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Being attracted to some things that aren't good for you is like the natural order of things, almost human nature. Getting wrapped up in solely the idea of something, so completely ensconced that you lose sight of what is truly in front of you, well, that's not so uncommon either.
Unless you've spent your whole life resisting urges and being sheltered to the point of painstaking oblivion due to your parents' pathological need to control every aspect of life, at the age of eighteen you're likely to have given yourself up to some of these happenstances, already forming some sort of logical basis to prevent any real, long-suffering damage. Ideally, anyway.
Castiel didn't get that luxury.
It was cruel and unfair of his parents, thrusting him into the life he so desperately wanted after little to no preparation, but he didn't see that. His vision was skewed by a false beacon of light beckoning him to run free and chase after everything it offered, everything that had been so far out of his reach for too long. With eighteen years of constancy under his belt, he hadn't been ready for the whirlwind of vivid and tantalizing emotion, for the ebb and flow of life outside of his parents' watchful eye.
He hadn't been ready for Dean Winchester.
Dean was beautiful, there was no point in sugarcoating it. It showed in everything he did, everything he was. It shined in his eyes, seeped into the air when he felt passionate about something, wafted off of him in the form of such a wonderful scent that no one, especially Cas, could help but feel intoxicated whenever he was present. He was the first person to acknowledge Castiel's presence in the world besides his parents and tutors, the first person to encourage and coax some form of actual personality out of his shell of an existence. Dean was gorgeous and exciting and free and just...everything.
Everything but in love with Castiel.
The thought might have rocked him to his core, had he not been profusely shivering as cold drops of water pelted him relentlessly. He hadn't even bothered shedding a single piece of clothing, or closing the window above to prevent the ill-fated draft before he planted himself in his bathtub, head resting on the cold tile and eyes staring ahead listlessly.
He should have known better. If he had been raised normally, maybe he might have been aware that losing yourself so completely in another person without preamble or care couldn't have been healthy. He would have known that becoming so deeply attached that it was hard to discern where one ended and the other began didn't end well even in some of the best cases, so it probably wouldn't without any idea of the other's feelings outside of desperate hope. He should have known that someone like Dean, such a glowing representation of life and love, wouldn't want to waste any of that beauty on the sheltered mess of a boy who had just started to experience the world.
He should have known not to kiss him. The biting curiosity that had swirled around him for months should never have been allowed to take control, but it did. And he'd gotten his heart broken in front of all of their—no, Dean's friends, with fireworks and excitement for the new year as the backdrop.
"Cas..."
He had wanted to numb himself, and while the rigid, far away feeling seeping through his physical form suggested he'd partially succeeded, every ounce of pain he intended to purge stayed settled in his mind, in his heart, in his soul.
"...I'm sorry if I lead you on or something, but I thought we were just friends."
It was an ache that frosty pipe water couldn't reach, but he wished it could.
"I don't...I don't feel the same way about you."
Oh god, he wished it could.
"Castiel?" The obviously concerned lilt to his mother's voice doesn't do much by way of comfort.
He wanted to scream and throw vicious words at her, to tell her he hated this house, hated her for keeping him sheltered here, for keeping him from everything in life that could have helped prepare him for this in even the slightest way. He didn't. Doing so wouldn't make the pain go away, wouldn't make Dean love him. His mother couldn't make Dean love him, and it wasn't her fault that he didn't. He felt enough heartbreak for dozens of people in one sitting, there wasn't any need to add any more to the atmosphere.
She had her faults, but she wasn't at fault for this, couldn't do anything, except maybe...
"Mom?" Castiel's voice catches on the vowel, turning his usual deep timbre into something akin to a distressed frog's croak.
At the sound, she does the one thing he's certain she knows how to do—she shelters him. Despite the frigid air and soaked clothing, Castiel's mother buries as much of him as she can in her arms, rubbing soothing circles into his back.
"Oh, baby. Shh, it's okay."
"It hurts." Cas sobs, body racked with distraught tremors.
"I know. I know it does. But it's going to be okay, you're going to be okay."
He doesn't believe her, not with agony's tight grip on his senses. Everything hurts, and nothing is okay.
He should have known.