Castiel glared dejectedly out of the dingy bus window at the bright sunshine as they approach his new school. He pushed his glasses up and hefted his messenger bag before the (undoubtedly environmentally sound) clanking bus screeched to a stop, belching smoke behind them. He didn't want to do this.

Dean saw the bus pull in from the window of his car, a 1967 Chevy Impala. He smiled to himself that he didn't have to ride that death trap anymore. He grabbed his bag and stomped out his cigarette before walking into Curtis Armstrong's School for Troubled Teens. He'd been going to the school since his sophomore year, right after his parents caught him smoking pot. They decided that their wayward son would do better at the alternative school and they'd been right. He'd made real friends, not just potheads and drunks, and his grades had improved greatly.

As he walked in the building, he smiled as he was greeted by his friends, Jo, Benny, Charlie and Garth, who were all waiting by his locker. "Hey guys. What's up?"

Charlie grinned, "The ceiling."

Benny rolled his eyes. "Ready for another year?"

Dean smirked. "Hell yeah, can't wait to blow this joint."

Castiel dubiously consulted his schedule, squinting just inside the doorway of the two-story red brick building at the swarming maelstrom of students greeting each other inside. He took out his I-pod and is hit with a sudden discordant cacophony of riotous sound. They're so ..loud. It's overwhelming, He wrinkles his nose as cigarette smoke wafts in through the double doors, accompanied by a high-pitched shriek of laughter. A sharp pang of loss hit him suddenly. It's not like he'd had that many close friends at his old school to begin with, and after the Incident,... well... But at least there he'd grown up with the same classmates, knew their names, went to the same birthday parties. At least there, while he hadn't exactly fit in, for a while he belonged. It really sucks that he's stuck ...here, for senior year. On cue, he's jostled rudely by a chubby kid with a tacky skull-covered skateboard. Ugh, especially with all of these miscreants. He hoped dimly that colleges will overlook this trespass if he is able to maintain his 4.0 under such adverse conditions.

He snapped out of it at the blaring three-note bell repeating itself over the hallway speaker. Shit, his homeroom is on the second floor, right? Room 205? ...Ten minutes into his search he's already hopelessly lost, and by sheer dumb luck manages to stagger in tardy to the correct classroom, wincing at the glare at his interruption from the stern black drill sergea- 'teacher' at the desk. "Castiel Shurley. I'm new. Apologies for the inconvenience of my tardiness."

Dean looked up from his book as a student came fumbling in to homeroom, ten minutes after the bell rang, earning a glare from Raphael Finnerman, the teacher behind the desk.

"Castiel Shurley. I 'm new. Apologies for the inconvenience of my tardiness."

Mr. Finnerman harrumphed, "Sit next to Winchester over there. Winchester, wave your hand."

Dean waved and gestured at the desk that had been previously empty, as Mr. Finnerman started his first day of the year spiel.

"Well, now that all of you are here, it's my job to welcome you all here, as well as inform you of the rules. Since most of you are here because you were too miscreant to function in your old schools, I must tell you the same rules apply: no smoking, drinking, swearing, weapons, or use of cell phones on school property. These rules are heavily enforced and if you break them, you will find yourself in Mr. Fuller's office. Any questions?"

Dean raised his hand, earning a sigh from the teacher. "Yes, Mr. Winchester?"

"What about making out with hot classmates?" He sent a wink to his new neighbor in the room, as the class laughed.

Mr. Finnerman sighed. "No, Mr. Winchester, that is still not allowed, and you know that as well as anyone. Any other questions?"