Dean was quiet as he made his way to class, stifling a yawn in the sleeve of his sweater. It was too early for this crap. He didn't understand why the School Board had this fantastic idea to start school at seven a.m. It was pointless. The brain didn't even start functioning properly until ten. He shook his head and stepped into class, ramming directly into someone. His books slipped from his grasp and he bent down quickly, mumbling an apology, not even looking at the person, shoving his black glasses up his nose. He felt heat rise from his neck and into his cheeks and he clenched his jaw.
"Hey, don't sweat it, kid. We all have our bad days. It's cool," a deep, smooth voice said from above him. He blinked and looked up to see a tall boy with messy dark hair that fell into the most gorgeous blue eyes Dean had ever seen. Dean stared for a moment before gathering up the rest of his books and standing. The boy was only a few inches taller than him, but with those blue orbs on him, it felt like he was only three feet tall. He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing, and nodded, offering a smile, eyes moving down to his feet. The boy chuckled, and Dean couldn't help a quick glance to those perfect smiling lips and hint of pearl white teeth. He shook his head and looked anywhere but the boy's face. He settled for the tattoos wrapping around the boys biceps.
"What's your name?" the boy asked. Dean moved his eyes back to the boys face; to the amusement and spark of curiosity hidden in the boy's eyes.
"D-Dean," he stumbled over his own name. Smooth, Winchester, real smooth, he mentally scolded himself. The boy's smile widened.
"Dean," the boy repeated, rolling the name around on his tongue, speaking it like a prayer. "Well, Dean, I'm Castiel." The boy held out a hand and Dean hesitated before reaching out and shaking the boy's- Castiel's- hand. The grip around his fingers was strong, practiced. Dean couldn't help but smile in return as he recognized the root words -cas and -iel; -cas as 'to fall' and -iel as 'of or from God'. He loved learning foreign, even dead, languages. His mother made fun of him for it.
"I, uh, need to get to class," Dean said, looking pointedly around the boy, who was blocking the doorway.
"Oh, 'course," Castiel said, stepping aside. Dean nodded and hurried through the doorway.
"And Dean?" the boy called after him. Dean turned to look at him. "You might want this." Castiel handed him his book- A Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. He felt his cheeks heat again and he took the book, pretending not to notice the sparks in his fingers as Castiel's brushed against his own. Castiel winked over his shoulder as he turned to leave. "Have a nice day, Dean!" With that, the boy was gone, disappearing around the corner.
"You too," he mumbled, cheeks still warm and fingers still tingling. He fixed his sweater, rolling the gray sleeves over the edge of the black sweater to fend off the heat raging through his body. He fixed the collar of his shirt, unfolding it and refolding it over the neck of his sweater. It was a bad habit he'd picked up when he was nervous, along with tapping his foot. He settled down at his seat in the front, brushing dirt off his book.
He hadn't even realized Castiel had grabbed it.