[FIC] Stop All the Clocks for writingpathways (2010, part 1)
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Stop All the Clocks (part 1 of 2)
Author: wolfrider89
Recipient: writingpathways
Rating: PG13
Warnings: offscreen minor character death, teacher/student kiss, poetry, slight partnerbetrayal by main character(kissing), offscreen partner betrayal, angst , schmoop, language,
Spoilers: None
Summary: The plan was fool proof: take Poetry Studies, meet chicks, the end. Dean was quite confident about it until Professor Castiel Novak walked into the lecture hall and opened his mouth. Who knew one course could change so much?
Author notes: This was written for the prompt ”Dean is taking Poetry (to meet chicks/but he is bisexual) instead he meets his Professor Castiel Novak.” There is a happy ending, I promise! I tried to fit as much awesome!Sam in there as I could, and even some John and Mary. I really hope you like it!
Title from Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone by W.H. Auden, because it's my
favorite poem ever.
The auditorium was packed. Packed, and hot. Dean wasn’t a huge fan of being forced into other people’s personal space even when those people didn’t smell of sweat, but he forced himself to endure. This was a big day for Sam, after all, and he’d be damned if he let a little discomfort get his mood down.
He could only just see his mom a little further ahead, her white summer dress probably much more comfortable than his jeans and black tshirt. His dad was standing right next to her; they had somehow managed not to be separated when the crowd had been allowed into the room, stampeding like a herd of cattle, but Dean hadn’t been so lucky. He sighed when he felt sweat run down his back. Why the hell couldn’t they have a working AC in a place like this?
The guy next to him made an awkward shuffling motion, bumping into Dean. Normally, Dean would have pushed right back, but he bit down and decided that it was time for a little bit of internal lyric reciting. If he hadn’t been in the middle of a crowd, he would have hummed.
With no consideration, Led Zeppelin popped into his head.
Let me take you to the movies. Can I take you to the show?
Followed closely by other words, words from a long time ago. So you don’t like poetry, Mr. Winchester? What exactly would you call song lyrics, if not poetry?
Dean smiled at the memory; those words had changed everything.
Sam had raised his eyebrows in that typical Samway he had when Dean had admitted to signing up for a poetry course this semester. Dean had told him to shut up and pass him the wrench, even though Sam hadn’t actually said anything. Sam, being Sam, had passed him the wrong wrench, but Dean had just rolled his eyes and made him give him the right one. Sometimes, he wondered just how Sam could be so damn smart and still not know the difference between a socket wrench and a Torx wrench. Maybe it was a rebellion thing?
Dean hadn’t admitted it then, not to his sometimes insufferable, always overanalyzing 16year old brother, but his plan was to meet chicks. Sam would just scoff at him; Sam had, apparently, not yet grasped the merits of meeting chicks. Or maybe Sam was gay. That could be it. Dean had yet to see him even talk to a chick. Of course, he hadn’t seen him actually talk to any guys in that manner, either, so maybe Sam just didn’t have any game.
Pity. But not the point.
The point was that Dean had had a plan when he picked the subject, and it was not to read a 500page book full of words he couldn’t even pronounce. Which was apparently what the stupid professor expected him to do before they’d even had a single class. It would be a miracle if he got through even ten pages; every time he read words like “hath” or “thee,” he felt like throwing the book against the wall of his cramped apartment’s living room.
Maybe his plan hadn’t been so great after all.
Dean was lurking in the back of the small lecture hall, trying to scope out the female population, the first time he saw Castiel Novak. Staying as far away as possible from whatever kooky professor they’d been assigned, he’d slumped down in his seat, just like he used to do in high school whenever the teachers went on a “make the students participate” crusade-knees poking out on the other side of the table, ass almost off the seat, shoulders propped against the back of the chair-while his eyes roamed around the room, taking in his classmates.
The blonde in the second row was cute, but she seemed snarky as hell from what small bits of conversation Dean could hear. The brunette right in front of Dean had tattoos and the kind of leather pants that left very little to the imagination, but Dean couldn’t help but spot the Jesse forever tattoo at the small of her back. Probably taken, then.
And then this guy walked in. He was wearing one of those cheap suits that only office workers and underpaid teachers ever wore, his tie loosened like he couldn’t stand to have it neatly tied, hisshoes way too shiny for someone otherwise so scruffylooking. And his hair. Dean was kind of fascinated by his hair. It seemed out of place on such a nerdy dude, all tousled and windswept.
It was about then that he realized that this was their professor. He was pretty young to be a professor, probably not more than five years older than Dean himself, and when he pulled out his chair and sat down, Dean couldn’t help but notice the nervous way he pulled his hand through his hair. It made him feel bad for the guy for a second, until he spoke.
“My name is Castiel Novak,” he said, and Dean was lost. That voice. “And this is Poetry Studies.”
Dean watched student after student walk up to the podium, receive their diplomas, and walk off again. Sometimes, he really wished their family name didn’t start with a W. At least then he could have snuck out after Sam had gotten his scrap of paper. As it was, though, he forced himself to stand still and breathe in the smell of sweat and cheap perfume coming from all around him, entertaining himself coming up with ridiculous little tunes to fit the people surrounding him.
The guy to his left, the one who had bumped into him, got something that sounded like a commercial jingle about how he’d never try to go without deodorant again. Dean was quite proud of it in all its ridiculous glory; he wished he’d brought his notebook so he could write the words down.
The lady right in front of him got a sad little song about how all her children had left her, and how her husband was cheating on her with the postman. Dean felt kind of bad for her after that, even though he knew he’d just made it up, and took a tiny step backwards to give her some more space.
The little girl on his right giggled as he bumped into her, her big smile toothless and happy, and for that he made up a song about a pony for her, even if she’d never get to hear it. Maybe he’d sing it to the kids in his class when he got home, they never complained about him being out of tune.
Then, finally, the guy at the podium called out “Winchester, Samuel,” and Dean snapped out of it to cheer for his brother. Sam had on his geekiest, happiest smile, and Dean was pretty sure he would have been bouncing around if the cap and gown had allowed it. He accepted the scroll, waved at Dean and their parents, and left the stage again. Back to waiting.
Except... Dean tried to focus on the people to the left of the stage. He’d thought he’d seen someone familiar. He craned his neck just as someone in front of him shifted, and there he was. Professor Castiel Novak. He didn’t look a day older than the last time Dean had last seen him. He was still too young to really be taken seriously at first glance, his hair was still a mess, and he was even wearing one of those cheap suits, looking uncomfortable in the heat.
Dean waited for the pang of regret he’d expected to feel if he ever saw the man again, maybe mixed with a large dose of guilt and a bit of resentment, but all he felt was that old, familiar tug of longing. That, and happiness to see that he was alright. He was relieved to realize that the years between then and now had erased the guilt, leaving only the good things behind. He hoped the same went for the professor.
The dude’s voice might have been pleasant enough, but it only took one lecture for Dean to hate the subject more than he’d ever thought he would. It was Shakespeare this, and Lord Byron that, and hexameters and free verses all over the place. Dean had no idea what Novak was talking about, and he suspected he should have finished that damn book if he wanted a hope in hell of passing this course.
It wasn’t made any easier by the fact that the professor was damn hot. Dean may have picked the course because he wanted to meet chicks, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a hot dude when he saw one, and this guy? This guy sure as hell fell into that category.
So he spent that first class subtly checking the guy out while he pretended to take notes, listening to his voice and trying not to show just how attracted he was. He was probably not the first student to ever find this particular professor hot as hell, and he had no intention of making him aware of his unfortunate attention. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and trying to hit on a professor?
Not even Dean was that stupid, no matter what Sam might say.
“That’s it for today, class. Don’t forget, next time I’ll be putting you in smaller groups to analyze one of the poems I mentioned,” Professor Novak said, and Dean snapped out of his day dreaming.
Shit. He had no idea what poems the professor was talking about, let alone how they were supposed to analyze them. It was only his first week and he was already so beyond fucked.
Dean didn’t know how he made it through the crowd of loud, overexcited people all trying to get to the exit first, but suddenly, he found himself by the podium, staring at the little group of teachers who had gathered to wait for the families and friends to leave the auditorium. There he was.
Should Dean speak to him? Should he just leave? What, exactly, could he say to the guy after all these years?
“Dean!” Sam yelled from somewhere to his right, and Dean saw Novak’s head snap up at the name. He turned around, and their eyes met.
Dean watched him frown, watched recognition light up his face, saw it turn to some emotion he couldn’t identify. He offered a tentative smile, still unsure if he should approach or not. That in and of itself was a sign of just how rattled he was. Dean had never been the hesitant sort.
