Castiel Novak sighed, slumping onto his desk, a headache throbbing behind his eyes as he stared at his word processor's blinking cursor. He'd been awake for two days now, and tonight, he supposed, sleep was more necessary than anything else. After all, going without it for too long made people more likely to notice that something wasn't right. Maybe his eyes would start to droop in the middle of Dr. Wolfson's lectures on the medieval Kabbalah, or maybe his notes on Dr. Walker's Eastern European mythology course would come out jumbled, or maybe he'd snap at someone over nothing. Maybe he would just look pale and tired — but the simple fact was that people noticed.

On the other hand, this essay on the evolution of anti-demonic warding symbolism for Professor Singer's class would not write itself, and Castiel had a personal precedent to live up to. The religious studies department of Harvelle University adored him, and among the faculty, he wasn't just the campus pastor's son; he had promise, potential. He could be a great scholar... But he knew better than to think that he could do it on his own. Besides that, he couldn't do it on his own tonight, not when he needed to train some new student employee at the library when the morning came, some work study case, Dean Winchester, who'd so far been fired from the campus bookstore, the campus post office, and three different TA positions, all of which had involved simply making and stapling copies.

Rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one hand, Castiel opened his desk's top drawer and reached for the little orange pill bottle, with the mix of Adderall pills in doses of fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and thirty milligrams, for whenever he needed which amount. (His supply, he noted, was getting low; he'd need to venture into town to check in with Doctor Burroughs.) With a sigh, he slouched over to his mini-fridge and took out one of the bottles of orange juice he kept in regular stock. Back at the desk, he opened up one of the twenty-fives and emptied its contents into his drink. He waited a minute, for everything to settle, and shook the bottle around instead of stirring.

Castiel downed the mixture in a series of rapid gulps, and as soon as he felt the drugs kick in, he started typing again. The rush hit him like a breeze coming from behind: his heart raced, but each pound brought with it a desire, a need, to get the words out — and as his fingers hit the keys at a fevered pace, he felt a wave of calm wash over him. When everything within his mind focused so intently on the essay, it seemed less insurmountable — and it only had to be 1,500 words.

A placid smile crossed Castiel's face, spreading his lips into a thin, pale curve and failing to reach his eyes. Blank, they watched without judgment or affection as the words flew from his fingers. Finally, he felt invincible. Maybe he'd always be gay. Maybe he'd just been born that way. Maybe if he couldn't ever fix himself or make his father truly proud of him, then he could still compensate by being smart enough and by doing well enough at school that no one thought to care about his so-called unnatural inclinations. There — now he was living up to his standards.

If there was one person that Dean Winchester, aged twenty-one, didn't want to work with, under any conditions, ever, it was Castiel Novak. Not that he knew too much about the other young man, save that his father was the on-call spiritual advisor for the poor saps who got taken in by that kind of thing, but Dean had seen Novak The Younger lurking around and, even though they were in disparate programs, all that Dean had seen lead him to conclude one thing: the skinny, blue-eyed theology student was nothing but trouble — "I mean, I like Pastor Novak alright for a preacher man," Dean always said, when asked to offer his opinion in between the trading of jabs at other student body discontents. "But what the Hell is wrong with his son? That way he's always staring at people — something is just not right with that guy."

And Dean's friends agreed. Whether they did so by shoving him around or by taking his stuff or through some other method of harassment, they always managed to find some way to agree.

Dean had his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets as he meandered into the library. Even without minding Castiel, the last place that Dean wanted to be was at the library. He hadn't even deserved to lose his job as Professor Starkey's TA, but apparently the old bastard took some fucking issue with having his copies come with profane, critical, and "intensely distracting" Post-It notes attached. (Which was bullshit, because, frankly, the asshole deserved to have it pointed out that the literature "scholarship" he was foisting off on the stupid freshmen consisted entirely of arguing that scissors were hermaphroditic.)

Snaking around the stacks and past a collection of blonde, practically identical co-eds (all of whom he objectively recognized as being hot, and still couldn't bring himself to care for), Dean headed in the vague direction of the reference desk. As he drew closer, his hands burrowed further into his pockets and he ducked his head. Sure, Dean needed the work study. Having an ex-Marine-turned-mechanic for a father, a waitress/homemaker for a mother, a Stanford-bound little brother, and barely any financial aid didn't leave him with a lot of other options. But he didn't need the work study so badly that the library appealed to him. A quick glance up at the desk showed Castiel checking a stack of books back in, and Dean kept on his path away from there.

