Notes: Okay so I saw this pic of Dean as a sniper and I got this idea. Honestly I don't even know, it was just something that hit me. Right now is my uber busy season in RL with work, so not sure how often I'll get this updated, and honestly no idea how many chapters this is going to be. But it sounds like a fun multi-chaptered project. It's rated Mature for future situations. This being the beginning is just the little intro. Anyway all comments are appreciated and adored. Also I should mention I'm trying to go for a sort of blend of 2014 and Angel!Cas so his personality isn't 100% canon, HOWEVER I am trying to make him believable. I'm very ocd about characterization so if he seems off to you, like unrealistic, let me know. It's tough taking him out of the angel role so bear with me. :)

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Dean groaned as he threw his car into a parking spot and glanced up at the cream colored building marked Languages. He was too goddamn busy to be doing this crap right now. There were seventeen case-files on his desk waiting for witness interviews, and his boss expected him to just drop everything and take a fucking language class? And of all languages, French?

His knuckles were white as he gripped the keys to his car and grabbed his notebook and pen. It had been years since he graduated college with his masters in criminology. Years. He was approaching forty, a veteran detective with ten years of field work under his belt. He'd earned his title as Head Detective. Seven serial killer captures under his belt, six crime ring syndicates and his unsolved case list was a fraction compared to most.

And now he had to set foot on this community college campus and take French. French? All because his department wanted to work more closely with Canada involving international trafficking. A ring had been discovered using the Canadian border, a place no one was really looking because they were all-too focused on the country south of the border.

Well Dean wasn't having any of it. Except he was, because that son of a bitch Zachariah Carver was giving him no option whatsoever. Things had been somewhat easier when his bastard, but effective father, John Winchester was the Police Chief. When Carver took over…

Dean shook his head, not wanting to relive the death of his father and the day the little worm took over the station. Suddenly Dean was being brought up under investigation after investigation for his "unusual" techniques when handling cases. Never mind he was effective. Never mind he got the damn job done. Never mind his brother, Sam, who was acting prosecutor in all of the cases, had proved almost each and every criminal guilty.

All but one, of course, and that one was going to haunt Dean for the rest of his life no doubt. That smarmy, limey bastard, Crowley, had walked. That murdering son of a bitch had walked. Never mind they had his second in command, Meg Masters, spill the beans on everything. Never mind they had been able to catch him red-handed at the abandoned hospital full of kidnap victims and women he'd locked into his prostitution ring. Never mind they had seventeen first-hand accounts of men and women who had been forced into doing Crowley's dirty work.

One technicality. One. He hadn't obtained a warrant, and all the evidence had been thrown out. And Crowley, that smarmy, snake-tongued son of a bitch had walked. He was laying low now, of course, but Dean had not given up. He'd get the bastard somehow. He would not stop. Sammy was working round the clock for more evidence, but it had been a year and they hadn't gotten him on so much as a traffic violation.

To make matters worse, Meg had scarpered. She'd left a note under Dean's apartment door and disappeared. For a while Dean thought maybe she'd been killed, but he got one photo of her on the beach in Greece waving and smiling at the camera with some bronzed Adonis on her arm and he knew she'd just decided she'd had enough.

Well fuck her. She was a piece of shit criminal anyway, and Dean didn't need her.

The chiming clock told Dean he was officially late to the class. Cursing under his breath, Dean glanced down at the classroom number printed on his paper and decided to forgo the line of people waiting for the elevator and take the stairs. He hadn't anticipated just how out of breath he'd be once he'd run up the four flights, but he was gasping and red in the face when he finally made it to room four-oh-seven. He threw the door open and gave a casual wave to the teacher, still unable to speak, and threw himself into an open desk near the back.

"…and you'll see things like this your first semester of college, and after a while, they'll stop being so strange."

The class gave a short chuckle and Dean looked up. He still had a few spots in his vision, but they were rapidly clearing as his eyes focused on the professor. He was tall. Not nearly as tall as Dean, or his moose-like brother who stood at six-four, but the teacher's height was impressive.

He was dressed in a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and grey slacks. His face was pensive, eyebrows drawn down naturally, the mouth curved into a frown. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking at Dean.

