"Shit," Dean exclaimed. He was preparing pasta for himself and Sam. Their dad had left his two sons to fend for themselves. Dean tried desperately to not ruin the sauce, but ended up burning his arm in the process.
"You okay?" Sam asked from the kitchen table.
"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said. "Just burned my arm is all." He turned down the temperature. It had begun bubbling, splashing little red dots all over the stove top.
"Do you need help?"
"No, no," Dean replied. "Just finish your homework. The noodles are almost done." Dean tasted the pasta when the timer beeped. It was cooked correctly, and he was grateful. The first time he attempted spaghetti he had botched the noodles. The box said eight minutes. He boiled them for the time allotted and it clearly wasn't enough as they were slightly crunchy. Dean learned from this mistake rather quickly. Never again did he assume that the instructions were correct.
Dean piled two plates full of noodles and sauce. The boys ate quietly as they did their homework. Sam went off to the living room when he was finished to watch cartoons. Dean was left with the dishes. Nothing new here, Dean thought as he squirted soap into the sink. While he was scraping the bottom of the sauce pan his mind went over the day he had at school. It was perfectly normal. He read his book, turned in his barely finished assignments, and skimmed through the fiction section of the library during lunch. The book he wanted to read next was there, so he checked it out. Catch-22 sat on the kitchen table. It was just waiting for Dean to immerse himself into its plot and characters.
It was nearly nine in the evening when Dean finally sat down to start his new novel. He finally picked one out that he hadn't read yet. He got to the bit with Orr and Yossarian's banter over apple cheeks when he heard his father's car pull up the drive. "Fuck," Dean mumbled to himself. At least Sam's asleep. He gathered his books and shoved them into his backpack. If he bolted the living room now, he could make it to his bedroom before his father walked into the house. The door opened.
"What are you doing up, boy?" John Winchester barked out to his oldest son upon seeing him in the living room.
Dean feebly replied, "I'm just going to bed now." He stood rooted to his spot in front of the couch. His feet felt like they were incased in cement.
"Where's Sammy," John garbled. The man made his way towards his son. He staggered, stopped, and tried to continue walking to the living room. Dean watched. Drunks were usually used in comedies for humor; their slurring, lack of coordination and stupidity seemed to get a rouse out of viewers. Dean experienced this on an all too often occurrence. He couldn't get down with ever thinking getting wasted could be funny.
"Sleeping," Dean got out.
John finally reached his lounge chair, stabilizing himself by grasping the arm rest. "Make your useful. Get me some water." Dean didn't reply. He could smell the whiskey reeking off his breath. Just his luck. He automatically went to the kitchen to fill a glass with cold tap water. Dean was relieved when he saw his Dad had collapsed in his arm chair. He set the glass on the end table. Dean quietly went to his room to get ready for bed, backpack in hand.
Dean crawled under his sheets. The warmth of his blankets enveloped him. It was cozy and he didn't want to ever leave his bed. He'd rather sleep the next day away than have to go back to high school. Then, Dean's mind drifted to the kid he ran into in the hallway. It was nice knowing that there was someone there that appreciated a good book. But, would he even talk to this guy again? Would this Castiel even want to talk to Dean? What if they did talk and they had nothing else in common? There was one question that scared Dean the most. Was he really crushing on a guy that he had only shared a few short words with?
He really didn't know what to do about this feeling he had been trying to quell. It sat in his gut, festering there all day, and he tried desperately to keep his mind on some of his homework, feeding his brother, and reading one of his books. It sort of helped. But, bright blue eyes kept popping into his mind. Dean shoved the thought away. It was nothing. Castiel only intrigued Dean because he liked Vonnegut. Yeah, that had to be it, Dean thought. He was a possible friend. Nothing more. He shouldn't be having these thoughts.
Castiel left the house later than usual the next morning. It was nearly six thirty when something in his brain clicked causing him to awaken with a start. "Tuesday, shit," Castiel mumbled as he forced himself out of bed. He quickly gathered up some semi-clean clothes, brushed his teeth, slipped his sneakers on, grabbed his backpack and flew out the door. It took him a good twenty minutes to walk to school each morning. Castiel liked to arrive at seven, even though his first hour didn't start until seven fifteen.
As Castiel walked up the sidewalk towards the middle school, he heard a loud rumbling engine coming up behind him. He stopped. It was a large, black car of which he couldn't recall the make. He really wasn't good with knowing the names of old cars. Castiel continued to walk, watching as two boys climbed out. Automatically he recognized who had been sitting in the passenger seat. Dean Winchester.
