Dean had been in hell for 40 minutes. In hell, 40 minutes was like 40 years. He stared blankly as a demonic figure that had somehow managed to get a teaching license drew a large circle on the chalkboard in slow motion. His red chalk shivered and screeched into the morning mists of time.

The ferris wheel problem.

It all seemed to come back to him, then. Dean looked back down at the math homework he was grading for Mr. Alastair, trying to forget the torture that was algebra class; the hours spent drawing cosines and sines on tearstained graph paper. He tried not to imagine dramatic movie music playing as Mr. Alastair gestured at an equation, smiling at the despair and sadness oozing from his failing students. But when Dean looked down at the 4/10 he had just written on a student's homework he knew that Mr. Alastair was not wholly to blame. He, Dean Winchester, had become a monster.

Dean glanced up again when the door opened, and the few students that were still aware of their surroundings looked up to see the most beautiful dude Dean had ever laid his squishy viewing chunks on.

His black hair was majestically tousled as if he had just arrived by sexicopter, dressed in a pedophiley trench coat. "Excuse me," he said as his big blue eyes scanned the room. They were like blue jays, singing to Dean songs of tranquility he hadn't felt since he had hugged his long dead mother. His eyes almost watered trying to hold the beauty of this majestic stranger. "Is there a Dean Winchester in here? Mr. Shurley needs to speak to him."

Mr. Alastair frowned, pausing in the middle of his equation creation. "Why doesn't Chuck just call?"

The intruder stared unblinkingly into the math teacher's eyes. "Mr. Shurley lost control of his Diet Dr. Mountain Cola, and the spill destroyed his phone and most of his electronics. He requested that I come escort Dean Winchester down to his office personally." Dean slowly got up, grabbed his backpack and squeezed himself between the chairs of students. Assuming that Dean was indeed Dean, the trench-coated mystery dude nodded at Dean and followed Dean out of the room. Dean had never Deaned so hard in his life.

After being lead a safe distance away from the classroom, Dean started to speak, but his rescuer frowned and put a finger on Dean's lips. "Sssh," he intoned. Dean stared at the finger. The weirdo kept it there for a whole ten seconds before nodding, satisfied that he had successfully done a thing. He grabbed Dean, looking up and down the empty hallway, and shoved him through a door.

It was a broom closet. Dean was standing in a broom closet. His awkward new acquaintance closed the door carefully behind them and whispered to Dean, "I asked you here on false pretense, Dean. The vice principal does not need you in his office."

Dean nodded. "I figured as much when you touched my face and shoved me in a closet." With three more tablespoons of sass, he added, "why did you decide to rescue me from math class, anyway? Who are you?"

The kid looked into his eyes and dramatically lowered his voice. "I'm Castiel Schmirnoff, Vice Co-President Captain Head of the Acapella team. I'm the one that gripped your hall pass tight and raised you from third period."

"Yeah. I know. I was there. Two seconds ago." Dean stared at the guy. He, like any high schooler, had his loyalties, and these Acapella people were not to be trusted. Of course this pedophile weirdo was one of them! Jo had told Dean that the Acapella team sacrificed a goat under the bleachers every month. He had once overheard one cafeteria lady telling another that the Acapeople paid for their school meals with circular bits of metal with bears hand-carved on them. Once, Jo had stolen a piece of an Acaperson's birthday cake only to discover it was made of candle wax.

His eyes narrowed at Mr. Pedophile. He wasn't his math savior. He was a candle-eating jackass. "Great, dude. Why are we in a broom closet?"

Castiel never turned his dramatic gaze from Dean's eyes. "Because you should not be assistant teaching in a math class, Dean."

"That's how I feel about it, man. Why do you care?"

"Because in freshman year you sang Led Zeppelin at the talent show. The Garrison needs your vocal abilities, Dean. The Acapocalypse is nigh."