The decision was made for him by someone large and excited slamming into him from behind.
“Dean,” Sam almost yelled in his ear, and Dean couldn’t help but grin at his goofy little brother.
“Dean, what are you doing over here? Mom and Dad are out getting the car, and then we’re going to Jess’s parents’ place.”
Dean looked back over to where Novak was still standing, indecision clear on his face, and knew that he’d regret it forever if he didn’t talk to the guy now.
“Yeah, Sammy, I’m coming. I just... I gotta say hello to this guy, OK?”
Sam seemed taken aback for a second, looking between Novak and Dean before he nodded.
“Sure, Dean. I’ll be over there,” he said, waving vaguely towards a group of students.
Dean was walking over to Novak before he could change his mind, breath catching in his lungs when Novak came to meet him halfway.
“Mr. Winchester,” he said. His voice hadn’t changed a bit. Dean suppressed a shiver at the memories it awakened and tried for another smile.
“Hey, Prof,” he said, thankful that his voice kept steady. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, it is a...lucky coincidence, indeed,” Novak said, his eyes never leaving Dean’s, his hand twitching at his side like he was stopping it from moving.
Dean suddenly had the urge to hug him, like he would a friend who he hadn’t seen in a long time.
But with Novak, it was...complicated. He wasn’t sure “friend” was the right category to put him in.
Wasn’t sure it ever had been.
“Mr. Winchester, a word?”
Dean stifled a groan and waited for the other students to file out of the classroom. Pam shot him a sympathetic look as she got up to leave, her metal chains clicking against each other. If nothing else, this class had given him a new friend, so even if this was Professor Novak telling him to stop wasting everyone’s time and get the fuck out, there was that. That’s right, stay positive, he told himself as he waited for Andy and Chuck to leave the room before he grabbed his things.
“Professor?” Dean asked, walking over to his desk. It was littered with poetry books, some random pieces of paper, and too many pens for Dean to count. Why did this guy need so many pens, anyway?
“Have a seat, Mr. Winchester,” Novak said, leaning back in his chair to look up at Dean steadily.
Over the last few weeks, Dean had started to dread that gaze. Well, “dread” might not be the right word. He feared it, sure, but only because he felt like the professor could see right into his head, could see just what he’d been thinking. It wasn’t just about that, though. Every time he looked at Dean, Dean felt heat pool in his belly, and that was just awkward. Hot, but awkward.
He had this theory that people thought Novak was too young to be a professor right up until he stared at them, and then they shut the fuck up and gave him whatever he wanted.
Dean sat down on the opposite side of the desk, pulling his bag into his lap both to have something to hold on to and to hide just what the professor did to him.
“Mr. Winchester,” Novak began, leaning forward in his chair. “You don’t want to be here, do you?”
“I... What?” Dean said.
“You didn’t pick this course because you enjoy poetry, or because you want to learn more about it, did you?”
His gaze sharpened even more, and Dean squirmed, trying to come up with anything but the truth.
It was pointless, though, and Dean sighed.
“No, Professor, I didn’t,” he admitted. “I don’t even like poetry.”
Fuck. Students aren’t supposed to tell professors that, right? Could people get kicked out of courses? And here Dean had thought he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.
Professor Novak just nodded, though, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly as he studied Dean.
“I see,” he said, and Dean cringed even if there was no judgment in his voice, no sentiment. Just a statement.
“Look,” Dean said. “It’s just not for me, I guess. I’m sorry I wasted your time. You want me to ask to transfer to a different course or something?”
Novak smiled, then, that small twitch of his lips that Dean couldn’t get enough of, no matter how often he saw it.
“Not at all, Mr. Winchester. I was merely curious as to why you had chosen this course if you didn’t like poetry. Was it, perhaps, to meet girls?”
Dean gaped at him, feeling his face flush. Fuck. Novak’s smile grew a little at his embarrassment, but it wasn’t an unkind smile; it was a knowing one, an amused one.
“I would think that you would have no problems in that respect.”
Dean flushed even harder, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Novak had pretty much just told him he was hot. The professor looked like he’d just realized something similar, because his ears turned red and he continued talking in a flustered tone that Dean couldn’t help but think was kind of cute.
“What I meant to say is, that’s not an uncommon reason for students to pick this course. That, or they think it’ll be an easy A. More often than not, those students leave after a few days, but you seem to be the stubborn type.” Novak gave Dean another smile, this one nothing short of teasing, and Dean was stunned by it.
“I... Yeah, so I’ve been told,” he stammered, replaying that teasing smile over and over again in his mind. Damn, this was turning into a crush pretty quick, wasn’t it? “I mean... Yeah, I’m probably too stubborn for my own good,” he went on for no apparent reason. There was just something about the professor seeming so interested in everything he had to say. “Like, for example, I should have kicked my roommate out months ago, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.”
Novak raised his eyebrows, prompting Dean to go on. It should have been weird, sitting there and discussing his roommate with his professor, but it wasn’t. Dean felt strangely at ease, spilling the whole story of how Victor brought home a new chick every night and they’d be way too loud, and how Dean played Led Zeppelin as loud as he could just to drown them out so he could get some studying done.
He blushed when he realized that he was talking about Victor’s sexual habits with Professor Novak, but the guy just leaned forward like he’d found something particularly interesting, and asked:
“Led Zeppelin?”
Dean blinked. That was what he’d gotten out of that story? OK, well, that was good.
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite bands. Why? You like ‘em?”
Castiel smiled again, and Dean was a little too caught up in it to realize just how much the professor had been smiling in the last ten minutes.
“I do, yes, but that wasn’t my point. What, exactly, is it you like about them? The melody, the lyrics, what?” Novak asked.
“Um,” Dean said, trying to figure out just why this was important even as he thought about his answer. “All of it, I guess, but take Houses of the Holy, for example. The lyrics are just so awesome that I kind of wish I’d come up with them.”
“Let me take you to the movies. Can I take you to the show?
Let me be yours ever truly. Can I make your garden grow?
From the houses of the holy, we can watch the white doves go;
From the door comes Satan's daughter, and it only goes to show. You know. “
Novak recited the lyrics like a poem, like he was tasting the words, leaving Dean a little breathless.
“Whoa,” he said, deciding that his lack of eloquent speech could be excused by the fact that Professor Novak knew the words to Houses of the Holy by heart. Could this guy be any more awesome?
“So you don’t like poetry, Mr. Winchester? What exactly would you call song lyrics, if not poetry?”
Dean just gaped at him, and Novak smiled.
It took a few weeks, but Poetry Studies grew on Dean after that. The “woe is me”s still kind of made him grind his teeth sometimes, but he could appreciate the feelings behind the words more, could see just how a poem could be beautiful if you just read it right. How many of his favorite songs could be seen as poems in their own right.
It wasn’t long before he wrote his first song lyrics.
“So...” Dean said uncomfortably, scratching at his neck. There was so much to say, but nothing was coming to mind now that he was face to face with the guy. “So, you work at Stanford now, huh?” he asked at last, desperate not to sound like a total idiot. His brain informed him that he had failed miserably.
“Yes,” Novak answered, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets and looking just as uncomfortable as Dean felt. “I moved here after... I moved here a few years ago.”
Dean winced as his memories started to surface. He forced them back and looked Novak in the face, only to be reminded of a time when he’d called him Cas and gotten away with it. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
“So, why are you here?” Novak asked, his voice strained. “Someone you know graduating?”
As it must have been pretty obvious that Dean knew Sam, what with the way he’d just been bodily attacked by him, Dean couldn’t help but wonder what exactly Novak was trying not to think about.
Probably the exact same things as Dean.
“Yeah, my brother,” Dean said.
“Sam.” Novak nodded.
So he remembered? Dean couldn’t help but feel pleased at that.
“Dean! C’mon!” Sam shouted, interrupting the new silence between them.
“Yeah, I’m coming!” Dean shouted back, turning back just in time to see the flash of disappointment on Novak’s face. It made Dean want to fix things in any way possible, and he was speaking again before he’d thought it through. “Listen, we’re heading over to Sam’s girlfriend’s place for some sort of social gathering where I’ll feel awkward and weird, wanna join?”
It was probably the worst party invitation in the history of ever, but Novak smiled a tentative smile and Dean was glad to see that he could still get him to do that. Then he frowned, like he’d just thought of something.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Winchester, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate to go to one of the student’s parties, even if I did not personally teach him.”
Dean’s stomach dropped, and yeah, there was the guilt he’d been looking for earlier. Fuck.