Because, really, there had to be other options. Maybe, Dean thought as he tried to veer off in the direction of the reference stacks, Castiel Novak — theology student, preacher's son, and total social reject — would just ignore him. Maybe he could get out of this without having to learn anything new, and then he could run down to the science center and beg Professor Clark to take him back. Or he could find that theatre major he'd nailed back during this year's orientation week and he could get her to hook him up with some grunt work building sets. However it worked out, he could not — and would not — work in this freezing fucking library, with that creepy little nerd. The heavy falls of Dean's boots pounded on the polished stone floor surrounding the desk, and he thumped onto the ugly green carpet. He only needed to get into the reference books. Then, Novak would be none the wiser to the fact that he'd been here.

"Winchester," a gruff voice snapped at him — and, before he could think to do otherwise, Dean looked up. His dark green eyes fixed on the impassive blue ones of the young man who would be his new coworker. Something about him just didn't feel right. Maybe it was the pallor or the bloodshot eyes, or how dark the rings around his eyes were — then again, maybe it was the bedraggled black hair or the head-to-toe black (black shirt, black jeans — did this freak wear any other color but black?) — and then again, again, maybe it was just that he didn't blink nearly as often as he should have. Impervious to the series of once-overs he got, Castiel continued, "Maybe showing up late worked with Professor Erikkson, or Dr. Blackwood, or at the bookstore, Dean, but here, we prefer to start our shifts on schedule."

Dean looked around, eyebrows arched and mouth gaping. "I — er..." He paused, trying to think of how best to play the confusion card. "I... yo no hablo Ingles?" he hazarded — and Castiel met this attempt with a blank stare, his lips pressing into a thin, white line. Dean forced a breathless chuckle and tried again: "No, but seriously, man. I... I think you've got me confused with somebody else, you know? I'm not—"

"You're Dean Winchester, pharmacology major," Castiel said as though reciting a list of facts and figures he'd memorized for an exam. As he spoke, he piled up books into a stack. "Minoring in chemistry. Junior year, same as myself — you stand six-foot-two, Captain Walker has been trying to recruit you for the football team since our freshman year but you can't afford to let your grades slip, and you earned a formal reprimand from the Dean of Studies and the Heads chemistry and physics departments last semester because you stole the supplies to build a makeshift rocket and then set it off on the North Lawn." Gaping even more, Dean paled, and he barely noticed it when Castiel shoved the books into his hands. "And now? You're going to learn about properly reshelving these. It's the first step."

"I think I can put a book on a goddamn shelf," Dean snapped, rolling his eyes and shoving the books back at Castiel.

"It's part of the standard training procedure, Winchester," Castiel said flatly. He barely blinked, let alone made an actual facial expression. Maybe he just didn't have emotions. "Everyone who works here goes through it, and having the most impressive track record of firings on the student payroll does not exempt you from taking part. Besides, there is more to it than simply putting a book on a shelf."

"Not really."

Castiel sighed. "Fine: do we use the Dewey Decimal System or the Library of Congress system here?"

Dean rubbed his lips together, and sighed. "X equals negative-B, plus-or-minus the square root of the quantity of B-squared minus four-A-C divided by two-A?"

"That's the Quadratic Formula." Unimpressed, Castiel shoved the books back into Dean's hands. "And, for your future reference, we use the Library of Congress system; you can find a convenient key to which types of books correspond to which letters on the map by the staircase."

Dean wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, well... at least my parents gave me a fucking normal name, Castiel."

Shaking his head, Castiel turned toward the stairs and muttered, "Let's get this started. The sooner we get it over with, the better."

Following him, Dean guessed that he couldn't agree more.

"Dean." Castiel stared at the back of Dean's head, waiting for acknowledgement. "...Dean," he repeated, exasperation adding a sharp edge to his tone. Again, he quieted and waited for his coworker to turn around; he got no such results. Raising his voice just enough to get it noticed, he said, once more, "Dean!"

Looking away from the redhead who'd come in, looking for help with her paper on Dostoevsky, Dean snapped, "What?"

Castiel shook his head and shoved a pile of books across the desk. "I've got a reshelving job for you. Stop your quote-unquote biological research and take care of it."

