Palpitat amoris omnes.

Castiel didn't want to move. He liked his old town, his old school, perfectly fine.

He liked the long walks home, the trips to the local bakery. It was his hometown; the place where he grew up. The place where he learned how to fish and swim and paint, where he learned how to walk and talk. It was where he had his first kiss, with Maison Krazpack, where he learned to speak fluently in more than five different languages.

He liked knowing exactly where everything was; he was never lost in his old town.

He felt like a fish out of water.

Figuratively, obviously- Castiel had no idea what an actual fish out of water felt like. He, however, had imagined it would not be a pleasant feeling. A feeling of suffocation, perhaps? He, of course, had no idea what that felt like, either, but he often imagined it.

"Excuse me?" he'd ask politely, holding out a piece of paper. His peers would just rush right past.

A student was assigned to him at the beginning of the day, but they were nowhere to be seen. It wasn't until the school-bell rang that Castiel found his way to room 114.

As soon as he entered his fourth period class, Latin, he forgot how to speak. People were staring at him. The teacher glanced over to him, head cocked to the side, eyebrow raised and asked, "Can I help you?"

"Castiel nomen meum. Ego novi occurrit," he nodded, hands shaking.

"Et?" the teacher asked, smirking a little.

"Mrs. Lamenstroff, es?" he shook his head, "Magistro meo, puto Latin."

"Yes. Welcome, Castiel," Mrs. Lamenstroff smiled. "Take a seat next to Andrea. Barr, raise your hand, please, so Castiel will know where to sit."

Castiel turned around, but all he noticed was Dean Winchester, who was sitting directly in front of Andrea. He walked over to his seat and set down his books, trying to avoid eye-contact with any of his peers.

Dean had seen this kid before.

He was sure of it. He couldn't pinpoint where, exactly, but he knew he had seen him somewhere.

"Quid novi?" Dean asked him as he sat down; this Castiel kid wasn't the only one who could speak fluent Latin.

Castiel looked up, awkwardly, and mumbled, "Er- sorry, I don't speak Spanish." Which was a lie.

In honesty, he just didn't want to speak; his day had been long enough.

What he didn't realize was that doing so made him seem even weirder; weirder than he actually was.

"Uh," Dean chuckled, shaking his head, slightly, "I was speaking Latin, the language you were just, fluently, speaking."

Castiel winced, "I have a headache, could you-"

"Enough talking," the teacher scolded, tapping the board with her yardstick, "Pay attention, Winchester."

She, then, went on to explain the Satyricon, some book by Petronius.