“Yeah, no, I understand,” he said, trying to figure out how to get out of there as fast as possible without having to talk to Sam or anyone else ever again.
“However,” Novak continued, holding up a hand as Dean began to turn. “I would love to have coffee with you, if that would be alright? Maybe tomorrow?”
There was no way that Dean’s smile could convey just how happy he was at that moment.
Dean never really felt like he fit in at UCLA. Not that he’d ever felt like he much fit in anywhere, but this was a different kind of not fitting in, the kind where he compared himself to everyone else in a pathetic attempt to see if it somehow showed that he came from a family of mechanics and diner waitresses.
His first college year had passed by in a blur of being overwhelmed by the sheer size of the campus and trying to keep up with all his classes, mixed with trying to find friends and refrain from killing his roommate. The second year had been easier as far as school work was concerned; he’d figured out how to handle it. Not to mention he’d gotten rid of the roommate from Hell and moved in with Victor instead.
This was his third year, though, and even though he’d gotten a few close friends, even though he and Victor shared an apartment just off campus and hung out whenever Victor didn’t have a hot date, he still didn’t feel like he fit in.
It was the money issue. When was it ever not about money? Or in Dean’s case, the lack of it.
Mary had started saving for her children’s college educations before she even graduated high school. She’d regretted not being able to get an education herself, and set out to make sure that same thing never happened to her potential kids. When she met John, she met a kindred spirit, and they’d managed to save just enough. It was the only reason Dean was there, at UCLA, getting an education and, hopefully, a wellpaying job at the end of it. It was the only reason Sam could dream big, could talk about saving the world in court as he did.
That was why it hit him so hard. Dean wasn’t usually one to let other people’s words get to him, wasn’t one other people tried to hurt on a regular basis. He wasn’t bullied in high school, he was the rebel. He didn’t just take anyone’s shit; he hit them in the face. The attitude hadn’t changed just because he’d gone to college.
Not this time, though.
He wasn’t even doing anything special, just standing outside the library, trying to decide if he wanted to study there or go home and probably be forced to listen to Victor have sex with some random girl again. He was leaning towards the library option when someone bumped into him from behind.
“Watch it, dickhead,” the guy said, and Dean turned around just in time to see some prettyboy with slicked hair and Prada shoes try and straighten out his jacket. He had that superior air about him that never failed to get under Dean’s skin.
“You watch it,” he shot back, frowning at the guy. All he’d been doing was stand there.
The prettyboy seemed to take offence at his talking back, his head immediately jerking up as he glared at Dean in a disdainful way, like Dean was something he’d have to scrape off his shoe.
“Don’t stand in my way, retard. Better yet, don’t breathe my air. Shouldn’t you be off changing the oil in a car or something?”
Without waiting for a reaction, he strode off, not sparing Dean so much as a glance.
It wasn’t much of an insult. Hell, if it had been anything else, Dean might have just clocked the guy and been done with it, but as it was, he just stood there, staring at the spot in the floor where the guy had stood, feeling that sense of not belonging sneak up on him, rearing its ugly head after almost half a semester of not bothering Dean. He’d thought he was done with it.
He was just working his way towards the resentment he knew was waiting behind the hurt when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Winchester? Are you alright?”
It was Professor Novak. Of course it was. Dean tried not to snort at the universe’s sense of humor.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying hard not to notice that the professor’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Of course you are. Still, if you’d like to talk about it, my office is just down the hall?” Not even in his confused, hurt state could Dean pass up on such an offer, and he nodded and followed Novak to a small wooden door with a brass name plate on it. Professor Castiel J. Novak, it said, and Dean idly wondered what the “J” stood for as the professor unlocked the door.
Novak's office was small, made even smaller by the bookshelves lining every available wall. They were filled with everything from The Complete Shakespeare Collection to Justice for All: The Truth About Metallica, and Dean's opinion of the guy rose even higher. He waited awkwardly by the door as Novak sat down behind his desk, this one just as filled with pens and pencils as his classroom desk usually was at the end of a lecture.
“Please sit down, Mr. Winchester,” Novak said politely, and Dean complied, still unsure of just what the professor wanted from him and trying hard to fight down the feelings of outsider and white trash that threatened to overwhelm him.
“Want to tell me what's wrong, Mr. Winchester?” Novak asked, his gaze boring into Dean in a pleasant kind of way, the look on his face curious, caring.
Dean had every intention of brushing it off, pretending everything was fine like he always did. The only one he'd ever told about how he felt was Victor, and he had been unhelpful, to say the least.
Dean loved the guy, but sometimes he was a crappy friend. He had every intention of doing just that, but the look on Novak's face was too open, too friendly to reject, and before he knew it, Dean found himself spilling his guts to a teacher he'd only known for three months.
Novak didn't interrupt, didn't judge, nodding encouragingly when Dean faltered, and when Dean reached the part about they prettyboy, he frowned. It was a relief, to say the least, to be able to talk about it with someone who didn't scoff and tell him it was all in his head.
When Dean fell silent, Novak waited to see if he had something more to say before he gave Dean a small smile and spoke.
“If I could, I'd kick that kid's ass,” he said conversationally, like he was talking about the weather.
Dean almost choked on his own spit.
“What?” he said when he could breathe again.
“That kid, the ‘prettyboy,’ as you called him. I'd kick his ass if it wasn't so frowned upon for a teacher to hit a student.” Still with the conversational tone. Dean had no idea how to react to it, except to growl out his own thoughts on the matter.
“He's a fucking snobbish asshole.”
“Couldn't agree more,” Novak said, nodding. “Did you know I paid my own college tuition by working at my dad's plumbing firm from the time I was old enough to get paid until I graduated? And I'm still paying off my student debts. Probably will be until I die, because let me tell you, poetry professor? Not the most well-paid job in the world.”
Dean grinned at that, feeling better than he had in a long time.
“Plumbing, huh?” he said. “Not a very poetic job.”
Novak smiled at him again, and Dean wished his stomach would stop doing that stupid little flip every time he was on the receiving end of one of Professor Novak's many smiles.
“Oh, I don't know,” Novak said. “I'm sure I could have rhymed ‘pipe wrench’ with something if I’d really tried. And it had its perks. Or it would have had if it ever went the way it does in porn.”
Dean almost choked for the second time in less than ten minutes, looking up to see Novak's eyes twinkling at him like he was holding back a laugh.
“A lot of things would have more perks if life was like porn,” he shot back, and Novak let go, his laugh filling the room. Dean couldn't help the stupid grin that spread across his face at the sound.
Oh yeah. He was in trouble.
The smile Novak gave him when Dean left, after half an hour of idle, nonsensical chatting that managed to lift his mood in a way he hadn’t thought possible, could only be described as fond.
Dean couldn't fight the feeling he had as he smiled back: That had been flirting. It had to have been flirting. Well, that, or Dean was crazy, which was not as impossible as one might think, but it had sure seemed like flirting.
Dean was exhausted. He could vaguely remember being drained after a good day’s work at the garage when he was a teenager, but this was a different kind of tired. This was his brain screaming at him for trying to stuff it full of important names and dates all afternoon. Dean couldn’t say he blamed it; that had been some boring shit he’d tried to learn. Why would he ever need to know the exact date Elizabeth I had been crowned, anyway?
He was walking home, trying to keep out the chill in the California air by pulling his leather jacket tighter around him, when he heard the pitiful sound of an engine refusing to start. Dean had never been able to refuse a machine in need, even after he’d stopped working as a mechanic, and his feet steered him in the direction of the sound before he’d even thought about it.
He was still technically on campus, even if only the professors and other staff ever spent any time there, and he arrived at the staff parking lot just in time to see Novak kick the side of his car in frustration. His hair was even more ruffled than usual, and he looked completely lost as he tried to open the hood of his Ford. The car had seen better days, that was clear, but there was no need to kick the poor thing.
Dean didn’t hesitate for a moment, walking across the empty lot, the sound of his boots on the asphalt almost echoing in the stillness of the evening. It was pretty late, and the only reason Dean was still at school at this hour was the exams looming on the horizon. He just wished some of his required courses weren’t quite so boring.
Novak looked up as he approached, smiling when he saw who it was.
“Mr. Winchester,” he said, looking down at the engine he had managed to expose after only two tries with the hood. “I believe my car has died on me.”
“Yeah, no wonder, Prof, the way you keep kicking her,” Dean teased as he reached the car, taking a place right next to the professor like it was only natural for him to be there. He wondered at how right it felt, but chose to ignore it in favor of saving the car from more abuse.
“So what do you suggest I do, if not kick it, Mr. Winchester?” Novak asked, his eyes twinkling as he watched Dean take in the engine.
