Summary: A follow-on story to Amnesia. Kind of a prequel. Set during the years of College where Dean and Castiel fell in love, long before Castiel lost his memory. You don't have to have read Amnesia for this to make sense (you really don't, actually), but I don't know, if I were to do it in any order, I would read Amnesia first. Anyway.

Castiel has avoided humans his entire life. After too many bad experiences with them - along with the whole systematic racism thing; it's just the best way he can think of to avoid a. harm, b. upset, and c. complaints of "reverse racism". And Dean has avoided getting close - at least, for the past year or so - to anyone. But especially guys he finds himself inexplicably attracted to. And he, too, has some pretty damn justified reasons for this. So naturally, when the two meet, a great deal of sparks - along with confusion and glares - fly.

But ever so slowly, Castiel finds himself falling in love with a human, while Dean finds himself falling in love. It's hard to say who is more horrified by the circumstances.

Other notes: Um, dom/sub stuff (Dom!Cas, Sub!Dean, if you've read Amnesia you'll be familiar with the situation). Totally consensual, (and only starts up when Dean and Cas get together), all very healthy and to be honest, more fluffy than anything else. I'll put a warning before each chapter outlining all the smut stuff it's going to contain and where in the chapter it'll be located, if some people want to avoid it for whatever reason. There's also a lot of past mentions of abuse, and I'll put warnings in for those when they come around. I'll also put a warning up for bad language now, and basically say that this story is gonna contain a lot of swears, so I'm sorry if you don't dig that kind of thing. Finally, I feel I ought to say that because this story contains descriptions of racism in regards to racism to angels from humans (which you could I either view as being a multiplying factor when it comes to racial discrimination? like, white angels would experience less prejudice as POC angels; OR you could regard the whole thing as a metaphor for racism and view angels as a metaphor for anyone in an oppressed ethnic group and all the angels as people who experience racism for whatever reason, idk) ANYWAY; I feel I should make clear that I've got a fuck tonne of white privilege and that I will never be able to understand the extent or degree to which many people experience racism. The bigoted society of the story is part of the plot and the story itself, and mirrors that of our own world; although of course not entirely accurately. (Also after so many years of being called an "**sjw**" I thought I should give the people what they want and write a story featuring issues of social justice.) Ofc if anyone has any requests/tips in me writing this to make it more realistic/less problematic in any way, that'd be wonderful and very much appreciated.

Umm, what else? Short chapters, like the last story, sorry this one took so long; I have a horrible + busy life right now and it's been so difficult to a. get in the right headspace for writing and b. find time for it because of anxiety and workload. (TMI. I'll carry on with the important stuff). This is all very vague and rambling due to extreme exhaustion, and I can't say for certain when the next chapter will be up, but hopefully soon. Sorry for keeping you all waiting. "But where's the medieval fantasy BIG BANG thing you promised?" It's coming! I can now definitely say that come summer, I will begin uploading the chapters. Of course, betas would be lovely, but I get that you all have just as busy, if not more so, hectic lives like my own.

If you've made it this far into the Author's Note you're a real fucking trooper and I'm very proud of you. I'm also very excited for my next two stories despite being so tired and worried and really really hope you all love them! Right, that's it, thank you all so much for the support, I love you all, and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in it.

1.

"I've gotta warn you, Dean, my roommates a bit of a nightmare." Ezekiel grins sheepishly, leading Dean out of the crowded changing rooms, left stuffy and humid by post-practice showers and the sheer number of young sweaty dudes coming in exhausted from several hours of intense practice. Dean wrinkles his nose at the damp, warm air, breathing deeply in a very audible sigh of relief when he and the older boy make it at last out onto the far-less-busy corridor. The air seems considerably cooler out here, he thinks absently, which leads him to feel a lot less like he's about to pass out from light-headedness.

"Oh, really? He can't be that bad." Dean laughs, a little nervously. Ezekiel doesn't seem to notice—or at least, to his credit, doesn't point it out—which is a relief, as Dean isn't good with new people. Dean isn't really good with people. He's found himself increasingly awkward over the years—and following the convolution of his relationship with… well, put simply, Dean has been left somewhat broken by a lot of shitty factors in what feels like a fairly shitty life. It's been months since the worst of that time, though. Nearly a year since he hit rock bottom. Dean should be over it. He really isn't.

