I flip through the photos on my camera, frowning at the blurred lines and uneven frames. Next to me, Charlie taps away at her laptop, finishing up a feature on student government as Ruby argues with Meg on some issue on the news yesterday.

Deleting photo after photo, I finally found one that matched my standards. "Charlie, I got your SGA photo picked out. I'll put it on the flash drive when the meeting is over."

Her shoulders slump with relief and she pats my cheek, red hair falling out of her bun. "Thanks, Cas. You are a life saver."

I smile at her, looking up when Naomi strides up to the table, clapping her hands.

"Alright my lovely editorial staff, with a new semester beginning I have decided to reassign beats."

Charlie raises an eyebrow at me, saving her document before leaning back in her chair. Balthazar winks at me and I wink back, silently thanking him for whatever word he put in Naomi's ear about my reassignment. I cross my fingers underneath the table.

"I feel as if these choices are self-explanatory. So, Meg you are Editorial page editor. Ruby, Features editor. Charlie, Entertainment editor. Castiel, Photography and Design editor. And I will naturally be News editor along with duties as editor-in-chief."

The lot of us smile and give each other high fives. Charlie shoves my knee under the table, grinning as I laugh a little in excitement. Our meeting continues as usual, discussing deadlines and preparing for advertisements. As it ends, we stuff our messenger bags with article drafts and academic homework.

"Oh, and Castiel?" Naomi calls before I step out the door. Turning, I raise an eyebrow. "As our lead photographer, I need you to take action shots for the baseball championship. It's the end of the season and we need a good picture to go with the front page article."

My jaw drops. I sputter for a couple moments, scratching the back of my head. "You want… sports Naomi? You know how I feel about those… steroid addicted assholes."

Naomi nods, her hands folded on the laminate table. "I am aware of that, Castiel. But Samandriel is not capable of producing work of such quality yet, and Uriel doesn't know what a shutter button is…"

I hold up a hand, sighing. "Stop. I'll do it. For the sake of good photography and journalism."

Naomi nods, reordering the papers in front of her. The clock ticks behind us, counting the seconds until the first bell. It's Friday, one of those days where every second is an obstacle until the freedom of the weekend. We sit in the enveloping silence as I wait for the worse news. Sports photographers…

"You will have to travel with the team of course. I don't want photos from other sources, Castiel."

I twist the strap of my leather messenger bag in a short moment of anger. "I understand. The game happens next week, correct?"

She nods stiffly again. "You at least don't have to write the articles. I've left that to Zachariah."

Smirking, I yank open the door and walk into the hallway. "Thank you for the act of mercy, your highness."

I can hear her quiet laughter as the door closes and I take a deep breath. School hallways are sort of creepy without students to fill the cement tunnels with gossip and jokes. 7:53. People should start piling in soon, cracking open lockers in a symphony of groans and complaints and plans for the weekend. I lean against my locker, sliding to the floor and tilting my head against the cool metal. Closing my eyes, I soak in the little bits of conversation around me, fingers tracing over the buttons and curves of my camera.

I drifted into a state of half sleep, breath slow and comfortable when a pair of Chuck Taylor's crash into my calves, forcing a heavy body onto my lap.

My eyes shoot open, only to drown in a set of emerald irises in a horizon of freckles. I open my mouth to say something when the color is snatched away by the brawny hands of Crowley.

"Wow, Winchester, don't squash him." He chuckles as if he somehow had made a joke, letting go of Dean's jacket. Dean Winchester had been sitting in my lap. Dean star-of-the-baseball-team Winchester. He holds out a calloused hand to me, which I take so he can lift me off the ground.

"Sorry about that, Novak."

"Um… it's okay." Dean squeezes my hand briefly before letting it go.

"You finish that physics homework?"

"Yeah, yeah. Of course." I swallow and look at Crowley over his shoulder.

Dean offers a friendly smile, saying a casual, "see ya in class" before entering a ring of back pounding from other teammates. Charlie saunters up, tapping the side of my head to break my gaze.

"Earth to Castiel, we've got a class to pass. Can we go?"