“Well, first of all, I suggest you change the spark plug, Sir,” Dean replied, tapping the plug with his nail to indicate where it was and continuing on to lightly graze the fuel pump with the pads of his fingers. Dean had missed this, missed getting his hands dirty, missed trying to figure out how to get a machine to start again.
“Since I don’t have any spares, that might be a problem,” Novak confessed, bending down to take a closer look at what Dean had pointed at. Dean tried not to notice how the professor’s jacket brushed against his own.
“That might be a problem, yes, Sir,” Dean admitted as he continued his exploration of the engine.
“I have a few in my tool box, so if you’re willing to wait for ten minutes, I could go get them,” he said, pulling himself away from the dirt and grease, taking a step back and only just stopping himself from wiping his hands on his jeans.
“If you’re willing, that would be most appreciated,” Novak said. “But I could just call someone if it’s too much trouble.”
Dean waved him off before he’d even finished the sentence.
“I live just off campus, it’s not far. You just wait here, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Novak studied him for a few seconds, like he was searching for something, an odd look in his eyes, before he nodded.
“Alright,” he said, and Dean dumped his bag by the car and turned to walk away, not worrying so much about the look. He was getting to spend some time with Novak outside of school, he wasn’t going to waste it worrying.
Dean had never walked home so fast in his life. Victor stared at him, clearly confused, when he barged into the apartment, pulled his tool box out of the closet, and rummaged around for the spark plugs without so much as a greeting.
“Hot date?” ha asked when Dean leaped up again, two plugs held triumphantly in his hand, and turned to leave again.
Dean shot him a look over his shoulder, noting that his roommate seemed to be alone for once.
Hell, he was even studying, papers and books spread out over the crate that served as their living room table.
“Car date,” he shot back with a grin and left Victor to it, taking great delight in the confused look on his roommate’s face as he locked the door behind him.
Novak was leaning against the hood when Dean got back, his arms folded over his chest as he looked up at the sky like he was trying to see stars. Dean was pretty sure all he could see was smog, or possibly an airplane-this was LA, after all-but that didn’t seem to stop the professor.
When he saw Dean, he gave him a relieved smile, getting out of his way so Dean could pop the hood open again.
Dean had known how to change a spark plug since he was six, so the job itself took less time than his walk had. He wished it could have taken a little longer, trying desperately to come up with an excuse to stay with Novak for just a few more minutes.
He looked up from checking, more thoroughly than he’d ever done before, that the plug was secure to see Novak watching him with an almost torn expression on his face. It made Dean’s stomach clench, and his breath catch in his throat. He didn’t say anything, just looked back at the professor, waiting to see if he’d reach a decision on whatever it was he was thinking about.
“Thank you...Dean,” he said at last, and Dean had to grip the hood hard to hide his reaction to those simple words. To hear his first name spoken in that voice... It was more than Dean had dared dream about.
“You’re welcome, Prof,” he said, closing the hood of the car, not taking his eyes off the professor for even a second.
Novak didn’t say anything, an inscrutable expression on his face as he pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets and walked over to the driver’s side door. He opened it, and Dean’s stomach sunk, even though he knew he would see him again in just few hours. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t this strangely intimate situation he’d somehow found himself in.
Dean was startled when the professor spoke again, hurried, like he wouldn’t dare say the words if he didn’t say them fast.
“Would you like a ride?”
Dean was in the car and strapping on his seat belt before he’d made a conscious decision to do so.
He didn’t remember much from the tooshort drive to his apartment. He did remember the sound of AC/DC softly filtering through the speakers, making his mind boggle with how much he liked Novak, and the way the professor had nodded every time he gave him a direction, like he was committing it to memory. And he certainly remembered what he said as he got out of the car. He wasn’t even sure what made him say it, but he didn’t regret it for a second.
“Good night, Castiel,” he said, and Novak blinked at him, a slow, hesitant smile spreading on his face.
“Good night, Dean,” he answered.
It took Dean hours to fall asleep that night.
Dean wasn’t sure how, but the professor went from “Novak” to “Castiel” to “Cas” in his head in under a week; he had to keep his guard up at all times to keep himself from saying it out loud.
Every time he talked to Pam about him-and pathetically enough, he did that a lot-he had to force his mouth to form the words “Professor Novak” instead of “Cas.” It was weird, and inconvenient, and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.
It wasn’t just the nickname, though. Dean would spend his free time coming up with excuses to stay after class-questions about papers, about poems, about lyrics. Dean even played Cas a few songs to get his opinion on the words, and Cas gave Dean Metallica: The complete lyrics one afternoon, pushing it across the desk without looking Dean in the eye. Dean flushed so hard he was sure even his chest was red as he stammered out his thanks.
“I know you like them,” Cas said, still not looking Dean in the eye. “And I thought... I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will,” Dean said, clutching at the book.
“It has all of their songs, even the demo ones from ‘82,” Cas continued. “Personally, I think Enter Sandman has some really good lines.”
Suddenly, Dean was more excited than embarrassed.
“Me too! They’re what inspired me to start writing! I was listening to that song, and then suddenly all these words popped into my head and I just had to write them down.”
“You wrote a song?” Cas asked, his eyes finally meeting Dean’s.
Dean scratched at his neck, uncomfortable about admitting it.
“Yeah, I did. It’s probably crap, but I liked writing it. I would never have even thought of it without you hitting me over the head about lyrics, though,” he admitted.
“I would love to read it, if you don’t mind,” Cas said, and Dean swallowed. He’d never realized before how personal and terrifying it could be to show someone else something you had written.
He regretted all the times he’d scoffed at lyrics or poems just because he’d had nothing better to do. How did the professionals put up with it?
“You don’t have to, Dean, I was just curious,” Cas said. He didn’t seem to realize that he’d used Dean’s fist name again. It was what made the decision for Dean.
“Yeah, OK,” he said, pulling his notebook out of his bag. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Of course, Dean,” Cas said, gently accepting the notebook when Dean had found the right page. It was weird how fast Dean had gotten used to his first name being spoken by the professor like it was no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t.
Dean squirmed in his seat as he watched Cas read, watched the small furrow between his eyes deepen and wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing. His palms were sweaty, and he wondered how the hell he could face down the rage of a burly trucker whose engine was beyond saving without flinching, but someone reading his lyrics made him nervous. God, he felt exposed.
Finally, Cas looked up, and Dean’s stomach lurched.
“This is really good, Dean. Really good. Do you have any more? I’d love to read them.”
“Yeah?” Dean said, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “You’re not just saying that because you’re my professor?”
Dean flinched a little-he didn’t want to remind Cas of just what he was-but Cas just shook his head and smiled at him.
“No, Dean, this is really good. I promise. You should keep writing. Do you know what kind of music you’d want to go with them?”
“Yeah, I have an old guitar at home-it’s Victor’s-so I tried a few notes out on it. It’s still really rough, and I can’t sing worth shit, but I have a vague plan for it.”
“If you ever... No, never mind,” Cas said, suddenly shoving the notebook back to Dean and getting up from the desk.
“What?” Dean asked, confused by the sudden mood change. Cas didn’t answer, throwing all the pens and pencils on his desk down into his beat up old briefcase. “Cas, what?” Dean asked again, not even registering that he’d said the name out loud until the professor’s head snapped up and he looked at Dean in that way that made Dean squirm in his seat for completely different reasons.
“What did you just call me?” Cas asked, and Dean was even more confused at the pain in his voice.
“Cas,” he answered, a lump forming in his throat. What if he’d destroyed it all, destroyed whatever friendshipthing they had been building, just with one simple slip of the tongue? “I called you Cas.”
Cas stared at Dean, his face unreadable again, and Dean wished he knew what was going on inside his head.
“Oh,” he said at last. He seemed to collect himself, drew a hand through his hair like he always did when he was flustered or nervous, and gave Dean a smile that seemed more forced than genuine.
“Cas. I see. Listen, Dean, I have to go, I have a meeting, but if you’d be OK with it, I’d love to read more of your songs.”
And with that, he was out the door, leaving Dean standing there, thoroughly confused. The lump in his throat didn’t want to go away, no matter how much he swallowed, and he couldn’t help but feel that he’d somehow screwed it all up. Sure, the professor had said he wanted to read more of Dean’s lyrics, but he’d said it while he was running out the door, like he had to get away from Dean.
Dean had no idea how to handle it, so he called Pam. If nothing else, Pam could tell him he was an idiot for overanalyzing, and Dean sure as hell needed that right now.
