Work Text:
The air in the old classroom was thick with late summer stifling heat, in spite of all Dean had done to cool it off. Two large pedestal fans stood oscillating in the front corners of the room, just blowing the hot air back and forth between them. He had opened the windows, breaking through years of ancient paint – apparently the old arts building once had a shockingly Pepto Bismol pink interior – to throw them wide and welcome in any relief from the heat that the summer breeze could afford them, dutifully ignoring the imminent threat of low-flying birds and curious squirrels. It was hot, too hot, and Dean was damned if he wouldn’t do everything in his power to make the afternoon a little more bearable for his students.
August had brought with it the worst temperature spike in the already record-breaking heat of the summer, and to make matters even worse, the university had pushed forward with plans to renovate the main campus buildings, relegating summer session classes to the old brick and mortar arts building that was mainly used for the fall and spring fine arts courses. That was all well and good for the arts students, kept warm through the chilly weather by the constant heat thrown off of high temperature kilns and the sturdy old boiler, but summer often found the building, with its painted-shut windows and complete lack of air conditioning, abandoned for cooler climes. Sadly, Dean and his Introduction to Poetry class would have to suffer through it for another week.
Students were already whining over the heat as they began to trickle in, looking lank and tired and overheated as they came. Perched on the edge of a badly battered desk, Dean weathered the glares and grumbles as they passed, glad in the pettiest part of his heart that if he and his students were to suffer, so would the English department chair, Castiel, who was auditing the course for the summer.
“I know, I know,” Dean told the students as they filed past, eyes following a few of the more skimpily dressed members of the student body and earning a frown from Castiel where he sat towards the back of the room. “Look, guys, if you bitch less than usual, we can cover today’s material and get the hell out of here before we all melt into the floorboards, okay?”
“Dr. Winchester, I think I’m gonna pass out!” Andy whined as he slid into a desk, head already in his hands.
“That’s cos of your keg stands at Pi Kappa Phi last night, Andy,” Meg Masters piped up with a snort. Unlike her classmates, the girl in question seemed unaffected by the heat, not even breaking a sweat beneath her dark jeans and leather jacket.
Dean wagged a pointed finger at the both of them. “I did not hear that,” he warned. “And neither did Dr. James, in case you forgot he was here. Right, Cas?”
“Didn’t hear a thing,” Cas replied dryly before taking a long sip on a cardboard cup of coffee he had carried in with him. How the man could drink the still-steaming beverage was beyond Dean, who had to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
When the trickle of students slowed to a stop, Anna Milton scurrying in last with a quickly mumbled apology, iced latte in hand and wearing a yellow sundress so thin that the silhouette of her body was easily visible in the sunlight, Dean shook his head to himself and closed the classroom door.
“Alright, I’m going to be optimistic today and assume you all did the reading of one measly poem that I assigned you two days ago,” Dean announcing, hopping back to his seat atop his desk. “So let me start by asking how many of you had even heard of Pablo Neruda before getting the assignment?”
Nearly half the class shot up hands in response to Dean’s question, including the auditing professor, who shot Dean the dirtiest little smirk he had ever seen from the man outside of their bedroom. Dean pulled at the collar of his thin grey t-shirt in response, tenting the fabric as though to cool himself down, students none the wiser as to the real reasoning for the gesture.
Turning his attention back to the class, Dean went on, “And how many of you had heard of Pablo Neruda outside of chanting his name when singing along to the music from RENT?” More than half of the hands dropped and Dean chuckled before adding, “And before you ask, yes, I was awesome as Roger, and, no, I won’t demonstrate.”
The resulting half-longing groan from many of the students caused Dean to turn his head to hide a small smile and Castiel to shake his head, mirroring the expression. Part of the dear Dr. Winchester’s appeal most certainly lay with his ability to flirt with his classes en masse; it was certainly an eye opener for Castiel to be on the receiving end of that charm in a university setting.
“Now, you read it folks. Sonnet 17. What have you got for me?” Dean asked. He had his own copy of the poem in his hands now, a sheet of paper from the Xerox machine, plucked from the stack he had set atop the desk for anyone who needed a spare, rolled up in his hands as he spoke. He didn’t need to look at it to follow along with the discussion; he had long ago memorized every line.
It grew quiet enough in the room for the soft chittering of the squirrels in the large shady oak outside the classroom windows to be heard; for a moment, Dean thought he could actually hear the ticking of the old clock mounted on the wall above the room’s blackboards. His students seemed tired, the worn out sort of exhaustion that could only come from too much heat, but Dean was adamant about getting through the material.
“C’mon, guys, you’re making me look bad here,” Dean spoke up again, gesturing towards Castiel with his rolled up poem. His words earned a few tired chuckles, and his students shifted in their seats, wanting to seem attentive but not volunteering anything.
Dean sighed and stood, stretching his back for a moment before stepping towards the redhead in the front row. At the least, he knew he could wring some kind of response out of Anna, and if he was lucky, it could be enough to jumpstart a discussion.
“Anna, you’ve been my go-to girl for the sonnets we’ve covered so far,” he said, both palms flat against the top of student desk. “Throw me a bone here.” The girl actually squeaked, and from the corner of his eye, Dean could see Cas shaking his head, a small smile playing on the other man’s lips. Much as Castiel was loathe to admit it, there was something about seeing Dean making a girl (or boy) blush that tickled him.
