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'I can't believe this.' Dean groans, slumping back in his chair. 'I can't be homeless, man. That's just bullshit.'

Victor laughs without a trace of sympathy. 'You're the dumbass who's been putting off finding a new place! As the wizard said to Dorothy, you're not in Kansas any more. The student rental market is a bearpit, and if you'd just started looking properly last month, like I told you to, you wouldn't be in this mess.'

Dean frowns at him. 'The wizard never said that.'

'Really? That's the part of that statement you're going to pick on?'

'Well, it's not like I can pick on the rest of it,' Dean grumbles. He sips his beer and sighs. 'Look, I get it, all right? I'm an idiot. I just figured, you know, middle of the year, there'll be fewer people looking for places, ergo more places available, so why not take my time and find something good? Something the landlord's not gonna tear down after six months.'

Victor rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.'

'C'mon, man! These are some dire straits, and I ain't talking about the band. You've gotta help me find a new place.'

'Give me one good reason why I should bother.'

'Because,' says Dean, craftily, 'if I end up homeless, it's your couch I'm gonna be crashing on, and I'm pretty sure you don't want that.'

Victor winces. 'Good point. We need to find you a house, fast.' He lifts his beer to his lips, then pauses, a strange expression crossing his face. 'Actually....'

'What?' Dean sits up, staring at him. 'You know somewhere? Spit it out, dude!'

'Nah, nah. Crazy idea.' Victor takes a long swallow, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 'Clean-cut Kansas boy that you are, it's not like he'd take you on, anyway – and even if he did, you'd probably kill each other inside of a week.'

'Who's this?' Charlie asks, thumping down beside them. 'Wait, has Dean finally found a new housemate?'

Victor laughs. 'Hell, no. I was just imagining him living at the Brothel.'

'The what?' says Dean.

'Oh my god, Dean.' Charlie pulls a face. 'How can you be a student here and not have heard of the Brothel? It's notorious!'

'Specifically,' says Victor, grinning, 'the owner is notorious. You really don't know about Castiel Novak?'

Dean frowns. The name is vaguely familiar, but he can't quite place it. 'Maybe?'

'Well, he's –' Charlie starts, but Victor shushes her, a mischevious look on his face.

'No, no. Let him figure it out for himself.'

'Figure what out?' says Dean, thoroughly confused. 'Look, does this Castiel guy have a room for rent, or not?'

'That depends,' says Victor.

Dean almost growls. 'Depends? Depends on what? The phases of the moon?'

'On whether or not he likes you,' says Charlie, simply. 'Castiel is – well, he's a bit eccentric. He owns the place outright, so it's not like he needs help with the rent, but he sometimes takes on housemates anyway, I guess for the company or whatever. Who knows? Not that any of them seem to last that long, but it'd keep you off the streets for now, at least.'

'And his place is called the Brothel,' Dean says, sceptically. 'What is he, a pimp?'

'Why don't you go there, see for yourself?' says Victor, feigning nonchalance. 'It's actually not that far away.'

Dean glares at him. 'What the hell aren't you telling me, man?'

'Does it really matter?' Victor shrugs. 'It's not like he's going to take you on anyway.'

'So why I am I even bothering?'

'Because your house is getting bulldozed in a week and you don't have a better option.'

Dean sighs. 'Just gimme the damn address.'

 

*

 

From the outside, at least, the Brothel looks no worse than most other student properties Dean's ever seen. A single-story house on a corner block, it's bordered by an empty lot on one side and a foreclosed property on the other, the wooden fronting painted pale blue. The front yard is bordered by a chain-link fence, the weedy grass unmown and strewn with mismatched lawn furniture. As Dean walks up the front path, he makes a mental note to kill Victor and Charlie if this turns out to be a prank.

The main door is open, with only the screen between Dean and the interior. He hesitates, not sure whether to knock or call out – then yelps, startled, as a scruffy stranger sways into view on the other side.

'Shit!' says Dean. 'I mean, uh –'

'You're not Tiffany,' says the stranger. He pulls open the screen door, squinting in the afternoon sunlight. 'Are you?'

'Um... no?' Dean hesitates, completely thrown. 'Are you Castiel Novak?'

'Last time I checked. And you are?'

'Uh, Dean. Dean Winchester.' He holds out a hand, which Castiel doesn't take, forcing Dean to awkwardly withdraw it. He licks his lips, embarrassed. Castiel looks about eight different kinds of hungover: his dark hair is sticking up every which way, his blue eyes are bloodshot, there's at least a three day growth on his jaw, and even though it's 4pm on a Monday, he's wearing nothing but a pair of Roadrunner boxer shorts and an open kimono robe. 'Look, if it's a bad time, I can come back later –'

'Are you here to buy weed?' asks Castiel, suddenly.

