In This Secluded Spot I Respond As I Wouldn't Dare Elsewhere

Sketching Dean

The remainder of the morning went by quickly. He suffered through trigonometry by secretly adding the finishing touches to the kestrel in his sketchbook. When it was time for art class, Mr. Darrow nodded and clapped Castiel on the shoulder.

"You've captured the male of the species quite well, Castiel. Very nicely done."

"Thank you, Mr. Darrow."

"The shading on the wings is very subtle. But watch your shadowing. Make sure you keep the shadows consistent with the sun's placement."

Castiel looked closer at his sketch, noticing that although the wings were highlighted in the sun's rays, there wasn't a cast shadow. "Oh," he said, sounding disappointed at his obvious mistake. "You're right."

"I'm impressed with your sketchbook as a whole so far. Keep it up and you'll definitely get a good grade at the end of the year when you turn it in. Don't get discouraged yet. Just be aware of it for next time."

"I will, Mr. Darrow."

Mr. Darrow returned to the front of the room to address the class as a whole.

"Ladies and gentlemen, put your sketches aside for a moment so we can discuss this year's art show."

At the end of every school year Flour Bluff High held an art show in the auditorium. Ceramics, watercolors, pen and ink, oil paintings — the teachers chose the best pieces of work from all the art classes, and they were put on display for everyone to see, including the public. In freshman year Castiel had a ceramic pot chosen, and last year his seascape made it. He never knew until the day of the art show if any of his pieces of art were picked.

"Once again Flour Bluff will be holding its annual art show. Obviously I can't choose every single piece of work that's completed over the course of the semester. I'll be looking for only the most impressive artwork to submit. Keep this in mind as we move forward. I don't want to see any poor compositions or half-finished work in class. I want all of it good enough to be considered for the show."

Castiel was looking forward to the show, and he paid strict attention through Mr. Darrow's instruction on negative space. They'd already covered realism, pointillism, and surrealism in class, but he wasn't sure if the work he completed for those styles was good enough. He didn't know what Mr. Darrow had planned for the rest of the semester, but Castiel hoped whatever styles they were going to be learning about allowed him to produce art worthy of the show.

And on top of all that, he also had to keep working in his sketchbook. Mr. Darrow expected at least two sketches a week, and if he fell behind there was no way he'd receive a passing grade when he turned it in.

Luckily his next period was lunch. Rather than dealing with the social uncertainties of a crowded cafeteria, he always chose to eat outside. On rainy days or when it was too cold, he retreated to a conference room in the library. He retrieved his insulated lunch bag from his locker, and since it was crisp but sunny, Castiel pulled his wool hat over his ears, buttoned his coat, and sneaked out a side door.

He followed the path around the football field and across the track to the fence that surrounded the far baseball field. He took a quick look around, and then hopped over. They weren't supposed to go off campus during school hours — and the woods circling the fields certainly were — but it was the one place he felt completely safe during the day.

Castiel was munching on a bologna sandwich and chips when he caught sight of a figure walking along the edge of the baseball field. He instantly got nervous, thinking someone had followed him, but the figure stopped and walked down into the dugout. Castiel squinted, and could make out a very familiar thigh-length leather jacket. He recognized Dean easily.

Dean walked out of the dugout and onto the infield. He kicked at the clay and walked around where the bases would be, until he got to third base. Castiel watched him hunch down into position and pretend to throw an imaginary ball. Finally he sat down on the bleachers.

Castiel popped the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth and grabbed his sketchbook from his backpack. He studied Dean closely: the way he sat bent over, how his hair stuck out a bit at the front, the way he kept nudging the toe of his boot into the dirt. Castiel thought he looked lonely. He scoffed at the idea. He wondered why he wasn't eating lunch with the baseball team, or at least sitting in the cafeteria with the popular kids. He shouldn't have to work hard at Flour Bluff to be accepted, even as the new guy.

Dean stretched out, draped his arms over the sides of the bleachers and let his head rest on the step above him. He didn't move at all, which made him perfect for Castiel to sketch.

The surreptitious artist and his unwitting model remained like that until they both heard the far-off bell letting them know lunch was over.