Moonlight bled through the cracks between the rustic wooden planks and trickled onto the dust-blanketed floor. Dust particles glinted in the light as they swarmed around a shelved metal cart. Covering the cart was a blue paper sheet that had been torn at the edges. The man paced around it, cracking the joints in his shoulders to loosen them. His hands were stained with blood, and chunks of skin were gathered beneath his fingernails.
In the corner of his eye, he could see his captive stirring into consciousness. He lifted his heavy head and peered up at the captor through his lashes. He croaked as he tried to catch his breath.
"Please," he begged between pants, "just let me go." The captor grabbed the cloth off of the metal cart's handle and wiped his knuckles, wincing as the rough fabric scratched the sore skin. His black T-shirt clinging to his chest, he peeled back the papery sheet, revealing an assortment of knives, scissors, hammers, string, and a .22 caliber Revolver.
"Look, just tell me where the boy is, and I'll walk away."
"I told you, I don't know."
The man let his finger skim over knives and scissors and hammers until it stopped on a meat tenderizer. He had borrowed it from the old lady who lived next door to him, told her he was going to make himself a nice steak. He picked it up and twirled it in his fingers like a baton, sauntering towards his battered captive.
"We can do this all day."
"I don't. Fucking. Know!" the other man he said through his grit, red teeth. The captor clenched his jaw and strode over to the man in the chair, his hand so tight around the meat tenderizer's handle that his knuckles turn white and his nails bite into his palm. The battered man grunted as he felt his hand being yanked forward. The captor drew the meat tenderizer back and brought it down on the other man's fingers. The prisoner threw his head back and screamed as he heard his bones crack.
"Where's Castiel?" Dean Winchester growled. The prisoner writhed in pain.
"I don't...I don't know."
Dean smashed the man's fingers, this time harder.
"Where is he?!"
He pounded the man's fingers, denting and breaking skin, cracking the bone with each strike.
"WHERE IS CASTIEL? WHERE IS CASTIEL? WHERE IS HE?!"
6 MONTHS AGO
Castiel sat in the back of the classroom, his earplugs stuck in his ear, skimming through the last page of Chapter 16 while George Carlin's 1992 HBO Special played in his ear. The chapter wasn't assigned; he just decided to do some extra reading to avoid talking to the other kids in the hallway, and he didn't feel like just sitting in the classroom looking stupid.
Miss Milton was out, probably using the bathroom or something.
The warning bell rang. Castiel looked up from his textbook and watched as students trickled into the classroom, the straps of their backpacks slung on their shoulders, their jaws flapping up and down as they babbled about whatever it was that they babbled about.
Balthazar shoved a couple kids out of the way and made a beeline towards the desk next to him, ignoring the kids' disgruntled cries. Balthazar was fairly handsome, his eyes big and blue and his hair all messy and curly. His British accent helped. Almost every straight girl in the school swooned over him; Castiel found it so annoying. The v-neck of his shirt dipped down to reveal his sharp collarbone, defined pecs, and parts of his areolae. If he were a girl, he would immediately be flagged down for a dress code violation.
"You know, life would be so much easier if Mrs. Patterson would just get laid already."
"What happened?" Castiel asked, looking back down at his textbook. Balthazar huffed and rolled his eyes.
"Bitch fucking stopped me in the hall all because I had a piece of gum in my mouth."
"You shouldn't be chewing gum in the hallways, anyway. It's dangerous."
Balthazar snorted.
"I'm pretty sure people are more likely to die in school shootings than freak gum accidents." Balthazar unzipped his backpack and pulled out his binder, his folder, and his pencil case.
Fergus McLeod—or Crowley, as he preferred to be called—took his usual place directly in front of Castiel. He turned and gave him a flirty grin that made his skin crawl and his stomach turn.
"Hey there, angel."
Balthazar snickered. Castiel turned to glare at him. Balt's smile faded. He busied himself with the school supplies on his desk. Cas rolled his eyes and turned back to Crowley.
"What do you want this time, Crowley?"
"Homecoming's this Friday."
"I'm aware."
"I'm looking for a date."
"Nope. Ask someone else."
Castiel looked back down at his textbook and pretended to focus on his reading. He could feel the other boy's eyes lingering on him.
"C'mon, Cassie, be polite."
Castiel huffed and looked back up from his textbook.
"Crowley, for the last time, I don't like you, so why don't you take your—"
The bell rang before he could finish his sentence.
Principal Robert Singer stepped to the front of the classroom, followed by a younger-looking man in a well-fitted vest and pinstripe pants. Castiel couldn't stop staring at the man.
It was no secret that Castiel was gay. No one really made a big deal about sexual orientation at Tokahontas County High; it was a fairly progressive school where people cared more about whether you were a Trump supporter or not than if you liked girls or guys, if you wanted a penis or a vagina, if you identified with a gender or not.
The principal's beady brown eyes scanned the room as he waited patiently for everyone to settle down. Once the whole class finally acquiesced, he cleared his throat and pushed his hands into his pockets.
"Good afternoon, class."
Silence. Principal singer cleared his throat and licked his lips. "I'm afraid your teacher, Miss Milton, will be absent for the rest of the semester. She needs to resolve some…personal issues. So, we have a new teacher here today." He gestured towards the man standing next to him, who lifted his chin to identify himself. "This is Mr. Winchester. He'll be your teacher for the remainder of this semester. Miss Milton will return next semester. Until then, I expect you all to treat Mr. Winchester here with the utmost respect." He bowed his head and turned to leave the poor substitute alone with the twenty-something students.
"Good afternoon, class. My name is Mr. Winchester. And as all of you have just heard, I'll be your teacher for the remainder of this semester. Kinda sprang this on y'all, am I right?" He chuckled nervously. The class remained silent.
Balthazar snickered again.
"Embarrassing."
"Excuse me, sir."
Balthazar looked up at him, smirking.
"What's your name?"
"The name's Balthazar. But you can call me Balty, sweetheart."
Castiel snorted and shook his head at him.
"Put your cleavage away, kid," Mr. Winchester deadpanned, "I'm not into all of that."
The class exploded with laughter, some of them glancing back at Balthazar.
"And you, sir," Mr. Winchester continued. Castiel looked back to the front of the class and noticed Mr. Winchester's eyes were on him. He could feel the heat creeping to his cheeks.
"Y-yeah?"
"What's your name?" Castiel glanced around the classroom and noticed a few people looking over it at him. He blushed.
"C-castiel?"
"Are you asking me or telling me?"
"It's Castiel, sir."
"What are you listening to, Cas?" A few of his classmates snickered. Castiel was pretty sure his face was as red as Balt's at this point.
"G-george Carlin's 1992 HBO Special, sir."
"You like comedy?"
He nodded his head and bit his lip.
"Yeah, I do."
"What bit are you on?"
"The public sucks."
Mr. Winchester leaned against the marker tray and chuckled.
"Love that bit."
Castiel laughed along with him.
"Yeah. Did you hear his Complaints Grievances album?""Yeah. But as much as I love Carlin and Pryor and all those other comedians, I'm gonna need you to turn that off please. Class is in session." Castiel paused the YouTube video and pulled his earplugs out of his ear, wrapping it around the iPhone before shoving it into his desk.
"Now," Mr. Winchester continues, pushing himself off of the board, "you guys are learning about the Cold War, right?"