Grumbling and hissing obscenities in Castiel's direction, Dean abandoned the poor girl he'd been chatting up and went to put the books away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Castiel sighed. They'd been working together for two weeks now, and as far as Castiel saw, the hours were the only things Dean couldn't complain about. He didn't like working the late-late and the early-early shifts, especially not since, whenever he wormed himself into the schedule, Castiel showed up there, and regardless of when they worked together, Dean always had some insult on his tongue. His favorite seemed to be "junk-less," as though a fondness for books rendered Castiel a woman.

In Dean's place, Castiel approached the girl: "I'm sorry about him. The cryogenic unfreezing process was difficult, and experimental at best when working on a Neanderthal. We're still waiting for him to acclimate — but, in the meantime: can I help you?"

One of the things Castiel liked best about working at the library had always been the ability to help other students in their work. However, as the girl wandered off toward the stacks of critical works, a thought occurred: he could get very used to insulting Dean Winchester. He didn't particularly make a habit out of insulting people, but saying negative things about Dean had a rush to it that almost rivaled the Adderall and espresso cocktail that Castiel had used to start his day.

When Dean returned from his assignment, he flopped onto the desk, resting on his elbows and radiating anger. Tension stood out through the muscles of his arms and back, all clearly visible through his "accidentally shrunk in the dryer" tight Motorhead t-shirt. His eyes smoldered as he glared at everyone who came within ten feet of the desk. Idly, Castiel ran his long fingers down the spine of a book on angelology, recently returned to the after-hours drop-off slot, despite the fact that the library was open. Dean groaned, for no apparent reason.

"You know," Castiel told him dryly, "we don't allow animals in the library. And you can't get paid if I have to tie you up outside."

Dean shot Castiel a look so dirty he felt compelled to return home and shower. "Well, you know what you can do, choir boy? ...Fucking bite me."

Without thinking before he spoke, Castiel retorted, "You wish."

Those two words hung between them for a long silence, as both men slowly realized what they'd said. Looking down at his boots, Dean paled; a hot, pink blush flooded Castiel's cheeks. Haphazardly piling up the books he'd been checking in, he opened and closed his mouth several times, tried and failed to start any kind of sentence. He finally ended up with: "I — I'm going to go and... I'll go do this round of reshelving, can you man the desk on your own for a while?"

He didn't stick around to hear Dean mutter, "Yeah, sure, fine."

Six weeks into working together, Dean and Castiel had established something of a rapport — if one that was not, by typical standards, pleasant. Their shifts kept coinciding, due to scheduling interference that neither would admit to, but regardless of the cause, Castiel always arrived first. When Dean tromped in, bringing with him mud or some traces of whatever weather had taken over outside, he greeted the young man between the desk with a borderline kind, "What's up, bitch," or a, "Morning, junk-less," or similar. Without looking up from his work, Castiel responded, "As ever, Dean, your vocabulary never fails to astound."

Every so often, they traded glances that neither could explain and that both pretended hadn't happened. When they had a lull in activity — no books to check in and reshelve, no fellow students to direct toward books or to help with research, no copy machines to fix — sometimes Castiel would catch himself looking up and down Dean's full height. He traced his eyes down the curve of Dean's back, and often lingered on his ass, which filled out his jeans in ways that Castiel knew were sinful. That adjective suited them more than anything else, even if the only reason why came down to the thoughts they inspired in Castiel. Having been through enough liberal arts education — not to mention seventh grade health, with its informational video about homosexuality from the eighties — Castiel knew better than to blame himself — or anyone else — for what happened... but when he let his eyes fix on how Dean's muscles stretched the denim, all he could hear was his father's voice in his head, telling him, clear as a bell, that gay people went to Hell.

None of it mattered, anyway, he guessed. Dean's high school sweetheart and girlfriend of four years, Anna Milton, never ventured out to see him at Harvelle, never called him or sent any kind of mail, but Castiel heard enough stories of their youthful misadventures to assume that she had to exist. Most likely, she was just a shy girl, or a busy one — considering that she went to Yale, the latter seemed more likely. And it was respectful of Dean, Castiel supposed, that he didn't call Anna and pester her when she had so much work to do. A full understanding of relationship politics eluded Castiel, but he didn't need that to know that, even if Dean had come to smile at him, and even if he'd, once or twice, seen Dean wink in his direction, nothing could ever come of what he felt. Hopeless crushes earned their modifier for a reason.

It was the first day of their seventh week when things changed more tangibly.

