It was really, totally, not in any way Dean Winchester’s fault that the frat house burned down. It did not burn down all the way to the ground, anyway, and it was not as if the investigators could pin anything on Dean. Specifically. By name. Everything was circumstantial. And, it was an accident.
Totally not Dean’s fault.
He was being punished for it anyway, he thought as he lugged a (new) suitcase full of (new) clothes up the dorm stairs to his “temporary accommodations.” All the other brothers in his fraternity got rooms at the Holiday Inn, which suddenly became 100% occupied once Dean’s name came up (starting with a “W”, which put him at the end of the list because Jack Yin insisted his name was spelled with two “I”s and he was a lying bastard but it was not as if anyone in administration could argue Cantonese translation).
Instead of a nice hotel with room service and a heated pool, Dean got stuffed into sharing a dorm room with some senior in The Barackles Dorms, also known as The Barracks, which was the oldest dorm house on campus with the smallest rooms and – terrifyingly – communal bathrooms. The university hippies loved the place, and while Dean approved of free love and girls going braless, he was not happy about sharing his shower with anyone who wasn’t a frat brother, his actual brother, or Angelina Jolie. Also, he was genuinely worried about the drug use, as the place was practically a pot production facility, and if Dean tested positive he’d still be thrown off the baseball team without remorse, even if it was due to second hand smoke.
He just knew evil Mrs. Harvelle in student services was behind his room assignment, and it was just a shame that a woman who was that much of a MILF was also a cast-iron bitch whose career goal was to ruin Dean’s life. Dean amused himself as he made it up the fifth flight of stairs (because The Barracks was, apparently, too high minded for elevators) with very hot daydreams about grudge fucking Harvelle into her pile of paperwork, but in the end he gave it up and just tried to find his very, very, VERY temporary room.
Which he was sharing with a 14 year old girl on acid, apparently. One side of the closet-sized room was bare to the paint, institutional and functional and resembling something out of a documentary on prisons. The other side was a riot of colors and cartoon characters who were not Power Puff girls but might possibly be related – the theme ran from a few posters on the wall to the bedspread to the clock on the dorm-issued chest of drawers that had been quite illegally painted blue. Bright, happy, trippy baby blue, and if Dean was not struck blind, there was also some glitter going on there. He shifted a bit into the room, eyeing the wrong-wrong-wrong chest of drawers, and yes, light reflection confirmed the presence of glitter within five feet of Dean’s own bed.
“Oh, hell NO.”
Dean walked backwards into the door, surprised that the colorful pile of stuff on the other bed talked back.
“No, I asked first.” An unruly mop of black hair poked out of the sheets and Dean was caught in a fierce, blue-eyed gaze.
“Dude, you know you got glitter on your furniture?”
The gaze move dispassionately to the chest of drawers then back to Dean. “You think it clashes?”
“Okay, no, see, I don’t have a problem with you being gay, I really don’t. I think my baby brother’s queer as a three dollar bill. Maybe I’ve experimented, you know? Maybe! Not saying either way. But glitter? On the furniture? No can do, man.”
“I’m pansexual, not gay, and I’m highly offended that you think glitter paint on my furniture is an indication of my sexual preferences.”
“I don’t even know what pansexual is, man. Like, pancake sex? What ever you’re into. But that? That has to go.” Dean pointed at the dresser.
“Ah, you must be the jock frat boy arsonist they decided to punish me with.” The pile sat up, and Dean finally recognized it as a person. A rumpled, pasty-white pancake-sex freak with really nice lips kind of person, who looked very pissed off. Whose fucking tee shirt matched the décor.
“What is with you? With the slightly creepy Power Puff girly things?”
The guy smiled beatifically, his eyelids lowering with pleasure as he gazed at his acid-trip decorations, and Dean slammed his (new) suitcase on his bed just to stuff down his own reaction. Pretty boys could still be pains in the ass, he knew that too well, since the fire really was Jason’s fault which was another reason Dean had decided bisexuals could not be trusted. Not with candles, anyway.
“Gesundheidt,” Dean snarled back, throwing his (new) clothes into his (plain, very beige and manly) dresser.
“An artificially-created statement of tribalism in a post-modern society, artfully harking back to both 20th century childhood via comic and cartoon symbology and incorporating traditions of the religious iconography of the Orthodox Church.”
“What. The. Fuck.” Dean turned around to stare.
“Tokidoki. I’m writing my master’s thesis on it as a quasi-religious cult phenomenon.”
“I thought I was being roomed with a senior.”
The guy waved his hand. “B.A/M.A. combination track in theology, with a minor in anthropology. Five years total and I’ll be able to walk right into the doctorate program at Columbia.”
