Dean stared at his reflection in the mirror. He eased his hand to his face, wincing as he lightly touched the delicate skin around his left eye. It was worse than the night before. There was still swelling. The discoloration of his skin was turning into a sort of purple-blue hue. There was no way around the fact that the bruising could be easily noticed. He splashed some cool water on his face. It felt nice against his slightly throbbing eye.

There was a knock on the door. "Dean," his father grumbled. "Get your ass in gear. Leaving in five." Dean gripped the edge of the laminate counter top. He breathed in deeply as he listened for his father's footsteps to fade before leaving the bathroom.

Sam was sitting at the table in the kitchen. His cereal had been scarfed down rather quickly, and Dean watched as his little brother brought the edge of the bowl to his mouth to drink the milk. Sam noticed his brother in the door frame. There was no way of beating around the bush. Dean's black eye was clearly visible. Sam made to speak, to ask him what had happened, but he knew who had done this to him. He had ears.

"Dad in the car already?" Dean asked.

"Probably," Sam said. "I just have to put my bowl in the sink."

"Hurry up." Dean picked up his backpack from his seat at the kitchen table. He slung one of the straps over his shoulder and headed out the front door. Sam followed close behind.

Their father was sitting behind the wheel of a 1967 Impala. The car was purchased before his sons were born and was the single most important thing in his life. It showed. He kept it in top condition with no rust, new tires, and a spotless interior. Dean slumped into the passenger seat. Sam climbed in the back. The car ride was silent despite the low volume on the radio. It was a classic song, one that Dean knew all too well. He sang the words to himself. We're just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

The car pulled up to the middle school. Sam clambered out of the Impala. Dean followed. "Dean," his father called out. He turned around to face the man. "You know the drill." He didn't have to say anything back to his Dad. Dean nodded and followed his long-legged younger brother towards the building.

Each day the boys would be dropped off in the parking lot of the middle school. Sam had it easy. Dean had to walk the distance between the two buildings every morning and afternoon. He waved to his little brother and continued his walk towards the high school, passing the field where the marching band practiced. He enjoyed the days in the fall when they'd be on the field, standing in formation, playing a few notes of a song before being yelled at to, "Stop," by a tiny man in a cherry picker. It all seemed rather humorous from afar. There was no way he could handle being in the marching band. Too much work.

He then came to the football field. The fresh cut grass was mixed with the smell of paint. The field had been recently mowed and the yard lines sat bright white against green. Soon it would be torn up by the cleats of the fighting Crusaders. The losing Crusaders, Dean reminded himself. The team hadn't won a game in two years. Dean looked at his wrist watch. He had ten minutes to get to his first class.

Teenagers pushed their way through the halls of the school. There was no sense of personal space as everyone knocked shoulders and stepped on each other's heels. Dean quietly made his way to his locker. He placed his backpack inside and kept only a notebook, a pen, and his copy of Slaughter House-Five on his person. Dean then walked down the hall towards his history class.

History was dull, as always. They were covering early American politics. Dean slumped in his seat and kept his head low, burying his face into his favorite novel. Vonnegut was his new god. The books were easy reads which took him into another world of black satire, humor and science fiction. The time travel in this particular story still peaked his interest even on his fourth read through.

"Dean," Mr. Wesson called out. The boy hadn't heard. The teacher walked between the desks towards the student sitting in the back row. "Dean," he said again. Dean looked up from behind his novel. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him. "Would you mind putting your book away? We're doing an assignment, I'd like it turned in by the end of class." There were murmurs amongst the students. Dean knew they were whispering about him. Whispering about the new bruise on his face.

"Sorry," Dean mumbled as he noticed the paper sitting on his desk. He had left his textbook in his bedroom. There were a few extras on the bookshelf next to the window. Dean grabbed one and worked on the questions, but there was no way he could concentrate. He wanted to continue reading about Billy Pilgrim and the British soldiers who were residing as prisoners of war in Dresden. Dean did his best and scribbled down words in chicken scratch. It would have to do. He waited until the end of class to turn in his paper. The stack of finished assignments were piled at the edge of Mr. Wesson's desk.