For all he was not, by nature, a very social person, Castiel knew better than to eavesdrop, let alone on a conversation like the one he came to hear... But, for one thing, he'd worked the front desk since that morning — and had only snuck now because Jo, daughter of the Dean of Student Life, had come to cover for him — and it concerned him, how Dean had wandered away and never come back to finish up his shift. For another: Castiel objected to leaving Jo at the desk alone, not because he disliked her, but because they usually needed an extra set of hands up there. Most importantly, however, he'd actually slept the night before, and he was tired, and now he needed to run to the cafe so he could take his stimulants. He'd caught his eyes drooping more than once and he could not — could not — let himself sleep today, not on his day off, when he was working here until close and when he needed to spend tonight reviewing his First and Second Kings for Professor Williamson's special talk tomorrow.

And he knew — he knew — so much better that to eavesdrop, but as he rounded the fiction stacks and heard Dean's voice raising amongst those of his friends, Castiel pressed his back against the bookshelf and listened: "Look, guys, I know what you're all thinking," Dean told them, tone light, laughing, and still intently serious, "but Little Novak's not so bad when you get to know him. He's a good guy."

"Yeah," one of the friends retorted, "good for what?"

"Good for being a fucking fag," a second chimed in. A warmth had followed hearing Dean praise him, but the words from Dean's friends sent it fleeing. At the acidity in his tone, Castiel felt his stomach flop and his insides writhe around like they were full of maggots; even in the normal cold of the library, he felt a chill down to his bones. "Oh, and good for turning our Mister Winchester into one too. God, Dean, are you two shopping for curtains yet—"

"Hey, shut the Hell up," Dean snapped. "You don't know him, and you don't know anything about him, and… For God's sakes, guys, why don't you just leave him alone for once? He's a good guy. You shouldn't call him a fag — or anybody else for that matter, but especially not him."

Castiel felt his knees wobbling beneath him — not only had Dean called him a good guy twice, but he'd stood up to his friends. For Castiel. They were hardly friends, and Dean had told his friends off on Castiel's behalf. His head felt as though he'd submerged himself in a swimming pool and stayed there, as though it might get away from him at any minute... Or maybe that was how little he'd eaten in the past few weeks. (He just hadn't been hungry; it had nothing at all to do with the drugs.) Fighting to stay on his feet, Castiel leaned further into the shelf and swallowed thickly, hugging himself around the stomach.

"What are you working in the library for, anyway, Dean-o?" Friend Number Two asked with a huff. "I mean... shit, like you need to be wasting time here. We haven't gotten to see you hardly at all since you started here, but, oh. Don't tell me. It's because you're fucking Pastor Novak's kid by the dictionaries. ...Thesauruses get him off, don't they, he seems like he's that kind of fucking freak—"

The sound of a hand smacking someone's jaw resounded through the library, gunshot loud. "Don't call him a fucking freak, Wayne!" Dean practically shouted. Although he said nothing and barely managed to keep himself quiet, Castiel instinctively opened his mouth to chide Dean for the volume of his voice. This is a library, he thought as he tightened his hold on himself, pressing his fingers into his sides so hard that he felt he might leave bruises; keep it down, there are people studying.

"Just think about it, okay?" Dean continued, quieter but not calmer. Tension rang through every syllable; even without seeing him, Castiel could tell that Dean needed tremendous strength of will to avoid doing something he wanted to do. "I need the work study, remember?"

"So get a job at the sports center—"

"It's not that fucking simple, Travis," he hissed. "I tried there — not hiring. This place was the only one that'd take me. ...I can't go to school without the work study helping pay for it. And if I show up back at home with no degree? My dad's gonna fucking kill me. He almost did when I tried not to go — I have to make sending me here worth his while."

"It's still not like you have to work here, for fuck's—"

"I have to work somewhere, Wayne, don't I? I mean, come on... The school's not giving me hardly anything but this. I didn't get the grades in high school for a scholarship or anything. I could make shit out of duct tape, but the guy who made the corsets beat me one year, and the chick who made the prom outfits beat me another—"

"But why do you need to—"

"It's bad enough that Sam wants to go to Stanford and do God only knows what — one of us has to have some job prospects that aren't working at the garage for the rest of our lives, or teaching spoiled brats about a bunch of dead guys who philosophized at each other. I can't let myself be a loser just because I don't want to work at the library."

"And where does Novak fit into everything?" asked Travis, his tone genuinely curious instead of condemning.

