Chapter Text
It'll get better.
Give it time.
Wounds like that heal.
Don't worry about it.
There are other fish in the sea.
Over the past few days, Dean Winchester had heard every single one of the cliché phrases, and he was fucking sick of it. His heart was broken. He'd get over it. He knew that. He'd gotten over heartbreak before.
But with all of these fucking people reminding him of it, it was getting difficult. Especially when his friends saw him at the open house and kept saying it.
At least, that was until he saw the new dark haired teacher at the school's open house only days before the first day. Then it was suddenly bearable.
He stood outside of his classroom, sizing up the teacher across the hall from him.
Art teacher, huh? Good with his hands... Dean snorted at himself and smiled at the woman in front of him. She'd been rambling for about a minute about how nice her daughter was and how many teachers had said her daughter was a joy to have in class. "Oh, I'm sure she is," Dean grinned. "If she doesn't love Language Arts already, I'll get her to this year, too. It's my specialty. I make it fun." He winked jokingly at the little girl, who grinned back. "Go ahead and go into the room. Choose a desk. It makes seating easier. Sign up on the line that corresponds with your class period." Dean nodded at them as they entered the class.
With the few seconds of freedom Dean had in his grasp, he strained his ears to try and hear the new guy's name.
All he caught of it was '-ton.' A frown settled on his lips and he stared at the man, trying to figure out if he was going to spell trouble for Dean this year.
Without meaning to, Dean stared for longer than he should have and harder than he should have, because the guy noticed. The mop of dark hair lifted after checking the clipboard in lithe hands, and blue eyes met green with an emotionless expression.
Dean was shocked. He swallowed whatever the hell had just erupted and solidified in his throat and smiled nervously. Fuck, this guy was pretty. Prettier than Dean, and that was saying something.
It was intensified when "-ton" smiled back. The smile was a tiny one, barely there, but it was a movement Dean could recognize even from across the red and white and tan hallway.
The art teacher then looked away almost shyly, and Dean cursed in his mind. This was definitely going to spell T-R-O-U-B-L-E for him.