“Um…” the girl stammered, glancing down at her poem sheet, damp with the condensation from her against-the-rules icy coffee drink. “Well…” she went on, stalling for time. After a long moment she sighed and offered, “It’s a love poem?”
Dean nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “That much is true, yeah. Anyone else?”
The room delved deep into quiet again, disappointing the professor to a great degree. He had wanted his students to really get into the sonnet, like they had with some of the other works they had studied that semester, but it seemed the heat and the lethargy it inspired had conspired against him. Pity, too, with Castiel present.
Dean sighed again. “C’mon guys,” he said. “I know it’s hot out, but we gotta cover this before your final paper. We’re not leaving here until we make some progress.”
Another groan arose from the classroom, among the noise a seemingly exasperated sigh, and a voice broke through that Dean had never expected to hear.
“It’s oversimplifying to just call it a love poem,” Meg spoke up, still looking perfectly cool, dark hair curling at her shoulders and nary a bead of sweat on her pale face. “It isn’t just love. It’s perfect love, something rare and special and so wonderful that you almost want to hide it from everyone else, because it is perfect and yours and you don’t want to share it. ‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul’ doesn’t mean that it has to be hidden because it’s somehow shameful, only that it’s so wonderful that only the two who feel it can ever really understand it, so why try to explain?”
Eyebrows raised in surprise, Dean nodded in agreement. Meg Masters wrote good papers, when she bothered to turn them in, but never spoke during class discussion. For something so poignant to fall from her burgundy painted lips was a fair shock to the professor.
“That’s good, Meg,” he agreed. “Got anything else?”
“It’s a completely internalized emotion, but a natural extension of their being,” Meg offered. “‘Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body’. These two people in love could sit right next to each other in public and no one would realize that this gorgeous epic romance was going on right in front of them, and that’s okay, because they both know it, they both feel it, and it’s as much a part of them as the blood in their veins.”
Dean slowly sat down on his desk again, green eyes alight with surprise as he watched his student expound upon the poem closest to his heart.
“The last couplet kind of reminded me of Wuthering Heights,” Meg went on. “Y’know, where Cathy is all ‘whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same’, but instead of ditching out on this crazy profound love he’d found, the speaker sells himself to it wholesale. ‘So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep’. They’re one soul in two bodies, and it’s… Christ, it’s fucking beautiful. It’s the kind of thing you’d engrave inside of a wedding band,” she finished, then suddenly smirked at Dean, spiking one elegant eyebrow at him. “Or maybe split in half and get tattooed with your honey.”
Dean blanched. “Okay, great insights Meg, I think we’ll just stop there for today, everybody out!” he called quickly. A mumbling cheer came from the students as they filed out, not loud enough to drown out the sound of Meg’s quietly tinkling laugh.
The students filed out as fast as they could, gathering up their backpacks and water bottles and making a b-line for the door, before their professor could change his mind and make them sit and swelter any longer. From the back of the classroom, Castiel took his time, gathering up his own notebook and meandering towards the front; Meg took her time putting away her own things, and joined the two professors at the front before she left.
“Very good insights today, Meg,” Castiel congratulated with a small smile. “Finally Dr. Winchester gets to see the intelligent young woman I keep telling him about.”
Dean didn’t understand why Castiel didn’t seem anymore panicked, but nodded slowly in agreement all the same. “Guess this means you’ll have to show up more, now that I know you can grasp the material,” Dean offered.
Meg snorted. “Looks like I’ve been outed,” she said, hands on her hips, smiling when she noticed Dean wince at her word choice. Glancing over to Castiel she asked, “So what do you say, Doc? Swimming laps again today?”
“No, I think I’ll just head home today, Meg, thank you,” Castiel replied amiably.
“Alrighty,” she agreed with a shrug, and headed towards the door. “I’m sure I’ll catch you there sometime this week, so I’ll see you then. You should show up sometime with a Speedo, Dr. Winchester. I’d love to see the matched set.” She gave them both an exaggerated wink, and sauntered out the door.
“You’ll see me in class tomorrow morning, Meghan!” Castiel called after her; she waved her hand in a dismissive gesture in reply.
Dean watched her go and shook his head. “Damn,” he said quietly. “Helluva spitfire, that kid.”
Castiel smiled warmly. “She had some good insights, though,” he said, nudging Dean with his elbow. “Rare. Profound.”
“Yeah yeah,” Dean grumbled, falling into stride beside Castiel as they exited the classroom. When they reached the empty corridor, he took a chance and pulled Castiel towards him, leaning in to brush his lips ever so gently against the other man’s.
Meg stuck her head around the corner and wolf-whistled; the childish part of Dean that still existed in the back of his mind flipped her off on reflex, his lover laughing against his lips and nudging him in the ribs.
They started walking again and Dean suddenly chuckled and asked in a low voice, “Hey Cas, does this mean you’re my ‘honey’?”
“Well I am pretty sweet,” Castiel relented as they walked. “And sometimes even sticky.”
Dean’s bellowing laugh echoed through the empty corridor, following them both out into the fading afternoon sunlight.