Smoke and Burn

Show Me Who You Are

September 22, 2010

CASTIEL

"Castiel." I look up when my name is called, hugging my books tighter to my chest as I sigh, my shoulders falling—I was almost free. Turning back around, I look at my teacher, Mr Metatron. His wire-framed glasses sit on the end of his nose as he looks down at the papers in front of him, tapping the bright red pen marks in the corner.

"Yes?" I ask, my voice trembling a little. Did I do something wrong? If I got a bad grade, my mom will kill me. Panic squeezes my windpipe and I have to force myself to breathe deeply through my constricted airway. "Is there a problem?"

"No—well, yes. Come sit." I pull a chair up in front of his desk and lower myself into it, wringing my hands and glancing nervously at the clock. If I wait too long to get to class, the halls will be empty. The halls can't be empty. "Do you see this?" He shows me the test mark in the top right corner of the page and my eyes widen as I read the bright red 31%. Oh, no. No, no, no, no. I start to shake.

"It's Dean Winchester's, not yours." My eyebrows furrow in confusion and then fear, already anticipating his next question. I shake for a whole new reason. "This is yours," he says, showing me a paper with a bright red 97% crawled in the top corner. Dread settles in my stomach and for the first time in my life, I find myself wishing I wasn't so good at English—that I didn't love it so much—because I know—I know—he's about to ruin it for me forever. "I need you to tutor Dean. He needs to keep his grades up to stay on the team and, well, I love my team," he says with a smirk, adjusting his letterman jacket and nudging last year's state championship trophy that sits on the corner of his desk.

"Mr. Metatron, I'd really prefer not to; I have so much going on—"

"I wasn't asking you, Castiel. You will do this for me as a favour and maybe I'll write you that letter of recommendation you asked about." He raises an eyebrow, his cold blue eyes daring me to say no. My heart lurches—I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, as they say, and don't see any way out. "You'll meet with Dean every Tuesday and Thursday for three hours for the duration of the semester. I've already spoken to your mother and she likes the idea," he says, standing up and slipping the tests into his messenger bag before sliding it onto his shoulder and ushering me out. He slaps me on the back before turning down the hall, thankfully missing the wince when he jars my still healing ribs. "Dean will be in the library at three o'clock with a draft for the next essay," he yells over his shoulder before whistling a tune as he turns a corner.

My breaths start coming in quick pants, and black dots swim in my vision. I close my eyes, bending over and placing my hands on my knees to try to get control of myself. My muscles ache and every part of my body trembles. Six hours a week...alone...with Dean Winchester. Talk about a Dead Man Walking.

And that's not even the worst part...

Dean is...well there's a reason all the girls want him. He's gorgeous—all man—and he knows it. I can't even imagine what he'd do to me if he knew I thought about him like that—late at night when the house is dark and quiet. When it's just me in my room with my thoughts...

Letting out a breath through my nose, I open my eyes and stand, shaking out my hands. I don't go to class, hiding in a bathroom stall instead. I don't think I could handle another hour of mindless teachers and paper airplanes to the back of the head.

I walk through the doors of the library on shaky legs, my eyes flicking around the space as I bounce on the balls of my feet, filled with nervous energy. I don't see Dean anywhere and my shoulders sag in relief. At least, I'll get the chance to calm down before he gets here.