Dean stopped to review the conversation. “Did you actually call me a jock?”
“Yes. Along with frat boy and arsonist.”
“Totally not my fault.” Dean resumed unpacking.
“The amusing thing is that you honestly expect people to believe you.”
“You weren’t there. Oh for fuck’s sake, your sunglasses are purple.” Dean recoiled from where the bright purple sunglass frames sparkled on top of the dresser. The dresser that sparkled. This was Hell.
“Tokidoki Cruisers, limited edition.”
“Look, I’m not a jock. I’m an engineering major.”
“Who plays for the baseball team on a baseball scholarship.”
“What, are you some kind of Power Puff gay stalker?”
The guy rolled his eyes and climbed out of his bed, wrapping his fleecy and cartoon-covered blanket around him. “Toki. Doki. Not Power Puff. Pansexual, not pancakes. And my name is Castiel.” He walked out of the room, leaving Dean standing there while the riot of weirdo cartoon characters stared back at him unflinchingly.
By the time Castiel got back from getting a blow job in the communal bathroom (Dean had heard the stories, he knew what went on there), Dean was fully unpacked and staring back at the evil cartoons from his position on his bed.
Looking surprisingly annoyed for someone who just got some action (or maybe Castiel had been the one putting out? Dean couldn’t blame him for being pissy about that), Dean’s roommate shuffled around his side of the room. Belatedly Dean saw that it was full of books, like a miniature library, and stacks of paper.
“Ever heard of these things, they call them computers? Real handy.”
“It is said that true religious insight is gained through mundane action, not googling for porn on the internet.”
“Who said I google for porn?”
Castiel smirked. Dean cursed himself for being so easily played, deciding it was time to change the subject. “So how’d you know I play baseball? You don’t seem like the type to follow the sports schedule.”
“Yet, I do somehow manage to trip over the ubiquitous ticket-sale posters featuring you all over campus and student newspaper covers and the absolutely insane sports fans who smear your name on their bodies with paint and then go shopping for beer.” Castiel grumbled, shuffling through paperwork.
“They really love me, man.”
An undignified snort was Dean’s answer to that.
“Hey, I don’t ask for it. I’m just good.”
Castiel stood up straight, his arms loaded with books and papers that looked ready to scatter to the ground. “Do you really want to discuss the philosophical underpinnings of the word ‘good’ with a theology major?”
Dean thought about that, and because he was not a masochist, answered honestly. “Hell no.”
Castiel nodded and sat on his bed, letting his books and papers spill out around him.
“Still. Tokipokey. Weird, Cas. Weird.”
That earned him a spectacularly pissy glare of epically gay proportions.
Dean winked. “Last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid.”
Castiel’s eyes flared in barely concealed fury, and with that win tucked safely under his belt, Dean left to go join the pool-side cookout the frat brothers were putting on at the infinitely cooler Holiday Inn, where the girls might not be braless but were in bikinis and shaved their pits.
He managed to stumble back to his room late that night. Several guys offered to put him up (Jason, again, and no…just, no) and several cheerleaders offered put him where ever he wanted, but for some reason Dean was buzzed enough to want to be entertained by his especially pretty weirdo dorm mate, because how funny was that?
But Castiel had returned to his natural state of being a pile of blankets on the bed, so unfortunately there was not going to be much entertaining going on, and Dean decided that was probably a good thing as he stripped off his jeans and fell on his bed, thinking that his run in the morning was going to be painful.
He should have been on his guard, but he really had not credited how dangerous an upperclassman theology major might be, especially one that wore pink tee shirts emblazoned with freaky cartoon Grim Reapers and wore purple sunglasses. Even if he did have some freaky sex thing for pancakes…which Dean might pay to see, actually. Might. As long as syrup was involved.
However, Dean was not just the jock frat boy (arsonist) that so many people took him for – he really was an engineering major, and best in class, and no lightweight in the gray-matter department. So, by lunchtime, Dean had figured out for himself that something was seriously, dangerously wrong with the way everyone kept pointing and laughing at him.
“Dude, hand it over.” Dean smacked at the hands of one of the plebes he happened to literally run down on his bike (because Dean was lucky like that) and yanked the iPhone away. There, in crisp bright pastel colors was a picture of Dean from last night, asleep wearing just his jock strap and tee shirt, with the purple glasses on his face and cuddling a TokiPoky doll and…fuck, a glittery pink DILDO casually laying next to him. The artistry of the goddamn masterpiece was that it did not even look posed.
The plebe grabbed his phone and ran for his life while Dean stared off into space.