I shake my head a couple times, turning to fiddle with my lock. "Yes, Mothership."

I look at her in my side vision, smirking when she rolls her eyes in exasperation. Chuckling, I slam my locker closed just as the bell rings.

Young the Giant sighs from my stereo as I flip through a National Geographic catalog. Sunlight dims against my blinds as I hum along, feeling the paper crinkle under my fingertips. My packed suitcase squats on the floor next to my bed, camera case perched on top. I tear out a picture of the Titanic, an ambient photo that captures the haunting color of the shipwreck. A color most said matched my eyes.

As I tape up the picture with my growing collage, Gabriel steps into my room snacking on a bag of gummy bears. He crashes into my mattress, smiling up at me as I wobble and grab the headboard. "What's up with the bags, Cassie?"

"I have an assignment next week for journalism. I have to travel with the boy's baseball team to the state championship."

Whiskey colored eyes look up at me, a gummy bear flying into the air and landing in his mouth. "Let me get this straight, you're going to watch baseball all weekend. For no other reason but to take pictures of hot guy's asses?"

I roll my eyes and grab Gabriel's bag of candy, popping a couple into my mouth. Leaning against the headboard, I think about the seniors on the team. Dean, Crowley, Michael, Alastair, and Uriel, all fairly attractive. Pursing my lips, I nod. "Football involves asses. Baseball is profiles of the faces, chests and thighs."

Gabriel snorts and pats my thigh. "Sounds hot either way, lil bro. I give you my blessing. Tell Chuck yet?"

"Yeah told him as soon as I got home."

He nods, snatching his bag back before skipping out of the room. "Toodles, Cassie."

"Goodnight, Gabriel."

I settle onto my bed, turning the music off and staring at the wall in silence. I'd have to share a room with one of the players. Coach Singer had already given me the paperwork with a gruff smile and greeting. He said that there was already an odd number of guys on the team, so it would work out well. If I bite my lip anymore, it's probably going to start bleeding.

Memories of middle school start scrolling past in my mind. Memories of standing in the locker room, uncomfortable as the other boys changed around me. Memories of Alastair and a couple of other guys shoving me into the shower wall and screaming slurs into my ear. Memories of the crack of bone against tile, of sneakers smacking into chest, of blood and bile mixing in my mouth. When I passed out Alastair turned on the cold water, slapping me awake. Their smiles cut through me, getting lodged in my center, splinters buried to deep. Their laughter settled in between my temples in a migraine that still hasn't gone away. Their hands followed me like thunder follows lightning, booming against my slim body.

I could just imagine what hell was in store for me next week. The pranks, the derogatory comments, the flashbacks to the days of my budding identity and the times people tried to kill it. Shaking my head to be rid of the thoughts, I curled up under my blankets and fell asleep.

Charlie bounces around me, phone in her pocket for once instead of lighting up Tumblr. I scan the bus loading zone around us, the empty parking lot, the three yellow bodies puffing carbon dioxide, and the sun fighting for dominance of the sky. A cool breeze rustles the empty branches of trees as a sleek black Chevy Impala purrs into the parking lot. Dean hops out, leaving the keys in the ignition so his father can slide into the driver's seat.

He bends over to grab a couple duffle bags out of the back seat, and Charlie whistles, elbowing me. Looking away proves to be the best solution for my burning cheeks. Thoughts chase each other in my mind as he waves to the retreating vehicle and steps onto the curb with us.

"Morning." He smiles, setting the bags at his feet. "Y'all ruined my reputation. Normally I'm the first poor bastard here."

Charlie gapes at him before turning to me, moving her eyes to gesture that I should talk to him. Biting the inside of my cheek, I answer quietly. "My apologies. It was not my intention to taint your reputation."

Green eyes flash with a small smile. He pats my back with a little too much force, but chuckles. "It's all good, man. Nothing I'm too worried about. Just the end of the world."

Dean winks before turning to watch the others drive through the parking lot. Coach Singer does a head count, ordering a couple boys to load up the back of the bus with their supplies. As boys pile onto the bus, Charlie hugs me, patting my cheek. "Try to have fun, Castiel. It won't be all bad. If you have a problem, just call me and I'll beat the shit out of them."

