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Being thought too young is a problem Castiel often has. If he taught preschool, it might be fine. His students certainly wouldn’t be able to tell. Teaching high school, on the other hand, is an entirely different story. He’s adapted over the months, at once dressing up and dressing down, wearing suits to work and going without shaving his scruff. When tired and irritable, he might be able to pass for thirty.
Somehow, Castiel doubts Sam Winchester’s “parent” simply has an extreme case of looking too young.
“Hey, you’re Mr. Novak, right?” the young man--and he is a young man–-asks, leaning past the door frame. His hands and body are sheathed in a large leather jacket, a protective layer that makes him look smaller than Castiel, rather than roughly the same height.
“Yes?” Castiel answers, as if it’s his own identity he’s unsure of. “Are you lost?”
“Uh, no? Parent teacher conference night, right?” the much too young man says, coming inside the classroom, full of desks and devoid of students. He closes the door behind him with a firm authority that doesn’t match his face. “I’m here about Sam Winchester.”
It’s the right time slot, and there’s a resemblance in the eyes and chin that’s undeniable. Castiel still doesn’t sit back down at his desk. “You’re not his father.”
“Nope,” says the young man, not breaking stride. He comes right up and plants himself in front of Castiel’s desk, but not in the chair provided. Instead, he slides into one of the students’ desks in the front row. He crosses his legs like he wants to hang his feet over the desk itself but can’t fit. “I’m the brother. Dean. How’s Sammy doing?”
“This is a parent teacher conference,” Castiel reminds him, not sure how to respond. He’s had uncles and grandmothers, a foster mother and even a godfather, but brother is something new. “If your father needs to reschedule-”
“I’m here tonight, let’s do it,” Dean interrupts, leaning forward. He softens the urgent words with an earnest grin, so immensely pretty that Castiel hesitates too long to properly argue. “Sam’s doing all right in class, right?”
“He’s, he’s exemplary,” Castiel finds himself saying. “He’s an attentive listener, participates daily, and takes the lead well on projects. He’s respectful, tests well, and contributes to class discussion with remarkable ideas and maturity.”
As much as Castiel knows he can speak like a formal essay, the litany only brings Dean to become more casual. Dean’s grin shifts to something smaller but stronger. More sincere. It makes him look more like a true adult, not some early twenty-something that even Castiel at twenty-six must be older than.
“Having seen his academic record, I’m extremely expressed. Most students wouldn’t be able to keep up with so many changes in schools.”
Dean’s expression doesn’t falter. It simply morphs into falseness. “Military family,” Dean says with a shrug. “Dad gets sent all over.”
Castiel glances back down at his notes. “I thought your father was a mechanic.”
“Former marine, current military mechanic,” Dean says as smoothly as any junior bullshitting an oral book report.
“In any case,” Castiel continues, “if Sam’s going to graduate on time, he needs a more stable environment. Credits don’t always transfer, especially when they’re incomplete.”
Dean crosses his arms, outright frowning now. “You just said he’s doing great.”
“He is, and I want him to continue to do so.”
Slowly, Dean nods. “Look, the way Sammy is, you could dump him in a library and he’d teach himself. He’s even got that Google-fu and sh… stuff. He’s gonna be fine.”
“Many colleges would see it otherwise,” Castiel replies.
Dean just looks at him blankly. “Sam’s not going to college.”
Castiel stares.
With far less aplomb than he’d sat with, Dean slides out of the desk. “We done?”
“Why isn’t Sam going to college?” Castiel asks. He knows for a fact Sam writes his college essays in the computer lab. He’s seem him there, countless times after school, and even if he hadn’t, Sam coming to him to tentatively ask for feedback would have been confirmation.
“He’s just not,” Dean says, still standing. “You got any other issue than where our dad puts us?”
Not about to be towered over, Castiel stands as well. “Sam deserves a chance at higher education. He has the makings of a lawyer,” he says, and tries not to visibly kick himself.
He must succeed, because there’s no inkling of recognition in Dean’s eyes regarding his brother’s ambitions. “Look, Sam wants to learn stuff, he goes to the library.”
“That’s not the same as-“
A cell phone goes off.
Castiel opens his desk drawer on instinct, although he doesn’t recognize it as his ringtone. The phone is so new, he might have changed something on it without realizing.
The ringtone cuts out, and a few seconds later, it starts again. Visibly tense, Dean yanks his own phone out of the immense leather jacket. He holds up one finger to Castiel and turns away. “Sammy?”
Unabashed, Castiel comes around his desk, intentionally trying to listen in. Dean responds by walking away through the rows of desks. Castiel follows circuitously, walking around the classroom, still heading toward the door.