That sparkly, trippy, hippy cartoon freak lunatic was going to PAY.
Unfortunately for his plans, Dean spent most of the afternoon in the coach’s office, convincing him and the goddamn president of the university that the photo was a joke. He agreed to take a sensitivity training seminar in order to just get the hell out, because it was that or fake a brain aneurism.
Score: Dean 0 – Cassiegirl 2
That night, Dean trudge up the stairs to his room, hoping that Castiel was gone for a while. Dean needed time to try and figure out what kind of revenge to take on the upperclassman, something vicious and sublime and totally involving those cartoon-emblazoned tee shirts. Dean’s only stumbling block was that he had no idea how to embarrass someone who had no shame.
Castiel was sprawled on his bed, a huge Bible opened to some hideous picture of angels smiting unbelievers or something. He looked up and gave Dean a long, thoughtful inspection. Dean glared back at him as he sat on his bed with his arms crossed.
“Shitty thing to do, man. The coach called me in about that photo and I nearly got gay-bashed by my own damn team. Including the queers, who were mostly pissed that I didn’t let them have my ass first.”
Castiel blinked, completely nonplussed. “Maybe they should join you at my sensitivity training seminar next week.”
“You unholy son of a bitch.” Dean stormed out to trash the first bathroom he could find in the warren.
Score: Dean 0 – Castiellia 3
Dean realized that the critical flaw in his as-yet-unformed plan was that he, unlike certain theology perverts, had a life. There was early morning practice, classes, team physio at the gym in the afternoon, study/homework time at the library, and social hour(s) by the pool at the slowly crumbling Holiday Inn (Dean thought hotels were built of sturdier stuff).
As far as Dean could tell, Castiel never actually left the room. Or ate. Or showered or got laid or even blinked. It was unnerving how he never seemed to have dirty clothes, like everything just magically cleaned itself at the stroke of midnight or something. All he did was sit on his bed and work on his thesis, mumbling in Latin and making jokes in languages Dean had never even heard of.
Meanwhile, the photo of Dean passed out in the glasses with the doll and the dildo had somehow made it to Facebook.
“I told you not to friend anyone on the team. Your betrayal wounds me, Sam.”
“How the hell do you even know what that is?” Dean yelled and hung up. He was not too surprised when Sam tweeted “my brother is a jerk. #tokidokiRULES” a little later. Staring at his phone, he contemplated a “reply-to” but heard Castiel laughing and looking at his own phone. And that was really the last straw, because no way.
“Your brother is a very insightful young man.”
“I hate you.”
Score: time for a drink.
“I really, really hate you.”
“So I gathered.”
“Don’t…hey, stop, I’m comfortable.”
“You’re on the stairwell. Drunk.”
“Shows what you know.”
“I know you are on the stairwell, drunk.”
“Why do you care, anyway? You are ruining my life.”
Castiel sighed, and stopped trying to pull him to his feet. “Do you honestly believe that you were roomed with me by accident?”
Dean tried to sit up. “Harvelle! That bitch! I knew it!”
“I’m going to hide all her paperclips.”
“You will do no such thing. It wasn’t her idea. It was someone higher up the chain of command.”
“What? What does that mean?”
“It means that orders were given from the highest level concerning your salvation.”
“My WHAT? This is a state school!”
Castiel waved a hand. “What I mean is that someone important was worried that you were going to lose your standing on the team. You antics with the fraternity and certain, ah, elements were close to getting you put on academic probation.”
“Why should they care if I like to suck cock every once in a while?”
Castiel stopped and stared at him a long time, and Dean wondered peripherally how big Castiel’s cock was, and why he was looking at him with that weird expression, and how long it would take for him to actually blink. Finally Castiel answered.
“I don’t believe it was your sexual proclivities that were in question. More along the lines of arson.”
“So they roomed me with YOU?”
Castiel nodded solemnly. “Despite my own misgivings, I was assigned the job of pulling you up from perdition. I just wasn’t aware it also meant pulling you up the whole damn stairwell.”
“…freak,” Dean said, then passed out.
Dean did not remember much the next morning, but it said a lot that the first thing Castiel mentioned when Dean woke up was that he had not taken any photographs.
Dean shook his head and went for a shower, which was disappointingly blow-job free (he figured the hippy chicks were all intimidated by him). By the time he got back to the room, he remembered why he got drunk in the first place, and how annoying Castiel was, and how everything was suddenly working against him since he moved into the stupid shoe-box dorm room with glittery techno-colored furniture.
“You are some kind of freak!” Dean pointed at Castiel.
“I’m trying to help you!”
“By being a freak?”
“I am not a freak!”
