November 4, 1996
"Dean, get the hell out of the bed before I tell Dad that you left me home alone yesterday night!"
Dean rolls around on the bed and tunes out Sammy's annoying voice, hoping to avoid what is coming for a little bit longer. Another day at another school. Everybody knows that he won't go to college, so why does John keep stressing that he attends? Maybe he's afraid that the authorities will notice the crazy lifestyle that John forces on his sons. Not that it matters – nobody cares about them enough to do something. The thought of being separated from his dad and Sammy sends shivers down his spine, and so he decides to drift off to sleep again.
Sam doesn't leave his brother alone, constantly pinching him and stealing his blanket. He considers slapping him, but remembers the wrestling match after the last time he did that, and sighs. He can still feel throbbing in his head when he recalls how Dean deftly pinned his skinny wrists above his head and thrust him against a wall. Sam caresses the spot where his head hit the brick wall. Maybe he is a squirt right now, but Dean should just wait for the day that he grows and crushes him like a bug. He would win a fight against him and humiliate him. It will happen. Of course. Sure. Yeah. (Even in the back of his mind, Sam doesn't truly believe that.)
"Come on, Dean," Sam's pleading voice persuades Dean to open at least one eye. "Dad's fixated on this homunculi thing that the weird alchemist told him about and researches it all the time. He's out right now, so we have to walk to school. I don't want to be late!"
Dean groans, but finally gets out of the king bed that he has to share with Sammy. He rubs his eyes sleepily and stretches his arms. A quick look in the mirror tells him that he should have woken up earlier to get rid of the barely there stubble, but he soon forgets it as he brushes his teeth with something disgusting that can't possibly be toothpaste.
"I thought he was chasing some werewolves," Dean mumbles with his mouth full of the mint whatever-it-is. (And goddammit, this shit is almost worse than orange juice after brushing your teeth, which is saying something.)
Sam swallows the spoonful of milk and Lucky Charms. "He is, but this is his side project."
Dean doesn't inquire anymore. He quickly throws on some clothes, chugs down the last of their milk, eats a toast, and prepares some questionable sandwich for Sammy. He doesn't bother to make one for himself, too. After all, he might not stay in school until lunch anyway.
He grabs his leather jacket, tells Sammy to untuck his plaid shirt out of his pants 'because they'll be sick of your face and you don't want to make them sick of your clothes, too,' and finally makes his way towards Sammy's middle school.
"Be good, Sammy," he throws him a warning glance before he ruffles his hair and walks to his own new school.
He hears a distant, "Stop calling me Sammy, you jerk!" but doesn't turn around, only mutters a soft "bitch" under his breath.
As soon as he arrives, some nervous secretary that Dean can't even flirt with (she's like sixty, that's pretty gross) greets him and assigns him a student who'll show him around. He protests, convincing her that he's been to enough schools to find his way around. However, the old hag insists and finally introduces him to a short brunette with glasses and nice smile. Dorky chicks, he can dig that.
"Emily," the girl extends her arm.
Dean grasps it, nods, and follows her out of the office.
She stares at him quizzically with her blue eyes, and Dean remembers the sapphire eyes that mentally undressed him in the bar that he went to on Saturday. Emily's eyes were nice, but no match for the intensity of Cas's. God, he should totally go back and fuck that guy before he explodes.
Emily apparently registers Dean's mental absence and coughs loudly. "Uh, hello? You mind telling me your name?"
"Dean," he utters nonchalantly.
"Well, Dean," she smiles again. "This is your locker. Do you want to leave anything here?"
Dean raises his eyebrows amusedly and raises his hands to point out that he's got nothing that he could possibly leave in the locker. No books, no pens, no nothing. He might bring something tomorrow or the day after if he feels like it, but right now, he'll just look around for some pretty girls (or boys) to fool around with. They can't want him to do something today, anyway. They'll probably start with the sympathetic, "We know it must be very hard to move around so much," and end it with, "Try to catch up, kiddo, alright?" but before he has the time to do just that, they'll move again and Dean will go through the same process. So what's the freaking point?
