Chapter Text
“You moved an alpha in and didn’t even think to ask me?!”
“I didn’t ask you when I moved Charlie in.”
“I didn’t live here then, jackass. And she’s a lesbian, so it doesn’t count.”
“I thought it would be a little rude to ask Castiel his sexual orientation,” Sam says, being a fucking priss. “Maybe he’s straight.”
Dean scoffs. “Yeah, until my suppressants fail or something.”
“He’s a good guy, Dean. We had some classes together in undergrad. He’s not that kind of alpha.”
“I’m putting a lock on my door.”
“Whatever, Dean.”
Dean goes to the hardware store and installs a lock on his bedroom door, glaring at Castiel’s closed door the whole time. Luckily Castiel doesn’t come out, but Dean can smell him, even through the thick doors. It makes his stomach turn just like every other alpha stink does, ever since -- well. Since it happened. But Dean doesn’t think about it. Ever.
When Dean runs into Castiel in the hallway, Castiel steps to the side, dropping his eyes in such a submissive display that Dean just glares harder.
When Castiel speaks, his voice is all alpha, deep and rough, and strangely precise. “I understand you’re not happy with me being here,” he says, still not looking up. “I apologize for making you uncomfortable.”
Dean snarls. “Yeah, sure, buddy.”
“Sam seemed disinclined to dissolve the lease agreement,” Castiel says.
Finally he glances up at Dean and then away again, but it’s enough for Dean to catch a blue as bright as the summer sky. He wonders what color Castiel’s alpha is, and the thought makes him jerk backwards like Castiel’s scent could be forcing these kinds of thoughts on him. Castiel cringes as Dean backs into the wall.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Castiel says, then slips past Dean into his room. The door closes in Dean’s face, but the hallway smells of strange alpha, and Dean can’t get the itch out of his nose for the rest of the day.
Dean knows he’s being a little childish, but he pointedly ignores Sam as long as possible, choosing instead to spend his time hanging out in Charlie’s room with her deluxe media-and-gaming system set up between a self-built computer and a tv that seems nearly as big as the room itself. Charlie and Sam used to be the only cool alphas Dean knows, and now it’s just Charlie.
“I get it, you know?” Charlie says. “But I’ve met Castiel, and he doesn’t seem… like that.”
“They’re all like that,” Dean says, his lip pulling back.
“I’m not.”
“Chicks who are into chicks are different. Y’all are, like, into your feelings and shit.”
Charlie rolls her eyes and promptly kills him in the game they’ve been playing obsessively for days.
“What the fuck, Charlie!”
“That’s for being a sexist jackass, jackass.”
Dean tosses his controller on the ground, grumbling. “Can’t get a fucking break around here, man.”
“Stop being a baby.”
“Stop being an alpha.”
This is a stupid thing to say, because if Charlie says it back to him -- even joking -- stop being an omega -- he will lose his shit. She seems to know that, though, and goes silent, just staring bullets into him.
“Sorry,” Dean finally mumbles.
“All is forgiven. Pick up that controller and let’s go again.”
By family dinner night, Dean has (mostly) forgiven Sam, though he’s still not interested in being anywhere near Castiel. Which is kind of a problem, since Sam -- that asshole -- invited Castiel to join them for their Thursday night tradition.
Dean and Sam have a hissed argument about it in the kitchen, but Dean manages a smile when he brings the salad bowl to the table. He turns to grab the rest of the food, but Castiel’s grave “thank you, Dean” has him pausing for a moment before he catches himself and keeps walking.
Castiel is smelling up the room in a way Dean isn’t used to and doesn’t think he likes, but he bites his tongue as they all dig in to Dean’s “famous” lasagna. When he can, he glances up at Castiel quickly, trying to take in all his details without being caught.
Castiel is wearing a blue button-up that kind of matches his eyes. The sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a tattoo in black and white down to his wrist. Dean stares at that the most -- all angels and demons, each as cruel looking as the other, playing their timeless saga down Castiel’s arm. It’s strangely beautiful in the way the ugliest of things can be.