"What's it fucking matter?" Wayne snapped. "Let's get out of here — Winchester's probably late to meet his boyfriend."

As the sounds of feet thumped away, toward the door, Castiel closed his eyes — his heart pounded in his chest as though it wanted to escape; his skin felt clammy, and he just started praying: Please, God, don't let them see me. I know they're right, I know I'm a fag, and I know you hate me for that because my Dad says you do... but please, please, don't let them see me. They'll go after Dean if they do; they can't go after him anymore — just, please... Wrapping himself up in his thoughts, Castiel lost track of time until he felt a warm, firm hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean — it would have to be Dean. Moreover, he didn't sound upset. His tone stayed even and calm, and he sounded more concerned than anything. "...Come on, what's up, Cas? You feeling alright?"

Castiel sighed. "I'm fine, Dean. Thank you. I just... I needed—"

"Are you sure that you're alright?" Finally, Castiel opened his eyes; he shivered as he looked up into Dean's eyes, deep and dark green, little forests that Castiel couldn't entirely fathom. "I mean... not to intrude or anything, but you really look like a trip to health services waiting to happen."

Shaking his head, Castiel tried to cover his tracks and explain: "Really, it's nothing... Nothing I can't handle, anyway. I've just... I've been busy, so I haven't been sleeping well. It's... it happens every time we get close to the semester's end, you know? There are finals, and papers, and—"

"Come on, Cas. I've been here just as long as you have, and I've got some good instincts about this kind of thing. I know how to read people... and nobody looks like you do around finals week unless there's something going on that's really, really wrong."

Castiel suppressed the sigh that wanted to escape, and moved his shoulder underneath Dean's hand; it just made Dean hold onto him tighter, but not tight enough to cause him pain. He tried to put on a smile, but found that his attempts fell short — the first one came out as a grimace, and the second wavered before falling into a sad sort of neutrality. This only made Dean's eyes darken with concern, until they looked stormy, like the sky before a tornado — Castiel still stared up into them, trying to see down to wherever their dark tunnels ended, or into Dean's soul, perhaps. Whichever he found first would suffice... but he couldn't find them.

"Why would your father kill you for not getting a degree?" he asked softly, finally looking down at the pendant around Dean's neck instead of at his eyes. "...Or would it be for some other reason?"

Dean sighed and patted Castiel on the shoulder. "It's complicated," he said with a sigh. "I mean... He's an ex-Marine, and he's really big on the whole... American dream sort of thing. Making life better for me and my geek-boy brother than it was for him. And he means well, but..." For the first time, Dean looked down into Castiel's eyes not because Castiel had looked up into his, but because, by all appearances, he wanted to try and see what laid behind the blue ones that kept finding his green. "And, I mean. It's not all on him. There's just... things. About me. And if he found out about them, you can bet your pretty lips that he'd never speak to me again, let alone help me out with anything. ...Not that we're going to have the cash to spare, once Sammy's off to college too."

Gently, Castiel placed his hand on top of Dean's and gave it the briefest of squeezes before nudging it down his shoulder. Dean put it back in place without hesitation, and once more, Castiel tried to remove himself from Dean's hold; he got no progress, and Dean just went back to holding his shoulder. "I'm sorry," Castiel whispered. "...You know, you don't need to stand up to them like that for me. You really don't — it's nothing that I haven't dealt with before. ...Since middle school, before."

"But it's still not right for them to talk that way about you, Cas — you gotta know that." Nodding, Castiel mumbled that yes, he knew that perfectly well; this, too, failed to make Dean stop holding onto his shoulder. But, he continued, keeping his voice low enough that only Dean would hear him, Wayne and Travis were Dean's friends, and speaking as someone who had very few of them (more like none, he thought to himself), Castiel knew that friends were incredibly important. "Well, yeah, I mean... sure, they're my friends, but it's still not right. ...I'm not going to let them talk about you like that, okay? I promise."

"Why bother?" Castiel asked, eyes darting to the floor. "They aren't telling lies about me. ...Of course, my father thinks they are. And he would, naturally, have a very negative reaction if he knew the truth, which he is never going to so long as I have a say in the matter... But, even so, they aren't saying anything that isn't true. So don't feel compelled to make them stop."

