Chapter Text
Dean finds it stuffed into his locker on Tuesday after Chemistry.
He stands there for a few moments, his brows knitted together in confusion. It’s clearly a sketch of him, that much he can tell. The lines are faint and it looks as though it were hastily done, perhaps something the person threw together while pretending to pay attention to a conversation at a coffee shop, or maybe at the back of a classroom while the lights were dimmed, watching a documentary on the Civil War. Despite the fact that it is just a sketch, it’s a pretty good one.
He glances around, wondering who the heck would draw this and slip it into his locker. He looks down at the sketch again. There’s a faint smile on his lips, and the person had even dotted in a few of his freckles. He grins, flattered despite the strangeness of it all and feels a bush creep into his cheeks. He wordlessly slips the drawing into his Spanish workbook, shuts his locker, and nearly jumps out of his skin when he realizes that someone is leaning up against the locker next to his.
“Jesus Christ, man are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Dean snaps, placing his hand on his chest.
The boy laughs and stretches his arms over his head. “My name isn’t Jesus Christ it’s Castiel,” he says with a yawn. He languidly turns around and begins to fiddle with the silver lock on the locker next to Dean’s.
Dean watches him intently for a few moments as the boy’s finger skillfully twist and turn the knob until it yields to him with a soft click.
“You can’t just break into people’s lockers,” Dean says folding his arms across his chest.
Castiel doesn’t respond but simply shoots him a dark look.
That’s when Dean gets his first good glimpse of his face and God, he’s beautiful. Castiel’s electric blue eyes are ringed with black eyeliner, and he has several piercings, a nose ring, a lip ring, and a small hoop perched delicately on his eyebrow.
“It’s rude to stare,” Castiel says as he digs through the locker. He pulls out a text book and a sketchpad.
“You’re that new kid, aren’t you?” Dean asks leaning up against his own locker.
Castiel snorts. “Observant, aren’t you?” he mimics.
“No need to be a dick,” Dean says.
This catches Castiel off guard and he turns to face Dean, a small smile brimming on his pretty lips. “Such language. I wouldn’t have expected it from someone like you,” he says.
“And what kind of person am I?” Dean asks in an irritated voice as he pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.
Castiel gives him a full body look, from the top of his head down to his shoes, and then back up to his argyle sweater. Castiel grins revealing a set of pearly white teeth. “I’m not even gonna answer that question,” he says. He slams his locker shut causing Dean to jump. Castiel chuckles as he clicks his lock into place and he walks away from Dean.
Dean stands there, fuming, unsure of what to even think or feel about Castiel.
Castiel stops and turns his head. There’s a small smile on his face. “You’re gonna be late for Spanish, I know how you love rolling those R’s for Mr. Peralta,” he teases.
Dean’s entire face turns red and he reluctantly begins to follow Castiel towards their Spanish classroom.
When they finally arrive at the classroom, Castiel stops and motions Dean toward the door. “After you,” he says.
Dean rolls his eyes and walks into the room. He makes a beeline for his favorite seat, the one right next to the window where he cracks it open, appreciating the cool, autumn breeze that blows in. He doesn’t even look around for Castiel, deciding that the best thing to do would be to just ignore him. He opens his Spanish workbook and begins to go over his homework assignment, getting lost in conjugating verbs while the classroom fills up. He manages to forget about Castiel for a while, or at least put him on the back burner while he concentrates on taking down notes and dreaming about what it would feel like to kiss Mr. Peralta. It’s only when the bell rings shrilly and he begins to put his things away he realizes that Castiel is nowhere to be found. “Weirdo…” he mutters to himself as he shoves his book into his backpack and exits the room.
Despite his earlier annoyance, he finds himself searching for Castiel, his eyes, unknowingly roaming the halls, peeking into classrooms, looking for those too blue eyes and that little playful smirk on his lips, his mouth, poised, hovering, ready to strike at all times with some witty comeback, with something vicious, or cruel.
Dean stops himself when he realizes what he’s doing. He glances at his wristwatch. He’s already ten minutes late for his Philosophy class and he wonders if he should just skip it and head to the library for a while. He feels a little off today, and he just wants to blame Castiel, the weirdo, for everything. That’s when he realizes that the door to the art studio is cracked open slightly when he steps in a line of sunlight spilling onto the floor. Thinking perhaps Mr. Casey is in, he pushes the door open and is greeted by the sight of Castiel, perched on top of a table, headphones on, sketchbook in his lap. He’s bent over the pad, sketching something with deft strokes and it’s clear that he hasn’t realized that he’s been discovered. Dean watches him for a few breaths. He seems softer here in the quiet classroom, as the sunlight filters around him, lighting up his dark hair and his skin. He wonders if he should leave, as quietly as he came in but Castiel looks up, almost as though he could feel Dean’s eyes on him and he jumps.
He pulls off his head phones, somewhat angrily and he glowers at Dean. “The hell are you doing?” he snaps as he unfurls his legs and swings them over the edge of the table. “You following me?” Castiel asks as he walks towards Dean.
“No, I just…I was looking for Mr. Casey,” he mumbles. He pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose again, nervously and backs into the wall as Castiel advances on him. He feels the hard surface of the wall against his back and watches as Castiel leans closer and closer to him. He squints at Dean, frowns and then grins.
“Hmm, now I see,” he says quietly before walking back over to the table.
Dean watches him as he climbs back up, folds his legs and grabs his sketchpad once more.
“Now you see what?” Dean asks.
Castiel looks up at him and smiles. “I didn’t draw enough freckles last time,” he says simply as he leans over his sketch pad once more. He plucks his pencil out from behind his ear and gets back to work.
Dean stares at him, his mouth dry, heart thumping wildly in his chest. He feels the faint blush creeping back into his cheeks and he swallows thickly.
“Are you just going to stand there?” Castiel asks without looking up.
Dean blushes but takes a firm step towards the table.
“Get up here, will you, I’m trying to get your ears,” Castiel orders.
Dean climbs up on the desk and sits next to him.
Castiel looks over at him and smiles. “Hey there Mona Lisa,” he teases.
Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he says softly.
“You’re cute,” Castiel says.
Dean blushes again and pulls out a comic from his book bag. As he reads about Batman and the Joker, he can’t help but feel a secret thrill of excitement run through him. He’s never been one to cut class, but he’s sure as hell glad that he did it today. He glances over at Castiel’s sketchpad but he hunches over it and covers his drawing with his hand. “No peeking,” he says.
Dean laughs, and turns back to his comic. For once, he’s content to wait.