"Oh, he is." Ezekiel chuckles, shaking his head in an oddly wistful, affectionate way as he pushes open the double doors of the block in which the changing rooms are situated, holding them open for Dean.

"Thanks." Dean mumbles, still feeling slightly uncomfortable. It's not that Ezekiel isn't friendly—Ezekiel is very friendly. It's just that Dean hasn't always had the best of experiences with these extroverted and very-friendly people. And anyway, the only times that he and Ezekiel have spoken have been on the football field—and Dean is certainly way more comfortable and at-ease when in his sports gear than when he is having real conversations with people. Dean doesn't have to worry about anything out on the field. All he has to think about is, well, playing the game—which he's pretty damn good at, all things considered. And after each game or practice, when in the comfort of the changing-rooms, he doesn't have to think all that much, either. He doesn't even mind when he feels the press of eyes on his skin—whether they be regarding the scars etched over Dean's lower back and shoulders, or just checking Dean out. Dean isn't the one having to look at the scars, so it's fine. And honestly, people checking Dean out is pretty much what's left of his self-esteem. At least he knows he's pretty, if nothing else.

"No problem." Ezekiel smiles genuinely. Dean relaxes marginally and drags himself from his thoughts. The problem is, he's never truly away from his thoughts; and even him relaxing around people still manages to put him on the edge. It's a horrible contradiction, and one that ensures that the number of people Dean is ever truly able to be himself around is limited to a number that he could count on his fingers with both of his thumbs cut off. But Dean getting comfortable around people has only outside of family has only ever resulted in disaster.

"Well, I don't mean to say that he's bad, per se—he's annoying as hell, though." Ezekiel grins, pushing his way through a swarm of people leaving from one of the lecture halls and glancing back at Dean as he speaks. It's a little difficult for Dean to manage to keep up.

"In what ways?" Dean's forehead creases with a slight frown.

"So many ways." Ezekiel grins widely, shaking his head in what is once again a somewhat affectionate manner. "Okay, first thing, he burns incense in our dorm. It makes the whole place smell like—well, I don't know, like some kind of opium den, or something—"

"Opium den?" Dean repeats, chuckling slightly.

"—I don't know," Ezekiel laughs, rolling his deep brown eyes in a good-humoured manner. "Shut up. Anyway, he stinks the whole place up with it—and I mean, it doesn't smell bad as such; it just makes the room kind of stuffy. And his excuse is that it helps him work. I mean, what the fuck?"

"You never know." Dean shrugs, a tight fist in his stomach balled tensely. His whole body is begging him to relax. "It could be good for concentration?" He suggests. Ezekiel glances over to him and bursts out laughing. Dean's face prickles with that familiar burning sensation that sets in whenever he even moderately embarrasses himself. Damn it. Ezekiel is mocking him, Ezekiel thinks he's a freak; he's only been at this college for a few weeks and already he's managed to get a guy on the football team to realise what an utter dork he is—

"You sound like him." He laughs playfully—it reminds Dean oddly of a hearing a child's amiable giggles. "You'll be on his side, before you know it. Ugh, he's even turning my friends against me—even the ones he hasn't even met yet!" He pushes Dean playfully, but Dean's mind has stumbled to a halt. Friends. Friends. Dean is a friend? Dean has a friend here?

"Sorry," Dean laughs—he's finally relaxing, finally. He lets the smile pressing at his lips slip on a little more naturally. He doesn't bother supressing it. "I'll make sure I don't voice my opinions on the matter if you two get in a fight in front of me."

"Ooh, promising to remain neutral on the topic?" Ezekiel grins. "Playing it safe, are we?"

"We are." Dean confirms. "Like Switzerland."

Ezekiel bursts out laughing. Dean cannot help but beam at the response to his joke—normally he can't make jokes when not in his uniform—his uniform is like his armour, his shield, his security. He hasn't been able to make jokes in front of relative-strangers and near-acquaintances in years. And here he is. Making some guy he met only a few days previously laugh.

It fells incredible.

"Well, I guess it could be worse, anyway." Ezekiel shrugs. "I mean, I could have asthma. Then I'd really be screwed."

"You really would." Dean nods in absent agreement. "Would your roommate really keep burning it, even if it affected your health?" He raises his eyebrows in a mixture between incredulousness and concern. Ezekiel glances over to Dean and lets out another warm laugh.

"Honestly? It wouldn't surprise me if he did. But that makes him sound like a bad person—and it's not that he wouldn't care, it's that he wouldn't notice. I mean, forget another world, Castiel exists in another dimension. Head in the clouds, more like head in the stars, and all that."

