A/N: Hey guys! Well this here is my new project that I'm working on whilst waiting on inspiration to strike for Angel of Notre Dame! I'm hoping to keep it a decent length; it wont be a 100,000 words or anything quite as drastic, maybe around 20,000 – so about 8 Chapters or so.

Hope you enjoy and please review :)

Disclaimer: It occurred to me that I never put a disclaimer anywhere on A.O.N.D :S
I'm not even sure if they're compulsory or not so I'll just slam one on here just in case.

I own nothing except the plot and a few OCs.

MUSE – Chapter One.

Art Room;

There's something about painting that Dean really loves, he has come to realise, be it the freedom of a blank canvas, the potential of a paint covered paintbrush or the two things combined which gives Dean the possibility to morph them into whatever he wants, feels and imagines. His hand hovers above the 30 by 40 inch canvas laid bare in front of him, the paintbrush protruding out, reaching towards it as he contemplates where he wants to place his first stroke, how he wants this to play out.

It is his final year in this godforsaken college and Dean decided that a change was in order. After dragging his ass through a very regrettable yet much needed 2 year English Lit course, where he spent his days criticising the teacher's book choices and coming out with a respectable B for all of his torture, Dean had a choice to make; with his Criminal Justice course taking another year to complete Dean needed something to fill his time. Really, that was the whole point of the Literature course in the beginning, to fill the blank, boring spaces in his days that allow him to think too much. Dean Winchester cannot fathom boredom or emptiness – his mind needs to be constantly occupied, thank you very much.

Surprisingly, it took him very little time at all to scope out a class that didn't require the intensity that his Criminal Justice class does – hell, he spends half his life in Professor Klein's white walled room, sacrificing a lot more than his just sanity in his mission to become a law enforcer. Scanning the lists of open classes at the end of last year, he found an empty slot, or rather several, in Mr Novak's daily art class which filled his newly free Lit spaces just nicely and didn't force him to make a commitment to the subject if he didn't want to – of course, there is the option to take it a further 3 years and possibly lead onto a creative career path but there's also a choice to drop out whenever he so wishes. Dean doesn't think the former is a plausible option for him at all.

It's 7 months into this final year, a month away from getting his A in Klein's class and a month away from freedom and a carefree future for him and his little brother Sammy and Dean is stood in front of a mammoth canvas contemplating brush strokes for his art exam final piece. His assignment is portraits and Dean's spent the majority of his time photographing every interesting looking person he can find – with permission of course – then taking inspiration from those photos and turning them into beautifully painted pieces of art. He did so swiftly and confidently, sure that with enough development Dean would find his eventual muse, the person that he would base the final and most crucial part of his exam on, but so far he is at a loss. There's the hot blonde girl named Jo who has a funny sort of twinkle to her smile or her mother Ellen who wears a stern expression but still comes across soft and caring, or there's his kid brother with his shaggy hair and dimpled grin – all three are Dean's best options but none of them are The One. None of them hold and capture Dean's fascination for long enough for him to want to base his entire piece on. Except Sammy, of course, but he holds Dean's attention for a whole range of different reasons – mainly 'cause he looks after him and he has to give him his full attention, if he's being honest. And that's just not a good enough reason.

Dean sighs and places the pallet and brush back on the desk, the canvas glaring back at him in all its blankness. It's a fucking lost cause, this final piece of his, until he finds inspiration to make it perfect. With desperation that he may have missed someone in his mass of photos, Dean rummages through his bag and plucks out his camera. Flicking through the gallery he remembers every single one of the shots: the first ones are all of Sam in the house, followed by a selection of random people on the street who were silly enough to pose for his pictures like he was some freakin' model scout, followed by some of his Dad crashed on the couch, various friends around school, Jo and Ellen, uncle Bobby, his sort-of girlfriend Lisa… Nothing interesting enough though, nothing he wants to paint with a passion so fiery that he'd do it all in one sitting without stopping for a breath, never mind food or a piss.

Dean concludes he is royally screwed if he doesn't pull something out of the bag. And it really doesn't look promising.

Not to mention this final piece should have been started a week ago but Dean hadn't been able to get a moment alone to actually do it. Sam's been ill. It started off with a chest infection; the poor kid was bed ridden for a little over a week and their Dad has been out of town since last month doing god knows what so he wasn't, and still isn't, there. Sam'd begged Dean to stay with him in his scratchy cough damaged voice; and that was so totally not Sam-like behaviour at all that Dean knew something was seriously up with him. He stayed with him for four days, watching his baby brother get considerably worse and worse before enough was enough and he hauled Sammy into the Impala and raced him to the hospital. It turned out that Sam had pneumonia and fuck did that take up some room in Dean's head. They hooked him up to a drip and gave him so many tablets Dean was sure his gangly body was gonna reject them until he was assured by the docs that they were working. Sam's still in the hospital now. He's getting better; Dean knows this from Dr Frederickson who told him that Sam's immune system is getting back into gear again thanks to the meds. But still, Sam's in the hospital. And that's so not ok with Dean.