“Look, no, stay there,” Dean says, eyes on Castiel as if staring down a wolf. “I’ll go help Dad, you don’t- Sammy, no.”
“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks.
Dean waves him off, grabs at the doorknob, and pulls. Then he pulls harder. He turns it the other way, still tugging. He turns the locking mechanism both ways with a similar lack of results. With a grunt, Dean says into the phone, “Yeah, that’s your teacher, I’m at your conference thing, remember?” Dean rolls his eyes. To Castiel, he says, “Sam says hi. Now can you unlock the door, I gotta go.”
“It should be unlocked,” Castiel says. “It sticks sometimes, but the janitor always gets it back open.“
Dean moves aside to let him try, but Castiel takes a moment instead.
“What’s wrong?” he repeats.
“My dad’s car broke down, he needs me to come get him,“ Dean says.
“I thought your father was a mechanic,” Castiel says for the second time that night.
“Yeah, but he’s not a magic replacement parts genie,” Dean shoots back. Into the phone, he says, “Hang tight, I’m on my way.” He hangs up, sticks the phone into his pocket, and pulls out a sizable Swiss army knife instead.
Castiel backs up reflexively. “Those aren’t allowed on school grounds.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Then I’ll get it off school grounds.” He pulls the knife open and slides a blade between the door and the frame. He grabs the handle, jiggles it around a little, and still nothing.
“If your father can call your brother, he can call a taxi,” Castiel says reasonably, sternly.
The second eye roll is even more dramatic than the first, and there is no longer anything pretty about this man. “Look, can you call the fucking janitor or something?” Dean asks, pointing at the phone on the wall.
“You’re panicking,” Castiel says, more to himself than to Dean.
“I- What? No. I’m, I’m action-ready,” Dean fires back. Then he flips the tools around on his knife and starts unscrewing the doorknob.
“Stop that,” Castiel orders, but Dean clearly doesn’t care.
“Call a janitor and I will.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Dean keeps at the door with his knife, and Castiel decides not to risk trying to take it away from him.
He takes the phone on the wall, calls the main office, and asks for a member of the janitorial staff to help with a stuck door. All the while, Dean is pacing, looking like he’s going out of his mind.
“What’s wrong?” Castiel asks. He clears his throat. “I really am here to help.“
Dean huffs, eyes still fixed on the door.
“I am,” Castiel insists.
“I got it handled,” Dean says. “Gotta get out, gotta get my dad. It’s fine.”
It is clearly not fine.
“Your father has a cell phone,” Castiel points out. “He can call 911. Whatever’s wrong, you’re not the only one who can help.”
Dean’s jaw clenches.
“Will you sit down?”
“You gonna give me a gold star if I do?” Dean demands.
“I only have smiley face stickers,” Castiel deadpans.
Despite Castiel’s best efforts, at no point does Dean tell him the real problem. At no point does Dean acknowledge that his father could all emergency services on his own.
When the janitor arrives, he arrives with his typical panache–through the adjoining door into the next classroom. “I’m here to save the day!” Gabriel announces, coming around the standing chalkboard Castiel keeps over there.
Mouth open, Dean stares between Gabriel, Castiel, and the rear exit, as if he hadn’t even thought of fire codes demanding two doors.
“You fucking bastard!” he yells at Castiel. Dean bolts at him, Castiel lifts his arms over his face, and Dean races by without slugging him. Pounding footsteps continue through the other room. A door slams, and those footsteps race down the hall.
Leaning against the wall with his eyebrows raised high, Gabriel whistles. “Cassie, what the fuck did you do?”
What he’d thought was the right thing, is all Castiel can say.
The next day, Sam doesn’t show up to class.
During his lunch break, Castiel pulls up the home phone number and calls. He hangs up and dials it again, deliberately. Correctly.
It’s still a motel number. The answering machine for the room.
Castiel goes down to the computer lab, interrupts an on-going class a little, and searches. He jots down the motel number, exits the lab, and calls on his cell phone.
It takes some cajoling, but after repeated assurances that he is the boy’s teacher, the motel receptionist admits that, yes, a pair of young men had been staying at the motel for the past two months, one of them remarkably and identifiably tall. No, no father that she’d seen. Just the two brothers.
Yes, they’re gone now.
Back in his classroom, Castiel calls the emergency contact number, and a Pizza Hut picks up.
Castiel speaks with the front office. He speaks with the principle. He finishes his lunch break with an empty stomach and no leads.
That night, as a mandated reporter, he files a report of suspected child abuse of Sam Winchester, still a minor at seventeen.
And with that, there’s nothing more he can do.