"Castiel? So that's his name, then?"

"Yeah," Ezekiel confirms, nodding absently as the pair amble by the green lawns and neat grey pavements of the college campus.

Castiel, Dean repeats the name inside his head, listening to it echo around his skull. Angels, he has discovered, press a lot of meaning onto their names—which sound rather different to the names of all Dean's human acquaintances. But they sound elegant, beautiful to Dean's somewhat uncultured lips. This name in particular.

"What else does he do that's so annoying, then?" Dean enquires, speaking loudly to be heard over a group of loudly giggling girls as they pass by.

The angel glances back at the girls. "They're giggling 'cause of you, y'know." Ezekiel smirks lightly, noticing Dean's wince at the level of volume omitting from the cluster of young women.

"What?" Dean frowns.

"Wow, you may not have noticed it, Dean, but you're what could very rationally be considered pretty damn desirable." Ezekiel grins. Dean flushes immediately.

"No," He shakes his head, sputtering somewhat. "I had noticed. I just—"

"Anyway, what else does Castiel do?" Ezekiel glances upwards, as though searching the insides of his skull for further examples of his roommate's exasperating qualities. "Well, this one might be a little unreasonable of me, but despite being impossibly awkward, he's still got incredible game."

"What?"

"Yeah, somehow he manages to balance dorky with attractive. Women dig that shit, apparently. Well, if they dig men, then they dig that shit. But you'd probably know all about that, wouldn't you, Dean?" Ezekiel's grin widens considerably. Dean stammers something even he doesn't understand, and Ezekiel's expression softens into something holding an almost brotherly affection, and he reaches out to ruffle Dean's hair. "I'm just messing with you, don't worry about it." He chortles softly. "But coming to think of it, actually, you'd be exactly Castiel's type, if you weren't—well—"

"A dude?"

"No, he goes for dudes, too." Ezekiel shakes his head. "He goes for everyone—and everyone goes for him, too, for that matter—or at least as far as I can tell—" Ezekiel laughs again, but this laugh sounds slightly more forced, more nervous than before.

"So, what?" Dean raises his eyebrows at Ezekiel as the two of them enter the block of dorms in which Ezekiel and the mysterious Castiel must apparently dwell.

"So, before we go in, Dean," Ezekiel stops on the corridor, his expression changing from childish and playful to something altogether far more serious—the shift is of an odd impact to Dean's general and new-found feeling of ease around his teammate—"There's several things you really ought to know about Cassie."

"Oh?" Dean raises his eyebrows, murky unease twisting its way uncomfortably into his gut. "What are they?"

"A: He fucking hates video games—he's really weirdly pretentious, I don't even know—"

"That's okay," Dean chuckles. "—I mean, I'll be playing you, not him, right?"

"Right." Ezekiel nods, a smile flickering at his features.

"And I'm gonna thrash your sorry ass." Dean grins widely.

"Oh, really?" Ezekiel breaks out into that familiar smirk, again, "You really think you're that good, huh?"

"What part of 'thrash your sorry ass' don't you understand?" Dean snorts. Ezekiel bursts out laughing again. Dean relaxes a little more.

"Seriously, though," Ezekiel sighs, his expression returning to the serious one, as before—it sends Dean's nerves skyrocketing once again. "He'll be doing this whole 'holier than thou' act the whole time, and that in itself can get pretty infuriating."

"I have two younger siblings." Dean laughs. "I can cope."

"Okay, cool." Ezekiel nods absently. "Oh, and, uh—one more thing?"

"What?" Dean asks, as Ezekiel strides anxiously over to the door and turns the handle.

"He can't fucking stand humans." Ezekiel grins, somewhat nervously, somewhat wickedly, and swings open the door. "So good luck."

Dean stammers. His heart rises into his throat—what?—no, no no no he can't do socialising normally—and this—?!

