I must have written a hundred letters to you by now. I wonder if I'll ever give any of them to you,
or if I'll just keep wasting ink in this dorm closet and then stashing the pages in a box marked "ugly Christmas sweaters." The latter is the more likely scenario, since I am a coward and you are a flawless and incorrigable ladies' man. Amost every night, you're out at parties and clubs until at least three in the morning. Most of the women you sleep with are just dumb tomatoes, but... who am I to judge? I don't sleep with any women. Or any men, for that matter. I tried once, with a girl in my chemistry class my second year of high school. She was a redhead, and very beautiful. We got drunk on cheap schnapps and white wine in the basement of my cousin's house... long story short, it was terrible. She wasn't exactly a virtuous girl. She knew what she was doing, knew what to expect. I didn't. She was very disappointed and I was very...well, the only word that comes to mind is "sad." After we made love, I felt very lonely, even before she left. When she was finally gone, I laid there for a long time and stared at the ceiling. I woud have cried, but I just felt numb. I tried again a few times with different girls, but it was always the same. Cold. Impersonal. Vaguely depressing. Eventually I stopped seeking out women and dedicated myself to my studies. I became an honor student, and then a tutor for underclassmen. I got into college a year early on a full scholarship with a focus in Greek literature and Biblical studies. I bought a typewriter from a Polish woman and started writing poetry. Then I met you.
I don't actually remember too many details about the day you moved in. I was probably half-dead from an all-nighter of cross referencing various pieces of obscure verse by writers long dead and buried (or, in the Greek fashion, burned on a ritual pyre), and you were probably hung out like a wet sheet. But I do remember hearing you laugh. Maybe someone in the hall had made a joke. Maybe you had found something in your bags that brought up an amusing memory. Maybe your laughter was at my expense. I don't recall. But the emotion that your laughter surfaced in me remains clear in my mind and constant in my heart. To this day, I would do anything to make you laugh. Unfortunately, I am not the comic type. I try to be funny and usually come off as stiff and awkward. For all my knowledge of the English language, of grammar and synyax, when I try to tell a joke I sound as if I am speaking English aloud for the first time. Maybe that's because I don't really talk to people. I just sit here in my room, in my closet, writing, be it poems or vignettes or essays for a class, or love letters to you. Do you ever wonder what I'm doing when you're out with your friends? Do you ever wonder what I'm writing about when you leave the dorm at seven in the evening, what I am sometimes still writing about when you come home close to sunrise? When you come back in to find me fast asleep over my typewriter, do you ever stop to read what's typed on the page? Do you know?
Cas looked up when he heard Dean's key in the lock, the tumblers turning, the bolt sliding into place with a clean sound like two stones clicking under water. He was fast, as always. By the time Dean was inside the dorm room, Cas was already in bed with the covers pulled up to his shoulders, eyes closed, pretending with all his acting ability to be sleeping very deeply. Dean dropped his jacket on the floor unceremoniously and groaned, running his fingers through his hair and down over his eyes, which he rubbed hard with the heels of his hands. "Cas. You awake?"
"Mmmnn."
"Sorry."
"Dean?"
"Yeah."
"What time is it?"
"Midnight. I had to come home early. The blue shirts showed up at Bobby's and I can't get caught drinking again. Those damn booze bookers are already on my tail." He paused, and Castiel - his eyes still closed - heard the rustle of fabric against skin that meant Dean was undressing. He flushed, grateful that Dean had left the lights off. "That wouldn't be a problem if you didn't drink."
"Oh, don't give me that malarky."
"It's true." Cas opened his eyes and sat up. Dean was naked aside from his white underwear and black socks, and again he thanked God for the cover of darkness. "I don't mean to sound like your brother, but maybe your grades would be better of you spent less time on beer and more time on books."
"Maybe you wouldn't be such a Johnny Stiff-Back if you let loose once in awhile."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"It's just... it's been a rough night."
"Something go wrong with your latest conquest?"
"Yeah."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was a taut wire between them, and finally Cas had to say something. He cleared his throat, but his voice still wavered.
"Was it worth it?"
"Not really. She was hot stuff, a real cat, but it turns out she had a boyfriend. Let's just say old Kozlow didn't take too kindly to me burgling his girl." That was when Cas noticed the bruises. In the dark of their dorm room, they almost looked like shadows, but one on Dean's upper arm was distinctly hand-
shaped. A sudden very powerful anger swelled inside Cas like a tidal wave and he stood. Before he could get very far (it's not like he knew where he was going anyway), Dean's hands were on his shoulders, Dean's crystalline green eyes boring into his, glacial. "Stop. Okay? It's over."
"I am very angry."
"I can tell. Calm down."
"I don't approve of people behaving violently toward you." Dean steered Cas to a chair and sat him down. "Listen. I'm not some Catholic schoolboy. I can handle a scrap just fine."
"Not when you're drunk. Alcohol in large doses effects your equilibrium and makes you more vulnerable to injury. You get hit, you get dizzy, you go down. And someone who's as drunk as you are won't stop swinging just because you're on the floor."
"Jesus Joseph and Mary, man. What's gotten into you?"
"What do you mean? I haven't ingested anything strange recently..."
"You need sleep. You study too much; your brains are boiling."
"You're probably right."
Forcefully ignoring the sulfurous rage bubbling in the pit of his stomach (not that you could tell since he epressed anger the way that most normal people expressed extreme boredeom), Cas laid back down, this time leaving the bankets around his waist. He listened as Dean did the same, waited until he started snoring, and got up again. He closed the closet door before turning on the lamp so that the light wouldn't wake up Dean, then sat down on the floor again and started typing.
Dear Dean,
You are an idiot.