Chapter Text
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ Late December ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
"For the love of God," Cas curses as he wiggles the toner cartridge out of the printer, "this should not be this hard." It certainly doesn't help that by this time, his back is protesting from being hunched over this long.
He should have gotten Charlie to do this.
But it's only his luck that the accursed object decides to crap out on him when he's trying to print out mock TOCFL tests.
After another few seconds of trying to wrestle the cartridge out and a few choice words, Cas is finally able to stand up. Aside from the indents on his fingertips from gripping the damn thing too hard, he's come through without any worse wear and tear, which is the best that Cas can ask for. Especially because he's dressed up today, all in his best dress shirt and everything. He's being careful not to get anything on him. And given how accident-prone he is, as well as the fact that he has the tendency to somehow develop the worst illness known to man every spring, it's a sigh of relief that leaves him when something actually goes the way he wants it to.
Carefully, he sets the used toner cartridge on the counter and tears into the new box. He's so focused on getting everything prepared that it takes him a while to notice that somebody else is trying to get his attention.
"Hey," the voice says, "can you help me?"
Cas whirls around, hands still clutching the cartridge. His gaze travels up from the bottoms of the other man's shoes—brown with wingtips—to the white shirt under a blue blazer. Vaguely, he remembers Anna, his sister, telling him that it's rude to stare, but he can't help it. The guy's tall and has an air of assuredness about him. And god, those are the greenest eyes he's ever seen.
"Excuse me?" he asks, voice cracking on the last word.
The man shifts his messenger bag from one hand to the other. "I'm, uh, I'm looking for Room 126. This building is like a maze." He looks very lost, turned around, and extremely apologetic.
Cas hums an assent. It's not unusual; they've had multiple students who also get lost on their first day of class.
He brushes shoulders with the other man as he steps out into the hallway to point him in the right direction. The touch makes him shiver slightly, all too aware of how cold his body runs. But that thought is stopped in its tracks when he realizes what Room 126 means.
The interviews.
Gabriel, the first-year Spanish teacher and arguably Cas' only friend, had been offered a tenure track position in Lawrence, which meant that he'd left Cas at Flint Hills all alone. And even though he'd been happy for Gabe, it'd also meant that there was a hole in his heart and a position to be filled in the Spanish department.
Cas looks back curiously at the other man again. The way he holds himself—leaning forward at attention, never taking his eyes off of Cas. His short hair gelled upward, youthful. There's something about the look in his eyes too. The idealism.
Vaguely, Cas remembers that that used to be him too.
He points left. "You're going to go down the hall to 121 and ask Kathy at the desk. Room 126 is a conference room."
The other man nods quickly, bringing one hand up to rub at his neck sheepishly. "Thanks, man. I tried not to get lost, but this university is bigger than what I'm used to."
Something in his voice makes Cas' mouth tick up half an inch, amused. "No worries." He steps further back into the hallway, waiting for the man to pass him.
This is, perhaps, the first thing that he shouldn't have done. The second is thinking that he would have been safe from accidents today.
It's almost like it happens in slow motion.
Cas standing there. The other man taking a step forward only to hit a snag in the carpet. Then the fumbling, flailing way he tries to stop himself from falling over only to crash into Cas.
All Cas can concentrate on is the sickening crunch of the toner cartridge being smashed under the force of the collision. Black powder poofs out in Cas' direction, settling on his shirt and the floor beneath him, somehow not a speck of it ending up on the other man.
He looks down. Back up at the man.
That was his best shirt.
"Oh fuck," the other man whispers, patting uselessly at Cas' shirt. "Shit, shit, I am so sorry."
The litany of apologies continues for another thirty seconds; Cas watches helplessly as the toner just gets smeared even further into his dress shirt.
That was his best shirt. That was the shirt his mom got him when he became an associate professor.
Mostly, he just wants the guy to stop doing whatever he's trying to do.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" Cas asks roughly. He's one moment away from yanking the man's wrists away from his shirt.
