Castiel spent lunch in the woods with ham and cheese and his sketchbook, trying in vain to scribble down something — anything — to keep it up to date. He'd been so distracted by what had been happening over the past few days that he was falling behind. Some pencil strokes and multiple erasures later, he lost interest not long after finishing up his banana, and gave up.

Then he took out his copy of Leaves of Grass, which his mother had used during his homeschooling days. She had a great affinity for Walt Whitman, and her love of his poetry carried over to Castiel as well. He was considering memorizing one of the poems for his English final.

But he was unable to concentrate. Feeling restless, he cleaned up after himself and headed to auto shop early.

Unfortunately, when he got there he was met with Alastair, Tom, Brady, and the shiny new Mustang parked in the auto shop bay. Alastair was gesturing and talking with Mr. Singer, who was leaning over the open hood of the car. Castiel tried to retreat from the room, but Alastair noticed him right away.

"Be right back, Mr. Singer. Why don't you check out the inside?"

Alastair left the three of them to drool over the car and started walking toward Castiel. Castiel edged over to the door to run, but Alastair suddenly put his arm around Castiel's shoulder, squeezed it painfully, and ushered him out of earshot of Mr. Singer.

"Auto shop is for the boys, Asstiel," he sneered. "We're busy looking at my new car."

"I'm allowed to be early to class if I so choose."

"I say you're not, you little fag. Get the fuck out of here before I lose patience."

Castiel could feel his knees quivering, but he stood his ground.

Alastair picked up a grease gun from where it was lying on a benchtop and menacingly pointed it at a spot between Castiel's eyes. Castiel instinctively backed up and bumped into the edge of the open classroom door.

"Have a nice chat with Murphy?"

"I-I didn't say anything to him!"

"You sure about that?"

Alastair spun Castiel around by twisting his shoulder, and then he grabbed Castiel's hair to pin his face against the corner of the door. Castiel tried to kick back with his leg, but Alastair was both taller and stronger than he was. Alastair leaned over to whisper in Castiel's ear.

"Because if someone opens his fucking mouth to spout some bullshit about me and I get suspended, crying after being tripped in the hall is going to be the least of your problems. Now get out of my face."

Alastair gripped Castiel's hair to keep him from moving, and squeezed the grease gun against the back of his head.

The viscous stuff went all over Castiel's hair, neck, backpack, and down into his T-shirt, where it slowly oozed between his shoulder blades. Alastair then shoved him hard enough so that Castiel flew through the doorway and bounced into the lockers across from the auto shop classroom.

"I didn't cry," Castiel said miserably as the door shut in his face. "Asshole."

He took off his backpack to assess the damage, fearing for his sketchbook. Luckily the canvas protected what was inside, but he would need a new bag based on the smell alone.

Now more than ever Castiel vowed to himself that he would find a way to get revenge on Alastair. He wasn't sure how he was going to do it, or if it would even be successful, but he needed to do something to make him feel like he wasn't at Alastair's mercy.

Castiel knew he needed to defend himself, but he wasn't stupid. With Alastair towering over him and Tom and Brady close at hand during all their confrontations, Castiel knew trying to fight would be disastrous.

Of course, cursing them out yesterday morning hadn't helped. He was still in the same position he'd been in for the past few weeks, except now he had a huge bruise on his side, grease sliding between his shoulder blades, a new and more menacing threat from Alastair, and he had missed all of yesterday's classes.

He could smell the grease all over him and knew he wouldn't be able to stay in class like that, or take the bus. Castiel had plenty of time to think of a way to get justice for himself on his two-and-a-half mile walk home.