Part 2
Title: Stop All the Clocks (part 1 of 2)
Author: wolfrider89
Recipient: writingpathways
Rating: PG13
Warnings: offscreen minor character death, teacher/student kiss, poetry, slight partnerbetrayal by main character(kissing), offscreen partner betrayal, angst , schmoop, language,
Spoilers: None
Summary: The plan was fool proof: take Poetry Studies, meet chicks, the end. Dean was quite confident about it until Professor Castiel Novak walked into the lecture hall and opened his mouth. Who knew one course could change so much?
Author notes: This was written for the prompt ”Dean is taking Poetry (to meet chicks/but he is bisexual) instead he meets his Professor Castiel Novak.” There is a happy ending, I promise! I tried to fit as much awesome!Sam in there as I could, and even some John and Mary. I really hope you like it!
Title from Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone by W.H. Auden, because it's my
favorite poem ever.
The auditorium was packed. Packed, and hot. Dean wasn’t a huge fan of being forced into other people’s personal space even when those people didn’t smell of sweat, but he forced himself to endure. This was a big day for Sam, after all, and he’d be damned if he let a little discomfort get his mood down.
He could only just see his mom a little further ahead, her white summer dress probably much more comfortable than his jeans and black tshirt. His dad was standing right next to her; they had somehow managed not to be separated when the crowd had been allowed into the room, stampeding like a herd of cattle, but Dean hadn’t been so lucky. He sighed when he felt sweat run down his back. Why the hell couldn’t they have a working AC in a place like this?
The guy next to him made an awkward shuffling motion, bumping into Dean. Normally, Dean would have pushed right back, but he bit down and decided that it was time for a little bit of internal lyric reciting. If he hadn’t been in the middle of a crowd, he would have hummed.
With no consideration, Led Zeppelin popped into his head.
Let me take you to the movies. Can I take you to the show?
Followed closely by other words, words from a long time ago. So you don’t like poetry, Mr. Winchester? What exactly would you call song lyrics, if not poetry?
Dean smiled at the memory; those words had changed everything.
Sam had raised his eyebrows in that typical Samway he had when Dean had admitted to signing up for a poetry course this semester. Dean had told him to shut up and pass him the wrench, even though Sam hadn’t actually said anything. Sam, being Sam, had passed him the wrong wrench, but Dean had just rolled his eyes and made him give him the right one. Sometimes, he wondered just how Sam could be so damn smart and still not know the difference between a socket wrench and a Torx wrench. Maybe it was a rebellion thing?
Dean hadn’t admitted it then, not to his sometimes insufferable, always overanalyzing 16year old brother, but his plan was to meet chicks. Sam would just scoff at him; Sam had, apparently, not yet grasped the merits of meeting chicks. Or maybe Sam was gay. That could be it. Dean had yet to see him even talk to a chick. Of course, he hadn’t seen him actually talk to any guys in that manner, either, so maybe Sam just didn’t have any game.
Pity. But not the point.
The point was that Dean had had a plan when he picked the subject, and it was not to read a 500page book full of words he couldn’t even pronounce. Which was apparently what the stupid professor expected him to do before they’d even had a single class. It would be a miracle if he got through even ten pages; every time he read words like “hath” or “thee,” he felt like throwing the book against the wall of his cramped apartment’s living room.
Maybe his plan hadn’t been so great after all.
Dean was lurking in the back of the small lecture hall, trying to scope out the female population, the first time he saw Castiel Novak. Staying as far away as possible from whatever kooky professor they’d been assigned, he’d slumped down in his seat, just like he used to do in high school whenever the teachers went on a “make the students participate” crusade-knees poking out on the other side of the table, ass almost off the seat, shoulders propped against the back of the chair-while his eyes roamed around the room, taking in his classmates.
The blonde in the second row was cute, but she seemed snarky as hell from what small bits of conversation Dean could hear. The brunette right in front of Dean had tattoos and the kind of leather pants that left very little to the imagination, but Dean couldn’t help but spot the Jesse forever tattoo at the small of her back. Probably taken, then.
And then this guy walked in. He was wearing one of those cheap suits that only office workers and underpaid teachers ever wore, his tie loosened like he couldn’t stand to have it neatly tied, hisshoes way too shiny for someone otherwise so scruffylooking. And his hair. Dean was kind of fascinated by his hair. It seemed out of place on such a nerdy dude, all tousled and windswept.
It was about then that he realized that this was their professor. He was pretty young to be a professor, probably not more than five years older than Dean himself, and when he pulled out his chair and sat down, Dean couldn’t help but notice the nervous way he pulled his hand through his hair. It made him feel bad for the guy for a second, until he spoke.
“My name is Castiel Novak,” he said, and Dean was lost. That voice. “And this is Poetry Studies.”
Dean watched student after student walk up to the podium, receive their diplomas, and walk off again. Sometimes, he really wished their family name didn’t start with a W. At least then he could have snuck out after Sam had gotten his scrap of paper. As it was, though, he forced himself to stand still and breathe in the smell of sweat and cheap perfume coming from all around him, entertaining himself coming up with ridiculous little tunes to fit the people surrounding him.
The guy to his left, the one who had bumped into him, got something that sounded like a commercial jingle about how he’d never try to go without deodorant again. Dean was quite proud of it in all its ridiculous glory; he wished he’d brought his notebook so he could write the words down.
The lady right in front of him got a sad little song about how all her children had left her, and how her husband was cheating on her with the postman. Dean felt kind of bad for her after that, even though he knew he’d just made it up, and took a tiny step backwards to give her some more space.
The little girl on his right giggled as he bumped into her, her big smile toothless and happy, and for that he made up a song about a pony for her, even if she’d never get to hear it. Maybe he’d sing it to the kids in his class when he got home, they never complained about him being out of tune.
Then, finally, the guy at the podium called out “Winchester, Samuel,” and Dean snapped out of it to cheer for his brother. Sam had on his geekiest, happiest smile, and Dean was pretty sure he would have been bouncing around if the cap and gown had allowed it. He accepted the scroll, waved at Dean and their parents, and left the stage again. Back to waiting.
Except... Dean tried to focus on the people to the left of the stage. He’d thought he’d seen someone familiar. He craned his neck just as someone in front of him shifted, and there he was. Professor Castiel Novak. He didn’t look a day older than the last time Dean had last seen him. He was still too young to really be taken seriously at first glance, his hair was still a mess, and he was even wearing one of those cheap suits, looking uncomfortable in the heat.
Dean waited for the pang of regret he’d expected to feel if he ever saw the man again, maybe mixed with a large dose of guilt and a bit of resentment, but all he felt was that old, familiar tug of longing. That, and happiness to see that he was alright. He was relieved to realize that the years between then and now had erased the guilt, leaving only the good things behind. He hoped the same went for the professor.
The dude’s voice might have been pleasant enough, but it only took one lecture for Dean to hate the subject more than he’d ever thought he would. It was Shakespeare this, and Lord Byron that, and hexameters and free verses all over the place. Dean had no idea what Novak was talking about, and he suspected he should have finished that damn book if he wanted a hope in hell of passing this course.
It wasn’t made any easier by the fact that the professor was damn hot. Dean may have picked the course because he wanted to meet chicks, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate a hot dude when he saw one, and this guy? This guy sure as hell fell into that category.
So he spent that first class subtly checking the guy out while he pretended to take notes, listening to his voice and trying not to show just how attracted he was. He was probably not the first student to ever find this particular professor hot as hell, and he had no intention of making him aware of his unfortunate attention. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and trying to hit on a professor?
Not even Dean was that stupid, no matter what Sam might say.
“That’s it for today, class. Don’t forget, next time I’ll be putting you in smaller groups to analyze one of the poems I mentioned,” Professor Novak said, and Dean snapped out of his day dreaming.
Shit. He had no idea what poems the professor was talking about, let alone how they were supposed to analyze them. It was only his first week and he was already so beyond fucked.
Dean didn’t know how he made it through the crowd of loud, overexcited people all trying to get to the exit first, but suddenly, he found himself by the podium, staring at the little group of teachers who had gathered to wait for the families and friends to leave the auditorium. There he was.
Should Dean speak to him? Should he just leave? What, exactly, could he say to the guy after all these years?
“Dean!” Sam yelled from somewhere to his right, and Dean saw Novak’s head snap up at the name. He turned around, and their eyes met.
Dean watched him frown, watched recognition light up his face, saw it turn to some emotion he couldn’t identify. He offered a tentative smile, still unsure if he should approach or not. That in and of itself was a sign of just how rattled he was. Dean had never been the hesitant sort.
The decision was made for him by someone large and excited slamming into him from behind.
“Dean,” Sam almost yelled in his ear, and Dean couldn’t help but grin at his goofy little brother.