"Dean, can I ask what happened to your eye?" Mr. Wesson inquired. He noticed it on the student earlier when he had looked up from his book.

"It's nothing," Dean said. He couldn't bare looking at him directly. Dean focused his attention on a yellow post-it note that was stuck on the computer screen. He couldn't make out what it read from where he stood, though he tried. Perhaps it was his password to access the computer. Maybe it was just a personal note for all Dean knew.

"It looks like someone gave you quite the shiner," Mr. Wesson said.

"I should get going to my next class," Dean said quietly, avoiding the remark. He didn't want to discuss what had happened. Dean had promised his dad he'd stick to the plan. The plan that he had to follow without thought of opposition.

"You sure you're okay?" Mr. Wesson asked. The man hated seeing his students dealing with something that was out of his control. He became a teacher for this very purpose, realizing later that it was easier said than done.

"I'm fine," Dean said. He then turned and left the classroom. The hallway had cleared out with only a few stragglers making their way to their next class. Dean kept his things clutched to his chest. He was staring at his feet, drifting down the black and white checkered linoleum, not paying any mind to where they were taking him. In a split second, Dean saw a pair of black Converses in his line of sight and found himself colliding into a body. Books and papers were strewn about from the impact.

"Shit, I'm sorry," Dean heard a male voice say. Both boys began to pick up the papers and books that they dropped. The other kid grabbed Slaughter House-Five just before Dean could get his hands on the novel. "Vonnegut?" the boy asked. Dean looked up to see a boy roughly his age looking at him. It wasn't hard to notice his shinning blue eyes. Dean shook it off. "He's one of my favorite authors."

"Mine too," Dean got out.

"Have you read Cat's Cradle? I finally read it over summer vacation."

Dean nodded. "Twice." The kid gave Dean the library book back.

"I'm Castiel, by the way," the boy said.

"Dean."

"I guess I'll see you around then, Dean," Castiel said. He got up and headed down the hall towards the classroom that Dean had just left. Castiel, what an odd name. Dean couldn't get the encounter out of his mind the rest of the day. It was hard to fathom thinking that there was someone else in this school that enjoyed reading great novels. Sam had been reading some supernatural romance series that Dean detested outright. All he needed was to read the back cover to understand that it was a load of tripe. What kind of a plot could there be with two guys driving around the country hunting things that go bump in the night? And how in the world could they stay so good looking when they seemed to run on fast food and lack of sleep? Dean didn't want to admit that he did in fact read the first book and had watched the movie with Sam the day it came out in theatres. That Dane guy was pretty bad ass.

Dean went through the rest of his classes with his mind on this mysterious kid named Castiel. Something about him intrigued Dean. He couldn't figure it out apart from appreciating his taste in the author he loved. Even during his last class, photography, he couldn't fully concentrate. And it was the one blow off class that he enjoyed. The teacher allowed the students to listen to music while they were exposing their film. There was something rather calming about working in the dark room with the sounds of Led Zeppelin coming through his headphones. Dean tried to listen to the blues riffs of the Lemon Song, but it didn't help. His mind kept picturing the face of this kid that he ran into in the hall. Mostly it was those bright blue eyes that had left an impression. And the dirty lyrics aided in his imagination. He tried desperately to curb his thoughts. There was no way he was letting his mind take him down that path.

After his last class was let out, Dean sat on the curb in front of the middle school. He had his book open, reading what he could to pass the time while he waited for his brother's final class to end. It was nice on a day like this to sit outside and read. Dean dreaded the oncoming winter months. He'd have to wait at the high school before trekking in the snow to meet up with Sam.

"Dude." Dean turned to see his brother next to him. "You're reading that book again?"

"So? It's my favorite," Dean said, as he placed the novel into his backpack.

"Is Dad here yet?" Sam asked.

"How should I know?"

Sam sighed. "Well, do you see his car?"

"It's more like can you hear his car," Dean said as he stood up from where he was sitting.

