This was written for the 2017 Dean/Cas Pinefest! Been wanting to set something in West Virginia; I grew up in western Maryland, which is culturally closer to WV than it is to MD, and I went to college there. (Go, Mountaineers!) The mining culture is a fascinating part of history, bloody and dramatic, and along with the strong Irish and Scotch-Irish roots of the people who live there, it shaped a culture built on stubborn independence and loyalty to kin. (Seriously, go read up on the West Virginia Coal Wars, if you have a free afternoon. It's amazing how few people know about what went down.)

Big thanks to my beta readers, captainhaterade ( ) and deanisthebeesknees ( ), and especially to peanutbutterthenjelly, whose gorgeous art graces this story. Seriously, she nailed the rural setting perfectly, and I love it. (See the art post here: post/157315216322/leave-me-in-the-mountains-by-carrieosity-art-by)

Chapter titles are taken from the words of the state song, "West Virginia Hills."

Prologue

There were fresh, clean sheets on the narrow bed taking up most of the space in the center of the room; the smell of bleach still rose faintly from them when the man in the bed shifted. He shifted only rarely. The soft click and hum of an oxygen concentrator created a rhythm that was almost soothing in its regularity, but it had long since faded into the background of awareness. No other sounds, other than the soft turning of pages and the occasional scratch of a pen nearly out of ink, disturbed the quiet.

The man in the bed was dying. Nobody cared.

Well, that's not quite accurate, thought the man sitting in the corner chair with a small huff. Dramatic fancies getting the better of me. Writer's curse – have to make things sound harsher than they are. He glanced at the sleeping man in the bed. He was definitely dying; nobody denied that. If nobody cared, though, the sheets would not be white and tucked neatly in at the corners. Certainly, the dying man would not have arranged for his own oxygen tanks, or the pain medication which was keeping him in his unconscious state more often than not. Perhaps somebody cared, after all. The man in the chair just wasn't quite sure why he did.

"You'd never have said 'thank you,'" he murmured into the silence. "There's a good reason why the others aren't here right now. Do you even know that they chose not to be?" Click, hum. He rolled his eyes at himself and turned back to his notebook once more.

A knock came at the door, startling him as it broke the peace. Glancing at the clock, the man realized it was later than he'd thought. Time seemed to move in spurts and stops, marked by necessary tasks on the checklist left by the home healthcare worker. "Doctor's here," he murmured. "No, don't get up, Dad; I'll get the door." Smirking humorlessly, he rose, setting aside his pen. These visits were always short; before the patient had declined to the point of being unable to make his own medical decisions, he had unequivocally stated that he just wanted to be comfortable. No more tests, no more procedures. "Let me rest," he'd said, as though he'd led a good life that warranted such a reward at the end.

The house was tiny; it only took seven steps to cross from the corner of the room to the front door. Seven steps, and the man was opening the front door, already greeting the doctor. "Glad you made it up, the ice is really –"

Sound died. Time stopped. The face staring at him from the other side of the open door was neither the wrinkled, weary face of the country doctor he had come to expect, nor the fresh-faced hospice resident who occasionally came instead. He took in smooth, lightly freckled cheeks, felt stunned by sparkling green eyes that were framed by slight crow's feet that hadn't been there the last time he'd gazed into them, so many years before. They were blown wide now.

"Cas?" rasped the young man holding the medical bag in his gloved hand. "I…is that you?"

Time started again, and Castiel tried to remember how to breathe.

Act I, Scene I

June, 1998

The new town had one gas station, two churches (one Catholic, one for everybody else, and God help you if you didn't make an effort to show up at least a few times a year), a barebones grocery store, and one school, divided into two buildings that housed the grade school and the high school. It also, of course, contained Mine Number Eight of the coal mining company that had hired John Winchester, much to the quiet relief of his wife. Mary had begun to reach the ends of her abilities to creatively "make do" for a family of four on skimpy unemployment checks. Coal was king in West Virginia, so as long as John could remain in the good graces of his union bosses, the family could stop searching for bare leather to pierce on ever-tightening belts.

Dean, of course, knew none of that. At nine years old, he was small for his age, but not much more so than many of the other boys growing up around him. Like his mother, Dean was also creative, and he'd found methods to charm his way into treats and goodies from grownups who were suckers for devilish grins and mischievous sparkles in green eyes. Naturally, many of those treats were promptly pocketed and brought back home to his little brother, who at six years was still too young to wander the streets making friends with the neighbors. Dean was more than happy to share, especially when Sam ran to him and threw his arms around Dean's legs in tight hugs the moment he came home.

Their new rental house was tiny, but it was located in a cluster of other tiny houses built near the mine. Generations ago, the houses had been built and owned by the mining company, rented to workers who were paid not in cash but in scrip, but time and labor laws had improved living conditions somewhat. Dean didn't know anything about mining history; he simply knew that lots of nearby houses meant two things: a strong likelihood of other families with kids, and an even stronger likelihood of surrogate mothers who would report on any misbehavior to his own mom. So, good and bad. He would simply have to be creative again.