"Hi—" Dean hears a rough, rumbling voice like honey over gravel greet from somewhere inside the room as Ezekiel enters, practically hauling Dean inside with him. The sentence is apparently cut short, and Dean is met by the sight of the most beautiful person he thinks he's ever laid eyes on, stretched out on a bed which lies along one side of the room. He glares in wide eyed horror at Dean—and those eyes. They're like—Dean doesn't know—he doesn't have a word for it. They're like glaciers. Like icy oceans. Like staring at the sky on one of the clearest days imaginable, only the faint outline of stars can also be seen, glaring out into the pale, pressing blue. Dean's breath is caught in his throat—Ezekiel's roommate—Castiel—is all sharp, delicate features, pointed and centred and perfect. His shocking eyes are framed by a pair of dark eyebrows pinched into a light, pressing frown; his forehead is somewhat lined with the evidence of too much heavy thinking; his hair is a dark brown—almost jet black—a mess around his features; his pink mouth is puckered into something that looks almost like a pout; cheekbones rise elegantly and firmly and gently into the most enchanting face Dean thinks he's ever seen—and never ever in all Ezekiel's descriptions of his roommate does Dean remember Castiel being described as so flawlessly, breathtakingly beautiful.

The whole room smells of cinnamon and spices and sandalwood and vanilla candles and lavender and soft, subtle burning and heavy, musky smoke; and Dean can barely breathe but he honestly can't think of any reason why Ezekiel would wish to complain about the scent of Castiel's burning incense. It's glorious and enchanting and Dean feels sleepy and happy despite the fact that his heart is in his throat and is hammering so violently that he is scared he's going to throw up; despite the fact his intestines have now wrapped themselves around his stomach—which is currently jumping backflips at the sight of Ezekiel's roommate. Holy shit.

Ezekiel has made his way over to the tiny television in the corner of the room and switches it on, tossing a controller behind him to Dean. Dean only just snaps out of his daze in time to catch it, and it very nearly slips out of his fingers. His face burns a furious red. He avoids looking at Castiel. He is sure he hears the angel snort out a condescending laugh.

"This is Dean." Ezekiel gestures non-concomitantly over to Dean, whose gaze has flickered nervously back to Castiel's gorgeous, constantly frowning face. Castiel glares at Dean in response. He makes no sound of greeting. "Do you want to sit down?" Exekiel gestures to a pair of beanbags crammed next to each other in front of the TV. Dean drags his gaze away from Castiel's face and nods, making his way mortifyingly clumsily over to his allocated seat as Ezekiel slumps himself down onto the other.

Dean glances up at Castiel to see him returning to his book, a muscle in his jaw twitching somewhat. He looks angry. Dean thinks absently that Ezekiel really meant it when he said how much his roommate hated humans. Dean can scarcely bring himself to take his eyes off the angel, just nodding absently to Ezekiel's suggestions of what mode they ought to play in, making non-commitant sounds of approval at each of Ezekiel's proposals. After a few minutes, Castiel glances up to see catch Dean in the act of staring wide eyed at him. Dean is met by a gruff glare, and he looks down quickly, his face burning with embarrassment. For fuck's sake, Dean thinks to himself. Act normal, you fucking moron.

Just as this thought burns through Dean's mind, his gaze returns to Castiel. He flicks his eyes away quickly. Then back at the angel. Then away again. He can't stop. He continues in this manner as he attempts to play. He really can't stop. Castiel looks up again—Dean can't really be surprised—well, he wasn't exactly being subtle. But his face is still scorching hot; and it doesn't stop him from attempting to remain inconspicuous—what's the point of doing that, now?—Dean kicks himself internally. He thinks he catches Castiel smirking at him. Is it meant to be belittling? It feels belittling. Is it meant to be affectionate? Unlikely, Dean almost snorts to himself. Or perhaps the angel's smirk is intended as embarrassing? Or mocking? Or—

"Dean, I thought you said you were good!" Ezekiel exclaims, laughing, snapping Dean once again out of his daze. "I'm thrashing you! You suck so badly!"

Castiel snorts from where he lies across his bed. Dean's face is threatening to catch on fire. He dreads to think of how red it must be. It's a relief that he can't see himself in any mirrors right now. It'd only make him go redder. In fact, thinking about how red he must be is probably making him go redder.

"I am good, normally." Dean mumbles, unable to keep the embarrassment from trickling into his voice. "Today must just be an off day for me." He looks down. Mortified. "Maybe you're just really good, too."

Ezekiel glances at Dean. His expression is almost understanding—can he tell? Has he seen this look on enough of Castiel's apparently countless lovers to know when someone is so devastatingly attracted to the angel? Or is he just assuming? Does he just assume that everyone who meets Castiel will find themselves attracted to him? Is Ezekiel attracted to Castiel as well? Dean wouldn't blame him if he was. Dean wouldn't blame anyone for being attracted to the angel.

