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

The Art Show

On the Saturday night after exam week, he was standing there facing the mirror trying to smooth down a piece of hair that was sticking up at an odd angle from his head. When it wouldn't behave, he adjusted his glasses on his nose instead and left the bathroom.

"How do I look?" he asked, straightening his tie.

"Very handsome," his mother said. "Artistic."

"You look lovely as well, Mama."

"Thank you, sweetheart," she said, swirling her ankle-length skirt around. "I'm looking forward to the art show tonight."

"I've been working toward it all year. I'm excited."

"I continue to find it strange that you have no indication which of your works your teacher chose."

"Mr. Darrow told me that art has to come from the heart, not the head, and that I needed to feel what I was putting down on the page. I tried to follow his instruction carefully and I focused on varied subjects in class so he'd have an extensive collection from which to choose. He must have liked what I've done if I'm in the show."

She walked over and smoothed down the wisp of hair. "We'll never know unless we get going."

"Yes, I don't want to be late."

"Does Dean's father know he's coming out with us tonight?"

"He already got permission."

"It's kind of you to invite him."

"Oh, he wouldn't miss it."

She only smiled and nodded, and they left the apartment together to walk over and pick up Dean.

"I can't believe you made me wear a tie," Dean grumbled when they were in the car.

"I wanted you to look presentable."

"I picked a bright green one because I thought it might distract people from my face."

Castiel turned around to check out Dean's slow-healing injuries from the fight with Alastair. "The swelling has gone down quite a bit."

"Ugh this thing is chokin' me."

"It's very becoming," Castiel's mother said to him via the rear-view mirror.

"See?"

"Thanks, Mrs. Agnus," Dean answered, a blush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks.

The auditorium was buzzing with people when they arrived. The stage was filled with artwork, as were the widest aisles that weren't packed with seating. Large white bulletin boards were covered in black felt, and artwork was attached with tacks and wire. The artist's name hung in a small placard next to their work. The larger pieces of art and sculpture were lined up in the orchestra pit on tables.

Castiel's mother kept stopping and admiring various pieces of art, but he was anxious to find his class period's work.

"I've found my class but I can't seem to locate my name," he said.

"What about the display on the stage?" Dean asked.

"That's only for the works that were chosen as best in the school."

"Are you sure you aren't up there?" his mother asked.

"I don't think so, Mama. We should continue to look at the boards down here."

"All right."

They went back and forth looking at every board twice, until finally Castiel found Mr. Darrow talking with another teacher.

"Excuse me, Mr. Darrow, but I can't seem to locate my artwork."

"That's because it's up there, Castiel," he said, pointing to the stage.

"It's...where?"

Dean tapped him with his elbow. "I told you."

Mr. Darrow turned to his mother. "I'm Castiel's teacher, George Darrow. You must be very proud."

She shook Mr. Darrow's hand. "I am; thank you."

"Your son is an exceptional talent. I had a difficult time choosing from his sketches."

"My sketches?"

"As good as your class work was, Castiel, what you presented in your sketchbook was remarkable. I chose one of those."

"You — "

"Did he just say he picked somethin' from your sketchbook?" Dean whispered. "The sketchbook mostly full of sketches of me?"

Castiel could only nod.

Castiel's mother patted her son on the shoulder. "Shall we go see which of your works Mr. Darrow chose to be among the best in the school?"

They walked up the side stairs to the stage, where all the artwork was matted and arranged much more professionally than what was displayed around the auditorium floor. They moved from area to area, until they finally found the billboard on the stage where all the junior class artwork was located.

And there on a glossy professional mat hung Castiel's sketched image of Dean sleeping in Michael's bed.

Castiel stared in wide-eyed shock at the hints of bare skin, the folds of the sheets, and his sun-drenched shoulder, arm, and the shading that indicated the bruise on his ribs. To those who didn't know who it was, it looked like any other sleeping teenager. The darkness and shadows of the rendering obscured Dean's features.

To Castiel's mother, however, it was obvious.

"Oh my," his mother exclaimed.

"Oh my God," Dean said.

She walked closer to the drawing, glancing over it at different angles. She circled it carefully, and nodded.

"He's captured your likeness amazingly well, Dean."

Dean blinked. "Um...yeah."

"Mama, I can explain — "

"You don't have to. The canvas has said it all for you. It's clear you followed Mr. Darrow's suggestions to put your heart on the page to the letter. This is beautiful."

Castiel looked over at Dean, and then at his feet. "Thank you."

"Sweetheart, I think we have a lot we need to talk about regarding this picture, wouldn't you say?"

He looked up at her. "Yes, Mama, we do."

She wrapped her arm around his shoulder, and the three of them left the auditorium.