Nothing's Really Working But That's Okay
Chapter 1
Cas
I like to make lists. I'm very organized that way; everything, and everyone, can be put into a category. Now, that's not to say one couldn't be put into multiple categories, with each category containing multiple lists, and that one person or thing could be featured in several lists within several different categories. But what I'm trying to say is, it varies.
It makes me uncomfortable when I can't fit someone into some kind of group or class; and yet, I enjoy it, because they become the odd duck instead of me. They don't fit in, instead of me. It's a selfish pleasure, but I won't deny it. Unfortunately, my brain has become accustomed to my habit of organizing the people and things in my life, so it's turning out to be a lot harder to find those special people who aren't quite right for any specific list.
One would think attending a high school as big as Garrison High would present ample opportunity for such unique individuals to thrive, but seeing as Garrison is smack dab in the middle of Silver Creek, North Dakota, uniqueness in general seems to be lacking. With a whopping population of 4,500 sweet, corn-bred citizens, Silver Creek is known for few things, and its individuality is not one of them. Despite the small number of inhabitants, because Garrison High is the only building large enough to house grades K-12 without risking the lives of all the tiny tots, it's kind of the biggest and most interesting thing in our town.
You have several groups of people within grades nine through twelve: there are the typical jocks, boys—and girls—who dedicate their lives to what little sport activities we have, and tend to ignore their parents' expectations regarding their grades. We have the nerds and geeks who frequent the library and computer lab and generally ignore the social customs of our school and just stick to their own little dark, dank corners. There are the intellectuals, who not only pride themselves on their…what's the word…eccentricity, but also their ability to lift their hoity-toity noses so far into the air, the basketball players could count their nostril hairs.
The most surprisingly peculiar group, however, are the cheerleaders. They aren't the kinds of girls you read about in those shitty high school novels; they're probably known worldwide for how caring and accepting they are. 99% of them—excluding the few Agnostics and Atheists—attend church every Sunday, provide baked goods to raise money for the animal shelter two blocks down from said church, and treat anyone who isn't graced with their good hearts as charity cases. It sounds gag-worthy, yes, but compared to the alternative, fictional version of cheerleaders, I'll take ours any day.
Everything I've told you thus far is merely an introduction into what will soon become my biggest, most complex project yet; this category, and the person in it, is nothing like anyone or anything I've encountered before, and I have shamelessly treated them as an experiment since the day we were first introduced.
His name is Dean Winchester.
It all began two months ago, when our senior year of high school began, and the new kids in town started to stand out in the crowds…
Two months earlier
"Hey, Novak, pass me the football!" One of the meatheads was motioning frantically in my direction, and I assumed he was trying to bring my attention to the pigskin ball located uncomfortably close to my head. I hadn't noticed it flying toward my head earlier, but then again, when I'm in my list writing mode, I tend to zone out a bit.
I picked up the ball and made a feeble attempt at tossing it back toward the football player—whose name after countless years of school together I still couldn't for the life of me remember—and winced as it landed haphazardly in the bushes approximately ten feet to his right.
He gave me thumbs-up and a toothy grin, but I could read his pitiful expression like an open, and disturbingly blank, book. I returned his look with a crooked smile and went back to what I was doing. My pen hung between my teeth, resting perfectly on my bottom lip like it had been built with my pen-chewing habits in mind.
The chitter-chatter of the freshman girls, much like the sound of birds excited for a new day of singing and nest-building, filled my ears as they flounced past in their too-short skirts and too-tight shirts. They would soon learn, if they wanted to earn the respect they desired, they would have to follow in the footsteps of their kindhearted leaders and dress appropriately so as not to provoke the meatheads into doing something everyone involved would regret.
The morning bell rang, signifying the beginning of the end for all the entering seniors. I'd come to learn that there was very little to look forward to between the ages of 14 and 18; until you were old enough to drive, high school would seem trivial and stressful and all too unnecessary. After your first car, however, the yellow brick road would illuminate the path toward the ultimate ending to the most tedious, and yet extremely chaotic, of stories: graduation.
I made my way through the great double doors and through the seaweed green and beige hallways. My locker was located on the second floor right in between the lockers of my fellow classmates, Anna Milton—my best friend in the whole wide world—and Gabriel Speight, the class clown and my other best friend in the whole wide world. The three of us had been inseparable since sixth grade, when Gabriel decided he wanted to make Anna, a practicing Christian, as uncomfortable as possible by announcing his homosexuality in the middle of class and professing his undying love for me, of all people. After that, it seemed kind of ridiculous to try and form any other bonds with the boring, generic kids we went to school with.