Emily's friendly smile is replaced with a frown. "Okay, I suppose it's alright since this is your first day, but you might have brought at least a pen and paper." She sighs as if she were one of the desperate teachers that Dean had to deal with in the past, and he kind of wants to punch her. Except he doesn't punch girls, because that's unacceptable. "Maybe I could lend you some of my own?"
Dean grins and overenthusiastically nods. "That would be delightful, sweetie!"
Emily doesn't seem to catch on his sarcasm and hands him a pen and a few sheets of paper from her backpack with that characteristic smile of hers playing on her lips.
Dean can't bring himself to make fun of her; she's just way too kind. He mutters his "thanks" and actually means it for once. People tend to be dicks to new students, that much Dean knows. But this chick seems like a genuinely good person, which ruins Dean's flirt with her a little. He might be a dick, but breaking nice girls' hearts isn't his thing, and from what he can tell, Emily definitely isn't the "fuck 'em and leave 'em" type.
She explains to him that his first class is History (to which Dean openly scoffs – do they think he can actually pay attention to some boring-ass History lesson so early in the morning?) and how to find it, then wishes him good luck and strolls away.
Good kid, really.
Dean hangs around his locker a little longer to kill time. When he's about to head to class, he catches sight of dark messy hair next to him that coerces him to look.
For a moment, he just stands chained to the ground, not able to make a sound. He blinks and rubs his eyes, blaming his sleepiness for playing tricks on his eyes, but the figure in front of him doesn't change. In fact, the boy turns in his direction and bores his impossibly blue eyes straight to Dean's skull. A smile tugs at his lips as he nods in acknowledgement and opens his locker.
Cas. Cas in his school. There are about four goddamn high schools in this town and the sexy bartender must attend this one. Figures that once that Dean opened his big, stupid mouth and told a stranger about his family – something he never ever talked about – the stranger would turn out to be someone he has to see every day. Nice going there, Dean.
"Hello, Dean," the incredibly smooth, deep voice startles the young hunter.
"I- what are you doing here?"
Cas narrows his eyes and tilts his head. "I go here?"
Dean shakes his head. "But you work in a bar!"
"Um, yes," Castiel confirms with a nod. "I suppose I do. On weekends."
"Oh."
Castiel smiles lightly and Dean just wants to ravish him right there in the hallway, no matter who sees them. Those jeans hug him in all the right places and the loose white shirt just begs to be removed from the nicely toned chest. But you don't fuck the people who know your life story, that's the rule number one. And that's why when Cas opens his mouth to speak, Dean excuses himself and nearly sprints to his first class.
He accidentally takes the wrong turn that results in a longer walk, which makes him late for his first period. He doesn't really care about detentions or anything (and since it's his first day, they'll eat up his story about getting lost anyway), but his late arrival limits his choice of seats and that pisses him off. If he has to sit down in the first row, he'll just turn on his heel and leave.
Oh, but it turns out to be so much worse.
As soon as he enters the room, the other man from the bar greets him with a grin. Fun-fuckin'-tastic. Just peachy, really. So a teacher saw him getting shitfaced and flirting with his colleague/student (how fucked up is this arrangement anyway?). Dean prays for a lighting to strike him dead at this instant and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he's still alive (oh gosh, why) and the teacher is still ogling him.
"Hi, Dean-o!" he motions for him to step closer. "Winchester, right?"
Dean adopts the most uncaring, smug smirk that he can manage and nods for what seems to be the hundredth time today.
"Class, greet the new student. He's kinda cute, let's see if he's smart, too."
The hunter's green eyes widen at the teacher's bold words. He inspects the class's reaction. Everyone is either suppressing a laugh or sits unfazed. This must mean that the guy is a cool teacher, right? Dean's eyes browse the class again and stop on a familiar face.
