A/N: Hello my delightful ducklings! Instead of throwing bits of bread at you, I come bearing more fic. But first, items of business concerning the canon of the show:

1) . CAS. CAS NOOOOOOO. CAS YOU HAVE MARTYRED YOURSELF, THIS IS THE RITE OF INITIATION OF THE WINCHESTER CLAN AND NOW YOU ARE A TRUE WINCHESTER. CAAAAAAAAAAAAS.

2) BOBBYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY. BOBBY BOBBY BOBBY BOOOOOOOBBBBBYYYYYYYYYYYYYY.

That is all.

As far as this story goes, it's just a little something I did to distract myself from the vagaries of life. It's only in two parts, so fairly brief, and the AU should be pretty easy to grasp: Dean is a university student, and Cas is a grad student teaching an introductory psych class. They meet again years later. And it's pretty different from my previous stuff, so... yeah. I wrote it entirely from Cas POV, which is not a thing that I normally do, so please review and let me know what you think.

But here's the sitch. On account of how this fic is already done, and on account of how I'm so dang nice, I've posted both parts here at the same time, for your reading pleasure. This means that I'm hoping that you will, out of the goodness of your hearts, review both parts even though they're both up. After all, mo' feedback is mo' feedback. And remember, every time you review a Dean/Cas fanfic, a tiny gay angel is born. Please, think of the baby angels!

P.S. Also, speaking of babies - JAREEEEEEEEEED. JARED YOU ARE NOW A FATHER. PLEEEEEEEASE JARED TELL US THE NAME OF YOUR BABY BOY SO WE CAN TAG THE PICTURES, ALSO GIVE US SOME PICTURES PLEASE, WE ARE NOT DANGEROUS AND WE WILL ONLY KIDNAP HIM FOR A LITTLE BIT. JAAAAAAREEEEEED.

Okay, now I'm done.

P.P.S. Oh! Also! I have a livejournal now, so if you folks are on that dealio, you can friend me there! I ain't got many friends yet. I have the same username, thecouchcarrot, so just type that in before the livejournal url and you should be golden. Thanks!

Castiel remembers when he met Dean Winchester.

It was back in his first year of grad school, when he was teaching Psych 101 for the first time. Maybe that was why he remembered; it was his first class. Later on the faces would all blur together into a indistinct mob of eager, praise-hungry students, excitable puppies jumping for attention, hands thrust in the air like alert, quivering ears.

Well, in the first few rows, anyways. The middle section was made up of languid, drowsy cats, who at the suggestion of an intriguing topic like sadism or schizophrenia might twitch their tails and sharpen their eyes momentarily; and far in the back the hung-over iguanas slumped, baseball caps pulled down over aviator sunglasses. They could not be roused by any means.

All of them rather frightened Castiel. He had no idea what he was doing.

He remembered that day too because it was a lecture on sexual attraction, which meant an hour of mixed tensions in the lecture hall. The freshmen blushed and the sophomores hung on his every word; the juniors found it passé and the few seniors in the class sat in the back or didn't come to lecture at all. Being a graduate student in psychology, Castiel had long since been stripped of any delicate modesty, but he still remembered his sheltered youth, the difficulty he'd had stammering out the names of the reproductive organs out loud. Now, he could refer to them easily with clinical neutrality, and he did so.

Then they came to the section on orientation.

"You might think that sexual orientation would be simply defined as sexual attraction to the same gender," Castiel said. "While this definition serves its purpose, in reality physical attraction is not the sole determinant of one's sexual identity. Many people also define their sexual orientation as those they are emotionally attracted to, those who they fall in love with." He clicked to the next slide. "As you can see from these data tables, there are women who are attracted to both sexes but identify as homosexual, because all of their meaningful relationships are with women. And to a lesser extent, we see the same phenomenon in homosexual men."

And maybe it was a trick of memory, something he'd imagined after the fact, but Castiel thought he remembered a young man in the middle row leaning forward, his eyes not on the data table but on Castiel, his eyes wide and slightly urgent as though he'd suddenly realized he'd left the oven on.

Castiel hesitated, and then moved on. There would be time for discussion in a few slides. He clicked forward. "There is, of course, also a percentage of respondents who identified as bisexual but only responded physically to one gender." He continued on with the lecture and then concluded the section, asking if there were any questions so far.

The young man raised his hand – casual now, his hand only really half-raised, slouching back in his chair.

Castiel nodded to him. "Yes?"

He licked his lips and paused, then rolled it out casually. "What about you?"

Castiel frowned. "What do you mean?"

The boy huffed, a half-chuckle. "How do you identify?"

All eyes swiveled to Castiel.

For the first time in a long time, Castiel felt his cheeks grow hot, and sweat gathered along his hairline. "That's a rather personal question for the classroom."

It was the boy's turn to look down in discomfort. All eyes focused tightly on Castiel.

Castiel steeled himself. He had spent too much of the semester teaching these students about the virtues of venturing into the taboo and the intimate to expose himself as a hypocrite now. He took a deep breath. "But I will answer it. I am gay."

The silence in the room was deafening.

He gave the tiniest smirk. "I suppose all you straight students should drop the course. It could be catching."

They laughed loudly, the laughter of relief. Castiel could almost feel their emotions radiating at him in waves. He's gay, and he's okay. He's one of those funny gays! He's still the same teacher, after all, even if he's into dudes. Some of them would crow to their friends later that they'd known it all along. Some of the dumber male students looked disgruntled. Some of the brighter female students looked despondent. But all in all, a generally positive reaction.

The young man who had asked the question just stared at him with a strange look on his face, as though the next question were itching in his mouth but he couldn't bring himself to ask it.

