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Day 4: Secrets

"You what?" Dean demands as he takes off his coat.

"I accidentally cursed our apartment," Cas says, wringing his hands.

Jesus Christ. Everyone told him not to move in with a witch. Witches are nothing but trouble. Witches summon demons that wreak havoc on the neighborhood. Witches smell like stinky herbs.

And, yeah, Sam's burrito farts are a goddamn biohazard, but if Dean's learned anything from sharing a bedroom with his witchy little brother, it's not to trust stereotypes.

Plus, it's not like Cas, graduate student of the Occult School, brings in anything worse than Dean, graduate student in the School of Nursing. Between the two of them, Dean definitely holds the lead in coming home splattered with questionable fluids. Cas is practically Mr. Clean.

But he'd just had a grueling day of pathophys and epidemiology & biostatistics. He spent the past hour daydreaming of vegging out on the couch and watching a rerun (or five) of Dr. Sexy, MD. He'd barely stepped across the threshold before Cas was on him, yammering on about a spell gone wrong.

"Start from the beginning," Dean says, rubbing his forehead. “What’s the spell do?”

“It traps anyone who enters its borders,” Cas says promptly.

“Okay, so, what,” Dean says, “is the kitchen off limits? ’Cause that’ll be a problem in like three hours.”

Cas shakes his head, his expression apprehensive. “It’s already trapped us. We can’t leave this floor.”

“How…?” Dean drifts off, stunned.

Cas’s mouth twists. “My containment perimeter had a breach that I didn’t notice until too late. The spell naturally expanded to the next man-made perimeter.”

“Great,” Dean says sourly as he plops down on the couch. He might as well make himself comfortable if he’s not leaving anytime soon. “I assume it can be broken, right? We won’t be trapped here forever?” He reaches for the remote and puts on an episode of Scooby Doo to play in the background with the sound turned low.

Cas perches on the other side of the couch, half-facing Dean, half-facing away from the television. “It can be broken.”

“Lemme guess, you need a shitton of rare ingredients delivered that we don’t have here?” Dean asks without looking at him.

Truthfully, it could be worse. He’s spent plenty of fun weekends staying in with Cas, squabbling over whose turn it was to use the stove for frying burgers (Dean) or boiling hiccup cures (Cas). As long as Cas springs for next-day delivery, he could be looking at freedom in under 48 hours.

“Not exactly,” Cas says, and Dean looks up.

Cas has a distinctly squirrelly look around his eyes.

Warning bells go off in Dean’s head, honed from years of listening to Sam stutter through completely implausible lies (demon blood did it, really? Are you sure it isn’t your skanky girlfriend?) “So what’ll it take?” Dean asks, frowning as he flits through more and more implausible answers.

“The exercise was to incorporate a verbal key to undo the spell,” Cas says slowly.

“Have you already tried Open Sesame?” he tries, only half-joking.

“It’s not a catchphrase,” Cas deadpans.

“Good, ’cause you kind of suck at that game,” Dean says, rolling his eyes, “Who the hell uses ‘popular shipping insulation’ as a clue for Peanuts?”

“That’s what peanuts do!”

“You could’ve just said ‘Snoopy’ and I would’ve gotten it like that.” He snaps his fingers.

Cas scowls. “You know I am not as well versed in non-magical pop culture.”

Dean’s expression softens. “Yeah.” He coughs and fiddles with the remote. “So what’s the magic word this time?”

Cas swallows. “Words, plural - the spell requires secrets to open.”

“Secrets,” Dean repeats flatly.

“The more intimate the more valuable,” Cas confirms miserably.

“Seriously?” Dean asks, staring at Cas in horror. “You couldn’t have made the solution, like, Led Zeppelin lyrics?”

Cas shakes his head. “The key has to be something valuable.”

“Great, just great,” Dean says sourly as he sinks back in the cushions and stares out at the television without absorbing any of the cartoon going on on screen.

“Would you rather… wait?” Cas asks cautiously.

Dean sighs. “No, better to get it over with,” he sighs, running his hands through his hair.

“I’ll go first,” Cas volunteers, his voice understandably subdued. “I lied last weekend when you invited me to the beach. I wasn’t busy, but I didn’t want to go because I can’t swim.”

Dean blinks. Cas had been weirdly evasive when Dean asked him what he was up to instead.

“Your turn,” Cas says stiffly.

“You can’t swim?”

“I’ve never learned.”

“Plenty of people can’t swim,” Dean says casually, “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I don’t own a swimsuit either.”

“You could’ve borrowed one of mine,” Dean says sensibly.

“It was just easier if I stayed behind.” Cas reddens, his gaze dropping to his knees. “Your truth, Dean,” he reminds him.

