AN: So, apologies, I has a slight MS Word snafu that led to a large portion of chapter two being briefly tacked on to the end of chapter one. This has been removed and the complete chapter two is here. Even if you have read part of chapter two already do not skip this chapter. Thank you for your patience with this inconvenience. I hope you enjoy the story!

As it turned out, neither Dean nor Sam had any classes with any of Dean's old teachers from sophomore year. None of them taught any freshmen or senior classes.

Dean's first class of the day was advanced biology with a creepy older guy who seemed to have a case of perpetual flu-like symptoms. Dean had never met someone with so much mucus. Either the guy never took a day off or the school couldn't afford a sub, because he every day there he was, coughing violently and infecting everyone within a ten foot radius. Mr. Rutto never bothered to make a seating chart—Dean suspected he couldn't tell the difference through his foggy glasses—so the front row quickly became a wasteland. No one was willing to take the risk of sitting so close to the teacher. If you could call him that, since nobody ever seemed to learn anything.

Dean made a habit of stopping at his locker to exchange his books before his fourth period math class. That was where he was—cursing as he tried to find his homework—when a familiar person found him.

"Dean?" she asked hesitantly. "I didn't know you were back."

Dean turned around to find himself face-to-face with a slender brunette.

"Lisa" he breathed. "It's been a while."

They'd dated most of their sophomore year—almost the entire time Dean had been in town. He'd broken up with her when he realized he would be leaving soon. Lisa had made some noise about long-distance at first, but Dean talked her out of it. It didn't take much convincing; neither of them wanted to be tied to something like that. Dean really wasn't looking for that sort of commitment right now, not in high school.

Lisa's face lit up.

"I heard all these rumors, you know, that you were back in town, but I didn't think… you told me you didn't go back to the same place twice," she said awkwardly.

"I don't. Or at least I didn't used to," Dean replied. "This is a first."

"Maybe this school is just special," Lisa winked. "Is your brother really a freshman now?"

For the first time since the conversation began Dean genuinely smiled.

"Yeah, Sam's growing up fast." Dean shifted his weight. "Look, Lis, it's been good talking to you. I've got to go to class."

"Yeah, okay." Lisa looked as if she were thinking something over. "Look, you should come over for dinner sometime. My parents would love to catch up with you. And Ben missed you."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I don't think your Jack Russell terrier even remembers the guy you dated for a few months two years ago," he laughed.

Dean missed the hurt in Lisa's eyes.

"Just… think about it, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Dean agreed distractedly. "Yeah, sure."

Lisa smiled.

"I hope you're not late to class," she called as she walked away.

"Shit!" Dean muttered. He'd almost forgotten he was on his way to math.

He also hadn't gotten her number.

Dean couldn't figure out if it was because trig was right before lunch, or if Mr. Hambre's presence made everyone unreasonably hungry, but every single student was constantly eating right through class. Every student except Dean, that is. Trigonometry raised his appetite, too, but he had more important things to spend his money on than snacks for math class. Bobby was kind enough to let him work at his garage after school, and Dean had spent all of August there, but that money was his emergency fund. What little money John did send came erratically and in random chunks. The boys had no idea where it came from—although Dean suspected it wasn't entirely legal—but it paid for hotel bills and food, most of the time.

Dean had fifth period lunch anyway, so it wasn't really that hard to hold out until the end of math. The only person in his lunch he was even close to knowing was a sophomore named Ruby who was in Sam's algebra class and ate French fries every day. Dean didn't actually like her very much at all, but she always seemed to have information and Sam seemed to like her, so Dean tolerated her for his sake.

After lunch was world Mr. Guerre's world history class, which appeared to mean every war, skirmish, and generally bloody event since the beginning of time. Dean slept through that one as often as he could.

Dean's last class of the day was English Literature 12 with the quiet, perfectionist, passionate, obsessive Mr. Mort. Their first reading assignment was Death of a Salesman.

"I want all of you to pay close attention to the way Arthur Miller presents the concept of death," Mr. Mort's lectures always sounded like rehearsed speeches. "Willy Loman is actively seeking death. Perhaps he senses that his death will restore order to the lives of his family."

Dean hated to admit it, but he was actually learning a lot from that guy's class.

On the walk home Sam was sullen and quiet. It didn't take Dean long to figure out that something had happened at school.

"What's wrong, Sammy?" he asked casually, not wanting to start a scene.

Sam scowled.

"It's nothing, Dean," he muttered angrily.

"Sam," Dean said, using his Big Brother voice. "Tell me what happened."

Sam sighed dejectedly.

"Brady's a jerk, that's all. I should have listened to Jo."

Dean's whole body tensed.

"I'll rip his lungs out," Dean hissed, too quiet for Sam to hear.

It took some convincing, but Jo reluctantly agreed to invite Sam to hang out after school the next day in order to keep him out of the way. She'd grumbled quite a bit about it, because, apparently, she would prefer to kick Brady in the shins herself, but in the end she cooperated.

Dean waited until he saw Brady milling around by himself on the empty patio behind the school. Now that the novelty of a new year had worn off, most of the student body disappeared the second the final bell sounded. Brady often got a ride home with Jessica Moore—apparently they were neighbors—but she had started cross country practice the week before. Dean approached him silently.

"Hey, punk," he whispered as soon as he was close enough to be heard.

Brady jumped, then quickly tried to cover. Dean snickered. It was about time this kid had his pride taken down a few notches.

"I don't appreciate bullies," Dean said, "but I mind my own business. But once you start picking on my brother, it's my problem."

Brady shook his head, and Dean itched to wipe that obnoxious smirk off his face.

"You think you're tough, Winchester, and maybe you are. But you're also a loner freak like your brother, and at this school? It pays to have friends."

As if on cue—hell, they probably were acting on cue—a number of muscled upperclassmen stepped into view from around both corners of the building. Dean swallowed nervously but didn't let the sentiment show. He allowed himself a moment to be proud that he had a much better poker face than that stupid Brady kid, then he returned to assessing the situation.

"You looking for a fight, Winchester?" growled the only one of the guys Dean recognized, a fellow senior from his biology class named Alastair.

Dean wanted to spit a defiant "you bet I am" back in the douchebag's face, but after further analysis deemed the course of action unwise. One he could take, hell, two he could take, but three was pushing it a little too far. Dean was good, but he wasn't that good.

Dean was still deciding on a course of action when a fist collided with Alistair's face at high speed. In the ensuing confusion Dean heard an unfamiliar gravelly voice shout, "Run!" Dean stayed where he stood, fending off one of Alastair's henchmen with a blow when he came at him.

"Come on!" the voice shouted again, and a hand grabbed Dean by the shoulder, yanking him out of the way. That grip is probably tight enough to leave a bruise, he thought absently, but he didn't mind the pain.

The stranger led him down a series of unfamiliar streets. When Alastair and his thugs were out of sight and there was no sign they were being followed, the pair slowed to a stop on the sidewalk.

Dean glanced up at his savior's face, and his attention was immediately grabbed by the pair of concerned blue eyes that looked too bright to rest under hair so dark.

"Dude," Dean panted, "thanks. Who are you?"

Dean realized only after the words had come tumbling out of his mouth that the phrasing had been rather unusual; that most people would have asked "what's your name?" But the question he had asked had been the one swimming through his mind throughout the entire sprint.

The blue-eyed stranger smiled slightly, but his voice was earnest.

"My name is Castiel, and I am the one who just saved your ass."