Those must have been the right words because the man stops and looks at his watch. His eyes grow large.
"I need to go."
"Yes," Cas replies, a bit put off, "you do."
"I, um, I—god. So sorry."
It's the last words Cas hears before the man bolts out the door, leaving him just standing there.
Sighing loudly, Cas picks dejectedly at his shirt. The stain is dark, already sinking into his clothes. This is nothing like the water-based calligraphy ink he's more used to working with, which would have washed out much easier. Still, he has to try.
The walk to the bathroom is less embarrassing with the lack of students milling around, but Cas soon learns his instincts were right. The bathroom is hardly a place to beat the loose powder out without creating a huge mess. A quick internet search confirms his worst fears: this is not a problem so easily solved away from home. Dejectedly, he texts Kevin to see if he's got some spare time to bring him the change of clothes Cas keeps in his office.
He's lucky enough that he has those on hand, but all he wants to do is go home now.
Knowing that the oils from his skin will set the stain but also that there's nothing he can do until he gets to Kevin, Cas puts tissues underneath his shirt, which crinkles awkwardly with every step he takes. Not too far into the hallway, though, and a voice appears out of nowhere, the second one today, which can't spell anything but bad news.
"Hello, Tweetie Pie."
Cas looks over to see Rowena linking arms with him. She gives him a devious grin, all red lipstick and white teeth. It's a predatory smile, one he's learned to understand over time.
Narrowing his eyes, he asks, "What have you done?"
"Nothing you wouldn't have wanted me to," she replies, squeezing his arm.
"That's most things, Rowena."
"You should trust me more, Castiel. I've never led you astray." They both know that's a lie, though. Too many karaoke nights and too much alcohol never made for a good combination in Cas' case.
But if it wasn't for Rowena, Cas would still be bumbling around the languages department and making Metatron, the senior administrative assistant, mad with last-minute travel authorizations. Over the past three years, he's learned and grown with her, almost to the point they're now inseparable.
The whole languages department knows it.
Yet it doesn't change the fact that Rowena is, in fact, not leading him back across the hall to his office but somewhere else. Somewhere like Room 126.
"Rowena, no," Cas objects, stopping in his tracks. He gives a half-aborted gesture toward his shirt.
"Oh, dearie. Don't you want to see Gabriel's potential replacement?" Rowena's voice is knowing, pressing all the right buttons.
And the thing is—the thing is—he does. At the very least, he hopes that it'll be someone who cares, someone who might fill a modicum of Gabriel's shoes.
Cas lets out another sigh. Rowena pats him on the arm, giving him a consolatory but knowing look, and then she's off, back down the hallway without even checking to see if Cas is following. Grimacing, Cas does.
It's a short walk down the hall, but Cas dreads every second of it.
What was he thinking, agreeing to this? Nobody would ever, ever be able to fit into Gabe's shoes. He doesn't want to face someone in the office, knowing that they're a replacement.
He gets to the door a smidge later than Rowena, gripping the door handle and opening it with much more force than necessary. It, perhaps, is a tad melodramatic on his part, considering that everyone swivels around to look at him.
Cas looks at the hiring committee—all three of them: Rowena, Zachariah, and Cesar. The hiring committee looks back at him. "Um—" he trails off, suddenly very aware of where he is right now.
Zachariah shoots both him and Rowena a piercing glare. "This is a closed interview, Rowena. Flaunting the rules, especially right now, is egregious at best. I will not stand for it."
Rowena smiles coyly. "Zachariah, must we have this same conversation every time? A little trust between colleagues goes a long way, you know. So," she continues, clapping her hands together, "now that we've finished with this little tiffle, shall we get down to business?"
Her tone of voice offers no chance of argument, and although Zachariah continues to glare at her back, she makes her way over to the man currently being interviewed.
"Dean Winchester, is it?" Rowena asks. "Pleasure to meet you. Have you met Dean, Castiel?"
All eyes turn back to Cas. He looks at Dean—wide-eyed and not breathing—then down at his stained shirt. His best shirt. "Yes. We have."