“Dean, what are you doing over here? Mom and Dad are out getting the car, and then we’re going to Jess’s parents’ place.”
Dean looked back over to where Novak was still standing, indecision clear on his face, and knew that he’d regret it forever if he didn’t talk to the guy now.
“Yeah, Sammy, I’m coming. I just... I gotta say hello to this guy, OK?”
Sam seemed taken aback for a second, looking between Novak and Dean before he nodded.
“Sure, Dean. I’ll be over there,” he said, waving vaguely towards a group of students.
Dean was walking over to Novak before he could change his mind, breath catching in his lungs when Novak came to meet him halfway.
“Mr. Winchester,” he said. His voice hadn’t changed a bit. Dean suppressed a shiver at the memories it awakened and tried for another smile.
“Hey, Prof,” he said, thankful that his voice kept steady. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Yes, it is a...lucky coincidence, indeed,” Novak said, his eyes never leaving Dean’s, his hand twitching at his side like he was stopping it from moving.
Dean suddenly had the urge to hug him, like he would a friend who he hadn’t seen in a long time.
But with Novak, it was...complicated. He wasn’t sure “friend” was the right category to put him in.
Wasn’t sure it ever had been.
“Mr. Winchester, a word?”
Dean stifled a groan and waited for the other students to file out of the classroom. Pam shot him a sympathetic look as she got up to leave, her metal chains clicking against each other. If nothing else, this class had given him a new friend, so even if this was Professor Novak telling him to stop wasting everyone’s time and get the fuck out, there was that. That’s right, stay positive, he told himself as he waited for Andy and Chuck to leave the room before he grabbed his things.
“Professor?” Dean asked, walking over to his desk. It was littered with poetry books, some random pieces of paper, and too many pens for Dean to count. Why did this guy need so many pens, anyway?
“Have a seat, Mr. Winchester,” Novak said, leaning back in his chair to look up at Dean steadily.
Over the last few weeks, Dean had started to dread that gaze. Well, “dread” might not be the right word. He feared it, sure, but only because he felt like the professor could see right into his head, could see just what he’d been thinking. It wasn’t just about that, though. Every time he looked at Dean, Dean felt heat pool in his belly, and that was just awkward. Hot, but awkward.
He had this theory that people thought Novak was too young to be a professor right up until he stared at them, and then they shut the fuck up and gave him whatever he wanted.
Dean sat down on the opposite side of the desk, pulling his bag into his lap both to have something to hold on to and to hide just what the professor did to him.
“Mr. Winchester,” Novak began, leaning forward in his chair. “You don’t want to be here, do you?”
“I... What?” Dean said.
“You didn’t pick this course because you enjoy poetry, or because you want to learn more about it, did you?”
His gaze sharpened even more, and Dean squirmed, trying to come up with anything but the truth.
It was pointless, though, and Dean sighed.
“No, Professor, I didn’t,” he admitted. “I don’t even like poetry.”
Fuck. Students aren’t supposed to tell professors that, right? Could people get kicked out of courses? And here Dean had thought he’d learned to keep his mouth shut.
Professor Novak just nodded, though, running a hand through his hair absentmindedly as he studied Dean.
“I see,” he said, and Dean cringed even if there was no judgment in his voice, no sentiment. Just a statement.
“Look,” Dean said. “It’s just not for me, I guess. I’m sorry I wasted your time. You want me to ask to transfer to a different course or something?”
Novak smiled, then, that small twitch of his lips that Dean couldn’t get enough of, no matter how often he saw it.
“Not at all, Mr. Winchester. I was merely curious as to why you had chosen this course if you didn’t like poetry. Was it, perhaps, to meet girls?”
Dean gaped at him, feeling his face flush. Fuck. Novak’s smile grew a little at his embarrassment, but it wasn’t an unkind smile; it was a knowing one, an amused one.
“I would think that you would have no problems in that respect.”
Dean flushed even harder, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Novak had pretty much just told him he was hot. The professor looked like he’d just realized something similar, because his ears turned red and he continued talking in a flustered tone that Dean couldn’t help but think was kind of cute.
“What I meant to say is, that’s not an uncommon reason for students to pick this course. That, or they think it’ll be an easy A. More often than not, those students leave after a few days, but you seem to be the stubborn type.” Novak gave Dean another smile, this one nothing short of teasing, and Dean was stunned by it.
“I... Yeah, so I’ve been told,” he stammered, replaying that teasing smile over and over again in his mind. Damn, this was turning into a crush pretty quick, wasn’t it? “I mean... Yeah, I’m probably too stubborn for my own good,” he went on for no apparent reason. There was just something about the professor seeming so interested in everything he had to say. “Like, for example, I should have kicked my roommate out months ago, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.”
Novak raised his eyebrows, prompting Dean to go on. It should have been weird, sitting there and discussing his roommate with his professor, but it wasn’t. Dean felt strangely at ease, spilling the whole story of how Victor brought home a new chick every night and they’d be way too loud, and how Dean played Led Zeppelin as loud as he could just to drown them out so he could get some studying done.
He blushed when he realized that he was talking about Victor’s sexual habits with Professor Novak, but the guy just leaned forward like he’d found something particularly interesting, and asked:
“Led Zeppelin?”
Dean blinked. That was what he’d gotten out of that story? OK, well, that was good.
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite bands. Why? You like ‘em?”
Castiel smiled again, and Dean was a little too caught up in it to realize just how much the professor had been smiling in the last ten minutes.
“I do, yes, but that wasn’t my point. What, exactly, is it you like about them? The melody, the lyrics, what?” Novak asked.
“Um,” Dean said, trying to figure out just why this was important even as he thought about his answer. “All of it, I guess, but take Houses of the Holy, for example. The lyrics are just so awesome that I kind of wish I’d come up with them.”
“Let me take you to the movies. Can I take you to the show?
Let me be yours ever truly. Can I make your garden grow?
From the houses of the holy, we can watch the white doves go;
From the door comes Satan's daughter, and it only goes to show. You know. “
Novak recited the lyrics like a poem, like he was tasting the words, leaving Dean a little breathless.
“Whoa,” he said, deciding that his lack of eloquent speech could be excused by the fact that Professor Novak knew the words to Houses of the Holy by heart. Could this guy be any more awesome?
“So you don’t like poetry, Mr. Winchester? What exactly would you call song lyrics, if not poetry?”
Dean just gaped at him, and Novak smiled.
It took a few weeks, but Poetry Studies grew on Dean after that. The “woe is me”s still kind of made him grind his teeth sometimes, but he could appreciate the feelings behind the words more, could see just how a poem could be beautiful if you just read it right. How many of his favorite songs could be seen as poems in their own right.
It wasn’t long before he wrote his first song lyrics.
“So...” Dean said uncomfortably, scratching at his neck. There was so much to say, but nothing was coming to mind now that he was face to face with the guy. “So, you work at Stanford now, huh?” he asked at last, desperate not to sound like a total idiot. His brain informed him that he had failed miserably.
“Yes,” Novak answered, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets and looking just as uncomfortable as Dean felt. “I moved here after... I moved here a few years ago.”
Dean winced as his memories started to surface. He forced them back and looked Novak in the face, only to be reminded of a time when he’d called him Cas and gotten away with it. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea.
“So, why are you here?” Novak asked, his voice strained. “Someone you know graduating?”
As it must have been pretty obvious that Dean knew Sam, what with the way he’d just been bodily attacked by him, Dean couldn’t help but wonder what exactly Novak was trying not to think about.
Probably the exact same things as Dean.
“Yeah, my brother,” Dean said.
“Sam.” Novak nodded.
So he remembered? Dean couldn’t help but feel pleased at that.
“Dean! C’mon!” Sam shouted, interrupting the new silence between them.
“Yeah, I’m coming!” Dean shouted back, turning back just in time to see the flash of disappointment on Novak’s face. It made Dean want to fix things in any way possible, and he was speaking again before he’d thought it through. “Listen, we’re heading over to Sam’s girlfriend’s place for some sort of social gathering where I’ll feel awkward and weird, wanna join?”
It was probably the worst party invitation in the history of ever, but Novak smiled a tentative smile and Dean was glad to see that he could still get him to do that. Then he frowned, like he’d just thought of something.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Winchester, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be appropriate to go to one of the student’s parties, even if I did not personally teach him.”
Dean’s stomach dropped, and yeah, there was the guilt he’d been looking for earlier. Fuck.
“Yeah, no, I understand,” he said, trying to figure out how to get out of there as fast as possible without having to talk to Sam or anyone else ever again.