On the first morning after moving in, before his mother could corral him into helping supervise Sam while more boxes could be unpacked, Dean slipped out the back door into their tiny yard. No fences separated one property from another here, and Dean easily slipped from one yard into the next, until he found his way to the winding, poorly-maintained road away from the mine. Curves around hills quickly obscured the view of his house, and Dean grinned happily. He hadn't particularly wanted to move, but he certainly loved the feel of exploration, finding new hiding spots and tramping grounds. The late summer sun warmed his back, and he decided that the first thing he needed to locate was a creek. Creeks and rivers were always somewhere in the valleys around mines; he scanned for any downward slopes and listened for trickling sounds.

Inside half an hour, Dean was perched on a flat rock jutting over a moderate-sized creek. His cuffs were rolled up over his ankles so he could hang his bare feet in the cool water, and he was thinking idly that he'd have to get up early to dig for fishing worms. Contemplating which of the tiny eddies in the creek were possibly fish, it took his mind a while to notice that he was not alone. He glanced at the opposite bank and saw a pair of legs dangling from a tree branch, which startled him into an aborted yelp and splash as he jerked in alarm.

Jumping to his feet, he stared at the other figure, now watching him with caution. The shadows of the tree obscured details, but he could now see that it was a boy, probably about his own age. His feet were bare as well, though the dirt and scratches littering his lower legs indicated that the other boy might have traveled here that way instead of having slipped off his footwear upon arrival. His torso was draped over another branch in front of him, but his fingers were gripping the bark tightly; he appeared ready to jump from the tree and bolt. Dean's own shock had faded quickly, and he wondered why the other kid still looked nervous, particularly in light of how he'd obviously seen Dean before Dean had seen him.

"Hey," he said, giving a small wave and a smile. "I'm new. Nice place." He gestured at the water. "Good fishing here?"

The boy shrugged. He didn't even seem to blink.

Dean frowned a little. This wasn't something that happened often; usually, people he met easily returned the sociable overtures he gave. He didn't have much experience in needing to try to make friends.

"My name's Dean," he continued. "What's yours?"

More silence. Just as Dean began to wonder if there was something actually wrong with the kid, preventing him from speaking or hearing or communicating at all, the boy quietly said something. The sound of the words was eaten by the rustle of tree leaves and the gurgling of the creek.

"What was that? Couldn't hear you." Dean leaned out a little over the water, as though getting a few inches closer would allow him to understand the softly-spoken name. When the boy spoke again, though, Dean was no more able to hear him than before.

"Hang on, gimme a second," muttered Dean. Yanking his cuffs a little higher on his legs, he stepped off the rock, hoping the creek didn't have a sudden drop-off in the middle. Thankfully, it was relatively shallow all the way across, and only the bottom few inches of his jeans were soaked when he stepped out onto the other side. The boy didn't move at all from his perch, watching Dean approach him with wide eyes.

"There, that's better." Dean nodded in satisfaction, looking around until he spotted another nearby rock on which to flop. "Now, let's try it again. I'm Dean. What's your name."

"Castiel," the boy said.

"Whoa, that's different. Never heard that name before. You foreign or something?" There wasn't a lot of diversity in the small mining towns of West Virginia; Dean had been six before he had first met someone whose skin was a different shade from his own. "Foreign" was a word that tasted strange in his mouth, but he found the idea an exciting one. "Are you from another country?"

The boy tilted his head to the side, looking confused. "No," he said. "I'm from here."

"Then what's with the weird name?" Dean realized, belatedly, that he was being rude, and he flushed a little. "It's nice, though," he amended. "Bet you're the only one in the class with it. Only one in the whole school! They never have to stick an initial after it to figure out who the teacher's talking to."

"It's okay," the boy said. "I know it's weird. I'm used to it." He looked guarded, though, despite his reassurance. Dean didn't like that. He wanted to see the other boy smile back.

"Hey, it's not like we name ourselves," he said. "Having a weird name doesn't make you weird." Okay, that wasn't any better, and now the boy was looking even more uncomfortable. Dean needed to fix this now. "What if I call you Cas? That's a cool name, right?"

Confusion painted Castiel's face. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you be calling me?"

"Because…" Dean was struggling. This was a very strange meeting, but he was too stubborn to back away now. Besides, he was sort of enjoying the sound of Cas's voice. It was deeper than he had expected, coming from such a small body. It reminded him of echoes and bullfrogs. "Because that's what friends do, okay? And I'm new, and I want to be friends."

"Why?"

Now Dean was really stumped. "What do you mean, why?" He stood up and walked closer to the tree. He didn't miss the slight flinch in Cas's shoulders as he did, so he stopped before he got too near. "Haven't you ever done this before? Met new people? Made new friends?"

"New people, yes," Cas said, peering down at him. "Friends…not really."

And that was just about the saddest thing Dean had ever heard. It was worse because Cas hadn't even sounded all that unhappy about it – just resigned, as though it hadn't occurred to him that things could ever be different.