I smile at her. "Of course, Mothership."

She kisses my cheek, shoving me towards the bus. Waving, I hop up the short steps, scanning the rows of blue for an open seat. I shuffle towards the back, looking at the free space next to Alastair, who smirks at me.

"Need some place to sit, Novak?"

"That would be much appreciated, yes."

Alastair pets his duffle bag as if to stretch it out to take up more space. Black eyes glint when the bus lurches forward and the bus driver shouts for me to sit. I grip the seats to keep from lunging forward, my bags swinging under my arm.

"Crowley, go sit with Al," a low voice says behind me, and suddenly the shorter boy spins me around to take the space. I turn around to see Dean, waving for me to sit with him. Swinging my bags around, sit in the empty space with my stuff in my lap.

"Hello, Winchester."

Small smile. "Hey."

I stare at my bags, watching light flash brightly against the fabric. The loud jostle of tires on asphalt, wind whistling through windows and cacophony baritone voices lull me into a daze of anxiety and critical thinking. Coach Singer would mind me, would know to not pair me with Alastair for a room. If anything, I could just ask for a room switch. There's nothing wrong with that, I could do that. It wouldn't be much of an inconvenience if I say something before anyone gets settled.

Next to me, Dean watches the trees and grass become a blur, bobbing his head to some song he quietly hums. My head tilts unconsciously, something I correct when I realize what he's humming.

"Proud Mary?" I ask quietly, half hoping he won't hear me over the noise.

His head whips around, eyes twinkling with a smile before his lips turn up. "You know Creedance Clearwater Revival?"

I grin back, squirming feel more comfortable against the hot plastic seats. "CCR is one of my favorites."

He turns towards me, back leaning against the window. "Yeah? I never pegged you for the classic rock type."

Raising an eyebrow, I smirk at him, twisting a bag strap around my fingers. "What did you peg me for then, Winchester?"

Laughter rumbles from him and I can't help but grin. "I don't know, Novak. You're just sorta nerdy is all."

"So that automatically means I don't listen to classic rock?"

He purses his lips, squinting at me as if to analyze my worthiness. "I guess not. What other bands do you listen to?"

Shrugging, I shove my bags under my feet, tapping my knees. "Anyone really. Music is a very interesting escape. CCR, Kansas and the Zombies are classic. "

Dean nods agreeably. "I'm a Metallica fan myself."

Companionable silence falls over us and the excitement of the team simmers into lethargy. I take out my camera. I snap candid shots of the team drifting into sleep, refocusing to take action shots of trees flashing by. Dean watches when I settle into my steadied pose, elbows held out in case the bus stopped. From behind the camera I watch him shake his head, an action I capture as quickly as it happens.

"What got you into photography?" he says.

I rest my camera on my chest, biting my lower lip. It is customary to ask generalized, yet personal, questions when you first meet someone and want to know them better. But no one had ever asked me why I focused so much on my art, not even my family when I asked for my first camera.

I clear my throat, tracing the buttons on my Canon and avoiding his gaze. His warm hand rests on top of mine, stilling my nervous tick and forcing me to look up.

"I get it, man. It's personal," he says, staring at our hands. Gaping at him, I grip my camera and move my jaw in an attempt to fill the void of his silence. His eyes crinkle around the edges, but no longer in amusement. His gaze turns back to the window, body pulling away and leaning against the window.

"In every second that passes we simultaneously live in the past, present and future," I say. His shoulders tense, but I keep going anyway. "I want to capture those profound moments, even if it seems like a simple scene. That moment will never exist again, except in the photograph."

Looking down at his lap, then back up at me, he smirking a little. "So that's why you, Castiel Novak, refined photographer for the school newspaper, is traveling across the state of Kansas with a bunch of aggressive, thick skulled goons who play baseball?"

I chuckle quietly, aware of the snores around me. "Yes. I'm here to take pictures of goons in their natural habitat."

And I wish I could take a picture of his smile, because the genuine shine of it will never exist again.