Chapter Text
The boy has startling blue eyes, and isn’t that a cliché, Sam thinks.
“I’m Sam,” he says, sticking out his hand. “Your mom hired me to be your tutor?”
The boy glances at Sam’s hand. He says, “Are you asking me?”
Sam’s hand drops, “Uh, no. I’m your tutor.”
The boy nods, “Come in.”
Sam enters the boy’s bedroom, shifting his backpack up his shoulder.
“Close the door behind you,” the boy says, not turning around as he leads Sam to the desk at the corner of the room.
The walls are covered with posters of bands Sam only knows about because of Dean. Not necessarily to Sam’s taste, but Sam doesn’t mind. There is a pile of clothes falling out of the open door of the boy’s closet and more clothes on and underneath the bed. On the desk is a closed laptop, notebooks, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and skin mags.
The boy catches Sam’s eye before taking the collection of porn and tossing it carelessly on the bed. He sits on the edge of the bed, on top of one of the magazines, and gestures to the chair.
“Sorry,” he says, and Sam catches the pink hue on the boy’s cheeks.
Sam sits, pulls out his own book and his binder of notes from his English class.
“So, I was thinking we can start with chapter one–well, obviously–and then—”
“Sam?” the boy interrupts.
“—we can–hmm?”
“I don’t need a tutor.”
“Uhm, but your mom…”
The boy rolls his eyes. Quietly, he says, “She’s my stepmom.”
Sam looks down at the boy’s copy of the book. It looks to be in great condition, certainly not as flipped through as the magazines Sam saw. The boy gets up from the bed, catching Sam’s attention. The boy’s eyes are on Sam as he crosses the short distance back to the desk. He leans over Sam to pull open a drawer. Underneath a false bottom, amongst other books, there’s a worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye. The boy throws the book on the desk.
Sam frowns. According to the boy’s stepmom, the boy was failing English because he hadn’t been answering the teacher’s questions or turning in homework. Sam says as much.
The boy stands over him, says, “There’s no point in my answering questions if it means everyone else in the class doesn’t have to read. I’m not doing their work for them. And I don’t waste my time with homework. I already spend eight hours of my day in school.”
Sam can’t tamper down a smirk, so he ducks his head.
“Well,” Sam says. “Aren’t you worried about your GPA?”
“Nope,” the boy says, popping his lips.
Sam tries, “Your m—stepmom is paying me to get your grade up. I prefer earning my money rather than having it carelessly handed to me.”
That seems to hit a nerve with the boy, whose jaw tightens and eyes flash. They stare at each other for several tense moments. Sam is sure he’s going to go home with a bruise on his jaw. He studies the boy, notices a small stud earring of a wing on the boy’s left earlobe.
To Sam’s surprise, the boy smiles. He picks up his book and sits back on the bed.
“I’m Castiel,” the boy says. “Where do you want to start, teach’?”
Sam returns the smile. He opens his notes.
“Well, now that I know you’ve already read it before, what are your thoughts on Holden?”