Castiel woke up with a gasp, blue eyes panicked and scanning the room until he found his phone. After his eyes adjusted to the blinding light of his lock screen, he groaned when he read the time. 3:30am.
"Fuck", Castiel cursed under his breath as he threw his phone onto a pile of clothes on the floor of his dorm room and turned over in his bed, willing his brain to shut off for a few more hours sleep. Apparently, his brain had other ideas.
Castiel rolled his eyes at nothing in particular as he felt his right hand twitch, yearning for the feeling of his sketching pencil. Castiel knew that when his artistic motivation decided to be persistent, it would not quieten until it was satisfied. So, with a deep sigh of frustration Castiel rolled out of bed, pulling on his favorite pair of black skinny jeans and a plain black T-shirt, because fuck the effort that color-coordination demanded. Grabbing his black trench coat - it was mid-summer and he knew he wouldn't need it but Castiel didn't fancy sitting on a ground that was frequented by college students and their lack of concern for the environment - and picking up his sketch book and pencils, Castiel made his way out of the block of student flats and took a walk, searching for a place to sit and draw.
After a few minutes of aimless walking, the distant sound of scuffling from the basketball court attracted his attention, and he followed his curiosity. Entering the court quietly from behind a tree, Castiel could just make out the figure of a man, probably around the same age as himself, shooting shot after shot with inhuman accuracy. From this distance, Castiel couldn't make out the persons' features, but he was close enough to be entranced by the players movements, how each stride flowed effortlessly into the next, how his arms stretched perfectly as they delivered the ball into the net time and time again.
Castiel laid his trench coat out on the ground under the tree, and opened his sketchpad to a fresh page. Castiel began to sketch the perfect form of the basket-ball player on the court until the first light of day spilled out across the world, and Castiel stood up and stretched, packing away his belongings and making his way back to his dorm, lest he draw the attention of his unknowing model.
When Castiel had returned from his midnight art excursion, he hadn't managed to get much more sleep. Which I guess, he thought grumpily as he headed towards the college campus, that did make the extortionately priced coffee in his hand taste all the more sweet. Castiel tugged one of his headphones out with his free hand as he saw the over-excited form of Charlie running over to him.
"S'up, Cas. Jeez, you look like shit!" The red-head churped as she shot him a sarcastic grin outlined in black lipstick. Charlie and Castiel went way back, and had been best friends since the day some little shit in their second grade art class had ruined one of Charlie's paintings and Castiel had cut the kid's finger open for her in revenge. Obviously that had led to his immediate exclusion, but damn had it been worth it.
"Good morning to you too", Castiel replied dryly as he took another sip of coffee and let the buzz run through his veins as Charlie grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the art room that had become more like a second home to Castiel since he'd moved to college.
Upon entering the art room Castiel began setting up his station, Charlie plonking herself next to him, as the other students began filing in one by one. Castiel had always loved the art room. It was a place where he could just shut out the rest of the world and be consumed by his own creativity. But recently, with the pressure of their finals looming, Castiel had been unable to find the peace to which he had become accustomed. Why? Because he had no freaking clue what he was going to do for his final exam piece. Castiel's sketch book was full of different ideas, ranging from sketches of imaginary avenging angels to the mystery basket-ball player he'd lost sleep over last night. But nothing seemed to fit. Sighing, Castiel flipped through his sketch book, searching in vain for something that felt worthy of his final creation.