Thinking of Sam in that hospital bed is causing the usual need to be with his brother grow stronger, he can feel the pull of the bond between them even now, an hour away from where Sammy is probably eating shitty hospital food and secretly checking out hot nurses but is too shy to say anything to them.

By this time Dean is seriously about give up on his dammed painting for good and fuck the art course all together. But then Mr Novak walks in, or rather is catapulted in by one of his younger, students Sophie. The door slams loudly through the usual silence of the art room and, though no way in hell he'll ever admit it, Dean jumps. But only a little.

Mr Novak smiles.

"Hey, teach."

"Hello Dean," a gravelly voice accompanied by a nod, "Sophie wants to talk to you I believe. And, apparently, I have to be witness to this," one dark eyebrow raised, he looks over to Sophie who is bounding towards Dean with a huge grin on her face.

She has learning difficulties and finds maths and science to be an absolute bitch but she's sure a genius with a HB pencil. The girl can draw like no other and Dean thinks that out of all the seven people in his class she's his favourite.

"Dean! Cas won't let me draw for my final piece, tell him he's being mean." Sophie uses Mr Novak's first name like she's a friend, all the students do, all expect Dean who finds it a little creepy; teachers aren't meant to have first names as far as he, a student, is concerned.

Sophie's pouting face appears in front of Dean's, eyes twinkling mischievously and Mr Novak's voice sounds from over near the door he's just been thrown through.

"That's because you've spent the entire year drawing and the syllabus requires you to use a range of different media. You have to branch out Sophie, widen your abilities. You know I think you'd be amazing with chalk." Sophie scoffs at this and proceeds to vehemently shake her head. Mr Novak looks to Dean for help.

"Dude, totally not my area. I just paint so I can sympathise with her I guess." He scratches the back of his neck as he remembers his failed attempt at pastels, collage and 3D media that Mr Novak insists will do wonders for his grade simply because he tried. He really doesn't think disasters like those are grade boosters but that little man he created out of clay was pretty cool; Dean's always been good with his hands.

Sophie nods triumphantly and occupies herself with rooting through the back cupboard for a sharp set of pencils. With a sigh, Mr Novak puts a hand on Dean's shoulder and spins him round to look at the looming blank canvas that really should've been started by now.

"I've seen some simplistic pieces of art over the years Dean but yours is something else, indeed," his tone implies that he is teasing but Dean can see the worry etched on his face, there really isn't that much time left to get this done and if Dean wants to get a good grade he has to crack on. And he does want a good grade, he really does, because over the course of these seven months Dean has grown to love art, has developed a taste and an appreciation for the majorly underappreciated subject that he initially only took up to fill time. He wants to do well. He wants to make Mr Novak proud.

"I just haven't found the right subject, sir. And…well, I've had a lot of stuff to deal with lately."

His reply is pathetic and he knows it but it's the truth, even if not a detailed one, and Mr Novak values nothing more than the truth. Dean learned that at the beginning of the year when he tried to lie his way out of his first art class to pick up a sick Sammy from Bobby's house. Their Dad had dumped him there after deciding that he urgently needed to go somewhere that Sammy couldn't tag along. Bobby, however, was due at a friend's wedding and couldn't watch Sam for more than a couple of hours.

He remembers how Mr Novak effortlessly sliced through all Dean's bullshit lies about their being a flood in his house due to a leaky pipe and how he took him into his office to speak privately. It didn't take Dean long to spill his guts about Sam, his Dad and his life after Mr Novak broke him down with soft words and his patient blue gaze. He's one of those people you'd automatically assume was a shrink just because of his eyes.

Dean thinks they could pry the deepest secrets out of the darkest souls with how blue they are.

Following the gut spilling Mr Novak swiftly informed him that no amount of bullshit would get Dean anywhere with him and that if he needs to leave the class he should just be a fucking man and tell him the truth, his secrets are safe with him. Of course, that's Dean's paraphrased version but the message is the same.

In the present the teacher clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth in thought for a second before turning his way too intense stare on Dean like he's searching soul deep – somewhere Dean can't quite get to inside of himself – to find the answer.

"Why don't you take more pictures? Find different people who aren't the ones right in front of you and try and make a connection with them?"

He seems to be giving Dean an extension on the assignment but Dean isn't sure, he doesn't want to hope.

