Castiel Novak is afraid.

It's an unusual feeling. He might not be loud or especially aggressive on the face of it – and, compared to the domineering presences of his brothers, he is unquestionably the wallflower of the family –, but he knows how to defend himself and he's good at adjusting to the new and the crazy, if not always in the ways deemed most socially acceptable by his peers. He has to; he may only be sixteen, but with a family like his, he's already seen more than enough craziness to last a lifetime.

'GOOD MORNING, VIETNAM!' Lucien's booming voice fills the room as he comes bounding in, awake ludicrously early as ever. Cas slowly opens his eyes but doesn't respond, gaze blurrily fixed on the cracked white walls.
He thinks vaguely that they should really do something about that damp (but, of course, damp is the least of their worries; it's not like they'll be here long, anyway).

Lucien is singing now – 'Good morning starshine,', swaying gently from side-to-side as he does with an expression of indisputable lunacy on his face. Cas sticks his head under the pillow and wordlessly waits for him to go away.
(He should be making the most of it, really – Lucien's good moods never stick around for long.)
As if on cue, Michael barges in, his mere presence seeming to demand silence before he's even said a word. Lucien's response – increasing the volume and switching to a falsetto pitch – is equally predictable.
Conceding defeat, Cas finally sits up. He glances at the alarm clock on his bedside table; he figures it can't be any later than 6.30, and that he might be able to use this information to his advantage and get his brothers to actually leave him alone, for once in his –

8.42. Oh.
'Oh, crikey,' he mutters – eliciting an overt snigger from Lucien's direction.
Today is Cas' first day at Truman High (his first high school in Indiana; yet another state to tick off his – non-existent – bucket list). Being the new kid is never fun – he should know, the amount of experience he's had – but this isn't what he's afraid of. You only have to do something so many times for both the fear and the intrigue to wear off, replaced by a bland predictability presumably not so different from the one people with normal lives experience.
Michael's eyes flick from Luce to Cas and back again, expression of pure disdain on his face.
'After something, are we, Mikey?'
Lucien's still smiling, still playing, but there's a hard edge to his tone. Michael's eyes narrow in response. Cas sits very still and stares at the wall, hoping that if he focuses long and hard enough he can block them out. (It's a technique he's been using, in vain, for years now – the current success rate is 0% – but it can't hurt to try.)

Michael's eyes have that all too familiar glimmer in them, and for a second Cas thinks he's going to rise to the bait. In characteristically angelic fashion, he rises above it, simply turning away from Lucien's provocative smirk and facing Castiel as he addresses them both.
'School starts in twenty minutes.' He's speaking calmly, though clearly exerting much effort to do so. When neither of them respond, he sighs loudly and raises his voice, sounding almost like their father. 'GET READY!'

What Cas is afraid of – more deeply with each passing day – is that his brothers will end up killing each other.
(Leaving him officially in charge of Gabe; no good can come of that.)

Miraculously – especially considering Lucien's notoriously long showers –, they are only a few minutes late, Michael speeding so outrageously that Cas forgets to fear for his family's future and begins to fear for his life instead.
Michael hurries them out of the car and they all make their way to the headteacher's office – four spotty, scowling teenage boys, like a parody of the Perfect American Family. (Lucien and Michael certainly act like an old married couple – if one on the verge of divorce – sometimes.) The principal, Mrs Brumley, certainly looks bemused at the sight of them. Lucien raises an eyebrow in her direction – mocking, challenging – and her scowl is immediately smoothed over, replaced by a bright and cheery smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
'Hello! You must be our new boys!' She looks behind them, notably flustered.
'Is everything okay, Madam?' Cas asks, before he can help himself. He just feels sorry for her, honestly; Monday mornings are tough on anyone, and she and her staff have the delights of both Gabe and Lucien to look forward to. As a family, their only saving grace is that they're almost guaranteed not to stick around for long.
Michael nudges him and Gabriel smirks (Lucien is too busy playing his favourite game of Making Innocent People Horrifically Uncomfortable for No Good Reason – currently by licking his lips and smiling semi-menacingly at a slight, brown-haired boy surely no older than fifteen – to acknowledge Cas' apparent indiscretion), but, to everyone's surprise, Mrs Brumley seems genuinely grateful.

'I'm fine, thankyou, hon. Is your father about?'
'Define 'father'.' Gabriel's eyes are twinkling, mouth curved into a mischievous grin. Michael breaks away from his embarrassment at Cas' faux pas – and existence in general, really – to shoot him a warning glare. They all know who the 'father' who called up to register was – the same who's spent the past however many years waking them up, cooking their meals and now driving them around – who turned away a scholarship at Harvard University for their sake (or their biological father's sake; 'the sake of the family', he said). And, clearly contrary to the principal's belief, he is standing right in front of her.