Castiel expected some sort of response from Dean — he expected to be snapped at, or called a spineless pussy, or thwapped on the back of the head without any regard for the fact that doing so would have been a dangerous thing for anybody who liked his brain cells intact... but he didn't expect the response he got. Dean's hand slid along his shoulder, and up around the back of his neck, fingers weaving gently into his hair — once he had his hand on the back of Castiel's head, he shoved Castiel's lips into his own. Castiel hadn't had a kiss in far too long; he couldn't remember the last time that someone had, and his arms found their way off of his chest and up around Dean's shoulders, pulling Dean in toward him. Their chests came so close that Castiel could feel the heat radiating off of Dean. It fought off the chill that had attacked him, even if it didn't make it go away.

And he kissed Dean back. He didn't know why this surprised him, but as he moved his lips against Dean's, as he tongued at Dean's teeth, as he experimentally dug his teeth into Dean's lower lip, Castiel couldn't believe what he was doing. Moaning into Dean's mouth, he kissed harder. Dean kissed harder. They each increased the strength and ferocity with which they attacked each other's mouths, breaths coming shorter and shallower, more desperately, as their bodies trembled with the need for contact. Sliding a leg between Dean's, Castiel rubbed his hips into the other man's, felt his black jeans get tight as he got hard — Dean bucked back against him, turning them over and pushing Castiel against the bookshelf. The cool wood hit him on the shoulder blades, the small of his back, the backs of his legs and neck; the spines of the books knocked into his head — but then Dean went and cupped his ass.

"Dean!" he hissed, cleaving to Dean, even as he tried to worm further into the shelf and found that this did not separate him from Dean at all. "Dean, we can't... we... not here. And you..." Castiel gave Dean another, slower kiss — softly drawing it out like poison from a snakebite — and then pressed one into his jaw. "If you get found out...?" He gave Dean a squeeze around the shoulders and whispered, "We should both pretend that this never happened."

Dean nodded, but Castiel couldn't help noticing the little hint of regret in his eyes. "Yeah, yeah... Sure. ...That makes sense."

Another week passed without incident. And then a second after that. Ostensibly, everything around Castiel carried on as normal: Dean didn't stop greeting him with obscenities, and they didn't stop trading barbs during the shifts together that they still shared — but every time they glanced at each other over the desk, it didn't feel quite right. Inside the deep forests of Dean's eyes, Castiel kept missing the glimmer to which he'd grown familiar, the little spark that seemed so essential to Dean's existence, that suggest mischief and disregard for the rules or whatever else would stand between him and what he wanted. What replaced it seemed so different and yet so similar; sometimes, Castiel couldn't even tell that the simmering underneath their Looks wasn't the same.

But, even without it waiting there, even without it shining on Castiel's evenings in the library and making them so much less lonely, that inexplicable Dean-ness didn't go away. His smiles still went to his eyes, and he still arched his eyebrows in jest whenever he made some smart-ass crack. He still leaned over the desk to flirt with the girls who came looking for help with their research. On the second-to-last night of the semester, though, the second-to-last night before the winter break, when the two of them were working the end-of-the-night shift and after everyone else had cleared out of the library, something else came into Dean's eyes where the spark had been.

Castiel had taken a cart of books upstairs to work on putting them back — almost all of them were ones that he'd checked out. A collection of Jewish mystical writings for Dr. Wolfson's term paper here, a book of essays on Buddhist thought for Professor Griffin's course there — and without a care, Castiel put them back on the shelves exactly where they'd been before, pausing to get the numbering exactly right and to line up the books so that as few of them leaned toward the shelf as possible.

Outside the window, more snowflakes drifted lazily towards the glistening piles of powder; all of them seemed to twinkle in the streetlights. Tonight, the library was cold enough that Castiel had kept his black hooded Harvelle sweatshirt zipped up. At the beginning of the semester, it had fit him perfectly. Even just before Thanksgiving, it had fit better than it did now, hanging off him as though it was some ill-fitting hand-me-down from an oversized cousin. His jeans were a similar story, only staying on his skinny hips because he'd belted them tightly. Even with that precaution, he still had moments of reaching down to pull them up before they tried to fall off.

