Chapter Text
Jody Mills dumped a thick history book on the teacher’s table and put her palms on the backrest of a chair. “How was everyone’s weekend?”
Castiel jumped in his seat, startled by the sound.
“Kidding. I don’t care. Alright – history.”
It was eight a.m., and he was already so tired he could sleep a horse. And not the cute I’m falling asleep on the train to picturesque landscape in the background kind of tired. It was the ugly kind of tired, the type that makes your limbs heavy and your lids droop over your eyes and you yawn at everyone’s faces, even if it’s Jody Mills, and she’s looking pissed.
Castiel loved Ms. Mills. She was a new teacher – joined the school a few of months ago, in the beginning of the year – so she was an outsider, much like him. And she respected everyone as people regardless of their grades.
It wasn’t that the other kids in his class didn’t like him. They were nice enough, and they all had each other’s backs when a scolding teacher was involved. (Even if they beat each other up as soon as the teacher left. It was a weird combination of camaraderie and raging hormones.) He was more of a self-assigned outcast; he didn’t really care about them enough to bother forming friendships, and neither did they care about him.
Ms. Mills meant business. She had just started reading the class about Jewish holidays when someone knocked on the door and opened it.
“Hi, everyone!” It was a girl from the student council, April Kelly. She stood at the entrance with her hands behind her back, like she was hiding something there. “I want to introduce someone to you, so…” She moved farther into the classroom and glanced out the door.
April had a Fun Mom energy, which was weird, because she was seventeen. Behind her, someone stepped inside and stood awkwardly by the door.
“This is Dean.” She said it slow, Deeeeean, and sent him a cheery glance, as though to make sure she was correct. “And he’s from…”
“Kansas.”
“Kansas,” she repeated with her index finger in the air, like she was taking a mental note to remember it. “And he’s here for the Teacher’s Assistant Program.”
It was a new program in the school – started when Castiel was a sophomore. Only, last year the TA was an old lady who killed at math and brought everyone brownies, and this guy seemed like he was fresh out of high school and had no idea what he was doing. He looked around the classroom nervously, as if he was overwhelmed by the amount of all twenty-six of them. When someone made eye contact, his expression shifted into something cocky and self-assured.
“Dean was a grade-A student and finished his final exams in junior year. He’s here to help y’all with anything you need.”
So, not even fresh out of high school.
“Take a seat, Dean,” said Ms. Mills, and April left. The boy made his way to the far left of the classroom, by the windows, and touched the back of a chair on the third row. Ms. Mills continued talking about the Festival of Lights.
“That’s Anna’s seat,” said someone to Dean, and he dropped his hand. Naturally, he didn’t know who Anna was. Castiel watched him move to the nearby column and sit down in a vacant chair.
“You might think Hanukkah is about lighting colorful candles and singing before them, but no,” said Ms. Mills. Castiel could not care less. He knew all of this already. In his peripheral vision, Dean shimmied in his chair, side to side, up and down, taking a look at it from this side and then from the other. Turning around in it and rocking the backrest a little. Then the bench itself. It was broken. He stood up.
“Hanukkah is all about the fried food. Jewish holidays are all about the food.”
Third try. Dean didn’t even manage to touch the chair before the girl in the other seat – Meg – gave him the death glare, and he turned around and moved on to the next column, settling in the only empty seat left in the room he hadn’t managed to get rejected from. He put a notepad and a pen on the table, and leaned back. Maybe he was trying to forget where he was; most people present in the room were.
“Hi,” he said to the student sitting beside him.
Castiel turned to look at him. Slow. Unimpressed. “Hello.”
Ms. Mills recounted weird-sounding traditional foods in the background. “…Latkes, fried cakes, kneidlach, rugelach…”
Dean fussed around for something, and looked back at Castiel. “Can I look with you? Must’ve forgotten my book.”
Castiel slid his book into the center of the table. He didn’t like sharing. But Dean smiled and leaned in to be able to read without moving the book.
“Thanks.”
“Alright. Yom Kippur,” said Ms. Mills. “Also known as the Day of Atonement. Open on page 152…”
He flipped the pages. Dean leaned forward, and read a scribbled correction on the page.