“You are the king of freaks! Do they even have words for you?” Dean yelled, then backed up a step when Castiel surged off the bed and walked straight into his personal space, his voice low and threatening.
“I am a pansexual, cisgendered transvestite.”
“Is that even English?” Dean shouted, pushing Castiel backwards to put some room between them.
“Yes! You stupid moronic frat boy! It means I’ll try anything once, I enjoy being a man, and I like to dress up in women’s clothes because it is sexually arousing to me!”
“And it also means I’m open minded enough to tolerate stupid jocks who think ‘being a man’ is all about their dicks!”
“And that means that I tolerate you, even if you are a JERK, because I’m trying to help and…”
“So, you wear women’s clothes? Like…panties?”
Castiel stopped cold and eyed him narrowly, but did not answer. He stepped back, leaning against his desk, propping himself up on his hands and thrusting his hips out fractionally, his freaky pink girl’s shirt riding up to reveal a bit of stomach. Dean felt a tingly rush of arousal run across the back of his neck, and sweat break out on his face.
“Why? Are you curious, Dean?” Castiel’s voice was low and warm, in contrast to his fierce, angry expression.
“Just…uh…wondered,” He said, aiming for casual as his body took a betraying step towards Castiel.
“Mmmm.” Castiel hummed as he looked Dean over, and this time the arousal dropped to Dean’s dick, which started rebelling against the constraints of his jeans. Castiel grinned, a vicious and predatory look that at any other point in time would have sent Dean running for his life. But.
“Maybe I do. Maybe I have satiny panties on right now.”
“Satiny?” Dean’s voice squeaked as he inched across the floor.
Castiel took one hand and undid the top button of his jeans, then settled back again and pushed his hips out a little more. Dean bit down a groan that Castiel heard anyway.
“Maybe you should check, Dean. Find out for yourself just how perverted I am.”
Dean was there, suddenly and unexpectedly, right in Castiel’s space with his hands on the waistband of his jeans. “Jesus.” He could not stop himself from shaking.
Castiel leaned forward and whispered. “Do it.”
Dean did, unzipping Castiel’s fly and pulling open his jeans until he saw what Castiel was wearing.
Castiel shrugged. “They were a present.”
Dean frowned at that but kept pulling Castiel’s pants until they were pooled at his knees then rubbed his hands over the silky, clingy bright orange fabric covering Castiel’s hips. “Jesus fuck. Panties.”
Castiel chuckled, the vibration echoing down through Dean’s dick. “You ever worn girls panties before, Dean?” Castiel whispered.
Dean shook his dizzy head, staring down at Castiel’s cock filling up and pushing out the skimpy, lacy edge of the orange panties. He kept running his hands over the fabric, moving his touch to Castiel’s ass cheeks, squeezing them. Castiel groaned and tipped his head back, eyes closed. Dean was still shaking his head when he leaned in and kissed Castiel’s neck, sucking lightly on his delicate skin.
“I want you to.” Castiel gasped out the words as Dean pushed himself closer, palming Castiel’s ass and nibbling up his neck to his ear.
“Want me to what?” Dean grinned, grinding his hips against the panties and Castiel’s trapped cock. “Hey!”
Castiel had pushed him off, one hand on the chest of drawers for balance as he shucked off his jeans and tossed his shirt. Dean moved forward again eagerly but Castiel put his hand on his chest. They stood like that for a moment, Dean’s breath hard and fast as he took in the sight of Castiel wearing nothing but the bright orange panties in front of him and feeling his hand on his chest, hot even through Dean’s flannel shirt. Then Castiel moved and pulled open a drawer, pulling out a pair of bright pink undies. Dean caught them instinctively when Castiel threw them at him, then held them up. They weren’t exactly skimpy, looking more like short briefs, but they were all lace.
Castiel nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on Dean’s, their eyes locked. “The style is called boy shorts. It’s all you.”
Dean glared at the panties. “No pictures.”
“No pictures.” Castiel smiled, his expression a dare. Dean wondered when he got so easy. Then again, he’d always been easy.
He backed away slowly, unbuttoning his shirt while still holding the panties. Castiel, who had up to then looked mostly smug and sexy, widened his eyes in surprise.
“What? You think I’m some kind of coward? Fuck you.” Dean grinned and stripped off his shirt, kicked his sneakers off and started unbuttoning his jeans. He was commando, a bit of unexpected foresight on his part that had more to do with the fact that he hadn’t done laundry in a week, as opposed to expecting to get lucky, but it was convenient all the same. His cock wilted a little which helped when he struggled to pull the panties up, but they bunched up and twisted anyway.