Pausing his work, Castiel let himself look through one of the books — a collection of Christian mystical writings that he'd referenced for the paper he'd written Wolfson. One of the few paperbacks in the library, it still had the pages dog-eared where he'd wanted to keep track of things. With an idle sigh, Castiel looked down the table of contents, and then at the price on the back, by the barcode. Only twenty dollars — he'd need to look into buying himself a copy after Christmas. Letting himself get wrapped up in looking the book over, Castiel didn't hear the advance as Dean stalked toward him; he didn't notice anything until Dean grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

"Cas, what the Hell is this?" Dean's eyes flashed and Castiel backed up into the bookshelf behind him. Not to be deterred by this, Dean advanced on him until Castiel's back was up against the books. The fluorescent light glimmered on the translucent orange bottle; as Dean shook his hand, the mix of round, orange 30 mg tablets and white-and-orange 25 mg pills rattled against their plastic confines. "...Really, Cas. You want to tell me what this is?"

"It's not mine," Castiel lied. His eyes widened; his heart raced; he hadn't slept in three days, and the last time he'd eaten anything might have been before the last time he'd seen his bed. At this point, his memory was a quagmire of symbols, charts, and the names and functions of angels.

Dean furrowed his brow, frowning; for the first time since Castiel had known him, his green eyes looked like the sky before a tornado, instead of like a forest. "Then why'd it fall out of your bag, genius?" he demanded. "And come to think... do you know anybody else whose asshole father named him Castiel Novak?"

"It's not mine," he repeated intently, staring up into the angry lines on Dean's face. Castiel grimaced, and felt his face flush, hot and scarlet. "It's nothing, Dean. ...Don't you have some other books to put back somewhere else?"

Dean cocked his head and wrinkled his nose; his frown deepened. "Oh, so I'm just imagining things, am I?"

Castiel nodded. "That would be what I implied in saying that it's nothing, yes."

Running two fingers from his free hand down Castiel's cheek, tracing the prominent bones down to the hollows that had not been there in September, Dean asked, "So... when I say it looks like you haven't slept in a week, like your eyes are bloodshot and dilated, and like you've lost a lot of weight, Cas... it's just my head playing tricks on me?" Again, Castiel nodded; in response, Dean reached down and grabbed the excess sweatshirt around Castiel's waist. Without waiting for permission, he shoved his hand under the hem, and that of Castiel's two other layers. His palm rubbed rough against Castiel's skin and the hipbone that Dean found without expending any effort. "And I'm just making up what I've got my hand on?"

Swallowing thickly, Castiel looked around before admitting in a hushed voice: "...It might be Adderall."

Dean's grip on Castiel's hip tightened. "It might be Adderall?"

"Fine, it's Adderall —"

"How the Hell did you even get a script for Adderall? You don't have ADD."

Looking at the floor and the diminishing space between their bodies, Castiel explained: "...There's a doctor down in town. ...He writes prescriptions for anyone who shows up. All you have to do is list off the right symptoms."

Dean hurled the bottle at the floor. The pills clattered out of it, spilling all across the carpet. "Dammit, Cas," he snapped — but the anger evaporated off him when their eyes met. Voice low, he asked, "Don't you know what this shit'll do to you? It's like playing with fire. ...Even worse, if you don't need it, it's like meth — legal meth." Barely speaking above a whisper, Castiel confirmed that he knew exactly what he'd been putting himself through. "Then why do it?"

"I have many sins to atone for, Dean," he said flatly, blue eyes as unmoving as the first time he and Dean had met. "Inasmuch as I can, anyway. ...Academic achievement is the easiest way to do so."

"You? ...Seriously? ...What've you done that's so bad you have to put a loaded gun to your head, choir boy?"

"More than I care to list, but..." Sighing and pushing his hips into Dean's, Castiel snaked a hand around the back of Dean's neck. He paused just before he kissed Dean, mouth hovering dangerously close to the other man's. "My greatest sin is this."

Without another word, their lips collided.

Castiel kissed Dean in a way that had never occurred to him when they'd done so the first time, among the other stacks, with different editions of Dante and Boccaccio as their witnesses: this time, the desperation pulsed through Castiel every time his heart pounded, his blood burning, turning alkaline and vitriolic, with the need to eliminate all the space between himself and Dean. Dean's shirt came off first; he only had the one, the worn out souvenir from some time his father had seen Black Sabbath in concert, and when Castiel peeled it off, the golden-toned glory of Dean's torso revealed itself, paler than his face and arms but still so undeniably Dean's. Never before had Castiel seen skin colored quite like the other man's — nor had he seen so developed a musculature. He broke the kiss, lingering with little space between their mouths, and in the pause, he ran his hand down Dean's chest, down the soft skin and the hard muscles.

