"Hey, moron."

Dean spun around. Alastair had cornered him by his locker. Again.

"Heard you've been hitting the books. Thought I'd give you a hand."

Dean felt his backpack ripped from his arms, and some of the class materials he'd been swapping over scattered across the hall. Alastair only had two of his goons with him, but that was enough to overpower him pretty quickly and before he could so much as kick out in retaliation he was being shoved backwards into the narrow locker behind him, his shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle. Alastair shoved Dean's bag into his side and slammed the door shut.

The metal rang loudly, but then there was silence. Then a hissed, "I know it's cliché, but I just couldn't help it! You have fun in there, Winchester."

The silence lasted a few more moments as the echoes of Alastair's footsteps receded and the rest of the students started chatting away. Dean could already feel the bruises forming where his bag, books, and the metal hooks inside his locker dug into his flesh.

Fuck.

Forced contortionism.

What a perfect beginning to the day.

. * * * .

His shoulder was still aching when the bell for third period rang, and he hadn't been completely successful in his attempts at avoiding Alastair during morning break - the jackass had pushed him going up the stairs - so now he had a growing bruise on his knee from where it had hit the edge of the step when he'd fallen. He walked into his math class and— Jesus Christ! Why was the only empty seat beside Castiel again? He rolled his eyes and tossed his bag under his chair before all but throwing himself into his seat.

"Rough morning?" Castiel asked, eyes already focused on his textbook even though the bell had barely finished ringing ten seconds ago.

Dean humphed and got his books out, flicking through his textbook without really knowing what page he was looking for.

"Turn to page three hundred and ninety-four," Castiel told him.

Dean did just that, and then paused, registering a lighter tone than usual. Did the dude just quote Harry Potter at him? He looked over at him, but Castiel was busy scribbling down numbers as if he had a time limit in which to complete them.

He scribbled the first problem into his notebook and tried to concentrate on the difference between permutations and combinations, but he couldn't stop glancing at Castiel's watch out of the corner of his eye, already counting down the minutes until lunch because it was the only hour of the day he wasn't likely to have to put up with anyone's bullshit.

. * * * .

Castiel wasn't stupid. He may have been focused on his work, but that didn't mean he hadn't been aware of Dean looking over at him. But what he couldn't figure out was what Dean had been looking at. It wasn't his answers, if the frustrated sighs were anything to go by. A part of him had wanted to ask him if he needed any help (he clearly did) but he didn't think Dean would have accepted it, so they passed the class in silence.

He looked at his watch as he hurriedly chewed his lunch, shoving another forkful of curry in his mouth before he'd had time to swallow the last one. Castiel was good at math and often helped by tutoring the struggling middle school students during lunch – being captain of the soccer team meant he could try to schedule practice around the tutoring sessions, which were held on a different day each week to allow students who were involved with school groups the opportunity to at least attend some sessions.

He liked to help the younger students, but the downside was that he barely had any time to grab a bite to eat; however on days when he had tutoring Miss Moseley let him go five minutes early so he could get down to the lunch room before the lines got too long.

That meant he was there when Dean trudged in less than a minute after the bell rang, and he found himself watching his enigmatic classmate share a short-lived laugh with the cafeteria staff and then carefully pick the seat closest to the door (and furthest away from anyone else).

He averted his eyes and concentrated on clearing his plate as quickly as possible, in hopes of returning to Miss Moseley's classroom before his student got there, for once. With his attention still on his meal, Castiel only noticed something going on when a soft hush fell before half the room erupted in laughter. Shoving the last bite into his mouth, Castiel stood up and scanned the room. The only other person standing was Dean, his face flushed in embarrassment. A pool of soda spread across his table, despite the handful of paper towels that Dean had thrown down to soak it up.

Suddenly in less of a hurry, Castiel slowly carried his tray over to the side of the room, sliding it into an empty space on the rack and carefully dumping his trash in the bin. He paused before depositing his unopened can of Coca Cola into his bag, however. He already had a bottle of water, so didn't really need it. The can felt cool with condensation and solid in his hand and the spare napkins bunched in his other fist felt very dry in comparison. He looked back at Dean and saw him shoving at the spilled drink fruitlessly with his bare hands, trying to keep it on the table. In that moment of hesitation, he decided to offer Dean a more concrete olive branch than the occasional friendly word. He crossed the room, aware of several pairs of eyes looking up at him (he was, after all, one of the more recognisable students in the school) and tossed the remaining napkins in the middle of the mess before setting his soda down directly in front of Dean.

Dean stared at the drink as if it had offended him.

"You can have it," Castiel said, striving for kindness. "I don't need it."

"Oh, yeah - because I like my drinks shaken, not stirred, is that it?" Dean snapped, angry green eyes piercing into Castiel's for a second before he stormed off.

There were a few scattered giggles that he didn't quite understand, and he picked up his drink again. He may not particularly need it, but he wasn't going to let it go to waste, either.

He was still trying to work out exactly what it was that he'd done wrong when he walked into Miss Moseley's classroom. It was empty except for Dean's younger brother, Sam. Castiel smiled a bit. He was unsurprised to see him. Sam was the only one who consistently turned up to tutoring. He didn't eat with his friends on whatever day tutoring was scheduled for that week, instead choosing to bring a sandwich into the classroom (after Miss Moseley approved the decision, provided he didn't make a mess) and had always started working before Castiel made it upstairs.

"How are you doing?" he asked, sitting down beside the younger boy.

Sam looked up at him. "Fine."

"Good."

Castiel said nothing for several moments as he watched Sam work. After a moment, he slid a sheet of problems over to Castiel to have a look at. Sam was a smart boy, but he was behind in most of his classes just like Cas suspected Dean was – though the older Winchester clearly wasn't working to catch up.