“However,” Novak continued, holding up a hand as Dean began to turn. “I would love to have coffee with you, if that would be alright? Maybe tomorrow?”
There was no way that Dean’s smile could convey just how happy he was at that moment.
Dean never really felt like he fit in at UCLA. Not that he’d ever felt like he much fit in anywhere, but this was a different kind of not fitting in, the kind where he compared himself to everyone else in a pathetic attempt to see if it somehow showed that he came from a family of mechanics and diner waitresses.
His first college year had passed by in a blur of being overwhelmed by the sheer size of the campus and trying to keep up with all his classes, mixed with trying to find friends and refrain from killing his roommate. The second year had been easier as far as school work was concerned; he’d figured out how to handle it. Not to mention he’d gotten rid of the roommate from Hell and moved in with Victor instead.
This was his third year, though, and even though he’d gotten a few close friends, even though he and Victor shared an apartment just off campus and hung out whenever Victor didn’t have a hot date, he still didn’t feel like he fit in.
It was the money issue. When was it ever not about money? Or in Dean’s case, the lack of it.
Mary had started saving for her children’s college educations before she even graduated high school. She’d regretted not being able to get an education herself, and set out to make sure that same thing never happened to her potential kids. When she met John, she met a kindred spirit, and they’d managed to save just enough. It was the only reason Dean was there, at UCLA, getting an education and, hopefully, a wellpaying job at the end of it. It was the only reason Sam could dream big, could talk about saving the world in court as he did.
That was why it hit him so hard. Dean wasn’t usually one to let other people’s words get to him, wasn’t one other people tried to hurt on a regular basis. He wasn’t bullied in high school, he was the rebel. He didn’t just take anyone’s shit; he hit them in the face. The attitude hadn’t changed just because he’d gone to college.
Not this time, though.
He wasn’t even doing anything special, just standing outside the library, trying to decide if he wanted to study there or go home and probably be forced to listen to Victor have sex with some random girl again. He was leaning towards the library option when someone bumped into him from behind.
“Watch it, dickhead,” the guy said, and Dean turned around just in time to see some prettyboy with slicked hair and Prada shoes try and straighten out his jacket. He had that superior air about him that never failed to get under Dean’s skin.
“You watch it,” he shot back, frowning at the guy. All he’d been doing was stand there.
The prettyboy seemed to take offence at his talking back, his head immediately jerking up as he glared at Dean in a disdainful way, like Dean was something he’d have to scrape off his shoe.
“Don’t stand in my way, retard. Better yet, don’t breathe my air. Shouldn’t you be off changing the oil in a car or something?”
Without waiting for a reaction, he strode off, not sparing Dean so much as a glance.
It wasn’t much of an insult. Hell, if it had been anything else, Dean might have just clocked the guy and been done with it, but as it was, he just stood there, staring at the spot in the floor where the guy had stood, feeling that sense of not belonging sneak up on him, rearing its ugly head after almost half a semester of not bothering Dean. He’d thought he was done with it.
He was just working his way towards the resentment he knew was waiting behind the hurt when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Mr. Winchester? Are you alright?”
It was Professor Novak. Of course it was. Dean tried not to snort at the universe’s sense of humor.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled, trying hard not to notice that the professor’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Of course you are. Still, if you’d like to talk about it, my office is just down the hall?” Not even in his confused, hurt state could Dean pass up on such an offer, and he nodded and followed Novak to a small wooden door with a brass name plate on it. Professor Castiel J. Novak, it said, and Dean idly wondered what the “J” stood for as the professor unlocked the door.
Novak's office was small, made even smaller by the bookshelves lining every available wall. They were filled with everything from The Complete Shakespeare Collection to Justice for All: The Truth About Metallica, and Dean's opinion of the guy rose even higher. He waited awkwardly by the door as Novak sat down behind his desk, this one just as filled with pens and pencils as his classroom desk usually was at the end of a lecture.
“Please sit down, Mr. Winchester,” Novak said politely, and Dean complied, still unsure of just what the professor wanted from him and trying hard to fight down the feelings of outsider and white trash that threatened to overwhelm him.
“Want to tell me what's wrong, Mr. Winchester?” Novak asked, his gaze boring into Dean in a pleasant kind of way, the look on his face curious, caring.
Dean had every intention of brushing it off, pretending everything was fine like he always did. The only one he'd ever told about how he felt was Victor, and he had been unhelpful, to say the least.
Dean loved the guy, but sometimes he was a crappy friend. He had every intention of doing just that, but the look on Novak's face was too open, too friendly to reject, and before he knew it, Dean found himself spilling his guts to a teacher he'd only known for three months.
Novak didn't interrupt, didn't judge, nodding encouragingly when Dean faltered, and when Dean reached the part about they prettyboy, he frowned. It was a relief, to say the least, to be able to talk about it with someone who didn't scoff and tell him it was all in his head.
When Dean fell silent, Novak waited to see if he had something more to say before he gave Dean a small smile and spoke.
“If I could, I'd kick that kid's ass,” he said conversationally, like he was talking about the weather.
Dean almost choked on his own spit.
“What?” he said when he could breathe again.
“That kid, the ‘prettyboy,’ as you called him. I'd kick his ass if it wasn't so frowned upon for a teacher to hit a student.” Still with the conversational tone. Dean had no idea how to react to it, except to growl out his own thoughts on the matter.
“He's a fucking snobbish asshole.”
“Couldn't agree more,” Novak said, nodding. “Did you know I paid my own college tuition by working at my dad's plumbing firm from the time I was old enough to get paid until I graduated? And I'm still paying off my student debts. Probably will be until I die, because let me tell you, poetry professor? Not the most well-paid job in the world.”
Dean grinned at that, feeling better than he had in a long time.
“Plumbing, huh?” he said. “Not a very poetic job.”
Novak smiled at him again, and Dean wished his stomach would stop doing that stupid little flip every time he was on the receiving end of one of Professor Novak's many smiles.
“Oh, I don't know,” Novak said. “I'm sure I could have rhymed ‘pipe wrench’ with something if I’d really tried. And it had its perks. Or it would have had if it ever went the way it does in porn.”
Dean almost choked for the second time in less than ten minutes, looking up to see Novak's eyes twinkling at him like he was holding back a laugh.
“A lot of things would have more perks if life was like porn,” he shot back, and Novak let go, his laugh filling the room. Dean couldn't help the stupid grin that spread across his face at the sound.
Oh yeah. He was in trouble.
The smile Novak gave him when Dean left, after half an hour of idle, nonsensical chatting that managed to lift his mood in a way he hadn’t thought possible, could only be described as fond.
Dean couldn't fight the feeling he had as he smiled back: That had been flirting. It had to have been flirting. Well, that, or Dean was crazy, which was not as impossible as one might think, but it had sure seemed like flirting.
Dean was exhausted. He could vaguely remember being drained after a good day’s work at the garage when he was a teenager, but this was a different kind of tired. This was his brain screaming at him for trying to stuff it full of important names and dates all afternoon. Dean couldn’t say he blamed it; that had been some boring shit he’d tried to learn. Why would he ever need to know the exact date Elizabeth I had been crowned, anyway?
He was walking home, trying to keep out the chill in the California air by pulling his leather jacket tighter around him, when he heard the pitiful sound of an engine refusing to start. Dean had never been able to refuse a machine in need, even after he’d stopped working as a mechanic, and his feet steered him in the direction of the sound before he’d even thought about it.
He was still technically on campus, even if only the professors and other staff ever spent any time there, and he arrived at the staff parking lot just in time to see Novak kick the side of his car in frustration. His hair was even more ruffled than usual, and he looked completely lost as he tried to open the hood of his Ford. The car had seen better days, that was clear, but there was no need to kick the poor thing.
Dean didn’t hesitate for a moment, walking across the empty lot, the sound of his boots on the asphalt almost echoing in the stillness of the evening. It was pretty late, and the only reason Dean was still at school at this hour was the exams looming on the horizon. He just wished some of his required courses weren’t quite so boring.
Novak looked up as he approached, smiling when he saw who it was.
“Mr. Winchester,” he said, looking down at the engine he had managed to expose after only two tries with the hood. “I believe my car has died on me.”
“Yeah, no wonder, Prof, the way you keep kicking her,” Dean teased as he reached the car, taking a place right next to the professor like it was only natural for him to be there. He wondered at how right it felt, but chose to ignore it in favor of saving the car from more abuse.
“So what do you suggest I do, if not kick it, Mr. Winchester?” Novak asked, his eyes twinkling as he watched Dean take in the engine.