This contact didn't last long before Dean's hands fell to Castiel's hips and jerked him closer with enough force that they stumbled across the corridor, into the other shelf, so that Dean's back now met the spines of books. With an expert hand, Dean unzipped Castiel's sweatshirt and shoved it to the floor; the other hand rested on Castiel's hipbone, underneath the hem of his two t-shirts (one short-sleeved and one long), holding him in place while Dean stripped away the layers. He held the action up as well, but not, Castiel assumed, for the same reason that he'd paused to admire Dean's body. When Dean's hand traced its way down his protruding shoulder and collarbone, his angular torso, the bones of his hips, Castiel felt, for the first time, so skinny and exposed; despite the presence of the belt, his jeans fell to the floor with barely any work from Dean and, in retaliation, he ripped Dean's fly open and apart. He tugged Dean's jeans off until they, too, landed by the other man's ankles. Their underwear didn't last much longer, joining the heap of clothing, and naked as their birthdays, both Dean and Castiel hesitated a moment as they felt around each other's bodies, basked in the heat of their proximity.

For all he hadn't eaten lately, Castiel summoned the strength and cunning enough to get his way: leaning up, he kissed Dean hard enough that his lips would bruise eventually, and while he had Dean caught off-guard, Castiel sunk to the floor, yanking Dean down with him. For the briefest of moments, he straddled Dean's hips as though making to sit in his lap — and then he shoved Dean to his back. Laying down on top of Dean, Castiel kissed him, slower and more tenderly, but not more calmly — each slow drag of lips on lips ached with yearning, and each drowsy grinding of hips into hips screamed out in desire. He kissed Dean as if trying to steal all the air from his lungs. Even as Castiel had Dean hard, and had an erection of his own, the most action he took was brushing his cock against Dean's.

Castiel propped himself up on his rickety arms, looking down into Dean's lust-darkened eyes. "You have to want it, Dean," he muttered, voice throaty. "I want it — but not unless you want it too."

Dean answered that concern by jerking Castiel down into another kiss, tonguing at his teeth and biting enough to give Castiel matching bruises. Castiel reciprocated, and when they broke again, he rearranged his legs around Dean's. He took preparation process slowly, licking his fingers first in lieu of lube — sliding one finger into Dean's hole, then another, and then the third; he had trouble just with those — but his index finger, on its own, found Dean's prostate. Castiel prodded it gently before removing his finger — and then he shoved his cock into Dean's tight warmth. His movements were as slow as his kisses, and careful, desirous but cognizant of the fact that Dean had (most likely) never done this before. Getting deep enough was of no concern; getting Dean's sounds of confused discomfort to change occupied all of Castiel's thoughts.

His clean hand found its way to Dean's cock as easily as Dean had found Castiel's hand. Wrapping his long, thin fingers around the shaft, he ran his thumb up and down Dean's warm skin, from his coarse pubic hairs up to the base of his head. Castiel worked up and down Dean's dick slowly at first, just trying to work him over so that the whole process wasn't entirely unpleasant — it took them a while, but, soon enough, his strokes and thrusts fell into rhythm with each other, Castiel's hand going up as he pushed himself deeper and deeper into Dean. He kept at this without hesitation — and without breaking his focus to kiss Dean. As much as he enjoyed the meetings of their mouths, he had more important things to attend to — caressing Dean's cock, he increased the speed of his strokes, and the firmness of his hold on Dean's cock. His own prick met Dean's prostate again, and again, and one more time — and, finally, Castiel found satisfaction that the noises he elicited from Dean were those of pleasure, and nothing else.

He worked Dean hard, and came first, shifting down to lick Dean's cock. Castiel paused only to press a kiss to the head, and then he let nothing stop him from taking Dean into his mouth, just a bit at first, and then bits of increasing size until he had the other man's cock pressing toward the back of his throat. Carefully, he dragged his teeth along the underside, and he flicked his tongue all over Dean like a serpent. When, finally, Dean came, moaning Oh, God, Cas — Cas, oh, God from the back of his throat, Castiel pulled back. Some of the semen ended up in his mouth, promptly swallowed, before the taste could get to him, and the rest spurted up, turning Dean's chest into a painting of off-white on Dean's perfect skin and muscles.

Castiel sighed as he laid down on Dean again, getting the cum onto his own front, and finally, he kissed Dean again — another long, slow one, less aching and more accomplished. For a brief moment, he nuzzled against Dean's neck, and then, leaning toward his ear, Castiel whispered, "It feels too good to not be sinful."