Sam acted like he didn't hear Dean. "He said he'd be here at three, right? Well, it's three."

"He'll be here, Sammy," Dean said. Dad won't leave you behind. The boys waited another fifteen minutes before they heard the roar of the Impala's engine coming through the parking lot. Sam and Dean got into the car without even a welcoming greeting from their father. They again sat in silence with the classic rock radio playing in the background.

Castiel walked home from school. The small house that he shared with his older brothers and father sat a few blocks away. He enjoyed the time to himself. It was quiet. The exact opposite of growing up with three older brothers. Castiel came upon the red bricked house. The lawn needed a mow. Weeds were springing up amongst what little flowers had been planted. Paint was chipping off the siding. Home is what you make of it, he thought.

"Fuck," Castiel said under his breath. His father's car, a beat up white Ford truck, was in the drive way. He had thought that his father was working this afternoon. Castiel slipped inside the front door, quietly making his way down to his bedroom. He threw his backpack on the floor before plopping himself onto his bed. Homework could wait.

"Castiel," a voice called from the doorway.

"Yeah, dad," Castiel said. He sat up to face his father.

"How was school?" his father asked.

"Fine," Castiel answered.

"Luke is bringing home pizza when he gets off work, Gabe's in his room, and I'll be leaving for my shift in a few hours," he told his son. "Get your homework done. I don't want a repeat of last year."

"Okay," Castiel said. He laid on his left side and stared out the window. He watched a squirrel clamber up a tree as he heard his father's footfalls creak on the basement stairs. Castiel shut his eyes. It wasn't hard to let his mind wander.

He had been rushing to get to his next class. Whoever decided on the location of lockers royally fucked me over, Castiel had thought as he quickly flung open the metal door. He had grabbed his history text book and slammed his locker shut. Without much care, he had started to jog down the halls, dodging students who were in his way. There was no way he could be late again. But that was futile. In a split second he had collided into someone. He knew full well that he wasn't going to make it on time. His books and papers had been strewn across the floor. Castiel bent down and grabbed an all too familiar copy of Slaughter House-Five. When he looked at who the novel belonged too, his heart dropped. Green eyes locked onto his. Castiel thought, "Shit, I didn't give that to him, did I?" He then registered that this kids' black eye was clearly a day or two old. He was as polite as he could be, finding out that his name was Dean.

Almost immediately Castiel flopped himself onto the carpet. He ransacked the mess under his bed to find last year's yearbook. Silently he prayed that this kid went to his high school last year. Castiel flipped through the pages. He started with tenth, hoping that the kid was in his grade. He had no last name to go by. Castiel scanned the photos, trying hard to not miss the face he was looking for. Then he found him near the back of the eleventh grade class section. Dean Winchester. So, he was a senior now, a grade above himself. The small picture was in black and white but Castiel could tell that he was wearing a black Metallica t-shirt. His hair was disheveled like he hadn't ran a comb through it that morning. He still looked the same, Castiel noted.

"What do you got there, Cassie?" Castiel heard his brother Gabriel behind him.

"Just my yearbook," Castiel replied.

"And what prompted this? You didn't even want that thing in the first place," Gabriel said. Castiel turned around to look at his older brother. Gabe held a bag of M&M's in his grasp, shoving a handful of chocolate into his mouth. Castiel could hear him crunching the candy coated shells from where he was sitting on the carpet.

Castiel shrugged. "It's becoming helpful now."

"How?" Gabriel made his way into his baby brother's room and sat down on his bed. Castiel still had the book open to the page with Dean's picture, his back against the mattress.

"I dunno," Castiel said. "Just ran into a kid in the halls, thought I'd find him in here."

"Did you?" Gabriel shoved in his mouth another handful of chocolate.

"I did," Castiel replied.

Gabriel looked over his brother's shoulder. "Which one?" Castiel pointed out Dean's photo. "He looks like your type. All handsome and brooding."

"Shut up, Gabe," Castiel said. He slammed his yearbook closed. "When does Luke come home from work? I'm starving."

