked on his spit.
Actually choked.
Coughed violently.
His face went red instantly.
“Charlie!” he hissed.
She burst into silent laughter, shoulders shaking.
Dean grabbed his pen, pointing it at her accusingly.
“That’s not—there’s no way—that’s—”
His voice failed him.
His brain betrayed him.
Because suddenly—
Uninvited—
He remembered Cas standing in front of him in the kitchen.
Half naked.
Ink across his chest.
Silver glinting.
Dean’s throat went dry.
He slammed his book open aggressively.
“Shut up,” Dean muttered.
Charlie just grinned.
Dean stared down at his math problem.
The numbers made even less sense now.
***
Dean stayed at the library longer than he needed to.
Longer than the material required.
Longer than his attention span could realistically sustain.
His math book remained open in front of him, the same half-solved problem sitting there untouched while his pen tapped restlessly against the table.
Eleven inches.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
That was fake.
Had to be fake.
Charlie was messing with him.
Obviously.
People didn’t just—
He swallowed.
His brain, traitorous thing that it was, supplied images he had no business imagining.
Cas in the kitchen.
Cas in joggers.
Cas pressed close enough that Dean could feel the heat coming off him.
Dean shifted in his seat.
Focused very hard on the equation in front of him.
Numbers.
Safe.
Predictable.
Not pierced.
Not tattooed.
Not watching him with those dark, heavy eyes like he knew something Dean didn’t.
Dean exhaled sharply.
“Fuck this,” he muttered.
Charlie glanced over.
“Productive study session?”
Dean grabbed his book, shoving it into his bag with more force than necessary.
“I’m going home.”
Charlie smirked.
“Yeah,” she said knowingly. “You are.”
Dean pointed at her.
“Shut up.”
She just laughed.
***
The apartment was quiet when he got back.
Too quiet.
Dean closed the door behind him, kicking off his boots and dropping his bag by the couch.
The TV was off.
The kitchen lights were dim.
Cas wasn’t in the living room.
Dean told himself he wasn’t disappointed.
He walked to the fridge.
Opened it.
Grabbed a beer.
Cracked it open.
Took a drink.
And that’s when he heard it.
Music.
Low.
Muffled.
Coming from down the hall.
Cas’s room.
Dean froze.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong.
He lived here.
He could walk down the hall if he wanted to.
He took another drink.
Walked slowly.
Cas’s door was open just slightly.
Not enough to see clearly.
Enough to hear.
Enough to see movement.
Dean stopped.
He didn’t mean to stop.
He just—
Did.
Cas was inside.
Shirtless.
Again.
Of course.
His back was to the door.
Head tilted down.
Phone in his hand.
His shoulders shifted as he moved, muscles flexing under ink.
Dean’s fingers tightened around his beer bottle.
Cas lifted his arm.
Ran his hand through his hair.
Exposed more skin.
More ink.
Dean’s mouth went dry.
He shouldn’t be watching this.
He knew that.
He didn’t stop.
Cas turned slightly.
Dean panicked.
He moved immediately, continuing down the hall like he hadn’t just been standing there staring like a creep.
He went to the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
He wasn’t even hungry.
He just needed something to do.
Something to distract himself.
Behind him—
Footsteps.
Dean’s spine straightened.
Cas walked into the kitchen.
Dean felt him before he saw him.
That same quiet presence.
That same gravity.
Dean turned slowly.
Cas was wearing sweatpants.
Low.
Again.
Always low.
No shirt.
Never a shirt.
Dean wondered briefly if Cas owned any shirts at all. If he discarded them after fucking moving in.
Cas leaned against the counter.
Close.
Too close.
Dean took a drink.
Tried to act normal.
Failed.
Cas watched him.
Not openly.
Not obviously.
Just enough.
Dean cleared his throat.
“You, uh—”
His voice cracked.
He stopped.
Cas’s mouth twitched.
Dean wanted to die.
Cas stepped closer.
Reached past him.
Again.
Always reaching past him.
Always making Dean feel trapped.
Dean’s back hit the counter.
Again.
Cas grabbed a glass.
Filled it with water.
Drank it slowly.
Dean stared at his throat.
Watched it move.
Watched everything.
Cas set the glass down.
Looked at him.
Held his gaze.
Dean’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Cas didn’t say anything.
Neither did Dean.
He just stood there.
Frozen.
Burning.
Aware of everything.
Cas stepped back first.
Turned.
Walked away.
Like nothing had happened.
Dean exhaled shakily.
He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
He finished his beer in one swallow.
Set the bottle down.
Stared at nothing.
Dean was in trouble.
He knew it.
He just didn’t know how much yet.