First Supernatural story, woop woop.

The bell rings shrill and high over the thick chatter of everyone moving towards their various rooms, pushing past one another and saying goodnight.

An elbow finds Castiel's side with just the right amount of force to be annoying, "Sorry," they call over their shoulder, not looking him in the eye, not even checking up on the person that they just knocked out of the way. Castiel doesn't reply, just pushes open the door to his room.

He steps over the wad of PE kit shoved into a stack of shoes, and does not make eye contact with Stan, who sits in the left hand corner of his bunk, earphones mashed in as he plays his music just loud enough for a beat to be discerned.

Castiel stands in front of his desk, removes his jacket, his shirt, his tie. Removes his shoes, his socks, his pants. Lifts his towel off the hook, picks up his shampoo and soap, walks down the corridor, and locks himself in the bathroom.

The pile of soggy paper towels flows over the side of the trash can, to stick in bits to the mottled blue linoleum floor of the bathroom. There is not enough room to have the door of the shower open a the same time as the main door. It doesn't matter really. He reaches around the little alcove to drop his underwear on the closed toilet seat, and hangs his towel up in grasping distance from the shower door. Safe from the slick floor.

The shower gets hot quickly. He is on a lower floor so the water pressure is better than last year. Only one person to share a room with as well, he might not be that lucky twice.

He inches the heat to scald his skin, nudging the shower handle more and more to press how much he can take. It feels good, drums on his skin and his flesh, soaks his skin in feeling.

He shuts the water off in just under ten minutes and hooks his towel around his waist and shivers as he opens the door.

Drops the underwear in his laundry bag.

Puts the soap on his shelf.

Pulls out a new pair, puts it on.

Pyjama shirt. Towel dry hair.

He picks up his book from his desk and sits with his knees nudged up between his chest and the harsh wood. To Kill A Mockingbird is nearly over, only a few hundred pages from here until it closes, so he slows down a little bit. He picks out a packet of candy from his drawer, nibbling around the edges as he scans the words, and then sucking on the smooth insides. He puts the packet back, folded over at the top.

At 11.15 he gets up and turns out the light. The bland glow of Stan's laptop guides him as he picks his way back to roll into bed.

It is not difficult to sleep.

The echoing siren of the morning bell shoves him out of sleep. He lies inside the warm roll of his bed for another moment, and then sticks a leg out, and then a second, into the cool morning air. Almost without thinking he tugs on a shirt and a pair of pants, rubbing slowly at his eyes between tasks to coax them completely open.

He walks over and puts a hand on Stan's bed to lean and nudge him awake. He says his name with varying degrees of urgency, eyes flicked upwards, bored with the monotony of it all. Stan blinks awake with a mumbling groan and his limbs thud against the carpeted floor. "I'm awake," he announces unconvincingly, and then stares into space for a full minute as Castiel lays out his books for the first three morning lessons, and goes to brush his teeth.

When he returns, Stan is tugging a crumpled shirt over his head, and Mrs Watts, the matron, is tugging dutifully at the corners of Castiel's bed. She looks up as the heavy door swings shut.

"Oh, Castiel dear, there's a new boy and his younger brother coming today. I said you would show them around, well the older one. The younger one will stick to someone his own age."

She moves to tug the curtains open, "I'll just open a window, its a bit stuffy in here, isn't it," she smiles at him, "Bit stuffy," she trails off again.

She's a saggy, rounded woman, but the amount of energy in her always surprises Castiel.

Stan knocks over an errant pile of books from the perilous edge of his desk and swears, just barely remembering to quiet it at the last second.

"Watch your language," she reprimands, a laugh lightening her words.

"Sorry, Mrs Watts," he mumbles as he picks up his spewed papers and shoves them onto his shelves, filed between dog eared binders.

"Oh I'm fine, just don't let Mr. Peckett hear you dropping words like that or you'll be in for a bit of trouble."

He nods, unconcerned, and Mrs Watts turns back to Castiel. "So get some breakfast, and then just go and see the headmaster, and you can show him to all his lessons. He's going to come and stay in here for a while, you two have a bit of room. Its only until next term, don't worry," she nudges Stan lightly, fake purple nails no doubt leaving dents in his shoulder.

"I won't, Mrs Watts," he sighs, and eyes the empty bunk above Castiel's, betrayed by its existence.

Castiel puts his toothbrush and toothpaste away, and sits at his desk to wait for Stan to be finished getting ready.

Mrs Watts leaves.

I'm afraid this is largely based around my boarding school experience. Well, except for the boring room mate. I have fun.

I know this chapter was just kind of a nothing intro, but Dean will arrive, guns blazing (figuratively, I promise) next chapter. I hope some of you stay around for a bit, tell me what you think.

There will be an interesting mix of American and English language/slang in here because I'm just between both at the moment. My American accent is leaving me, and I can't actually tell which is which anymore, I'm really sorry. So feel free to tell me if I'm doing something wrong.

Thanks for reading.

xxx