"Are you sure you're even concentrating? What's got you so distracted?" He asks, a soft frown pinching at his features.

Is it a knowing frown? Maybe Dean is just being paranoid. He sure hopes so. He shrinks a little further into his seat, in any case. He wishes the ground would just swallow him whole.

"I guess it's just one of those days." He attempts to shrug as nonchalantly as possible.

"Whatever, we can just chill for a bit, if you'd prefer." Ezekiel suggests. His voice has softened considerably. The guy's compassionate, that's for sure.

"That sounds better." Dean nods, barely able to keep the relief off of his features. He swallows thickly and glances up once more at Castiel to see him roll his eyes and return to the book.

Ezekiel jumps up onto his bed and stretches out across it, kicking his now vacant beanbag over to Dean.

"Here, use this as a footrest, or something, if you want."

"Okay," Dean nods awkwardly, tugging the bag towards him and shifting on his own seat, before resting his feet on the make-shift footrest.

"Should we just chill, then? Talk?"

"Sure." Dean nods, his face still prickling with discomfort. Ezekiel launches into conversation—apparently being social remains something of great ease to the guy—and Dean takes the opportunity to further examine the angel sprawled out across the bed parallel to Ezekiel's.

It isn't that Castiel is conventionally attractive—not at all so, in fact. But he is undeniably pretty. Beautiful. And anyway, all of his—unexpected attractiveness—just makes him all the more enchanting. His eyes—it's like there's an entire world peering out of them; so many thoughts and ideas and streams of consciousness; intelligence bubbling and brimming out of Castiel's very soul, expressed only through his eyes—the rest of his face remains otherwise fixed in that seemingly permanent frown. His hair is an utter mess—apparently the guy isn't one to waste his time attempting to tame it or style it, but it suits Castiel, Dean decides. It looks good messy and unkempt. And his features, so pointed and focused, yet delicate—Dean is sure that they reflect the guy's thoughts. Castiel just radiates intelligence. What else? Well, he's not what anyone would expect, when picturing someone undeniably hot. And maybe that just adds to the guy's overall hotness. But he's very unconventionally beautiful—and not just that—he's, well, interesting to look at. Fascinating.

His wings bristle at his sides, twitching now and then as they remain lost in thought. They're even darker than his hair, and appear velvet soft. Dean knows that most angels only let those closest to them touch their wings. For whatever reason, he longs to be that way with Castiel.

"Yeah, Cas is this huge social activist, too." Ezekiel states, lounging back onto the bed. "He's always talking about it—seriously, him and your brother should get together some time—"

"Oh," Dean nods, his gaze flickering absently over to Castiel, still apparently engrossed in his book. "Has he ever been on any protests?"

"Ask him yourself," Ezekiel smirks. "He'd love to tell you, trust me."

Dean isn't so sure—but an excuse to talk to Castiel is an excuse enough, isn't it?

"Um—" He stammers, unsure of himself as he fixes his gaze as steadily as he can onto Ezekiel's roommate. "Castiel—have you ever been on any protests, or anything…?" He trails off as the angel remains steadily transfixed by his book, paying Dean and his question no mind.

Dean feels himself melt with how hot his face goes. He's turned into a puddle on the ground. That's it. He's gone. Goodbye, solid life, apparently Dean was always destined to live as a mortified, awkward liquid-boy; forever embarrassed and stammering and blushing and unable to talk to the people he—

"Fucking hell," He hears Ezekiel sigh next to him, and in the next moment, a pillow is thrown across the very small room and at Castiel's head. The angel yelps in response and glares up from his book.

"Hey!" He exclaims. "What the fuck was that for?!"

"Dean just asked a question, feather-brain." Ezekiel deadpans. Dean's face catches ablaze as Castiel appears to supress a venomous scowl and turns to Dean with an immensely frustrated expression.

"Sorry—" Dean stammers. Why does he have to stammer?! Once upon a time, Dean was smooth and confident and slick as fuck, but then it all changed. Why did it all change? Why did it have to change?

Oh yeah.

Dean remembers now.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your reading—" Dean finds himself stammering out, before he is able to pursue his thoughts any further. It's a good thing he doesn't—there are doors in Dean's mind he doesn't want to open.

"Well, you have, now." Castiel sighs, his voice rough and tired. Dean's insides crumble with sheer embarrassment. "What were you going to ask?"

