Work Text:
It was the first day of his first college English class, and Dean Winchester was determined to do well. School hadn’t been easy for him— his father taking him and his brother from school to school, switching where (and what) they learned on a monthly, or even weekly, basis. But in every town they stayed in, Dean had made sure that he and his brother went to school. Mostly, it was for Sammy’s sake. Dean always figured that if his brother could get a solid education, with a scholarship big enough to put him in university, then Sammy would get out of the horrible life that their father had forced them into. And that would be enough; after all, it was Dean’s job to take care of his brother.
Sam did go to college. He got into Stanford . Dean couldn’t deny the pride he felt… but the hurt and fear flowed strongly along with it. Dean listened to the sounds of shouting and stomping and the door slamming the day Sammy had left. Their father roared at Sam to never come back. And eventually, all the noise faded… into silence. Motel after motel after motel, John stopped bothering to talk to Dean.
Without Sam, or John, or anyone else, Dean began to take classes to earn his GED. Waiting until his father was out working, he would connect his secret computer to the poor wifi of whatever motel they were staying in that week and begin to study. When he finally got his diploma, Dean took himself out to a diner. And that was the day he allowed himself to freely consider going to college.
Dean applied without John’s knowledge, writing his address as Bobby’s house. When Bobby had given him a call in March, asking why he was getting mail from a university, and when had Dean gotten a diploma, and did this mean… , Dean could only plead for the details of the letter in a voice quieter than the motel room had been when Sam had left. Bobby had cleared his throat, opened the envelope, and read out Dean’s first acceptance letter. If either of them had started to cry, there was no mention of it.
When Dean got a lengthy text about how Bobby was there for him, no matter what… there was no mention of it either.
In the end, Dean went to college. Left home—the motels, diner food, a life he never wanted and a father that never loved him the way he wanted him to. He reconnected with Sammy, and Bobby. Finally had his own place, he’d even taken the Impala with him. And now, it was his first day of his first college English class.
---
Dean’s taken his seat in the lecture room, setting up his computer—no longer secret—and his notebook, when he notices someone walk through the door to the English class. Now, somebody walking into a classroom when said class is about to begin isn’t out of the ordinary. It was the person, however, who wasn’t normal. Dean felt his breath stop and his mouth fall agape as he watched the man take the seat in front of Dean. His eyes were a bright blue, his dark brown hair adorably tussled, his long trench coat from the wrong decade. Dean began to picture teasing him about it, leaning forward to tap the man on his shoulder and ask if he knew what year it was. Maybe, Dean thought, the mysterious man would smirk in response… he wondered what he would look like smirking. The bottom half of his face was covered in rough stubble, and Dean bit his lip, imagining how it would scratch him if they were kissing…
Literature. Dean scolded himself. The professor had begun their lecture, and Dean needed to get a grip. He hadn’t worked his ass off getting into college just to stare at guys’ stubble, or the way that their hair curled at the back of their neck.
Dean shook his head. He decided to sit somewhere else tomorrow. And then, he tried paying attention to the class as best as he could.
(He didn't sit somewhere else.)
---
It wasn’t until another two months of pining over the man in his class—whose name, he learned, was Castiel Novack—that something finally happened.
He was on a call with Sam. The two of them had reconnected after nearly two years of silence, and it was the best thing that had ever happened to Dean (not that he would admit it). The two saw each other as often as possible. While they didn’t tell each other everything, it was pretty damn close, and it hadn’t taken long for Sam to figure out that Dean was talking about his literature class for reasons other than the content.
“I’m just saying, are you sure there’s no way he’d give you his number? I’ve seen women fall down at your feet before. Literally—do you remember that one bar in Wisconsin?” Sam’s voice said through the phone. Dean smirked. He did remember; that particular night, he’d lost a bet that ended in him sporting a wicked leather jacket and eyeliner. He hadn’t minded it as much as he’d thought that he would. A girl, blushing furiously, had attempted to walk over to him but tripped over her own wobbly heels and landed by his feet. She’d broken her nose. It was a hard night to forget.
“Cas isn’t some swooning maiden, Sammy. He’s different. I don’t want to make myself look like an idiot and get rejected, I have to be in class with the guy for the rest of the semester!”
“Dude, this is college. The rooms are insanely large, you can sit anywhere else and he won’t bother you. That’s if you get turned down; he might be genuinely interested!”
“I doubt it,” Dean scoffed. “He might not even like guys.”
“Technically every woman you hit on has a possibility of not liking guys, too,” Sam rebutted.
“Stop being a lawyer for two seconds! What the fuck do I do?”
“Well, your only options seem to be getting over it, or asking him out. You’ve talked about him too much to keep pining, I genuinely think your head will explode.”
“You’re the one that asked me about it in the first place,” Dean grumbled.
“Yeah, and I regret that. Look, I gotta go. You better do something about it by dinner at Bobby’s this Saturday or I’m gonna tell them about your massive crush.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk,” Sam replied, and Dean could hear the smile in his voice.
After they hung up, he fell back on his bed. The papers and books jumped up in the air, as Dean thought to himself—not for the first time— maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try to get his number.
---
God hated Dean Winchester.
After giving himself a pep-talk for ten minutes in the mirror, after putting on his nicest jeans and flannel (recently washed!), after having about seven tic-tacs just to make sure that his breath wouldn’t stink…
The problem wasn’t that Castiel was absent. No, he was sitting in his regular seat. Dean was very aware of his presence.
This was because, like many other students on this particularly warm day, Cas was wearing a tank top. And fuck, he was tanned. And muscular. Dean kept trying to peer over his shoulder because he couldn’t focus on the professor. How was he supposed to, in these conditions? Maybe if the professor had wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes and tanned gorgeous skin, and arms that could pick him up and set him down on his professor desk and spread his legs open and…
He needs to stop. Dean would die of embarrassment if he popped a boner in class—
Class! Jesus, he was so bad at this. He swore he wasn’t like this, his grades were a testament to that.
Dean saw that Cas was typing something on his computer. Great, notes. Maybe if he leaned forward just a little, and ignored his buff shoulder, he could copy it…
The notes said,
I know you’re reading this.
Dean blushed and leaned back so forcibly that his hand knocked his bag off the desk, sending it crashing to the ground. He feels his ears burn as the class looks back at him, including Castiel. He laughs nervously, hoping to play it off somehow.
Cas smiles at him.
No—he smirks.
Dean blushes harder. He isn’t sure there’s any blood left in the rest of his body.
Cas turns back to the professor, and Dean puts his head in his hands, positive that he’s done for. Was that rejection? It felt like rejection. He feels humiliated. This is why he thought asking him out was a bad idea, the only way this could’ve gone worse is if he’d broken his nose like the poor girl from Wisconsin.
He hears the clicking of keys, followed by a long pause.
Maybe, Dean thinks, because he clearly hates himself as much as God does, it’s another message.
So, unable to resist, he leans forward again.
Castiel has typed,
Want to go out sometime?
Followed by a phone number.
Dean's eyes go wide as he leans back—carefully in his seat. He did it. Somehow. He punches the air, then subtly stretches instead as he notices other people’s eyes on him. But it doesn’t really matter, because he’s got a date. Quickly, he grabs his phone from his pocket and types in the number.
Distantly, he wonders where they will go, what they will do. If he’ll get to meet Cas’s family, or what will happen if he meets Sam and Bobby. What it’ll feel like if they kiss, or hold hands, or if he’ll get to run his hands through Cas’s hair…learn what his favorite sports are, his colors, why he likes that trench coat. He wonders…
But, now he gets to find out.
In response to Cas’s question, Dean types out,
Hell yes.