I felt fingers caress my shoulder blades and smacked them away. "Gabe, you can't keep molesting me in the hallways. What would the ladies think?" My tone was light, and I enjoyed teasing him about his open gay-ness.
"I gotta mark my territory, you know," he replied, doing a quick spin to show off his first-day-of-the-last-year outfit. "Whadya think? I tried to go for a more latin-y look."
Anna's soft laughter drifted over us like a cloud. She was a sweet girl with a heart of gold, and the only person I knew who could tame Gabriel's, well, flamboyancy. "I'm not really into the frills, or the neon," she grimaced, "but it's definitely you."
He grinned widely and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her cheek sloppily. "You're a doll, Anna." Leaning against the cool metal of the locker, I watched them affectionately. I knew once the year was over, we probably wouldn't see each other all that often, and it bothered me a little bit to think of the trio breaking up.
No one had time to continue the conversation before Becky Rosen, class gossip and fanatic, ran up to Gabriel, who was equally known for his love of the rumors and hearsay. She was breathing heavily, which normally meant she'd run a long way to get to Gabe, which usually meant it was either super important, or about boys.
"Gabriel Richard Speight, you will not believe what I have to tell you," she exclaimed, her blonde hair bouncing wildly about her angular face. Under most circumstances, she would probably be considered cute, but when she was in one of her 'moods,' the intensity in her expression generally sent guys and gals running.
"Well darlin' I won't know until you spit it out, so you might as well get the show on the road!" He let go of Anna, who turned toward her locker so as to avoid the gossip-twins. I knew it made her uncomfortable, so I offered her a supportive smile and a wave as she walked off to her first class of the day.
"Two boys, brothers, both new, both hot," she drew the 'o' in hot out until she ran out of breath, "and both exquisitely single."
Gabe squealed. "Oooh! Tell me names now, woman!" he demanded playfully, eyes glistening with his usual mischief.
"Their last name is Winchester—" Gabriel interrupted with a "how positively masculine," before Becky continued, "I think the older one is named Dean. He's in our grade. The younger one, Sam, is a freshman, but definitely a cutie."
Gabriel clapped his hands together with glee and grabbed me by the shoulders. "You know what this means, Cassy baby? Fresh meat for papa Gabey!" With that, he kissed my forehead, grabbed his books and skipped off, presumably to wherever Anna was so he could tell her the good news.
That left just Becky and I to stand in semi-awkward silence until the loud chatter of the halls hushed and she let out a whimper. When I gave her a questioning look, she pointed a shaky finger in the direction of the entrance to the main hallway on this floor. I had, up until now, considered myself to be completely heterosexual. But when I saw the man who walked through those doors, I too felt a small noise erupt from my throat, to the knowing look of my companion.
Dean Winchester—from Becky's predatory expression I'd deduced it was the eldest brother—was far from the usual white-bread type we had around here. He wore a noticeably worn leather jacket over a button up and a t-shirt underneath, with light blue ripped jeans; not those fashionably ripped pieces of shit, but honest-to-god 'I've worn the hell out of these pants' jeans. Some practical boots made the hallway echo, and he wore a ring and a necklace to top off his alternative bad-boy look. Well that coupled with his stubbly jaw and tousled hair.
I felt the temperature rise and I wasn't sure if it was just me, or if everyone felt the change in atmosphere as he literally swaggered past gaping mouths and hungry eyes in the direction of AP Physics. When he came closer, I noticed his eyes following mine, grazing my figure softly and inquisitively, as though he didn't quite know what to make of me. Granted, I felt the same about him, but I hoped I was at least a tad bit subtler than him.
When he'd finally turned the corner and the rumor mills were up and running again, I felt claws digging into my arms. "He was checking me out, Castiel! Me!" Becky's voice grated on my eardrums. I didn't know why I was suddenly irritated with her presence; maybe it was the fact that I KNEW his eyes had been glued to me and not her, or maybe it was just because she was a generally annoying person, but I needed to leave the vicinity quickly.
With a hasty 'That's nice,' I managed to escape her clutches and make my way to the men's restroom before the final morning bell. I noticed the blush on my cheeks and felt it intensify as I went over the last couple of minutes in my head.
This was a foreign feeling, and as of now, I was completely thrown off by Dean Winchester. For the first time in a long time, I didn't have someone pegged. I didn't know how I felt about it, but I supposed I would find out soon enough.
