Prologue: A bad way to start the day.
When lives are intertwined through a book report, Dean Winchester is left wondering, just how many socialites can dance on the head of a pin? Dean/Castiel High School AU
There were many things that made Dean Winchester want to commit genocide but the piercing sound of his alarm clock gracefully took the cake.
Sharp ringing echoed loudly throughout the room leaving the two Winchester brothers singing a symphony of curse words, and contrary to turning off the should-be-illegal contraption, they both instead opted to further envelope themselves in their blankets.
They were cold. They were tired. A moment of mutual fuck-that passed.
That is until, from his makeshift cocoon, the younger uttered a string of groggily slurred words along the lines of 'shut-off-that-fucking-alarm-or-I-will-throttle-the-closest-living-breathing-object.'
Dean wouldn't have been able to sympathize more, save for the fact that they were the closest living, breathing objects to each other, respectively.
He reached out from the sweet warm confines of his bed and slammed it off.
Dean Winchester hated mornings, Tuesdays especially. They were long and tedious, and he had to deal with costumers at Ellen's bustling little breakfast diner first thing.
Ellen was a great woman; it was the people Dean couldn't stand. They wanted to make talk, and Dean hated when people told him about their problems, or asked him to talk about his problems to them. He never knew what to say.
'I ain't really all that interesting' he'd mumble with a fake smile.
He didn't tell them about how his parents had been involved in numerous conspiracies and trafficking groups, how they were killed because of it. He didn't tell them about how he had to balance two jobs and school on top of saving coins to send Sam to university.
Dean and Sam Winchester appeared on auto-mechanic/landlord Bobby's doorstep one July afternoon, three years ago. They've stayed ever since.
The community pried, Dean shrugged them off. There was a certain amount of privacy the older Winchester desired and that was hard to gain in their small, small town
To foretell: he had work in an hour, Sam had school in two, and after work Dean would spend the rest of the day at school, trying to muster up all the credits he needed to graduate. The situation in turn required him to haul his ass out of bed at 5:30 am. He sighed sleepily, before leaving the heavy palace of his blankets and heading for the shower on principal.
Which would be cold, like the entire fucking apartment.
Now Bobby Singer, the landlord, spoiled the Winchesters rotten, so if there was one thing Dean was thankful for, it was for that. He was an elder man, but if you said that to his face he'd sock you in the eye. No kids, and Dean supposed that was why he treated them like they were his own. He always made sure that Dean and his brother, Sam, had enough to eat and he drove the brat to school during the week.
He was grumpy, kind, and unexpectedly intelligent.
The list of things Bobby had done to help them was longer and more sacred, to Dean, than the bible.
He knew Bobby charged them half as much as he ought to for rent.
"Dammit boy, you pay enough" He'd say, waving off Dean's attempts to repay him.
Bobby Singer was the closest thing to a father Dean and Sam had.
But, since he was on some 3-month fishing trip, Alastair the caretaker had taken it upon himself to make Dean's life a living hell.
There were many things that made dean Winchester want to commit genocide but Alastair's smug grin teetered dangerously close to the top of the list. A few examples of his torturous tactics were:
-Turning off their power at random
-Turning off their heating at random
-Turning off their hot water, guess what? At random.
All which contained a common denominator, mind you, and that was that they were very currently taking effect.
He would smile sweetly at the brothers in the corridors, which made him all the creepier.
Dean made it his best effort to keep Alistair off his mind. He dismissed any thoughts of him in fear that he would turn sour out of frustration.
It was not a good way to start the day.
Dean squinted tiredly at himself through his bathroom mirror.
He was average, really.
Tall-ish
Handsome-ish
His brown hair stuck out short over a square-ish face. His eyes were green, with lashes that were longer than he'd like to admit. He had a crooked smile that graced his features less than often, and his poster was lazier that it needed to be.
Dean Winchester was sarcastic, snarky, and fit from working weekends at bobby's auto shop.
Though Sam was the appointed family geek, Dean could quote entire scenes for Star Trek, Guns and Roses, and Doctor Who (the 1960's one, of course). He also held a not so secret appreciation for 80's rock music and pie.
Sam, all limbs and lengthy brown hair, with a brain that was too big for his head and shoes that were too small for his feet, was going to be late for school.
'Who the fuck even goes fishing in the winter' Dean murmured bitterly before taking a deep breath, and stepping into the prickly cold water.
I'm no good at writing, really. I would, however, love to improve. Responses are more than welcome!