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The masking tape doesn’t hold glasses together very well.
Dean squints at the homework in front of him. Suddenly the paper shifts out of focus and his thick black frames clatter onto the desk.
Dean rubs his nose, winces, and picks up his glasses again.
When the supervisor leaves the room, something flies over Dean’s shoulder and lands on the desk.
You the kid that punched Michael?
Dean looks around to see a boy with dark hair. The boy smiles warmly, uncrossing his tan arms to wave at him.
Dean turns back to the note and scribbles a response before leaning around to drop it on the boy’s desk.
Throughout detention, every time Ms. Milton turned her back, or sneezed, or looked out the window, the note landed with a small pat, back and forth between the two boys.
So what if I am?
Good for you—whatever he did, he deserved it.
He was bullying my friend.
Totally deserved it. I’m Castiel.
Dean.
I know.
Why are you here?
I told a teacher he was wrong.
Was he wrong?
Yes.
What about?
He said that Scout was the main character of To Kill A Mockingbird.
She’s not?
The paper hits the back of Dean’s head this time, instead of landing neatly on his desk.
Of course not. It’s Atticus. Scout is just the narrator.
Dean smiles and scribbles a response. There’s a rustle two seats back.
“Ms. Milton? My seat has gum on it, can I move?”
Castiel has a nice, deep voice; like honey-coated sandpaper.
Ms. Milton nods and Castiel bumps Dean’s desk when he moves to sit directly behind him. Dean drops the note on the floor, and Castiel picks it up.
Didn’t take you for a big reader.
Didn’t think you’d judge a book by its cover.
Ms. Milton dismisses them half an hour later, and among the small group of students scrambling to leave, Dean and Castiel take their time.
Dean watches Castiel cram the paper in his pocket.
“Nice shiner,” Castiel says, touching the edge of Dean’s black eye. Dean is momentarily entranced by the lip ring dancing and the eyeliner smudging as Castiel smiles.
“Yeah. He broke my glasses.”
“And got himself suspended, so maybe that makes up for it,” Castiel says, shouldering his bag.
“Hey, I got a good punch in, too. He bled all over my favorite shirt.”
“The Star Trek one?”
Dean looks at him. “How’d you know that?”
“You wear it a lot.” Dean stumbles over his shoelaces, blush blooming across his face. Castiel grins. “And I saw the fight, too.”
Dean chuckles weakly, heart feeling thick in his chest.
They walk down the hall in companionable silence until they reach the big glass doors, where they both hesitate.
Castiel pulls a Sharpie out of his pocket and grabs Dean’s hand. “Don’t text me. I prefer talking on the phone.”
“Me too,” Dean says, watching the wiry fingers guide the marker across the back of his hand.
Castiel pulls away and tucks the marker behind a heavily pierced ear.
“So, I’ll call you?” Dean says awkwardly, pushing his broken glasses back up his nose.
Castiel smiles. “Yeah. Call me.”