Dean gapes at him. 'What?'

'It's a simple enough question. Are you here to buy weed?'

'No!'

'Oh.' Castiel blinks at him. 'Do you wanna get stoned anyway?'

Oh, for the love of – 'Look, never mind,' says Dean. 'It's not important. I'm sorry to have bothered you.'

He heads back down the path, and is halfway to the gate before Castiel calls after him, 'Do you want to live here, then?'

 Very slowly, Dean turns. 'How'd you know I was here about a room?'

'Power of deduction,' says Castiel, leaning against the doorway. 'I mean, you're not after pot, and I'm pretty sure we haven't slept together.' He grins wolfishly, gaze sliding over Dean's body. 'You, I'd remember.'

Dean's been hit on by guys before, but never so blatantly, let alone by a semi-naked dude in a kimono. A hot blush warms his cheeks, and he covers his shock with cockiness, tilting his head and grinning. 'Sorry to disappoint you, Cas, but I don't swing that way.'

Castiel throws back his head and laughs. 'And you want to live here? What, did your friends put you up to this?'

'Actually, yeah.' Dean raises an eyebrow. 'Is that a problem for you? I mean, do you have some moral objection to rooming with straight guys?'

'Not at all,' says Castiel. 'It's just that straight guys tend to have a problem rooming with me.'

Dean snorts. 'I'm not homophobic, dude. Just not gay.' And then, because he might as well get it over with, 'Look, I get if I'm not your ideal housemate or whatever, but the truth is, I really need a place to stay. My current digs are getting knocked down, I've got less than a week to relocate because I'm a dumbass who leaves important shit 'till the last minute, and yeah, my friends suggested you as a joke, but I'm here now, so –' he shrugs, spreading his hands, '– yes or no?'

Castiel gives him an odd look. 'That's it? Yes or no? We're not going to swap life stories first?'

Dean snorts. 'You really wanna bother with all that? The way I see it, we'll either get along or we won't, and even if we hate each other, that still gives me more time to find a new place than I'd have had otherwise. Besides, no offence, but you don't exactly seem like the kinda guy who's big into asking for references.'

'Fair enough,' says Castiel. He takes a breath, then says, 'Rent is ninety a week, plus half of utilities, but I pay for the wifi, cable and streaming accounts, because I'd be using them anyway. I'll probably buy most of the food, so we treat whatever's there as common. You can do whatever you want to your room so long as it doesn't damage the structural integrity of the house or materially piss me off, but so long as you run it by me first, that shouldn't be a problem. The bathroom and kitchen are shared spaces and I'll respect your right to them, but I can and will treat the lounge as an extension of my bedroom, and everything except your room is free game during parties, so you need to be prepared for that. Seriously. I mean it.'

'Gotcha,' says Dean, because it's not like he's opposed to a little couch nookie, and at least Cas is being up front about it.

Castiel looks like he doesn't believe him, but after a moment, he shrugs and continues. 'Please note, I throw a lot of parties, I use drugs regularly, and I have an active sex life. Oh, and there's an intermittent cat. She's mostly a stray, but she comes and goes. If any of that's a problem, speak now, or forever hold your peace.'

'I think I can cope with that,' says Dean, after a moment.

Castiel blinks, surprised. 'In that case, welcome aboard.' And he smiles, a broad, beaming expression that utterly transforms his face. Dean isn't into dudes, but goddamn if Castiel Novak doesn't have the kind of smile you'd consider switching teams for. It crinkles his eyes and nose, lighting him up, and Dean is helpless not to smile back.

'Thanks, man,' he says. 'I really appreciate it. So, uh, can I check out the room? I oughta see where I'm staying before I sign on the dotted line.'

'Sure,' says Castiel. He steps out of the doorway and waves Dean into the house. 'Mi casa su casa, after all.'

 

*

 

'You're not serious,' says Victor.

'As a heart attack, man.' Dean grins, necking his beer. 'Honestly, I don't know what you guys were going on about. I mean, sure, Cas is a pretty weird guy, but he was up front with me about everything, the house is in good shape and the hot water pressure is excellent, so who am I to complain? I'm moving in first thing tomorrow.'

Charlie opens her mouth, then closes it again. She looks at Victor, a pained expression on her face. 'What have we done, Vic? We're monsters.'