"Soon, I hope," Gabriel said behind more chocolate. "Oh," he swallowed, "Dad said it's your turn to lead."

"I did it the night before," Castiel said.

"Not my problem. You're the one who got grounded." Gabriel stood up. "Just don't repeat what you said yesterday. Change it up a bit. Dad'll see right through you."

"Fine," Castiel huffed. There was no way that he could lead tonight. Though, his brother was right, he was grounded and his Dad had included this in his punishment. He'd rather clean the bathroom, the kitchen and his bedroom than lead prayer.

He tried to get through some of his homework. Castiel knew that he needed to keep his grades up this semester. If he didn't, he knew his father would come down hard on him for failing. Yes, getting anything lower than a B- would ensure the wrath of his father. And he'd always end up bringing his oldest brother, Michael, into the equation who was currently at Harvard. The future lawyer. The shinning son of Charles Novak.

Castiel fell asleep at his desk and was awoken by the sounds of people in the kitchen. Noise travelled easily in the small house. Drool had pooled onto his geometry book. Lovely, he thought, as he whipped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He entered the kitchen to see Luke, Gabriel and his father waiting for Castiel to join them. Dishes had been set. Two pizza boxes sat in the center of the table.

"Castiel, I was just about to send Gabe to get you," his father said. "Working hard on your homework, I hope."

"Yes, dad," Castiel said. He completed some math problems before drifting off to sleep. It wasn't a complete lie on his part.

"You're still leading prayer before dinner," his father reminded him. Castiel sat down in his seat. He waited for his dad and his brothers to close their eyes and fold their hands. Castiel followed suit. This was his least favorite part about having to live with his family. He still needed to rely on his father for survival, so he had to follow his rules. The curse of being seventeen.

"God," Castiel started to say, "please bless our family, especially Michael who needs your guidance as he studies law in Harvard. Watch over Lucifer and Gabriel because they need you to guide them towards the right path regarding their future. And our father needs you to help him with that promotion he's been working towards." Castiel paused to figure out what else to add. He had pretty much reworded what he prayed on the night before. He was waiting for his father to cough, the sound that would signal the boys to find something else to pray on. There was no cough. Castiel continued. "We worship You and Your word, and use each day to get closer to You. Lord, You fill our hearts with love and we adore You. We await to greet You in the Kingdom of Heaven. Amen."

"Amen," Castiel heard his family recite once he finished. His father said nothing regarding his prayer, much to Castiel's relief. The pizza boxes were opened, and the slices were distributed. The sons waited for their father to take the first bite before eating themselves.

"Boys," Mr. Novak started to say. "This Saturday we're covering Acts. I want it read by the time we have bible discussion, and I want to be out of the house before noon." His sons nodded in understanding. Wonderful. Another thing that Castiel had to add to his mental list of things to accomplish this week. Their father finished his diner, placed his plate in the sink, and left his sons to head off to work at the auto factory. He occasionally took on night shifts for the hours, alongside working during the day when necessary. It was always difficult to tell if Charles was coming or going, much to Castiel's irritation.

Castiel helped Gabriel and Luke with the dishes. He then sulked back to his room, knowing that his homework still needed to be completed. Castiel did what he could on his assignments. It was useless to continue past ten in the evening. He wanted to spend some time for himself. His future be damned. And what Castiel did while his father was away was on a need to know basis. And he didn't need to know.

Under his bed was a shoe box. Castiel had acquired many things that he hid in it, and on most nights when his father was gone he would pull out a particular magazine. He fished for it, having placed it underneath some other magazines he'd collected over the years. This one was risky to conceal. If his father had stumbled upon it, he'd definitely be in deep shit. Castiel flipped through the pages and came across what he was looking for. The man in the once glossy photograph had dirty blonde hair and bright green eyes. He was standing seductively in relatively little clothing. Well, if you can consider a fireman's hat, tight yellow boxers, red suspenders and boots clothing. He turned the page. The same man was seated with his legs parted. His dick was against his leg. Castiel slid his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, while thinking about a different pair of striking green eyes.