"I'll give you an extra week to prep for your final piece and then, following the completion of the other student's final pieces, another week to finish the actual painting if it is needed."

And there it is, the reason Dean finds this teacher so fucking awesome.

He face breaks out into a shit eating grin and he nods. "Sounds good teach, thanks."

Mr Novak smiles and lays his hand back on Dean's shoulder, he always does that, Dean thinks.

"How is Sam?"

Dean chews his lip and looks at the floor. "He's…getting better. But I can't stand to think of him in that hospital, you know? He should be at home with me, healthy and telling me what an ass I am for playing Metallica too loud and watching porn on his laptop."

The truth again, Dean doesn't think he could ever lie to Mr Novak now. The teacher chuckles at the last part and his face crinkles, all soft eyes and white teeth. He squeezes Dean's shoulder and with the conviction of someone who can tell the future and knows for certain that they're right he says, "He will be soon, Dean. I promise."

Weirdly, Dean believes it.

Hospital;

Sam is propped up by no less than four plump pillows, supping coke out of a can when Dean walks in the room.

"Someone's feeling better," Dean remarks as he watches Sam strain to see out the door, eyes following a young blonde girl with curly hair who waves and makes a 'call me' gesture on her way past. "Who's the chick you're scoping out?"

He sits on one of those horrendous plastic hospital chairs by Sam's bed and looks at him with a smirk.

Sam's face flushes pink and he ducks his head. "Uh…her names Jess, her baby brother was in here. He broke his arm and was always in the kids play area. That's where I first saw her and we just sort of, got to know each other over the past week–"

"Dude! A week? Why haven't I heard anything about her before now?" Sam opens his mouth but before he can reply something registers in Dean's brain and he carries on, "Woah, wait. More importantly, why were you in the kids play area?" Dean's face is a mask of utter disgust and Sam scowls at him, good naturedly of course, but it's a scowl nonetheless and it feels so good and familiar that Dean can't help but tease a little more.

"What? Do they have a special edition Barbie collection in there or something, Samantha?"

"Jerk." Is all Sam says and Dean throws a "bitch" right back at him, grin splitting his face in two.

God it feels good to spend time with this kid again, it's been a long endless day for Dean since art class finished and all he wanted to do was escape and go see Sam.

"How's school?" Sam asks, tactically changing the subject and focussing the attention on Dean instead.

"Same old, same old Sammy," he replies with a sigh, "why'd you ask?"

"Just wondering, I know how worried you get, I'm pretty sure I'd be right in saying you've spent most of your days thinking of ways to skip just so you can come check on me."

Well damn if that kid didn't know Dean better than himself.

He scoffs, "Of course, oh precious one, 'cause I have nothing better to do with my time than to worry about your twerpy little ass." Sam does a mock sad face and Dean ruffles his hair affectionately.

"Hey, can I see how your paintings going? I told you to take pictures of your progress on your cell, remember?"

He did and Dean does remember but there's the small matter of Dean not actually having started the thing. And really, he thought he was rid of this subject for today, apparently it decided it's gonna butt in whenever it feels. He doesn't want to have this conversation, he has enough on his mind without worrying about a freakin' painting right now. He scratches the back of his neck and Sam catches on.

"Dean! Don't tell me you still haven't started it?" Sam's face is one of sheer disappointment. "You promised me you'd ace that class Dean, you can't let your talents go to waste–"

Dean swallows and there's an overwhelming need to scream. There's far too much pressure on him and dealing with school and home and Sam being ill is grating on his patience. It makes him inexplicably angry and he's needed to find some way to release all the pent up feelings for a while now but Dean can feel that he's gonna blow up at the absolute wrong person. Right now.

"I haven't had much time, ok, Sammy? I've been a little busy taking care of you, working at Bobby's place to pay the bills and trying to pass my classes to set me up for a real job with a decent pay. All so I can whip up a good college fund for you!" Rant over, Dean catches the guilt in Sam's eyes; his little brother has always hated the fact that Dean had to look out for him. There's been many times when Sam was younger that he's found him trying to cook Spaghetti-O's at the stove to take some weight off of Dean's rather heavy load. Even as a small kid Sam used to hate it.

"Sammy…hey, buddy I'm sorry. I didn't–" he tries to back track.

"You did mean it Dean. It's the truth; you shouldn't have to look after me. But…you're all I've got," Sam swallows hard and Dean can tell he's trying to keep the tears in.

His face hardens and he turns away from Dean, shrugging off the hand that's desperately holding onto his shoulder. "But you're just my brother…not my Dad."

For some reason Dean feels that last part somewhere in his gut and realises that this is the feeling that authors try to capture when they liken it to being punched in the stomach.