“Are you Jewish?” He asked, his lips crooked into a half smile, as if it was amusing to him that the book was wrong about something, and that Castiel had the basic knowledge to correct it.
“Um…” Said Castiel. “No.”
At that, Dean huffed out a short, quiet laughter. “I'd think one would know for certain his religious orientation. You don’t really sound sure.”
“My father is drawn to religions,” he answered. “So I know a lot about them.”
“Sounds boring,” said Dean.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
“It is.”
Then he tried to focus on his teacher.
“During the holiday, the fasting aren’t allowed to eat, drink, use electricity, write or draw, work, light fires, cut paper or prepare food.” They listened to Ms. Mills talk about the prohibitions of Yom Kippur for about ten seconds before Dean interrupted again.
“These people really know how to party,” he whispered. His expression shifted into a proud smile. Odd, how he seemed to be the only one to enjoy his own jokes. Castiel felt the tightness of frustration in his chest, the kind he felt when someone was breathing obnoxiously loud during an exam and he couldn’t concentrate. He wanted to shush the guy or tell him off or just straight up tell him to shut the heavens up. Only he acknowledged, if begrudgingly, that Dean’s comments were the sole thing keeping him awake right now.
"Isn't this logic kind of faulted?" Asked Dean at something the teacher had just said. “I mean, fasting in order to not think about food? If someone told me, ‘you can’t have this hamburger for the next twenty five hours’, all I’d think about was taking down that burger in one bite.”
He raised his eyebrows at Castiel, and Castiel returned him a puzzled look.
The guy might be an uneducated annoyance, but if he liked burgers, he had to be at least thirty five percent decent.
Castiel usually walked home.
He had a car. He had a nice car. But that was kind of it – he felt rude coming to school every day in a two-years-old Mercedes while some kids had twenty years old models. While some kids didn’t have a car at all.
And he didn’t mind the walk. It didn’t take more than twenty minutes, and it was a stroll through the clean and homey neighborhood of his school and into the classier one where he lived.
He was proper ashamed of his house. Not because it was generally untidy and always smelled faintly of vodka; but because it was big, and fancy. It was two stories tall and had a front yard with an access trail, and a front porch you had to climb up five stairs onto.
He fumbled for his keys (well, his key. And one science pun keychain his brother once gave him: “All the good science puns… Argon.”) and opened the door.
It used to be a house appropriately proportionate to the number of residents in it. There used to be a time when this house was full of life and noise. Castiel could barely picture that time now; his siblings were gone for almost as long as he could remember, and he barely ever spoke to them. Now, it was always too big, always dark, and always quiet.
There was a foyer at the entrance with a stairwell leading upstairs to several bedrooms, most of which were empty and long forgotten now. There were a kitchen and dining room to the right, and a spacious living room to the left.
He took his shoes off by the door and peeked into the living room. As expected: his father on the armchair, unconscious. He wandered into the middle of the room and looked around him. There was a sleeping robe on the floor. An empty glass and a whiskey bottle on the coffee table, with more coffee mugs than he could count around it. An old father wearing a dirty T-shirt and slipping off the armchair slowly, muttering in his sleep. Castiel touched his shoulder.
“Father.”
He shook his arm.
“Wake up.”
He shook harder.
Chuck’s eyelids opened, hanging low over his eyes.
“Get up,” said Castiel. “It’s five thirty.”
“Yeah, yeah,” grumbled Chuck. He looked around, squinting.
“Can you do the dishes? I need to study. Midterms next week.”
Chuck squinted at him. “Midterms?”
“It’s March,” he said. He’d long given up on wondering what was happening in his father’s head, or expecting it to be ordinary. Chuck didn’t think like other people. He had frequent headaches that took days or weeks to pass, and he drank to help, but all it did was make him even more forgetful. He also didn’t behave like other people, and with Castiel’s older siblings out of the house, there was no one to really hold him accountable for society’s rules. Castiel tried. But the guilt was too heavy. No matter what he did, the guilt was too heavy. It was somehow on his shoulders to take care of his father, not the other way around, and it was very apparent that he failed.
“I don’t feel so good, kid.”
Castiel looked down at him. He looked back.
“I’ll- I’ll do ‘em tomorrow. You go study.”