'Will you guys knock it off?' says Dean. 'I'm not some shrinking violet, OK? I can handle a little weirdness. God, it's not like I don't put up with the two of you.'

Groaning, Victor puts a hand over his eyes and says, in his best theatrical voice, 'Lord, have mercy on my soul for sending one of your purest sons into the jaws of corruption, the den of iniquity, the –'

'Hey, hey!' says Dean, offended despite himself. 'First of all, I'm nowhere near pure. I'm a virtual font of impurity, and I'll thank you not to forget it. And second of all, the so-called den of iniquity comes with free wifi, so you can shut your cakehole.'

'Fifty bucks says you don't last two weeks,' says Charlie.

Victor cackles. 'Oh, I'm getting in on that action. Fifty from me, too.'

'Done,' says Dean, and shakes hands with both of them. 'I look forward to taking your money.'

Charlie and Victor both laugh even harder, leaving Dean to roll his eyes at the pair of them. Honestly, he doesn't get what all the fuss is about. Just how bad can Castiel be, anyway?

 

*

 

On Tuesday morning, Dean arrives to find an envelope taped to the front door with his name scrawled on it in messy capitals. Frowning, he pulls it open, and finds a pair of keys inside, alongside a short note:

Hi Dean,

I'm asleep. Don't worry about waking me by accident; just try not to do it on purpose. The smaller key is for the back door, and the wifi password is SERAPHIM.

See you in the PM,

Cas

Chuckling, Dean adds the keys to his ring, then starts carrying boxes in from the car. His room is right next to Castiel's, but true to his word, his new housemate doesn't so much as stir, even when Dean accidentally drops a box of books on the wooden floor. He's almost tempted to poke his head round the door, check that Cas is actually there, but it's not like it matters either way, so he doesn't.

Unpacking takes him just under an hour: Dean doesn't have much stuff, and he's actually got more space here than at his old place, which means he doesn't have to fuss about finding the best fit for everything. His new bed is a queen rather than a double, and comfier, too, which is a plus. He stretches out on it, testing the mattress, then gets up and grabs a quick shower – his first class is at 10:30, and he wants to time how long it'll take him to walk there. Once he's clean and dressed, he waits a few more minutes on the offchance Cas is going to emerge, but at 9:55 he gives it up as a lost cause and heads out, leaving the front door unlocked, just as he found it.

Tuesday isn't his busiest day, but his classes are stretched out over a long period of time and he has homework to catch up on in between them, so it's after five by the time he gets back home.

'Cas?' he calls, heading into the lounge. 'You up?'

'Barely,' comes the raspy answer. Castiel is sprawled on the couch in the same robe and boxers he wore yesterday, and if possible, he looks even worse. His eyes are no longer bloodshot, but there are dark circles under them, and his hair is a bird's nest.

'Jesus, dude. You look like shit.'

'I feel like shit,' says Cas, rubbing his face. 'I got into a groove working on my thesis last night, so I drank a bunch of Red Bull to keep going, but then I needed to crash and I couldn't, so I took some sleeping pills, and apparently my body has a “problem” with that.' He actually uses airquotes, fingers twitching sarcastically. 'I woke up an hour ago, and I'd really rather be dead.' He blinks at Dean. 'You feel like ordering takeout?'

'Sure,' says Dean, who's too used to Charlie to be easily phased by sudden changes in topic and too used to Victor's appetite to ever refuse an offer of food, and when Cas straightens up, he comes to sit beside him on the couch. What with the kimono hanging open and all, and as crappy as the rest of him looks, it's hard not to notice how lean and muscular he is – a runner's frame, Dean guesses. Not that he's checking him out, or anything. 'So, you're a grad student, huh. What's your topic?'

Cas snorts. 'Subversive representations of religion and mythology in popular culture, which is another way of saying pompous metatextual bullshit. I was probably high when I picked it out, but then again, I'm high a lot of the time, so that's not saying much.' He tilts his head, looking at Dean. 'What do you study? I never asked.'

'I'm second year sports medicine, but I only transferred here at the start of the year. Before that, I was at the University of Kansas.'

'Kansas boy, huh?' Cas grins a lopsided grin. 'Let me guess: you were Homecoming King, captain of the football team, and probably voted Most Popular in yearbook.'

'So what if I was?' says Dean, defensively. 'Doesn't mean I'm stupid.'

'Of course not,' says Castiel. 'Though it's interesting you assumed I'd think so. But with all due respect, you have to admit it's a bit cliché. Did you lose your virginity to a cheerleader, too?'