“I once cheated on a history test?”

Cas nods once. “I borrowed my sister’s car and dented the side door. I blamed my younger brother when she found out.”

“I peed myself the first time I saw The Exorcist.”

“I worked at a Gas-n-Sip in high school. I was awful at it, and they fired me after a month.”

"I listened to a Taylor Swift song on the radio yesterday and I liked it. I liked it a lot."

Cas cracks a smile. "I like Taylor Swift.”

“You also like prime numbers and trench coats,” Dean says wryly. He grins. “Sometimes you’re just way off base, man.”

Cas frowns. “What’s wrong with my coat?”

“It makes you look like a flasher,” Dean says promptly.

“I’m not a flasher.”

“Dude, I know.” He pauses. “Does that even count as a truth?”

Cas sighs. “I have no idea,” he says as he gets up and heads into his room. He emerges with a spindly metallic doodad in his hands. It’s delicate hands sway slightly even though there’s no breeze in their apartment. Cas glares down at it. “According to my measurements, we’re about a quarter of the way there.”

“Seriously?”

Cas falls back into his seat, staring at the instrument in his hands. “I suppose we need deeper secrets.”

Dean’s stomach fills with lead. A secret pops to mind, one that would probably blow Cas’s stupid secret measurer out of the water. He clears his throat as Cas’s head whips around to stare at him. “You first.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “I’ve participated in an orgy.”

Whatever Dean had been expecting as Cas’s deep, dark secret, kinky sex acts was not on that list. In all the times he’s tried to picture Cas’s sex life, he comes up with a big fat blank. Cas has never dated the entire time Dean has known him, and Dean would’ve thought he was a virgin except he hangs out with that Meg Masters, who would never be caught dead in the vicinity of a virgin unless it was to make a ritual sacrifice.

“What? How? When?”

Cas’s expression closes off. “The truth doesn’t require elaboration.”

“Had we met yet?”

“Dean -”

“Had we?”

“No,” Cas says with finality. “It was while I was an undergraduate student. Beltane - I had not adequately been warned.”

“I’d say,” Dean says faintly. He gives himself a little shake. Truth. No, no that truth. But something big enough to count for Cas’s secret-hungry curse. “I once almost sold my soul to a demon,” he says in a low voice.

Still, Cas reacts like he received an electric shock. He jumps and stares at Dean, his blue eyes wide. “You almost sold your soul? When?”

Dean grimaces. “Pretty sure the truth doesn’t require elaboration or some bullshit like that.”

Cas lips press together in a thin line. “When?” he repeats.

“We were kids,” Dean says with a sigh. “My dad was out of town, and Sam fell in with a bad crowd. Wound up literally stabbed in the back. Plus concussion. If he didn’t pull through, I had all the stuff ready for the nearest crossroads. Thank god the nurses and the docs could work their magic”

Cas’s rigid posture loses some tension. “I’m glad Sam pulled through.”

“Yeah, since I’m pretty sure I’d be in Hell by now,” Dean says, forcing a smile on his face. “Your turn.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been truly happy,” Cas says, glancing down at the instrument in his hands. “I’ve been content before. I’ve appreciated the route of flowers. I’ve masturbated, which is very satisfactory but also very fleeting.” He shrugs. “I adore my work, my friends. What am I missing?”

Dean gulps, but the words fail him.

Cas checks the secret measurer again. “I think one big one might do it,” he says hopefully.

Right, well, here goes nothing.

Cas says, “I ate the last slice of pie you were saving,” while Dean blurts, “I like you.”

Dean stares at him, his face heating to approximately a thousand fucking degrees.

Cas doesn’t help, sitting there with his perfect, gobsmacked face, not saying a word.

“Right,” Dean says, eyeing the secret measurer, which has gone haywire. The top bit is spinning like the secret lovechild of a fork and a windmill. He jumps to his feet. “Looks like the spell’s broken, so I’m going to-”

“Wait,” Cas says quickly as he reaches over to grab Dean’s arm. “You like me?”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He can’t refute, but he can’t say it again.

“I had no idea,” Cas says, his voice and eyes unbearably kind.

“It’s fine,” Dean says brusquely. “Forget it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make everything awkward,” Dean says, his tone clipped.

Cas’s grip has turned to iron around Dean’s forearm. Meeting Dean’s gaze squarely, he says, “You don’t think I like you back.”

Dean falters. “Because you don’t?” he tries.

Cas just stares at him as butterflies take flight in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

“But,” Dean starts, “You never said anything. Not even for the spell.”

Cas tilts his head, a rueful expression coming over his face. “I didn’t think it was a secret.”