His voice is gorgeously rough, Dean thinks absently. Castiel is so different to Alastair—no, Dean thinks, quickly. Door. Mind. Not opening.

But he can't help it. Where Dean is so used to a nasal, oil-slick voice and a sneering, greasy expression filled with superficial charm and allure, he is met by the rough sound of honey over gravel; warm and coarse and soft somehow all at the same time; an expression not of malice shrouded with the thin veil of a blood-curdling sadistic kind of arousal, but of exasperation and patience and focus, all masking kindness—? Is it kindness Dean can see storming in the depths of Castiel's eyes?

And Castiel's movements—simultaneously awkward and feline, the picture of unsophisticated grace. He rolls the joints of his wings in smooth, absent circles as he gazes at Dean—and Dean is so used to sudden, sharp lunges and blows and hits doubled with sneering features, that—

"I just—Ezekiel said you were a social activist—" He drags himself out of his daze, taking a shuddering breath. Castiel's jaw clenches as Dean speaks, and his heart sinks instantly into his stomach, which threatens to sink into his gut; and for fuck's sake, why couldn't Dean just let things be? Why did he have to try and speak to Castiel? The guy clearly doesn't want to speak with Dean, and—

"That's right." Castiel replies, somewhat tersely.

"I just wanted to ask if you've ever been on any protests?" Dean stutters out, quickly. "'Cause my brother, Sammy—he's super passionate over civil rights stuff—he's always bugging me to take him to marches and stuff—and I just—" He doesn't know how to end his sentence. He shrivels a little further into his seat. Castiel regards him for a moment, squinting slightly, his dark eyelashes framing his piercing eyes so perfectly—Dean cannot help but bristle under the gaze, his cheeks growing hotter and hotter by the instant.

"I have, yes." Castiel nods. Dean fumbles furiously with his own hands as some sort of attempt at a distraction. His mind is whirling at a mile a minute. "You have a brother?" He asks. Dean looks up, his heart floating upwards from his stomach and into his lungs, thrumming with joy—Castiel is talking to him, he's taking an interest!

"Yeah, he's four years younger than me." Dean nods. He presses down on the urge to blurt out everything he knows—which is just about everything there is—of Sam. He keeps it brief. He stops himself from babbling. "He's super smart."

"I'm sure." Castiel nods absently, seemingly ready to return to his book—but Dean speaks again. He can't leave it there. He wants more.

"Have you got any brothers or sisters?"

Castiel sighs and looks up.

"One younger sister." He states. Dean nods. He falters for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"What's her name?"

"Rachel." Castiel replies. "She's seventeen."

His voice is warm with affection. It's prefect, he's perfect—it's two hours since Dean met the guy and he has only exchanged a few sentences with Castiel and already Dean is in too deep. He hums and nods. Castiel slumps slightly with something—it looks horrifically like relief—and returns to his book. Dean cannot think of anything else to speak about with the angel. He doesn't think the angel wants to speak of anything else, anyway.

Dean returns to his conversation with Ezekiel. After several minutes, he glances back up at Castiel, who is already peering at Dean. Should Dean be happy about that? Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and Dean's features flood with that familiar red-hotness, burning him with awkward embarrassment. He looks away just as quickly. He thinks he can feel Castiel's gaze still pressing hotly, penetratingly, at the side of his face as he continues his conversation with Ezekiel. He can't bring himself to check. Castiel has caught him staring at him far too many times over the past few hours.

"I'm going to get some air." The angel states flatly, standing up suddenly and leaving his book open on his pillow. Dean's gaze snaps back over, at last, to Ezekiel's roommate.

"Good for you." Ezekiel mimics Castiel's tone, to which Castiel scowls in response, aiming the pillow that had been previously aimed at him at his roommate's head. "Hey—!" Ezekiel exclaims, scowling back at Castiel—their expressions are almost identical, and Dean snorts out a laugh, despite himself.

Poor move, apparently. He is met by almost livid glares from both angels. His face heats again. Again. He's got to get a control of himself. Before he can apologise, or blush any more, Castiel has exited, scarcely slamming the door behind him.

There is a silence for a moment, punctuated only by the press of Ezekiel's gaze at the side of Dean's face. Dean makes a point of not looking. He can tell his face is still a burnt red, although it certainly feels as though it is simmering down, slightly. After another moment, Ezekiel sighs loudly and sits up slightly on his bed.

"I told you."