Dean laughs despite himself. 'Hey, there's nothing wrong with the classics. Besides, she was bendy.' And he wiggles his eyebrows, because Dean Winchester isn't the kind of guy who backs down easily from a game of Sexual Banter Chicken, even if it is with his new and mostly naked housemate.

'Classics,' Cas says, and snorts again, a smile tugging his lips. 'God, you're a find.'

They spend the rest of the night on the couch eating takeaway and watching Netflix, talking intermittently about themselves. Cas is twenty-five to Dean's twenty-one; he's an only child; and he apparently identifies as pansexual rather than gay. In return, Dean tells him a bit about his kid brother, his car and his move from Kansas, which was as much about wanting to get out on his own as because UC Santa Cruz has a better programme.

Around eleven, Cas abruptly announces his need to go for a run – 'I like to exercise at night,' he says, when Dean points out what time it is – so Dean heads to his room, deciding to get a good night's sleep.

As he lies under the covers, he replays his conversation with Cas, trying to figure out what he's missing. Dean considers himself a decent judge of character, and so far, Castiel has been nothing but pleasant company. Sure, the guy leaves housekeys taped to the front door, takes clearly terrible care of himself and does weird crap like studying religion in pop culture and running in the dark, but that's it. What the hell are Victor and Charlie so worried about?

 

*

 

The next few days are much the same: Dean gets up and goes to class while Cas is still asleep, then hangs out with him in the evening. Though he still looks tired, Cas starts to perk up around Thursday, and on Friday morning, he's actually awake before Dean, happily making a full breakfast of coffee, eggs and bacon.

'Big night tonight!' he announces, as Dean pulls up a chair. 'You got any plans?'

'Nothing much,' says Dean. 'Just meeting Victor and Charlie for drinks, maybe grabbing a slice of pizza – did you seriously cook me breakfast?' he asks, startled, as Cas puts a plate of food in front of him.

'I did,' says Cas, sitting down with his own meal opposite. He's cleanshaven for once, and the change is striking. 'Friday breakfast is important. We must fortify our stomachs appropriately for the trials ahead.'

'I'm guessing you've got your own plans, then?' asks Dean, around a mouthful of bacon.

'I usually do,' says Castiel. He winks at him, mock-flirtatious, and it's just as well he goes straight back to eating his eggs, because Dean is just a little bit more flustered than he'd like to admit. It's not like he's attracted to Cas or anything – it's just that the guy has stupidly blue eyes, like ocean-sky-sapphire blue, and when they're not jaundiced from exhaustion or bloodshot from booze, the clarity in them is startling.

They eat their meal in companionable silence, and Dean heads off to class.

It's a pretty hectic day, coursewise, and by the time he meets up with Victor and Charlie, he's feeling in need of some R&R. But for some reason, his asshole friends can't leave the subject of Castiel alone; they keep swapping meaningful glances whenever Dean says that things are fine, that Cas is a nice guy, and seriously Charlie stop laughing, what the fuck is so funny?

'You'll see,' she giggles, 'eventually.'

Dean scowls and eats his pizza.

After dinner, Victor gets a text invite from one of his frat buddies asking them all to a last-minute party; Charlie wants in, and she tries to get Dean to come along, too, but he's shitty enough with the both of them over whatever-it-is they keep refusing to say about Cas that he pleads off.

'I'll see you later,' he says, cutting Charlie off mid-sentence, and stalks back across campus, hands shoved in his pockets.

He's so preoccupied with his sulk, it's not until he's almost at the door to the house that he realises he can hear music coming from inside. He shrugs, figuring Cas must've thrown his own last-minute shindig, and heads inside.

And stops.

Party is one word for what he's witnessing; orgy, though, is probably more accurate. The house is full of people, most of whom are seemingly half-naked and grinding against each other: there are shirtless guys and topless girls everywhere, their laughter barely audible over the thudding music, and everyone is splattered with – Jesus, is that edible body paint? Dean knows he's staring, which probably makes him a creepy voyeur, but it's kind of hard to look away when the two topless girls in front of him are actively licking each other, hands roaming in ways that are decidedly not PG. Drymouthed, he looks around, trying to find somewhere safer to rest his eyes, and just about has a heart attack when he realises the dark-haired, barefoot guy making out with a cute blonde girl while another guy licks sauce off his chest is Cas.

