For the most part, being a librarian is never dull, which was exactly why Castiel loved his job. He was passionate about developing the collection, making sure to include a balanced, unbiased selection of materials. He adored assisting patrons with the discovery of new books and media, particularly relishing the sight of a young person's nose firmly buried in a new favorite. Unlike many of his colleagues, he thrived in tricky reference situations; elderly patrons seeking childhood stories using only the few shreds of plot in their memories ("It had a little stove, and I think maybe it was magical?") made him grin and embrace the challenge with fervor. Castiel had relished his years as a student, and had especially enjoyed the research aspects of academia (much to the mocking disdain of his less academically-inclined siblings), so searching out and presenting elusive sources of information to frustrated library users warmed his chest with a clear sense of fulfillment.
Yes, for the most part, being a librarian was everything Castiel had ever dreamed it would be. But then there was the rest of the time, when ninety percent of his responsibilities were fielding the same three questions, over and over:
"How do I print from these computers?"
"Could you help me with the copy machine?"
"Can I renew my books?"
Castiel slumped over his desk, propping his chin in his hand. Monday nights were the worst, really. School projects were usually due on either Friday afternoons or Monday mornings, so there weren't very many students needing research advice. Most of the library programs were on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so there wasn't the crowd draw that an author visit or a poetry reading might offer. Daytimes were when young mothers would bring in their children to grab books and movies, but they disappeared before dinner time, leaving Castiel with only a small group of older patrons browsing the shelves and a few teenagers surfing the internet, and he was down to his usual three soul-sucking exchanges.
"Can I print from these computers?"
"I need some help with the copy machine."
"Where do I renew my books?"
Puffing out a sigh, Castiel fruitlessly refreshed his email inbox for the hundredth time. Bored, bored, bored. In an effort to serve people who couldn't physically come to the library, technical services had recently added an "Ask-a-Librarian" box to the library web page, sending reference questions directly to Castiel via his email. People could even text him their questions, a feature that the board members had gushed over. Initially, Castiel had fantasized that the new service would allow him to provide skilled research assistance for scholars and professionals in tight spots. I need a medical journal from the 1960s, one with an article by Dr. Brachs, concerning treatments for lung disease, they might cry – well, type, and Castiel would be off to the rescue.
In actuality, the few questions he received were most often from teenagers who were quite blatantly trying to get him to do their homework for them. One email had literally asked, "At 25 MPH, it will take you about _ feet to stop your car A. 25 B. 62 C. 144," after which Castiel had asked that the web page be amended to clarify that while homework assistance was provided, the actual work would be left to the student.
And then there were the prank questions. Those were best erased from mind as quickly as possible.
Hitting refresh again, without much optimism, Castiel saw a new email appear. Opening it, he read, "If Kansas's and Nebraska's state birds raced at top speed, who would win? I'm in a hurry."
He stared at the message for a moment before a giggle burst from him unbidden. What on earth? Was this patron involved in a bird rivalry with the neighboring state? Were actual birds involved? He decided that not knowing made the situation more amusing.
A little investigation brought Castiel his answer, and he responded, "Kansas's robin, which flies at around 20-32mph, would sadly lose to Nebraska's Western meadowlark, which flies at 40mph (Flight Speed of Birds, Cooke, 1937)." Hitting send, he smiled and hoped that whatever hurry the patron was in was satisfied by the speed of his answer.
Within a few minutes, his inbox pinged once more. "You are a lifesaver." His smile grew.
"Dean, that's cheating," Charlie chastised from her perch on the couch behind him.
"It is not," Dean huffed, using his laptop to retype the emailed answer into the radio station's web form. "They know people are going to have to look up most of this stuff, not just know it out of their heads. That's why they're giving questions that are hard to just Google, and they're only letting the fastest twenty responders in the running."
"But you're not looking that up. A librarian is not just a search engine! They can, like, intuit and rephrase your question to figure out the best solution."
"I know. Why do you think I asked one?" He smirked and hit submit. "There! That ought to do it."
Charlie rolled her eyes. "You and trivia contests, dude. You could just buy your movie tickets like the rest of us."
"It's the principle of the thing," Dean said, leaning back onto the sofa next to Charlie. "I mean, it's like free pie. Pie's good, but free pie? Better. And this is more than just free – it's pie I earned."
"Pie the librarian earned."
"She only answered one of the questions for me, Charlie. I did the others. Hey, if it makes you feel better, if I win, I'll take her some movie concession candy. Nothing chewy, though; she might have dentures."
"You're terrible," she scolded, whapping him with a pillow. "You think all librarians are seventy-year-old grandmas in bifocals. I'll have you know that there are plenty of younger people graduating from library school every day, with tattoos of their favorite Dewey Decimal numbers around their arms."
Dean just snorted, grabbing the remote and scrolling through the Netflix menu on the television. He saw no need to mention that the image of Hot Librarian featured heavily in his Personal Dean Time fantasies. All that library seriousness would channel itself into some pretty passionate sex, he could just feel. The idea of being pushed back into the quietest corner, surrounded by tall bookshelves, and being told to "hush" as stern eyes peered into his own…before hands, lips, and body did everything they could to make him do just the opposite. God, he wanted to whimper just thinking about it.
Stop confusing real life with porn again, he told himself before he managed to embarrass himself in front of his best friend. No kinky librarians in Lawrence, or at least none that he knew. Admittedly, he hadn't actually been in the building since middle school, but the librarian then had been a tired-looking senior citizen, nodding off in her chair. His fantasy would just have to remain one, he guessed. But that didn't mean he couldn't keep enjoying it.
A week passed, with library story times, a screening of Milk as part of Gay Pride Month programming, and a moderately successful board game night held over the weekend. Monday rolled around, and Castiel found himself once more recovering from the flurry of activity, yet wishing it could continue. Making handprint crafts with toddlers (okay, so he didn't make the actual crafts; he merely watched while his fantastic youth librarian coworker Linda led the group) might not be stimulating intellectual activity, but it beat demonstrating the functionality of the copier yet another time.
His email pinged. "What's the oldest residential house in Lawrence? Does the library have pictures? I need to count how many windows." Raising an eyebrow, Castiel quickly confirmed his suspicion: this intriguing question came from the same email address as the one who'd asked about bird races. Apparently, the sender was a person of many and varied interests, he chuckled.
The local history room quickly divulged the needed information, which he sent flying to the questioner. Part of him, thankful for the reprieve from mental drudgery, hoped that this would be a continuing occurrence. "Come on, you can challenge me harder than that," he murmured. "We're just getting started."
The email pinged, as if it heard him. "Super Librarian! You saved me again." The compliment made him blush.