“Well, first of all, I suggest you change the spark plug, Sir,” Dean replied, tapping the plug with his nail to indicate where it was and continuing on to lightly graze the fuel pump with the pads of his fingers. Dean had missed this, missed getting his hands dirty, missed trying to figure out how to get a machine to start again.
“Since I don’t have any spares, that might be a problem,” Novak confessed, bending down to take a closer look at what Dean had pointed at. Dean tried not to notice how the professor’s jacket brushed against his own.
“That might be a problem, yes, Sir,” Dean admitted as he continued his exploration of the engine.
“I have a few in my tool box, so if you’re willing to wait for ten minutes, I could go get them,” he said, pulling himself away from the dirt and grease, taking a step back and only just stopping himself from wiping his hands on his jeans.
“If you’re willing, that would be most appreciated,” Novak said. “But I could just call someone if it’s too much trouble.”
Dean waved him off before he’d even finished the sentence.
“I live just off campus, it’s not far. You just wait here, I’ll be back before you know it.”
Novak studied him for a few seconds, like he was searching for something, an odd look in his eyes, before he nodded.
“Alright,” he said, and Dean dumped his bag by the car and turned to walk away, not worrying so much about the look. He was getting to spend some time with Novak outside of school, he wasn’t going to waste it worrying.
Dean had never walked home so fast in his life. Victor stared at him, clearly confused, when he barged into the apartment, pulled his tool box out of the closet, and rummaged around for the spark plugs without so much as a greeting.
“Hot date?” ha asked when Dean leaped up again, two plugs held triumphantly in his hand, and turned to leave again.
Dean shot him a look over his shoulder, noting that his roommate seemed to be alone for once.
Hell, he was even studying, papers and books spread out over the crate that served as their living room table.
“Car date,” he shot back with a grin and left Victor to it, taking great delight in the confused look on his roommate’s face as he locked the door behind him.
Novak was leaning against the hood when Dean got back, his arms folded over his chest as he looked up at the sky like he was trying to see stars. Dean was pretty sure all he could see was smog, or possibly an airplane-this was LA, after all-but that didn’t seem to stop the professor.
When he saw Dean, he gave him a relieved smile, getting out of his way so Dean could pop the hood open again.
Dean had known how to change a spark plug since he was six, so the job itself took less time than his walk had. He wished it could have taken a little longer, trying desperately to come up with an excuse to stay with Novak for just a few more minutes.
He looked up from checking, more thoroughly than he’d ever done before, that the plug was secure to see Novak watching him with an almost torn expression on his face. It made Dean’s stomach clench, and his breath catch in his throat. He didn’t say anything, just looked back at the professor, waiting to see if he’d reach a decision on whatever it was he was thinking about.
“Thank you...Dean,” he said at last, and Dean had to grip the hood hard to hide his reaction to those simple words. To hear his first name spoken in that voice... It was more than Dean had dared dream about.
“You’re welcome, Prof,” he said, closing the hood of the car, not taking his eyes off the professor for even a second.
Novak didn’t say anything, an inscrutable expression on his face as he pulled his hands out of his jacket pockets and walked over to the driver’s side door. He opened it, and Dean’s stomach sunk, even though he knew he would see him again in just few hours. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t this strangely intimate situation he’d somehow found himself in.
Dean was startled when the professor spoke again, hurried, like he wouldn’t dare say the words if he didn’t say them fast.
“Would you like a ride?”
Dean was in the car and strapping on his seat belt before he’d made a conscious decision to do so.
He didn’t remember much from the tooshort drive to his apartment. He did remember the sound of AC/DC softly filtering through the speakers, making his mind boggle with how much he liked Novak, and the way the professor had nodded every time he gave him a direction, like he was committing it to memory. And he certainly remembered what he said as he got out of the car. He wasn’t even sure what made him say it, but he didn’t regret it for a second.
“Good night, Castiel,” he said, and Novak blinked at him, a slow, hesitant smile spreading on his face.
“Good night, Dean,” he answered.
It took Dean hours to fall asleep that night.
Dean wasn’t sure how, but the professor went from “Novak” to “Castiel” to “Cas” in his head in under a week; he had to keep his guard up at all times to keep himself from saying it out loud.
Every time he talked to Pam about him-and pathetically enough, he did that a lot-he had to force his mouth to form the words “Professor Novak” instead of “Cas.” It was weird, and inconvenient, and Dean wouldn’t have it any other way.
It wasn’t just the nickname, though. Dean would spend his free time coming up with excuses to stay after class-questions about papers, about poems, about lyrics. Dean even played Cas a few songs to get his opinion on the words, and Cas gave Dean Metallica: The complete lyrics one afternoon, pushing it across the desk without looking Dean in the eye. Dean flushed so hard he was sure even his chest was red as he stammered out his thanks.
“I know you like them,” Cas said, still not looking Dean in the eye. “And I thought... I thought you might enjoy it.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will,” Dean said, clutching at the book.
“It has all of their songs, even the demo ones from ‘82,” Cas continued. “Personally, I think Enter Sandman has some really good lines.”
Suddenly, Dean was more excited than embarrassed.
“Me too! They’re what inspired me to start writing! I was listening to that song, and then suddenly all these words popped into my head and I just had to write them down.”
“You wrote a song?” Cas asked, his eyes finally meeting Dean’s.
Dean scratched at his neck, uncomfortable about admitting it.
“Yeah, I did. It’s probably crap, but I liked writing it. I would never have even thought of it without you hitting me over the head about lyrics, though,” he admitted.
“I would love to read it, if you don’t mind,” Cas said, and Dean swallowed. He’d never realized before how personal and terrifying it could be to show someone else something you had written.
He regretted all the times he’d scoffed at lyrics or poems just because he’d had nothing better to do. How did the professionals put up with it?
“You don’t have to, Dean, I was just curious,” Cas said. He didn’t seem to realize that he’d used Dean’s fist name again. It was what made the decision for Dean.
“Yeah, OK,” he said, pulling his notebook out of his bag. “But you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Of course, Dean,” Cas said, gently accepting the notebook when Dean had found the right page. It was weird how fast Dean had gotten used to his first name being spoken by the professor like it was no big deal. Maybe it wasn’t.
Dean squirmed in his seat as he watched Cas read, watched the small furrow between his eyes deepen and wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing. His palms were sweaty, and he wondered how the hell he could face down the rage of a burly trucker whose engine was beyond saving without flinching, but someone reading his lyrics made him nervous. God, he felt exposed.
Finally, Cas looked up, and Dean’s stomach lurched.
“This is really good, Dean. Really good. Do you have any more? I’d love to read them.”
“Yeah?” Dean said, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. “You’re not just saying that because you’re my professor?”
Dean flinched a little-he didn’t want to remind Cas of just what he was-but Cas just shook his head and smiled at him.
“No, Dean, this is really good. I promise. You should keep writing. Do you know what kind of music you’d want to go with them?”
“Yeah, I have an old guitar at home-it’s Victor’s-so I tried a few notes out on it. It’s still really rough, and I can’t sing worth shit, but I have a vague plan for it.”
“If you ever... No, never mind,” Cas said, suddenly shoving the notebook back to Dean and getting up from the desk.
“What?” Dean asked, confused by the sudden mood change. Cas didn’t answer, throwing all the pens and pencils on his desk down into his beat up old briefcase. “Cas, what?” Dean asked again, not even registering that he’d said the name out loud until the professor’s head snapped up and he looked at Dean in that way that made Dean squirm in his seat for completely different reasons.
“What did you just call me?” Cas asked, and Dean was even more confused at the pain in his voice.
“Cas,” he answered, a lump forming in his throat. What if he’d destroyed it all, destroyed whatever friendshipthing they had been building, just with one simple slip of the tongue? “I called you Cas.”
Cas stared at Dean, his face unreadable again, and Dean wished he knew what was going on inside his head.
“Oh,” he said at last. He seemed to collect himself, drew a hand through his hair like he always did when he was flustered or nervous, and gave Dean a smile that seemed more forced than genuine.
“Cas. I see. Listen, Dean, I have to go, I have a meeting, but if you’d be OK with it, I’d love to read more of your songs.”
And with that, he was out the door, leaving Dean standing there, thoroughly confused. The lump in his throat didn’t want to go away, no matter how much he swallowed, and he couldn’t help but feel that he’d somehow screwed it all up. Sure, the professor had said he wanted to read more of Dean’s lyrics, but he’d said it while he was running out the door, like he had to get away from Dean.
Dean had no idea how to handle it, so he called Pam. If nothing else, Pam could tell him he was an idiot for overanalyzing, and Dean sure as hell needed that right now.
Part 2