And so Castiel, feeling naked enough for one day, moved on to the next section and didn't give him the opportunity.

…

For the next two weeks, whenever the young man came to class, he looked irritated. No, more than that – angry. He took notes with sharp, short jots of his pen and whenever his eyes met Castiel's, he glared.

Castiel couldn't help but notice him, now. Studies had proven that in a crowd of faces, humans instinctively notice the ones that look angry or menacing first, even if the rest of the crowd is perfectly happy. It was probably a leftover survival mechanism, the ability to spot one's enemies quickly, but in the modern age it simply meant that every time Castiel looked up from his notes, he saw the young man's scowl.

It disturbed him.

He didn't realize how much it disturbed him until he went to the bathroom after one particularly harrowing class and found himself clutching the sink, arms trembling, knuckles white, his knees threatening to give out. He took a deep breath and splashed some water on his face.

He was being silly. He had faced homophobia before, much worse homophobia than some perturbed stare. Certainly, his own family had acted with… well… but here. Here. At this liberal, educated institution Castiel been able to be miraculously free. He had begun to feel secure, had felt a certain degree of safety and acceptance. And this boy with the furious eyes and the lean muscles was disturbing all that, with his sharp edges and his clenched hands and the subtle threat of violence that hung in the air all around him.

Well, Castiel didn't have to tolerate it. Not here. Not in his own classroom. So during the next test, he noted which paper the young man slid onto the pile as he left the lecture hall.

Dean Winchester, the test said.

When Castiel graded the test, he did not assign a score but wrote at the top of the page, Please come to my office hours.

….

Dean slunk into Castiel's office without knocking. The door was open, but students usually knocked on the frame.

"Hey," he said, a bored flatness to his voice. "What's with my test?"

Castiel froze at his computer, his heart beating faster than he found comfortable. He composed himself, and swiveled his chair to face his student. "Hello, Dean. Please have a seat."

Dean sat down with a huff, the test hanging loosely from one hand. Up close his features looked more boyish, more delicate, less thuggish. Castiel relaxed a little.

"Did I fail or something?" Dean asked, his brows furrowing. "Cuz you marked which ones I had wrong, and… I don't have that many wrong."

"Your test score is remarkably average," Castiel said. "I simply wanted you to come here so that I could speak to you in private. Would you mind closing the door?"

Dean stiffened in his chair, and his eyes took on that hard edge again. "I'd rather not."

So be it. Castiel plowed ahead. "I've noticed that your attitude in class has been particularly hostile as of late. I'd like to know if there's an explanation for your behavior. Something in your life outside of class that is bothering you?"

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. "Maybe I've just always been hostile. This is college, you know. Not everyone enjoys Monday morning class. Sorry if I'm not enthusiastic enough for you."

Castiel's mouth tightened. "No, I've definitely noticed a change recently. Specifically… since I said that I was gay. Is there anything you want to say to me, Dean?"

Dean still glared, but defensively now. He swallowed. "What would I have to say to you?" he snapped.

And maybe it was that last insolence that broke the camel's back, but suddenly, Castiel had had enough.

He stood up, walked past Dean to the door, and slowly closed it. He returned to his desk, but did not sit down. He stood, and looked at Dean.

Dean's hands tightened on his knees, and they locked eyes.

"Dean Winchester," he said quietly, in a low, hard voice. "I don't care if you hate me, or if you hate fags, or if you think God hates fags. You have that right. But I am your professor, and you will show me your respect, or I will remove you from the class."

Dean stayed completely silent, and completely still. Unblinking.

"You have the right to your opinion, and I have the right to feel safe in my work environment," Castiel said. "Is that understood?"

Dean nodded.

"Good." The last word came out as a growl. Castiel walked to his chair and turned it towards his computer, signaling his dismissal of Dean. Success.

But then Dean cleared his throat. "I don't… I don't hate fags. Gay people, I mean."

Castiel sighed inwardly, but outwardly he simply nodded, his eyes still on his computer.

Dean fidgeted in his chair. "And I don't hate you." He gave a half-hearted chuckle. "I really tried, but I don't."

Castiel froze. He swiveled his chair around. "Why would you try to hate me?" he asked, incredulous.

Dean scratched the back of his neck. "It's kind of a long story, but… I didn't – I never thought you'd take it so personal. You've got such a big class. Figured I'd be another brick in the wall."

"Well, you were wrong," Castiel said. "I've never noticed you more."

Dean's face went slightly red, and he said, "Yeah?"

"Yes," Castiel answered curtly. "You've been extremely distracting."

Dean went even redder, and he looked at the floor.

"Hatred is a corrosive thing, Dean." Castiel spoke carefully, trying not to let his hurt bleed through. "It's toxic. I may be a professor, but I'm a human being, and to be hated –" He cleared his throat, swallowed. "It's painful. Even from a stranger."

Dean nodded, still looking at the floor, and folded his test.

Castiel sighed. "I don't know why you'd want to hate me, but I'm asking you now to stop. Or I will drop you from the class."

Dean stood up, and when he looked up at Castiel, his face was unreadable and blank. He gave a quick nod. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't be any more trouble."

"Thank you," Castiel replied.

The boy walked to the doorway, and then hesitated. "Just forget I ever happened," he said.

And with that he walked out of the office, leaving Castiel gazing at the chair he'd sat in, wondering what on earth had been going on in his head.

From that day on, Dean was a model student in class – attentive, neutral-faced, taking copious notes. As soon as the semester ended, his face was moved to some calm corridor in Castiel's mind reserved for former students, where it was left to fade and gather dust until it quietly dissolved completely.

Until twelve years later.