Dean swallows audibly. He opens his mouth, closes it. Almost like he can't decide what to do.
"I–"
He's saved from answering, however, by Rowena. She flits her eyes back and forth between the two of them, lips quirking up at the corners, before saying, "Well, don't scare the poor boy off. Let's all take a seat then, shall we?"
Cas sits down hard, frowning slightly. Jesus, he can't believe it. This man—this man who destroyed his best shirt and patted the stain in is now charming the hiring committee. Charming Rowena, who can see through charm a mile away.
Which means he's going to get hired.
Which means that Dean is going to be in the language offices, where Cas would have to see him. Every. Single. Day.
It seems highly unfair.
Dean shifts in his seat. Cas tracks every movement with narrowed eyes, head tilting to the left as he just looks. Looks at the way Dean seems too optimistic—his green eyes keen and taking in everything.
Looks at—looks at the way that Dean is looking back at him, a curious expression on his face. And then Dean smiles at him. It's quick, a one-second flash of a dimple at the corner of his mouth.
Is he really trying to flaunt the fact he thinks he has this in the bag?
Cas looks away, setting his jaw. Fine. If this guy wants to be arrogant, he's not going to let Dean get away with it. There's a pit at the bottom of his stomach, full of anger and sadness at Gabe leaving, at the fact that he doesn't want to see Gabe's replacement at all because he can't be replaced.
His attention diverts to Zachariah, who's clearing his throat and shuffling papers. The look he gives Dean is practically sharklike. Cas bites his tongue to keep from saying anything else. As much as Dean isn't his responsibility, something about Zachariah makes Cas' skin crawl.
"Dean Winchester," Zachariah draws out the name with a sneer. "You did both your bachelor's and your master's at Kansas State University. Is there a reason you didn't go anywhere else?"
The question sounds innocent, but there's something in there that makes it sound sinister. Sound bad.
Dean, though, nods like it's a perfectly reasonable question to ask. "I wanted to stay close to my family. There was an emergency, and I figured it would be better if I stuck around just in case."
"But is there a reason you chose language teaching in particular?" Rowena interjects. She leans forward, an interested gleam in her eyes.
"I just—I just think that the world is so big and there's so much that we can learn from each other." Dean looks down at his hands, almost shy. "I remember taking a linguistics course during my undergrad and the professor emphasized how important it was to connect to another person, to be able to communicate with them. And by choosing Spanish, well, I can communicate with half of the people in the world."
Cas cocks his head. Dean's not—he's not wrong.
Rowena presses on. "And the teaching aspect of it?"
"Isn't that the whole goal of teaching, to pass what you've learned onto the next generation?"
The comment makes Cas inhale sharply then, struck again by the idealism that Dean exhibits. Call him old, call him fucking jaded, but Cas knows better. He knows that people don't go into academia for the fun of it; it's a career.
Something that Dean, applying for the adjunct position as he is, wouldn't know about.
He can't stop himself from butting in. "Your idealism is great, sure, but you have no practical application."
Everyone's eyes turn toward him. It feels uncomfortable; Cas has desperately wanted to get on the Flint Hills tenure track—taking on more responsibility, trying to help out wherever he could, especially with Ambriel, the Chinese department head—but he hasn't taken the time to get to know people besides Rowena and Gabe well enough that the attention is welcome.
Dean's lips quirk up into a half-smile like they're sharing a joke between themselves. "I've taught two courses of Spanish 101 and 102 as part of my practicum over recent years. 90% of class time is spent in the target language."
Fucking hell. Cas wishes he was able to do 90% of class time in the target language. With Chinese, it just…can't happen. Each new word functions like grammar and the writing system means that Cas spends more time teaching the students how each character works than actually getting them to string sentences together.
It didn't help that Zachariah cut their classes down from five days a week to three, either.
The pit in his stomach grows ever larger, something like envy. Cas clenches his jaw. "That isn't possible."
"In my classroom, it is."
"With a passing grade?"