Mrs Brumley blinks, bemused and blissfully oblivious to all the silent conversations going on around her.
'I'm sorry, I don't follow.'
'Nothing, Miss,' Gabriel says – unconvincingly, under Michael's scrutinous gaze. 'Just playing with you. Our dad's away on business right now.'
Lucien lets out a long, hollow laugh – loud enough for the brown-haired boy (and probably the entire corridor), let alone Mrs Brumley herself, to hear. She is kind enough to ignore it.

Forty-five minutes later, Cas is sitting in what should have been his second – but has clearly turned out to be his first – class of the day, minding his own business awaiting the unadulterated joys of Geometry when a boy (slightly taller, with a shaved head and a smirk to rival Gabriel's) saunters over, standing over him with a look of entitled expectance on his face.
Cas stays hunched up over his new workbook, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the (blank) page before him in the hope that the boy will be discouraged and leave. As a general rule, he doesn't bother making friends; with a family life and a nature like his, he finds it is very rarely worth the effort it requires.
The boy clears his throat loudly. Cas pretends not to hear for the first and second time, but on the third he is forced to look up.
(If there's one thing that interests him less than making friends, it's making enemies.)

'Can I help you with something?'
He's trying to be polite, but the boy's smirk is replaced by a frown and his eyebrows furrow. Cas sighs inwardly, fighting the urge to bang his head against the desk.
Great. Another faux pas.
'That was a genuine offer,' he clarifies quickly, awkwardly extending his hand to the other boy. 'I'm Castiel – Cas. You can call me Cas.'
The boy takes it after a moment's hesitation. He still looks a little bemused, but at least he's smiling now.
'Dean. Dean Winchester. Pleasure's all mine, but you're kind of in my seat, bro.'
'Oh!' Cas stands up so abruptly that the desk shakes, making such an almighty clatter that the whole room full of people turn around to stare. One girl – dark-haired, pale-skinned and pretty, but with an unnerving glint in her big brown eyes – outright laughs. Cas turns instinctively to glare at her and she shuts up – but the sneering smile on her face seems to say he hasn't heard the last of her.

Don't make enemies, he reminds himself sternly. For such a generally good person (he likes to think, anyway), he really does seem to have an abnormal amount of difficulty sticking to that rule.

More unusually, it seems he may also be having trouble sticking to the whole no-friends thing. When he turns around, Dean is sitting down and patting the seat next to him, something like respect in his eyes.
'Total bitch,' he says, in a stage whisper, when Cas gratefully accepts his offer and sits back down (he manages to restrain from asking what Dean was making such a fuss about in the first place, knowing that the seat right next to his was free). 'I would – I have – but there are some personalities no amount of hotness can compensate for, you know?'
Cas gives a slightly jilted nod.
'Uh-huh. Thanks, I'll make a note of that.'
Dean looks a little put out by that, and Cas is just wondering whether to clarify that he's being serious (again) when the other boy laughs and shakes his head.
'You're funny, man. I like you.'

Their teacher finally wanders in a few minutes later – or rather, wheels in, as he's wheelchair-bound –, a gruff, bearded man probably in his mid-40s and not looking the part at all in a black cap and plaid shirt. He surveys them all with a look of disinterested derision, not saying a word. Cas is just starting to wonder if he's actually a teacher at all, and not just a crazy man in a wheelchair who's come in off the street – and, if this is the case, whether he has a gun and how freaked out/impressed/confused the other students will be if/when Cas puts his killer martial arts skills to the test – when he turns to face the board with a long sigh and writes, 'MR SINGER – GEOMETRY 1A'. Cas stands again (because that went so well last time) and clears his throat.

Mr Singer wheels back around to face the class – if only after underlining his name several times, so forcefully that the end of the chalk breaks off. Cas isn't one to jump to conclusions, but he's getting the distinct impression that Mr Singer is not exactly passionate about his work.
'Hello, Sir,' he says, and Mr Singer's eyebrows shoot up. 'I'm Castiel. I'm a new student here.'
'You are?' Cas nods. 'Congratulations. Now be an old dear and sit back down, would ya? Don't want to wreck your chances of fitting in by blocking your classmates' views of the wonders of glorified shapes.'
There are a few awkward snickers across the classroom. Cas isn't sure if Mr Singer is joking or not.
'I took a blank exercise book from the front of the classroom,' he continues uncertainly, 'I hope that won't be a problem.'
'Take all the blank exercise books you want, kid.' Mr Singer's voice is mocking, but it's not unkind. He notices with irritation that the girl from before is still staring at him, scowling now. She's not the only one, actually; even Dean looks a little embarrassed on his behalf. 'Just sit the hell down and let me get on with this godforsaken class. Sooner I do, sooner we can all be out of this dump.'
Cas sits down.