Cas, dammit. To add that, the seat next to him is the only unoccupied one in the classroom. Just his dumb luck.
"I'm Mr. Novak, by the way, but I like my students to call me Gabriel or Gabe. Take a seat, Winchester."
Dean avoids looking at Castiel; nevertheless, he can feel Cas's eyes on him. His cheeks redden (fuckfuckfuck that never happens to him what the hell is wrong oh my god this is bad), his palms sweat profusely, and if the amused glint in Cas's eyes that he can see from peripheral vision suggest anything, he probably resembles a tomato-deer hybrid caught in the headlights.
He can tell that Mr. Novak – or Gabriel, whatever – is talking in the background, but he can't make sense of the words.
That's when Cas shifts his desk next to his and rests his hand on Dean's shoulder.
Dean startles at the sudden contact. "What are you doing?!"
"Gabriel just mentioned that we are going to be study partners during the class, didn't you hear?"
He didn't. "What's with him anyway? Why was he in the bar and now he's here? What kind of teacher is he? I mean, study partners during the class while he," Dean checks to see what is Gabriel occupying himself with and nearly chokes on his saliva when Mr. Novak rests his legs on his desk and very inappropriately sucks on his lollipop, "does that."
"He's my brother," Cas admits. "The bar belongs to our family, therefore we work there sometimes to help out. And these study sessions are just something Gabriel does once a week."
Brother. Alright. That definitely means that Dean's not getting in Cas's pants. He's still recovering from the time he made out with the principal's daughter and got suspended. Okay, maybe it was during the class in a janitor's closet, but the principal was too harsh with Dean's punishment.
"Gabriel told me to help you out with the curriculum," Castiel continues in his monotone voice. "He believes I should tutor you."
Dean wants to say no, he really does. His brain is definitely screaming, 'Oh, hell no, buddy, this is not safe!' yet his dick disagrees. Come on, tutoring? That sounds like an introduction to a porno, how can he bring himself to disagree? Instead, he just nods again like an idiot while Cas passionately speaks about World War II. Sometimes when he mentions the deaths that the war caused, he pauses and pouts. As if it really affected him. Not in the 'wars-are-horrible-fight-for-world-peace' bullshit way. It appears to be so much more than that.
Dean wishes to stop listening. He's never cared about History before and he's not starting because of some dork with a hot voice… or maybe he is.
Castiel's hands fly in the air as he explains one particular crucial battle and Dean takes a glimpse of those long fingers again. He thinks about all the ways he could use them and how would they feel buried inside of him, then curses himself when his jeans begin to feel a little bit tight. He attempts to focus his gaze elsewhere; however, finding a part of Cas's body that doesn't make Dean want to jump his bones is harder than it should be.
Finally, he settles on staring at the desk.
"Dean, are you even listening?" Cas's annoyed tone wakes him from his reverie.
"Yeah, you've been rambling on about the World War II for the past hour," Dean teases.
"You won't believe it, but that's the topic we're discussing this month! Fascinating, isn't it?"
Despite the impassiveness in Cas's voice, Dean assumes that some sarcasm has been hinted.
"Besides," Cas drawls, "it's been only forty-five minutes."
Castiel steals Dean's pen and a piece of his paper and scrawls something on it. He hands it back without any further explanation.
Dean scans the letters, coming to a conclusion that it's an address.
"What's this for?"
Castiel exhales (and Dean strongly suspects that he's suppressing an urge to punch him in the neck), pinching the bridge of his nose.
"The tutoring? Unless you want me to come to your house."
"What makes you think I want your tutoring?" Dean challenges Cas.
Castiel fixes his glare on Dean.
Two can play this game, Dean thinks. For a second or two, he believes it, but something about this kid unsettles him. He gives up (and won't forgive himself for that in the near future).
"Today after school. Five o'clock," Cas informs him and abruptly leaves just as the bell rings.
And that's how Dean knows that he's in deep shit.