"You have a brother, don't you?" he asked innocently, his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. Sam stopped writing to turn the page of his textbook. "Can't he help you with this?"

Sam scoffed. "He doesn't care much for school."

"No?"

"No."

Castiel nodded. Sam didn't seem inclined to say more, so he prompted, "You know, I think I know your brother. Dean, right?"

Sam looked at him. "Yeah," he smiled. "Are you friends?"

"Well, I wouldn't call us friends, per se. We sit beside each other sometimes." Twice could be classed as sometimes, surely? The school year was just getting started. They were pretty likely to sit together again... right?

Sam's face fell more than Castiel expected. "No, I guess not. Dean doesn't have friends."

Castiel frowned. When Dean had first arrived at Windom High and stood before the class in his ripped jeans and over-sized leather jacket, Castiel hadn't paid him much attention. Since then, Castiel hadn't really spared him that much thought, but if he had, he would have assumed that that Dean had made friends. He was good-looking enough to attract attention and he seemed like a nice enough guy. Looking back, however, it was obvious to him that Dean was a loner; he came to school alone, walked to class alone, and ate lunch alone, though he evidently had Sam. Castiel was starting to feel guilty for not making more of an effort before now, despite that they were from very different social circles.

The rest of lunch period passed in relative silence.

. * * * .

"Castiel seems nice," Sam commented a bit too casually when he walked up to Dean after school.

"What?"

"Cas. He's nice."

Dean frowned, because what was Castiel doing talking to Sammy? He opened his mouth to ask as much, when he realised that the man in question was standing nearby watching them. He threw his arm around Sam's shoulders and started walking towards his car.

"Listen, I don't want you talking to him, Sammy – you hear me?"

Sam pulled away from his brother's embrace. "It's Sam! Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old."

"You might not be twelve any more" Dean teased lightly, hoping to put an end to any argument before it started, "but you're still—"

"And you don't get to tell me who to be friends with," Sam continued, talking over him.

"Castiel isn't your friend, Sam!"

"Yeah, right. You'd know all about that, Dean, because you have so many friends!" Sam snapped, stopping dead in his tracks.

"Keep walking, Sam."

"No. I'm going to make my own way home." Sam said, acidly. "I'll see you later."

"Sam. Sam! Sammy!" Dean shouted after him but it was useless. Sam just kept walking.

. * * * .

Castiel watched their exchange uncomfortably, turning and walking off in the opposite direction when Dean turned to glare at him. What on earth had that been about? Dean had looked like he was really angry with him when he'd turned to glare at Cas - like it was Castiel's fault that Sam had stormed off. He wished he'd been closer so he could have overheard what had been said.

He didn't dwell on it, however. Whatever Dean's problem was he was sure Dean would keep to himself and Castiel wasn't likely to hear about it. He fished his iPod out of his pocket and tucked his headphones in his ears. He scrolled through the albums, thinking that he'd probably get home before he could decide what he felt like listening to.

He didn't bother with the front door of their apartment block when he got home, instead jogging up the fire escape. His mother had bought the 'penthouse suite', as she lovingly called it, after his father died. They couldn't afford to stay in their old home after the funeral. Their new home was a shabby building with peeling paint and fluorescent strips gone yellow with age, but it was a surprisingly spacious apartment given the low price - though that was probably more to do with the story of the girl who threw herself down the stairs than anything else. (Rumour had it that she had thrown herself down the stairs and broken her neck at some point in the late 1940s, but it didn't seem to matter to those happily spreading the macabre tale that the building hadn't been built until the early '70s.)

Nevertheless, Naomi Milton had never been one to miss out on a bargain and had eagerly snapped the place up after being won over by the view. There were two good-sized bedrooms, and though the open-plan kitchen/sitting room was also generous (it needed to be to accommodate all his mother's painting supplies) it had compromised the size of the bathroom, which Castiel would never stop wishing was larger. (He could quite happily live the rest of his life without ever seeing another feminine hygiene product.) There was also a small patio area that provided access to both the roof and the fire escape, and when he'd reached the top of the fire escape Castiel crossed it and walked into the living area through the French windows.

He stopped dead in front of his mother's latest artwork. "Damn it!"

"Wash your mouth out!" came his mother's voice from the other room.

Castiel stared at the outlined painting, as a charcoal angelified version of himself stared back.

"Do you like it?" his mother asked, standing behind him to admire her sketch.

"No."

"Castiel!"

"I mean, it's beautiful, but... How many times have I asked you to stop drawing me in your art pieces?"

"But you're such a handsome boy," she complained.

"Naomi—"

She wrapped him across the knuckles with the wooden handle of her paintbrush.

"Ow!" Castiel exclaimed, rubbing his hand.

"Mom," she emphasised.

"No need to call me mom, Naomi," Castiel muttered.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing." Castiel crossed his arms and stared at her. "I don't like it when you draw me," he stated flatly.

She tutted. "Well you're just going to have to suck it up, Castiel, because that outline is only the beginning."

Castiel groaned.

"I'm going to paint it and enter it in a competition."

Castiel's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What competition?"

"The one that's being held at the local art gallery."

"And what's the prize?" Castiel asked through gritted teeth.

"A thousand dollars and five hundred dollars worth of high quality art supplies."

"Oh," Castiel said in surprise, and the tension drained from his shoulders in relief. The last thing he wanted was his face being ogled by a bunch of strangers. "Well. That's good."

"Yes, I thought so. Oh," she added innocently, "and the painting will be shown in art gallery for a month."

"Mom!"

Naomi giggled.

"You'd better give angel-me enough clothes this time."