#samforthewinchester

“Dean,” Cas says, voice a soft rumble, and this is the voice he uses whenever Dean’s getting too worked up to think properly, and it always works, damn him, and this time is no exception: Dean can already feel his shoulders relaxing, the tension easing out of his neck. Cas reaches across the table, palms up, in invitation. Sighing, Dean unfolds his arms and pushes his laptop to the side, and leans forward to rest his hands in Cas’.

Cas’s eyes crinkle up at the corners when he smiles his lopsided, self-conscious smile. His hands wrap around Dean’s and squeeze, a gesture of reassurance. “You can write this essay, Dean,” he says solemnly, like this is some matter of great import. “I believe in you.”

Dean’s cheeks heat, he can feel his ears burning, and he still isn’t used to this, Cas’ awkward sincerity, and he doesn’t think he ever will be. But even now, he can’t help but think that Cas’ trust is misplaced, because he isn’t the man that Cas thinks he is—he doesn’t deserve the faith Cas has in him—

“I don’t believe in me,” Dean whispers, and his throat feels tight and dry and painful.

Cas lets go of his hands and stands, and a moment later Dean has a lapful of warm angel (because, okay, he’s human, now, but he’s not human, not entirely, he’ll always be Other, and Dean wouldn’t have him any other way). Cas cradles Dean’s face in his palms, thumbs stroking circles on the arc of his cheekbones. “Dean Winchester,” Cas says, “I have given up everything for you, and I would do so again in a heartbeat. You are worth it. I have faith in you, and I will always have faith in you. If you can’t believe in yourself, at least believe me when I say that you deserve to.”

Dean sighs and brings his hands to Castiel’s waist, thumb stroking lightly at his skin. “Cas, I don’t even know what to write about,” he says. “I’m supposed to talk about something I’ve done that’s had ‘a profound impact’ on someone’s life, and what the fuck can I even say that doesn’t have to do with hunting?”

Cas is quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful; and while he thinks, he presses his mouth against Dean’s, slow and warm, teeth worrying gently at Dean’s bottom lip. Dean slides one hand around to press against the small of Castiel’s back, urging him closer. If only he could write about this: he’s sure he could wax poetic about the feel of Cas’ lips against his, the hint of perpetual stubble, the way Cas fits so perfectly curved against him.

“You know,” Cas says when he pulls away to breathe, pressing his lips against the tip of Dean’s nose, the furrow between his brows. “You were more of a father to Sam than John was.”

“The fuck does that have to do with anything?” Dean grunts, mouthing at Cas’s jaw. He doesn’t want to talk about Sam and his father while Cas is in his lap, doing these things to him.

“I’m just saying,” Cas says, tilting his head so Dean has a better angle to work with, “that you—oh—you practically raised Sam.”

“And?”

Cas squirms against him when Dean’s mouth latches onto his pulse point and sucks. “And,” Castiel gasps, “if that isn’t a—a ‘profound impact’—then what is?”

Dean pauses with his lips still pressed against the feverish heat of Cas’ throat, Castiel’s heart fluttering beneath the delicate skin. “You’re saying I should write about raising Sammy,” he says, incredulous.

Cas has to take a moment to compose himself. “Well, yes,” he says. “I can’t think of a better example of your fortitude, strength of character, and selflessness. You gave up your childhood so that Sam could enjoy the pretense of one.”

Fuck, he’s blushing again. “Oh, come on,” Dean says, “I was just doing what I had to.”

The look Cas gives him is the one he reserves for whenever Dean has said or done something incredibly stupid. “What?” Dean asks, somewhat self-consciously.

“Dean,” Castiel says. “You were four years old when your mother died, and you took on the task of basically single-handedly raising a child. And look at Sam now; isn’t he exactly the type of man you wanted him to be? Isn’t he kind, and brave, and selfless?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“He’s that way because of you, Dean,” Cas says. “It’s because of you that Sam is the man he is today. You should be proud.”

Dean squirms, wishing he could turn his back on Cas, or at least avert his gaze, but Cas’s hands are still cradling his cheeks, holding him in place. Castiel’s eyes are soft and wide and breathtakingly blue.

“I—Cas, I don’t know if I can write about that,” Dean says. He has to take a deep, wavering breath. “It’s—fuck, I don’t want to get into college just because of some sob story—”

“It’s not a ‘sob story’,” Cas says. “It’s your story. You are an inspiration, Dean. And they will see that, too.”

Cas leans his forehead against Dean’s, and for a long stretch of time they just sit there, breathing in the same air, Cas’s hands warm against Dean’s face, his nose just brushing against Dean’s without every exhale. Finally, Cas pulls away and says, “I’m going to make dinner. Write your essay.”

“Cas—”

He’s silenced with a kiss, gentle but no less effective for it. When Cas pulls away, all Dean can think is blue.

“I’ll make burgers,” Cas says, even though burgers are Dean’s dish, he’s the one who makes burgers, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. Cas slides off his lap and adds, “You can do this, Dean. I have faith.” And he smiles, the small, sweet smile he reserves solely for Dean, and then he leaves Dean to the quiet of the room.

Dean sits there and breathes for a moment, drumming his fingers against his thighs; and then he pulls the laptop towards him, abruptly, and begins to type:

When I was four, my mother died in a fire that burned down our house. My brother, Sammy, was six months old. My dad shoved him into my arms and told me to run, don’t look back. My dad came out of the house unhurt, but it was like everything he was had been burned away. He couldn’t look after us, he couldn’t hardly look after himself. When Sammy cried, I held him. When he needed feeding, I heated the bottle and burped him afterwards. When he needed to get changed, or couldn’t sleep, or fell on his face and bawled, I was the one who took care of him. We didn’t have a father, not really. It was just me and Sammy, a seedy motel room, and a handful of cash dad left us for food …

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He applies to four schools and gets into three. Kansas State University offers him a full ride and a personal letter that reads the following:

Mr. Winchester,

Upon reading your essay, the admissions board decided unanimously that you are exactly the type of person we want here at KSU. Your inspirational story of having raised your brother since you were a child moved many of our board to tears. You are truly a man of great character and resilience. We hope that you will decide to enroll in KSU. We would be extremely proud to have you as a member of our class of 2020.

With all our respect and admiration,

Dr. Adrian Malchov

Head of the Board of Admissions

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