“How’s your thesis going?” Sam asks Castiel in between bites.
“As well as it can, I guess,” Castiel says, grimacing. “I’m hoping to be ready for revisions next month.”
“Wow, you work fast,” Charlie says, looking impressed.
“Castiel is studying history,” Sam says for Dean’s benefit. “What is it? The rise of populism…”
“The rise of populism in eastern Kansas and northern Texas during the late 1800s.”
“That’s strangely specific,” Dean says, finally meeting Castiel’s eyes. Instead of hard, ready to go red, Dean finds Castiel’s eyes intense but mostly kind-seeming. Kind of leaves Dean reeling.
Castiel smiles. “Most theses are. Sometimes it seems like there’s not much thought left that hasn’t already been used as a PhD thesis.”
Dean finds himself saying, “Tell me about it. The populism thing, I mean.”
“Well, to start off with, eastern Kansas was a hotbed of political intrigue…”
Dean never liked history class when he was in school, but the way Castiel explains it has him sitting in a hard-backed chair long after Sam and Charlie have left the dinner table, just listening to Castiel talk about politics in the Wild West. Dean likes the way Castiel’s eyes and scent go all soft and happy when he’s talking about it.
But Dean still doesn’t trust him.
The problem with Castiel being a PhD student is that he’s in the house all the time. Every time Dean passes by, Castiel is hunched over a tiny laptop on the tiny desk in his room, typing away, or bent over a book with a highlighter out, mumbling to himself as he scribbles notes in the margins. Not that Dean has noticed or cares what Castiel does. Fucking alpha under the same roof.
It’s a Saturday evening and Dean is pretty sure the house is Castiel-free. He’s so ready to have a beer and relax without worrying about -- well. It’s not smart for omegas to imbibe with strange alphas nearby. If something happened while he’d been drinking… that makes it his fault, doesn’t it?
Dean knows a lot about things being his fault.
Before starting on a trashy tv marathon, he goes out to the back deck to get some blessed fresh air -- the whole house smells like alpha all the time now, so strong Dean can’t even scent himself -- and belatedly realizes he’s not alone after he’s already thrown himself into one of those fancy lean-back deck chairs.
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean scrambles to get out of the chair but mostly just lands back on his ass in puzzle piece limbs.
“I didn’t know you were out here,” Dean says. He doesn’t say You scared me. Castiel can probably smell it on him anyway. Which -- Dean scents the air as subtly as he can and, yes, he smells happy-relaxed alpha. Despite his brain protesting, it soothes him.
The other scent in the air is the unlit joint sitting on the table along with a longneck and a lighter. “Didn’t take you for a rebel,” Dean says, refusing to smile. Castiel is a surprise.
“Mm,” Castiel says. “I have my vices.” Smiling over at Dean: “Want to share?”
Dean has no fucking idea why, but he agrees.
“...so I say, ‘What was I supposed to do with that cat, Samantha?!’” Dean says, throwing his hands around to make his point.
Castiel is laughing -- giggling, really -- too hard to even talk, and that sets Dean off, until they are both heaped in their separate chairs and gasping for breath. “Wow,” Cas finally says. “You don’t even like cats.”
Dean blinks, trying to make out Cas’s face in the moonlight. “How do you know that?”
Cas says, all loose and grinning, “Sam told me, I guess.”
“You remember everything Sam tells you about me?” Dean says, teasing.
Suddenly solemn: “Of course, Dean.”
Dean’s a little taken aback. It makes something clench in his chest to think about an alpha asking after him, memorizing his details. It makes something else clench in him too, but he can’t name it. It’s softer than the fear.
“I’ve said something wrong,” Castiel says, sitting up to look at Dean.
“Nah,” Dean says, trying to cover up his panic with nonchalance. “I’ve just got to -- um, get to bed --”
“Of course,” Castiel says, and a new scent washes outward from him. Disappointment.
Well, he can be disappointed, Dean thinks, and doesn’t breathe again until he’s behind the lock in his room.
The next day, he installs a second lock.