Dean gapes. Now he really needs to look away, although he's having a hard time remembering why – god, it's not like he doesn't live here, like this isn't all going on in the fucking living room, where he has every right in the world to be – but Cas is just... he's sitting on the arm of the lounge, head twisted to kiss the girl who's sitting behind him, long fingers tangled in her hair, while the guy – Dean can't see his face, but if his shoulders and back are anything to go by, he's cut as hell – kneels between his legs, palms braced on Cas's thighs as he sucks his way up his ribs.

'Fuck,' Dean breathes, the word slipping out of its own accord, and there's no way Cas heard him, not with the music so loud, but his housemate still picks that moment to pull away from the girl and turn, his glassy gaze fixing on Dean. He smiles, wide and inviting, the girl still kissing his neck, and as if that wasn't enough, he winks at Dean again, just like he did at breakfast.

At which point, Dean realises two things: first, that he either needs to leave, join the party, or go to his room, because continuing to stand in the doorway and gawk isn't really a viable option; and second, that he's ragingly hard, because this entire scenario is like something out of a porno, and even if half the participants are men, he's only human.

Blushing furiously, Dean shoves through the crowd to his room – which is mercifully unoccupied – and locks the door behind him. He stands there, dazed and panting, for almost a full minute, the bassline thudding through the wood and into his back. He tries to erase the mental image of a debauched, half-naked Castiel winking at him from the lounge, but for some stupid reason, that only makes things worse, and when he looks down at his hands, he realises there's a smear of sauce, or paint, or whatever it is, on the back of one of them.

Without even thinking, he raises the hand to his lips and licks the coloured streak.

It tastes like chocolate and raspberries.

And then he remembers he doesn't know where it came from, that he's just eaten something he accidentally rubbed off of some random stranger – god, not rubbed off like rubbed them off, like he just walked past and got sauce on himself, and was dumb enough to want to taste it – and the thought is simultaneously arousing and mortifying, and he doesn't know what to do with that. He desperately wants relief, but even with the door locked, it feels creepy as hell to just jerk off while there's still a party going on in the next room, and especially when he knows he won't be able to resist fantasising about being part of it.

Which is so pathetic, he has to sit down. Jesus Christ, it's not like he's shy about sex or strangers – he's had more than his share of one night stands, done the walk of shame enough times to have it down to an artform – but he doesn't know the etiquette here, how to just walk out into... into whatever Cas wants to call this, and join in. If it were a regular party, mingling wouldn't be hard, but it kinda feels like he'd be obligated to go out there shirtless, or lick bodypaint off of someone, or –

There's a knock on the door.

'Dean?' Cas calls. 'Dean, you OK?'

Son of a bitch. Dean grits his teeth, forcing himself to stand and respond like a normal person. You're not freaked out. You can do this.

He opens the door, and there's Cas, his habitually messy hair transformed now and forever in Dean's eyes to sex hair, sticky lines gleaming on his collarbone and hickies on his ribs. He's flush from alcohol and probably something else, too, given the size of his pupils, lips swollen and pink, and he looks Dean over with a mixture of exuberance and concern, like a puppy who thinks you might be too mad to play, but who still can't stop itself from bringing you the ball.

'Hey, uh – I just wanted to say, you know, you don't have to stay in here,' says Cas. He leans his arm on the doorframe, swaying ever so slightly, the motion drawing Dean's eye to his hips. 'I mean, you can if you want to, but I didn't want you to feel left out, like I hadn't invited you.'

Dean sucks in breath, forcing himself to look at Castiel's face. 'You winked at me, dude. Pretty sure that counts as an invitation.' And then he flinches, because holy fuck, why the hell would he say something like that? 'I mean, uh – shit – I –'

'I think it means,' Cas murmurs, leaning in close to him, 'that you're not as straight as you think you are.'

And before Dean can think of how to respond, Cas kisses him.

Dean freezes up. His heart is hammering in his ears, and he's still so fucking aroused, and confused, and buzzed from the bar, and without even meaning to, he parts his lips and lets Cas in, moaning involuntarily. Cas tastes of chocolate and raspberries, and for a brief, insane moment, Dean forgets that he's not into guys, that Cas is his fucking housemate – forgets everything and just kisses back, grabbing Cas's hips and pulling him close.

And then he jerks back, furious with both of them, and shoves Cas bodily away.

'What the fuck was that for?' he gasps, outraged. 'Get out, man!'

Cas pales slightly, running a hand through his hair, a spark of clarity lighting his eyes. 'Dean, I'm sorry, I –'

He shoves him again, hard enough that Cas goes stumbling backwards, and then Dean slams the door on him, his fingers shaking as he works the lock.