But Castiel knew that he wouldn’t. It was the same argument yesterday, and it would be the same tomorrow.
“Come on,” he said, picking up empty mugs from the table. “We can do them together.”
He could study later.
Chuck sighed, as if it was a mission almost out of his abilities – and maybe it was. But he got up slowly, and they made their way into the kitchen.
“So how’s school going?” He asked as Castiel scrubbed plates and handed them for him to wash and dry.
“Alright,” he answered.
“Do you like it?”
“Does it matter?”
“Doesn’t it?” Asked Chuck.
He looked at his father. Chuck smiled at him faintly. Even standing up, Castiel was already taller than him. Parts of his beard were already going a little gray.
He looked back at his plate, and scrubbed. Plates couldn’t grow old. “I’m getting good grades,” was all he answered. And that was a lie, too.
He used to get good grades. He used to feel smart. But there’s no one left to wash the dishes if all you do is study.
They continued washing in silence. When they finished, Castiel grabbed his backpack and headed upstairs. His room was the first door on the left, which generally meant he didn’t have to think of the half-dozen other empty ones down the hall. Chuck typically fell asleep on his armchair with some kind of book about religion on his chest, so Castiel had the second floor more or less to himself. Which meant it was neat. And quiet.
He couldn’t wait to move out.
His room was average in size. He had a bookshelf and a desk, and a George Washington poster his brother Gabriel had given to him as a joke once. (There was nothing funny about fundamental figures in American history. The poster was adequate.)
Meg was the only one from school who had ever seen his room – ninth grade gardening class project – and she said it ‘screams white, straight and privileged’.
So it wasn’t very homey. But he thought it was nice.
He gathered his study books and settled at his desk. Closing his eyes. Focusing.
Focusing on not falling asleep.
No. Focusing on his exam.
He flipped the book open where a photo was stuck between the pages as a bookmark. Bees in the park; they gave him a reason to be happy while studying.
He put the photo aside and stared at the open book.
The Byzantine Empire’s population in 457 AD was sixteen million. It gets its name from Byzantium, the old name of Constantinople…
He skipped to the questions.
- Who was Basil II the Bulgar Slayer?
He squinted at the question, trying to remember any of what he learned in class. Nothing. He stared at the page miserably for a minute before flipping it.
Judaism: Holidays | Questions:
- What is the purpose of fasting on Yom Kippur?
All he remembered was Ms. Mills mouthing meaningless words while he was picturing hamburgers. And Dean beside him. Talking. "Isn't this logic kind of faulted? I mean, fasting in order to not think about food?”
He wrote in his notebook: 1. Eliminating all distractions and focusing on atonement.
- What are 5 restrictions during Yom Kippur?
Dean’s smile. “These people really know how to party.”
He wrote down three.
- How long do the Jewish fast during the holiday?
“If someone told me, ‘you can’t have this hamburger for the next twenty five hours’, all I’d think about was taking down that burger in one bite.”
So, maybe the guy wasn't all bad after all.
Or maybe the answer didn't have to do with Dean at all, but with burgers.
Burgers were always the answer.
The next morning, Dean slumped in a chair beside him in math.
“Hey,” he said.
“Dean.”
“Uh… Person,” said Dean. “I don’t know your name.”
“Castiel.”
“Nice.”
Weirdo.
He didn’t have a book today, either. Castiel slid his book to the center of the table again, and rested his head on his fist. Math was alright. It didn’t philosophize. Either you were right or you were wrong.
Beside him, Dean babbled.
“I hope you don’t mind me sitting with you. It’s just hard to find a decent desk-mate… Oh, you don’t have to share your book. I’ll just listen.” He paused, and looked at Castiel. “Cas?”
He raised his head. “Yes?”
“I said you don’t have to share.”
He left it, anyway. Did employees have to buy their own books, too? He’d never thought of that. Maybe Dean was just particularly irresponsible, which made sense to Castiel, seeing as he was supposed to be a senior.
The teacher started on derivatives, giving them an exercise to work on by themselves. Castiel started writing in his notebook. Dean squinted at the book. Meg raised her hand, and the teacher signaled for Dean to help her, to which one of the two scowled with aversion and the other rose quickly and moved away from Castiel.