"Told me what?" Dean frowns, looking up at the angel at last.

"That he's a nightmare." Ezekiel rolls his eyes.

"He didn't seem that bad." Dean attempts to shrug carelessly, but something in his tone must betray him, because Ezekiel pulls an unconvinced face. There is another pause.

"You like him." The angel says after a moments quiet. It's not a question, it's a statement, and Dean's gaze shoots back up to Ezekiel's face, mortification swirling murkily in his gut.

"—I—" Dean stammers.

"Don't worry about it," Ezekiel shrugs, lying back on his bed again, resting his head against the wall. "Most people do. There's something about him, I reckon—something you only find yourself able to resist if you actually have to live with the guy."

"So what you're saying is, aside from the fact that he already hates me because I'm a human, I've got more than enough competition as it is? And I should give up?"

"Not exactly," Ezekiel shrugs again. "What I am saying is that he's not really worth it, honestly. If you only knew how infuriating the dude can get…"

"I guess we can all get pretty infuriating, though." Dean points out, staring nervously at Ezekiel. He worries absently at his lip.

"I guess." Ezekiel concedes carelessly. "All I'm saying," He sighs, picking up a football from the side of his bed and throwing it up, watching it as it spins in the air and then catching it, before tossing it lightly over to Dean, "is that you needn't bother. You don't deserve that. Cas—he's—" Ezekiel sighs a moment, catching the ball when Dean tosses it back to him. "—He's an odd one, you know? I find him impossibly annoying, and sure, I love the guy like a brother, but that doesn't change the fact that he leaves me wanting to put a bullet in my own skull, sometimes. And he probably wants to do the same to me, most of the time. And anyway, he's seriously oblivious—unless he likes someone, he won't really pay them any mind."

"And I fit into the bracket of not being paid any mind." Dean states, flatly.

"Pretty much." Ezekiel shrugs. The ball is tossed, once again, over to Dean. "Like I said, normally you'd be just his type—it's just that—well…"

"I'm a human." Dean finishes Ezekiel's sentence for him.

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." Ezekiel snorts. Dean finds himself a lot less amused than the angel appears to be. But why does Dean even care? He hasn't crushed on any guys like this, since—

"And like you said, there's a lot of competition. But more in the sense that Cassie gets insanely lucky when it comes to sleeping around—he's basically this huge hippie obsessed with getting laid and getting people laid—and Dean, he can be a total asshole when he wants to be. Yeah, I know, we all can—but Cassie can go above and beyond the call of being a little shit when he feels like it. And sure, he can be really nice and awesome and sensitive, but not really to humans, 'cause he's had a lot of bad experiences with you guys."

"Then it's fair enough." Dean shrugs. "He's had bad experience, he wants to be wary. I understand that."

And he does. Dean understands it more than most. It's just that it's not humans he's wary with; more specifically—

"All I'm saying is," Another sigh emits from Ezekiel's lips. "I like you. I like your company. You seem like a cool guy, chilled, funny—and that kind of person is pretty hard to come by. But more importantly, you're a friend. And I don't want to see you getting hurt—and crushes on Cas? Well, from what I've seen, they usually lead to just that: people getting hurt."

Friend. Definitely friend, this time. Dean is a friend of Ezekiel's—Ezekiel likes Dean; and not just for his footballing ability, not just because of Dean's pretty green eyes and dark eyelashes—he likes Dean for being cool, funny, chilled—chilled?!—Dean nearly scoffs to himself; if Ezekiel had seen—could see—the way Dean's mind is racing and storming anxiously inside his skull, the way it has been doing just that, uncontrollably, for the past two or three hours—

"Okay." Dean nods. It's hard to supress his beam, even at the crush of Ezekiel's words to him of his chances—or lack thereof—with Castiel. "I get it."

Dean has a friend now, at least. Someone he can see being a good friend. A kind friend. He hasn't had one of those in a long while. He hasn't really had a relationship with anyone outside of his family that has been happy, been healthy, in years. And right now, he couldn't care less if Castiel will never like him back. Even if the angel is the polar opposite of Alastair. Especially if he's the polar opposite of Alastair. That shouldn't be a reason to date someone. Shouldn't be a reason to like someone. And Dean is going to get over this awkward crush. He'll by over by the end of the week. He'll be over it in no time. He swears he will.

A/N: That's it for chapter 1! Once again, I'm sorry it took so long, and I hope you all enjoyed! Please review!