Speak and I'll Listen
Cas and Dean have been neighbors since they were six years old, the fact that Cas is deaf meaning little to Dean until an accident makes it all too clear. Valentine’s Day special.
Dean had lived across from Castiel since he was six years old. He still remembered when the Novak’s had moved in, and how excited he’d been when a little black-haired boy with a bee stuffed animal had tottered into the house after his mother. Because they’d been the same age, and as far as Dean’s six-year-old brain had figured, that meant he got to make a new friend. Dean had always been happy to make friends.
He’d begged his mother for days – from the arms of their couches and edges of countertops – to go and meet them. With Sam on her hip, she’d said, “no, not now,” leaving Dean to wander up to his room dejected and staring out his window at the blue house across the lonely road.
Until the weekend had finally arrived, at which point Mary had packed together a welcome basket, spurred John out of the garage, and held Sam’s hand as they headed from one side across to the next. Dean had been jumping with excited nerves, smiling with his new football held in his tiny hands.
Up the stone walkway to the porch and front door of the house, Mary had knocked, the group waiting with varying degrees of anticipation.
A thin, mousy, blonde haired woman had answered, looking them up and down in silent surprise that Dean had failed to notice. He’d been too busy trying to peek past her legs into the house, looking for the little boy he’d thought he’d invite to play out in the yard.
“Um, hello,” the strange woman had greeted. Mary had said some nice words, introduced them, and soon enough they’d been in the house. Gathered in the kitchen, Dean had looked between the adult’s legs with a vigorous kind of searching, hands flexing around the football. Until, finally being noticed by Mary, an explanation had been given.
“Dean saw your son, I think,” she’d said to the strange woman, a questioning smile on her bright face, as if to make sure she’d been assuming correctly. “He’s been bugging me all week to come over and talk to you so they could play.”
“Oh…” Dean had turned hopefully up to them, not perceptive enough to see that the blonde – her name was Amelia – had been fidgeting in unease, her voice hardly above a murmur. “Well…” She’d looked Dean up and down – at his ruffled blonde hair and dirt-smudged face. He’d been teaching Sam how to catch earlier, to little success. “I suppose that… that might be alright.”
Both Mary and John had been perplexed by her hesitance, but said nothing on it as she’d walked from the kitchen. Figuring that perhaps she was simply overprotective, they’d instead focused on stopping Sam from wandering under the bar chairs, getting him rounded up just in time for Amelia to return to the room.
She’d been bent over someone, hands on the small shoulders of the little boy walking ahead of her. He’d been gripping his bee stuffed animal, a look of nervousness painted across his delicate features as he’d looked the newcomers up and down. His black hair had been nicely brushed, no filthy spots on his clothes.
None of this had deterred Dean however, who’d bounded forward with a smile, successfully startling the other boy, whose blue eyes had widened in surprise.