Disclaimer: Supernatural not mine

Rated T for Language

Dean Winchester ran across the floor of the gym, his tennis shoes squeaking as they slid across the polished wood floor. He firmly gripped the red ball and hurled it as hard as he could. Everyone stood still as the boy on the other side of the room fell and hit the floor. The gym class ran over and circled him, lying on the ground.

"Move aside everyone. Remain calm." The gym teacher said, blowing his whistle loudly until everyone was away from the boy on the floor.

Coach Reynolds knelt by the boys face. He knelt his face by the boy's mouth, but didn't feel him breathe. Coach Reynolds put his fingers on the boy's neck but didn't feel a pulse. Panicked, he put a hand behind the boy's head, but quickly drew it back when he felt the warm, sticky, and all too familiar feel of blood. The coach placed his hand behind the boy's head and moved it onto a nearby sweat towel. Coach Reynolds began the process of CPR, doubtful it would work.

He drummed his hands against the boy's heart, counting, "One…Two…Three…Four…Five…" and then breathing into the boy's mouth. After a few moments, the boy started coughing and wheezed for air. Everyone in the room started clapping as he propped himself up on his hands. The boy collapsed over back onto the sweat towel again. Coach Reynolds checked for a pulse again.

"He's fine. Just unconscious. He probably just has a minor concussion." The coach assured the class. "And Winchester, lighted up on that throw next time!"

Dean took a few steps back, trying hard not to get pegged as, 'That kid who almost killed that other kid.' Most of the kids in the class didn't look at Dean, and were more concerned about the boy unconscious on the floor. The coach and some boys hoisted the boy on the floor to the bleachers, gently laying him down on the bottom row. Coach Reynolds grabbed a bucket of cleaning solution and poured it over the blood on the floor, along with some powdered bleach solution from the nearby janitor's closet.

"Play ball!" He yelled as he wiped the last of the solvent off the floor.

The teenagers resumed playing their game of dodge ball, still as intense as before. The coach leaned over the kid lying on the bleachers and put his hand in his pocket, searching for a wallet to see if he could get the kid's name. The kid had no wallet, school ID, or any form of identification on him, but Coach Reynolds knew he was a student there. He'd been in gym for 3 semesters before this one and had seen him leaving normal classes during school hours.

"Does anyone in here know this young man's name?" The coach announced to the class. The skid of sneakers stopped and the gym was quiet except for a couple balls still bouncing down the court.

Kids shook their heads and looked confused at each other, waiting for someone to claim they knew him, but the only response the coach got from the crowd was someone saying, "I see him in some of my classes, but I don't think anyone really talks to him." The coach sighed and blew his whistle. The game resumed but the coach still stared intently at the unconscious boy on the bench.

After a few minutes, the boy came to. He looked puzzled at his surroundings. His vision was spinning and blurred, but at least he was conscious again. He could make out the figure of Coach Reynolds. The boy tried to talk, but all that came out was a slurred mumble. The boy grabbed a nearby water bottle, and squeezed it on his face, making him more alert. He sat up and brushed the hair out of his eyes. Coach Reynolds looked in awe at the quick recovery the boy had made.

"Do I have something on my face?" The boy asked.

"No, it's just you bled a lot. How are you not even light headed at least?" Coach Reynolds asked.

"It takes a lot more than a dodge ball to actually hurt me."

The coach looked at the boy before sighing and giving in. "Alright then. What's your name, son?"

The boy looked at the coach. "I've acknowledged how responsible you are about your students."

"Don't get smart with me, boy. Just tell me your name." The coach said crossing his arms.

"Castiel. My name's Castiel." And with that, Castiel stood up and walked back onto the court.

"You can't just walk back into there. Your head's badly injured!" The coach protested.

"I'll be fine. Promise." Castiel assured with a straight tone, a hint of annoyance to his voice.

