It was seven in the evening. Most people at Kansas U. were already out having a good time at various fraternity houses off campus, or better yet in the jazz bars and speakeasies on the west side of town, where the night life really got interesting. Most of the students were already drunk by now, or at least buzzed. Most of his friends were sitting in leather chairs at The Swing, being pawed at by mantis-like blonde women in scarlet lipstick. Cas Novak had no interest in any of that. At the moment, he was curled into the small closet in his dorm room, a typewriter between his knees, long and nimble fingers pounding at the round metal keys in a frenzy of inspiration. He looked at his watch in the yellowish light of the lamp he had pulled in with him, which was teetering precariously on a stack of boxes holding his winter clothes. His roommate, Dean Winchester, shouldn't be home for another four hours at the least. With that particular bit of gnawing anxiety tamed for the moment, he turned his attention back to the typewriter on the floor in front of him.
Typewriters were ordinarily very loud of course, but in the repressive silence of the closet the clacking of the keys seemed deafening to Cas. A part of him imagined that at any moment someone would burst into the dorm room and shout his name, but the more rational - if slightly smaller - portion of his brain reasoned that the only people still in Grenwith Hall were his most studious classmates, and that his most studious classmates wouldn't very much care about the volume of his typewriter, nor to what use it was being put by one young brooding English major. He took a breath, one which smelled distinctly of moth balls and fabric softener, rolled up the sleeves of his dusty blue sweater, and set to writing again.

Dear Dean,

Suddenly, a volley of dangerous thoughts filled his quite active literary mind. What if Dean fell suddenly violently ill and came home (for certainly that was the only thing that could ever drag the fellow from an evening of drink) only to find his roommate hiding in the closet writing sordid letters to him that he would never have the courage to send? What if one of Dean's large, hairy-forearmed friends came in looking for something, discovered him, and decided to rat him out? Or worse? Dear God in Heaven, what could possibly be worse?
"Stop it, Castiel." He said aloud to the sweaters and slacks that dangled over his head. "Stop it and write the damn letter. No one is here, and even if there were someone here, they wouldn't care about you and your childish love notes."
Again, he put his fingers to the keys.

Dear Dean,
I know that I've said this countless times, but you inspire me. No, you enthrall me. Your eyes are the green of emeralds, of clover in spring, and your lips are like David's: perfectly sculpted and made for kissing, but unreachable. I could never kiss you, Dean. To kiss you would be to sign away my life, for I would surely die of sinful satisfaction the moment we touched. My adoration for you, my love, burns too brightly. If logic is to be believed, this only means that it will be short lived. You have only been here at the university for three months, which in the grand scheme of things is a very limited period of time, but despite all of this, despite the cold facts that stunt my affection, I believe I will love you for a very long time, if not forever. I know, I know. We're both too young to be thinking about forever, but I can't seem to help myself. I can imagine the two of us on a farm, with horses and a border collie, far away from anything painful.

"Cas?"
"Damnit."
"Where are you?"
"I'm in the closet."
"Why are you in the closet?"
"Because..."
"Because?"
"I'm.. writing. Sometimes I write in the closet."
"Well come out."
"Okay. ... Hey Dean?"
"Yes?"
"Can you help me up?"
"You're such a fairy, Castiel."
"I know..."

Dear Dean,
I love you.