“How do girls do this? Do they slick up first or something?” Dean grumbled while trying to fix the panties without ripping the lace. It was totally messed up, and Dean thought that women were clearly the superior sex if they could get this shit on without tearing it apart. “And? There’s no room for my junk.”
Castiel moved forward quietly, placing his hands on the waist band (if you could call it that) of the panties. With a few flicks of his wrist and some suggestive tugging he straightened out the panties. His fingers flitted over Dean’s cock, which was plumping up from the attention, then deftly and surgically stuffed it under the lace, pointing up so it was snug against Dean’s groin, the head poking out of the waistband.
“Oh, God…” Dean groaned, staring at his spectacularly sexy dick held taught by the silky pink lace. He knew his eyes were blown, entirely too much light getting in and turning the room into a surreal landscape, like a cartoon.
“You…your…” Castiel was waving a hand around while looking around at Dean’s ass with a stunned expression.
“Looks good, huh?” Dean smirked, riding high on endorphins and the smell of Castiel leaning in close to him.
“Jeans will never do you justice,” Castiel said reverently. He stood up straight and stepped back into Dean’s personal space. “Now where were we?”
“Nrgh.” Dean gurgled and grabbed, spinning them to land on Dean’s bed (which squeaked, so Dean knew they were ending on the floor at some point) with Castiel under him. Dean tipped his head and kissed Castiel again, finally, trying for some semblance of control by not just eating at his lips. He kissed barely open-mouthed, and Castiel met him with a sly, hot tongue that teased his mouth. Groaning into the kiss, Dean rolled his hips and Castiel groaned back at him, his own hips stuttering up in response. The waistband of his panties pulled tight as his cock filled out, pressing hard into the spot on the underside right under the head. Shifting, the skin of his cockhead brushed against Castiel’s smooth panties.
“Not gonna…this is going to be quick.” Dean pushed up on his hands, holding himself up on his arms over Castiel, who looked pale skinned and dark-eyed under him, his eyes almost all-pupil and blown wide, his broad lips wet and pink.
“It’s early yet,” Castiel gasped and slapped his hands onto Dean’s ass cheeks, pulling him down, down down into a long, languid grind.
“Oh fuck.” Dean started thrusting steadily, until he felt Castiel’s hands scrabbling between them. “What? What?”
“Just…let me…” Castiel expertly pulled both panties to tuck below their ball sacks, the tight band adding pressure to very sensitive areas.
“Oh my fucking god, I gotta…” Dean grabbed Castiel’s hands and pinned them to the bed, hammering his hips down so their cocks were pressed together between them, rubbing with a little sweat and a lot of friction. Castiel groaned and thrust up, and they were off in a short race. Castiel planted his feet on the mattress and pushed up in one furious move as he came, head thrown back and growling Dean’s name. His come spread between them like lube and Dean let go of Castiel’s hands to press himself down fully, shoving his hips in the mess and slicking up his dick. Sweat was rolling off his back, Castiel’s hands all over him, until finally Dean gave up and came, biting Castiel’s shoulder.
They laid there quietly for a moment, gasping and kissing and gentling each other through it.
“You can save me anytime,” Dean said, grinning as he pulled up a little for oxygen. Castiel looked back, grave and serious.
Dean frowned. “Can we just figure this out as we go along? I’m going to get shit as it is for dating a theology student.”
“Not for dating a guy?”
Dean shrugged, because yeah that was going to be an issue. He could not bring himself to care, with the mystery and wonder of Castiel under him.
Castiel’s expression suddenly turned bright and happy, and he squirmed as he got the panties off of both of them. Dean looked at the poor twisted, cum-covered pieces of fabric. He did not want to ask how they were supposed to clean the panties, so instead he grabbed them out of Castiel’s hand and threw them across the room indifferently. Castiel gave him an inscrutable expression before pressing close against him to whisper in his ear. “There are more where those came from.”
Dean’s dick twitched in defiance of all biology, but Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel and dragged him all the way down to the mattress. “Later, for fucks sake. Some of us mere mortals need a nap first.”
Castiel sighed as he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean figured it was the best damn hangover he ever had. Maybe there was such a thing as redemption. He was willing to find out.
It was a little tight, the cap sleeves didn’t make it over his biceps, and he got a lot of shit from the guys at practice but Dean just told them that it takes a man secure in his manhood to wear a limited edition Tokidoki Hello Kitty tee. It was just his luck, being newly monogamous and all, that the entire cheerleading squad thought his shirt was the bomb.
Castiel mentioned something about the whore of Babylon that night, then fucked Dean through the floor. Dean vowed to never give that shirt up.