"Students were scoring an A2 on the CEFR assessment at the end of the first semester. You can even ask Cesar," Dean continues. "He was the one who did the initial language evaluation as specified in the job description."
Cas shoots a glance at Cesar, brow furrowing together in a question that Cesar affirms.
"It was impressive. Even the grammar explanations were all in Spanish." Cesar pauses for a minute before adding, "Classroom management was pretty good as well."
"As a first-year teacher?" Cas feels an additional twist in his stomach. Having the skills that it's taken years for Cas to perfect? Highly unbelievable.
Dean looks at him straight on. "As a pre-service teacher, yeah. But like any good teacher, I'm eager to learn and your campus—from what I've seen—is a good fit for me."
"But you're an adjunct." It's a statement. A fact.
"Yeah," Dean agrees, "just while I get started on my Ph.D. Figure I need the experience."
"The experience?" The question comes out harsher than Cas expects, though he can't believe what he's hearing. "What are you going to do? Leave when it suits you?"
There's a silence in the air as Cas realizes what he just said. When he looks around, he can see Rowena shaking her head slightly, a frown evident. Zachariah just looks gleeful, like he's caught Cas doing something that he shouldn't.
And the thing is, the co-chair has. Cas definitely, definitely shouldn't have lost his cool like that. It's unprofessional. It reeks of instability. It could throw off Cas' chances of ever getting a tenure track to full professor.
As ever horrified that most people in the room look right now, Cas is the most horrified of them all.
He swallows roughly like something's stuck in his throat. He could be the smallest person in the world right now and it wouldn't be enough to hide him.
Pushing his chair back, he tries to get up as surreptitiously as he can. "I—I should go."
Cas feels everyone's eyes on him as he backs out of the room, closing the door as quietly as he can and walking out into the hallway. He knows better than to lose his cool like that. From the time he was hired until now, he's always been so, so careful around the university. Careful about everything.
And now it's ruined. By none other than himself. Of all the things that Cas thought about happening, this wasn't one of them.
"Goddamnit," he mutters to himself, flexing his fingers into a fist. There's nothing that he's able to do now, though, but return to his office.
The walk back and subsequent waiting seems the longest that it's ever been. It's torture, understanding something's going to happen. Cas knows it's coming, could see it from the minute that he saw Rowena shaking her head.
Just a matter of time.
The soft music that he's put on is interrupted by a knock at the door. Before he can say anything, however, it opens to reveal Rowena—lips tilted up into a knowing smile.
"I—" Cas starts out.
"Not a word." Rowena cuts him off, shaking one finger at him. An acute wave of disappointment washes over Cas. "I don't know why it happened, Castiel, but it cannot happen again. What in the heavens were you thinking?"
"He's not right, Rowena," Cas replies, hands curling around a stack of papers on his desk. "He doesn't fit here."
"That's a lie and you know it. He is well-fit for the classroom, especially as an adjunct. What you had no right to do was accuse that poor lad of being incompetent."
"I didn't—"
"Oh sweetie, if I had a measuring tape, your nose would be distinctly longer than it is right now. You know you can't lie to me."
Rowena gives him the same look that she's always given him when he does something stupid. And she's always right. Just like she always is.
"I'm sorry," Cas concedes.
"As you should be." Rowena clasps her hands together. "Well, then, since we've established that you're ultimately sorry for this little outburst of yours and it won't happen again, then I guess we can say a little recompense is in order, wouldn't you?"
Oh, Cas doesn't like where she's going with this. He stands up, knees bumping the table in his haste to get away.
"Rowena, no," he warns.
But she's already at the door, opening it just enough that he can see Dean Winchester trying his best to look into Cas' office. The would-be adjunct jumps back just a little when he sees both Rowena and Cas staring back at him.
"Dean needs a tour." Rowena says. "Everyone's busy right now, so I told him that you were available. And you are, right?"
Cas turns to Rowena, giving her his best despairing look. She smiles. And in that moment, Cas knows. There's no getting out of this.