What came over Castiel wasn't clear. One moment he was admiring this kid who clearly knew how to wear a pair of jeans, and the next, he was jogging towards him. "Dean," Castiel called out as he caught up to the teen.
Dean turned around to see who could possibly be calling his name. Had his brother forgotten something? Then, he noticed who was running his way. Castiel. The kid he bumped into yesterday.
"What's up?" Castiel said, stopping short in front of Dean.
Dean stared at his boots. "Nothing much, you?"
"Same, I guess," Castiel replied. "Was that your little brother? I saw him head into the middle school."
"Yeah, Sam." Dean tried to look at Castiel. He knew that it was polite to look at someone when in conversation, though, it was rather difficult for him to maintain this social custom longer than necessary.
"Cool, cool," he said. Dean started to walk, and he joined him. Castiel spoke again as they passed the marching band's practice field. "Do you always walk to the high school?"
"Yeah," Dean replied.
"I do too. Well, from my house. It's not that far away, actually," Castiel said. They walked on down the sidewalk together. A dull silence was starting to brew. Castiel decided that he needed to keep questioning Dean. "Did you finish Slaughter House-Five yet?"
"Yeah," Dean replied.
"You reading anything now?" Castiel was trying his hardest to keep a conversation going with this kid. He really wanted to find out what he could about Dean, hoping for a friendship to form. He didn't seem to be having any luck.
"Catch-22."
"I love that novel," Castiel said.
"This is the first time I'm reading it, actually," Dean said. Castiel was grateful that Dean actually spoke a full sentence. The monotone, one word answers were starting to annoy him. Did Dean even care to talk to him? It seemed like he was bothering the kid.
"Then I won't ruin anything for you," Castiel said, trying to fluff off the notion.
"Good, 'cause I didn't get to read much last night," Dean said. He looked over and caught Castiel staring at him. "What?"
"Um," Castiel was flustered. "If you don't mind me saying, you're bruise," Castiel pointed to his own eye, "it looks like its healing nicely."
"Oh, yeah," Dean said quietly. He touched the soft skin. It was starting to lose its blue coloring, making way for a greenish yellow shade that surrounded the socket. Dean thought it looked worse with this new hue, but had to remind himself that it was part of the healing process. Too often he dealt with witnessing how the skin restored itself.
"Can I ask how you," Castiel said, trailing off without finishing his question.
"I'd rather not talk about it," Dean said.
Fair enough, Castiel thought. They reached the parking lot of the high school. Seniors who had cars were parking them, and the busses were letting kids off at the front doors. "Hey, what lunch do you have?"
"The second one," Dean replied.
"Sweet," Castiel exclaimed. "Wanna sit with me?"
"Yeah, okay, sure," Dean said. He couldn't remember the last time he was invited to sit with someone at lunch. Hanging out by himself was getting to be rather comfortable. It was part of his routine. Sam had referred to him as a cat once. "A cat hates change and he likes his solitude," Sam had told him. "You hate change and you like your solitude. So, you, Dean, are a cat." Dean is not a cat. He hates cats. The last time he had crossed paths with a cat was at a distant aunt's house. John had dropped his sons off at her place saying that she was related to them in some way or another. He then left for the next two weeks without any mention as to where he was going. This lady was clearly a cat person. She had cross stitched cat pillows on her sofa amongst pictures of cats on the walls. On their first night there Dean woke up to her massive black cat standing by his pillow, tail held high with its butt right in his face. And the fact that they seem to stare right into your soul really freaked Dean out to the point that he had avoided the thing for as long as possible. It was as horrifying as Sam retelling his nightmares about clowns and midgets.
Dean and Castiel parted once they entered the building. Their lockers sat on opposite ends of the school. Castiel couldn't help but to watch his new friend as he melded into the crowded hall of students and teachers.
The morning seemed to drag on. Castiel sat in his English class just staring at his copy of Animal Farm. He had planned on reading it again. Well, he needed to read it again, he concluded. It had been over a year since he checked it out at the local library. The questions for the novel sat in front of him. He barely remembered the names of the three pigs, let alone the climax of the story. It really wasn't a stand out novel in his mind. He'd rather be rereading Nineteen Eighty Four. Castiel lay his head on the desk. Another half hour and he'd get to see Dean. It was starting to feel like an eternity.