He seemed to be doing alright for about ten seconds. Then Meg pointed at her book and said something that seemed to thoroughly confuse him. His eyes swept over the room, and when he caught Castiel’s eyes, he looked at him helplessly. As if there was already some sort of camaraderie between them. As if their desk was a ship, and Castiel was an anchor. Castiel was deliberating on whether to go there and save them both when Dean stood up and headed back to their table.
“Uh… The answer to 12,” he said. “Is it fifteen?”
Castiel skimmed through his notebook. “Eh… No.”
Dean’s forehead creased. “Thirty two point four?”
What? “…No?”
Dean peeked at the question again in Castiel’s book, touching the edges of the page to hold it in place. “Twenty four,” he suggested finally.
“I think so,” said Castiel. Now Dean looked confident, and he was confused.
“Thanks,” Dean said, and walked back to Meg’s table. “It’s twenty four,” he said to her.
“Did you check, or is that what Clarence said?” Castiel heard her say. “Because he’s a little spacey.”
“Spacey just saved your ass,” Dean replied, and Castiel stopped listening.
He wouldn’t have minded being Meg’s friend, if that had been something she wanted. But every time he tried to be friendly – giving her bees, or small weapons, or his sandwich – she mocked him, complained that the knife needed sharpening, or said “thanks” and used his lunch to slap another guy in the face.
From the back of the class, April approached, and Meg and the new TA were quickly forgotten. Castiel hid the side of his face with his palm and pretended to be reading – but she saw him anyway.
“Hey,” she said, resting her knuckles on his table.
“April.” Maybe if he played dead she would leave. But she already saw he was alive. Crap.
“Soooo…” She said. Castiel looked at her, preparing for the worst. Was she about to ask him out? Try to stab him? Torture him for information? Whatever it was, he was determined and ready to mumble his way out of it.
“What’s up?”
“Ceilings,” he said. She stared at him. He stared back. Beside him, Dean slid back into his chair. April glanced at him before turning back to Castiel.
“So, I wanted to ask if maybe you could help me study for finals this week?”
“No,” he replied immediately. Too quick.
“No?” His classmate’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Uhhhh…”
“Didn't you have the thing?” Offered Dean, and they both turned to look at him.
"The... The thing," said Castiel. "Yes."
April looked at the two of them suspiciously. "What thing?"
“He... promised to show me around the school.”
April’s voice turned deadly dry. “Every day this week?”
“Y-yes.”
“It’s a big school,” said Castiel.
“It is a big school,” Dean repeated. April gave them the stink eye for as long as she could maintain it.
Then she left.
Dean turned around and watched her go. “What just happened?”
“She was trying to seduce me,” Castiel explained. “Thanks for the help.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Dean’s eyebrows furrowed.
“I doubt any good would come out of it,” he answered. He turned back to his notebook.
“It's worth the try, though, right?”
“If we were friends,” replied Castiel. “Maybe. Or if we had some kind of profound bond. April is...” They both turned to look at her: blowing bubblegum and playing with a knife behind the teacher’s back. “Not exactly my type,” Castiel finished.
“Ha. So what is your type?”
He looked at Meg, who was switching a lighter on and off with her feet propped on a table. Then he looked at Dean.
“Someone who wouldn’t mind eating fries in bed wearing sweatpants together?”
Someone who wouldn’t mind who I am? He wondered if that would be enough.
Dean laughed. “That’s a mood.”
They sank back into silence. Castiel tried to focus on solving his exercises. Someone clicked the cap of their pen on and off at the back of the class. April popped her gum. Dean shifted in his chair. He was solving the exercises, too. Which meant he mostly squinted and stared at the questions. Either he was very committed to his job, or he wasn’t so good at it.
Anna came up to their table to ask him a question, and Castiel peeked at her notebook.
“You need to divide by minus thirty four,” he said. "You divided by... four."
“Yeah, that,” said Dean. “So you’re like, the smart one,” he said to Castiel when Anna left, smirking at him like being smart was a secret weapon of Castiel’s that he’d just discovered. Castiel replayed in his head the months of torturous work he’d gone through just to keep from failing his classes, and shook his head in silence.
And so, the first chapter in another long and tiring month began. And if change was there - Castiel didn’t notice it at all.