"Sorry," Dean muttered. "Had a bit of trouble with the elevators on the way in."

"Try not to let it happen again," he said.

Dean tried not to roll his eyes. He was being chastised like some irresponsible teen in a room full of very obvious irresponsible could-be teens. Most of the class were women, likely no older than twenty-four with their iPhones, bleached hair and clothes that could barely be considered clothes. He'd seen these girls hanging around his son, Ben, every time he picked the kid up for the weekend. They weren't bad news, they weren't good news. They were just what kids had become today. The boys were just as bad, with Ben in his baggy jeans, over-priced t-shirts with this sideways ball cap and five o'clock shadow.

The class continued without paying Dean any mind. It was conversational French, so it wasn't a bunch of grammar or syntax. It wasn't studying the subtle nuances of the language, and trying to make it make sense in his head. It was there to help him get by when the language barrier made that difficult. It hadn't happened yet, but Carver insisted it would.

Dean was half-convinced that Carver was just trying to get rid of him, force him into inane tasks set to make his head ache so hard he wanted to just quit the department, or transfer. Truth be told, the moment Carver took over Dean had half a mind to do just that. It was at the insistence of Sammy and Detective Novak, first name Gabriel and Sam's quiet lover, that he stay. So he did, but he found himself regretting it more and more. He could put in a transfer to Santa Barbra where his ex, Lisa, and their son Ben were living. At least he'd get to see the kid more than a weekend a month and two weeks in the summer. For now. Ben was going to be eighteen this fall and then… well who the hell knows what then.

Dean barely scraped by the first class, picking up a basic, "Bon jour, je m'appelle Dean," before it was over. A sentence. God he was going to fail this class so hard. He just didn't give a shit.

The drawn-faced professor called to him as he was leaving, however, and Dean had half a mind to tell the guy to go fuck himself, but he didn't. He paused by the door and tried not to stare at the barely concealed asses of these young twenty-somethings as they jiggled them by. Dean glanced up at the professor—he hadn't caught the guy's name yet—and wondered how he functioned being around kids like this.

"Mr… Winchester, is it?"

Dean nodded, listening to the impossibly rough voice. He wondered if perhaps this professor didn't have some sort of throat damage or something. "Look man, I don't have a lot of time, I have to head back to my—"

"It'll only take a moment," he said, beckoning Dean over to the desk. It was obviously for generic use, nothing personal about the work space other than the teacher's briefcase and stack of papers. The class was likely one of those rotating rooms that the college used for all manner of classes. "You obviously don't want to be here, so I have to ask why you are."

Dean couldn't stop his smile. At least the guy had figured it out. "Let's just say my boss is trying to… piss me off."

Head cocked to the side, the teacher looked him up and down. It was the first, but wouldn't be the last time, Dean noticed that this professor's eyes were really, really intense. It almost felt physical, the way they dragged up and down Dean's body, and he felt suddenly exposed. Most people couldn't do that to Dean, but wow this guy…

"Cop," the teacher finally said.

Dean blinked a couple of times before answering. "Close."

"Detective, then," he amended. "Some sort of… international relations requirement?"

Dean licked his lips and took a step back. Now he felt really exposed and he didn't like it. "Uh well… you could say that."

The teacher's mouth quirked, and then, suddenly surprising Dean, he laughed. "I've had quite a few of you in my classes over the years."

Dean noticed that this teacher, despite his rather youthful face, did show signs of his age. A smattering of grey hair amongst the black, crow's feet at the eyes, hands showing age more than anywhere else on his body.

"I see. I'm a stereo-type."

"More like showing obvious signs of being coerced into this class against your will and better judgment." He paused and added, "I know what it's like having to sit in a class full of people who could be your biological children and listening to them talk about last year's prom."

Dean gave a small chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look man, I'll try to pay better attention next time, I just had a rough morning."

"I understand." He gathered up his things and then looked up at Dean, the smallest smile playing around his mouth. "You can call me Castiel, I'm not big on the whole call me Professor Whatever."

"Yeah okay, and you can call me Dean. I'd actually rather these people not find out I'm a detective."

"Fair enough. Good to meet you, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean said and he started backing away toward the door. "Good to meet you too, Cas."