After Gym had finished, the boys and girls divided into two groups, going to their different lockers. The girls locker was noisy and messy like usual. The floor was scattered with undergarments and stray items. Joanna gently pulled her band from her hair, her blonde locks falling perfectly on her shoulders.

"Did you hear that it was Dean who threw the ball who hit that kid? I know he didn't mean it, but it was just so unnerving." Lisa said with her back turned to Joanna as she rummaged through her locker.

"Unnerving, but incredibly hot." Joanna said, scoffing at Lisa's comment.

"I swear, Joanna. You think like such a guy sometimes. Is that all you think about is sex?" Lisa asked laughing.

Joanna stepped out of her gym short and started to slide into her skinny jeans. "You're not one to talk, Lisa. Don't forget about Gabriel."

"I was drugged." Lisa defended, sliding a fitted tee over her tank top.

"Keep telling yourself that." Joanna sneered.

"I swear. Sometimes I don't get how we're even friends." Lisa said laughing.

Dean walked into the shower room, jumping to touch the ceiling. He walked into the room, reaching for his towel, but then realizing he left his backpack with his towel in it at the cafeteria. He cursed himself as he walked across the school shirtless, running to the cafeteria. He would have to take the moldy shower if he didn't get back soon. He spied the black bag on the wall of the cafeteria and ran to grab it. He picked it up and slung one strap over his shoulder, bolting back down to gym. Dean bolted into the shower room and undressed, hanging his towel on the hook by the showers.

After a few minutes of rinsing his hair, he realized how quiet the room had gotten. Dean shrugged it off, not really caring if he was late to class. He stepped out of the shower and wrapped the white towel around his waist. He bent over and looked at the mirror, running his fingers through his hair, slightly spiking it up. With the towel still around his waist, Dean casually walked into the connected locker room. He started turning the combination lock on his locker when something moved out of the corner of his eye. He noticed a pair of black sneakers placed side by side on the floor by a bench.

Dean threw on his shirt and edged the corner. He recognized the shoes from earlier. "Castiel? That's your name right? It's me, Dean. Are you all right? I felt kind of bad for almost killing you and all."

Dean heard a small bang from the next row of lockers. "You alright there?" Dean called.

"I'm fine Dean. You should get going to your next class." Castiel said, trying to persuade Dean away from the lockers.

"So should you." Dean said.

"Well I'm fine, so you should go. I'm just finishing getting dressed." Castiel called.

"Well. You might need this." Dean said over the lockers.

"What is it?" Castiel asked.

"It's your shirt. I found it by your shoes." Dean replied.

"Oh thanks. If you could, could you throw it over the lockers?" Castiel requested.

"I don't see why I couldn't just hand it to you in person. Besides, I want to apologize properly." Dean argued.

"I already forgave you. You didn't mean to hit me that hard. Besides, God wouldn't want me to hold grudges, not like I would anyways."

"You're just ashamed of your body because it's not as fit, toned, and primed as mine, right?" Dean said teasingly.

"I guess you could say that's it…" Castiel called from his side of the locker.

"Well I'm not gay, and I'm not going to look anyways, so I am going to come around the corner and hand it to you." Dean protested.

Castiel was at the last row of lockers by now and had no way to escape. "Dean, no!" he called.

Dean rounded the corner with a pair of black sneakers in one hand and an unbuttoned shirt hanging off the other. Dean looked at the shirtless boy, backed into a dark corner, barely visible without a light.

"It can't be that bad dude." Dean assured. "Unless you have a third nipple. Please don't have a third nipple."

Dean edged towards the light switch, and heard Castiel breathe in sharply.

"You're going to regret this, Dean." Castiel said sympathetically.

Dean edged up the light switch with his elbow and watched as the lights down the row of lockers turned on, one by one. As the last light turned on, Dean dropped the contents he was holding in his hands and gawked. Everywhere he looked he saw feathers - sleek black feathers, highlighted with purples and blues and accented with silvers. The feathers surrounded Castiel and the light danced off them.

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