"Okay," he said. "Well, then, you'll just have to believe me. Friends give each other nicknames. I'm going to be your friend, and I'm calling you Cas." His grin was determined, and he held out his hand in a manner that conveyed his confidence in the arrangement.

Cas stared at him for a few heavy moments. Then, shrugging and pursing his lips a little, he lifted his arms and swung his body under the upper branch, sliding between the two limbs to the ground. Dean winced a little as Cas's bare feet crunched heavily on the rocky and twig-blanketed ground, but Cas must have had soles like leather for all the reaction he showed. He stepped closer to Dean and reached out to complete the handshake with a firmness of grip that Dean didn't expect, based on their interaction so far. He also didn't expect to be pinned in steady regard by the bluest eyes he'd ever seen in his life. For a moment, he was at a loss for words.

Cas finally broke the silence. "Your eyes are very green," he said, releasing Dean's hand from what had become an oddly prolonged handshake. "I like green things."

The moment over, Dean shook his head to clear it. "Must be why you're hanging out in the trees, huh?" He chuckled at himself.

Cas turned and walked to the edge of the water. "It's quiet here." He trailed his fingers in the creek, watching bubbles rise around them. "Nobody else comes here." There seemed to be more behind that simple statement than was said out loud, but nothing more seemed forthcoming.

"Good," said Dean. "Then it can be ours."

By the time summer ended and school was beginning, Dean and Cas were inseparable. Cas's initial reserve turned out to be an intrinsic part of his character, but Dean quickly became an expert in interpreting the slight changes in posture and facial expressions that indicated his friend's feelings. Cas turned out to have a devilishly quick wit, which he displayed in such subtle ways that it initially would take Dean long minutes to catch on and react. Once Dean began to understand Cas better, the pair of them became flatly dangerous. The banter, the joking, the adventures, and the conspiring filled the days with the sort of excitement that made the neighbors nervous.

"Nah, the sheet's plenty big enough! It'll catch more than enough air under it to be a good parachute!"

"There wouldn't be enough time for it to slow you down, Dean. You'd need to jump from something higher than the roof. Maybe the big oak tree would work."

(Luckily, Sam had been eavesdropping that time, and he ran to tell Mary before Dean could actually climb high enough to test the theory.)

Both boys somehow managed to make it to the start of school with all limbs intact and a surprisingly low number of scrapes and bruises. There was only one fourth grade classroom, headed by a brand new teacher, fresh from college and with an accent that screamed of Pittsburgh. It took less than half a day for her to realize that the boys would need to be seated apart from each other in order to maintain structure in the classroom. It took the rest of the day to realize that separating them wouldn't be enough. Dean and Cas didn't need to be next to each other to work mischief together. She capitulated with a wry chuckle to herself, thanking heaven that all their wild ideas were good-natured and done in fun.

"But Miss Barnes, it's for science!"

"We worked hard to get it here!"

"I appreciate that, but please take the snake outside again, right now? And please don't bring live animals into school without asking – especially not in grocery bags!"

A month into the school year found Dean vibrating with excitement in the backseat of the family car as they drove to school for "meet the teacher" night. John was driving, having gruffly argued, "What, am I supposed to eat a cold sandwich by myself while you all go? Besides, they sometimes have cookies at these things." (Mary just smiled, accepting a version of the logic that didn't mention how her quiet whispers that boys do better in school when both parents get involved.) Dean wanted Miss Barnes to see his parents and his brother, and he wanted to show off his work hanging proudly on the walls.

Mothers and fathers circulated around the room, smiling proudly as their sons and daughters pointed at classroom centers and activities. The teacher shook hands with each parent, murmuring a few words of praise here, whispering a few concerns there. While Mary and John examined the crayoned family portraits on the wall, Dean noticed that Cas was absent. He frowned, trying to remember whether they'd talked about seeing each other that night. Looking for Cas's portrait among the rest, he couldn't find it anywhere.

As he concentrated, the buzz of a conversation nearby broke into his awareness with the mention of a familiar name. "…Novak family, of course." He turned his head and saw another mother talking quietly with Miss Barnes, head bowed in a manner that spoke of both concern and divulgence. The woman's mouth turned down in a sad frown, but Dean thought she didn't look very nice. "Rebecca never comes to these things," she was saying. "You might try sending home a note, but…" She sighed and shrugged.

"I was really hoping to speak with her, though," Miss Barnes said. "Castiel is a good student, but there were just a few concerns I've been having, and…"

"Oh, we all have our concerns," the woman said. "If concerns could change anything, I'm sure things would be very different in that house."

Miss Barnes narrowed her eyes. "Is there something I should know? I realize that I'm new here, and I don't know all the families yet, but…is everything all right there?"

The woman pinched her lips and thought for a moment before answering. "Everyone has their own burdens, and the Novaks just seem to have a bigger burden than most. Some of it's bad luck, and some of it just comes down to blood. Rebecca was a good girl, but she always did go for the wrong boys. Her daddy would have needed more than a shotgun to keep 'em away, but he barely tried, and now she's learning her lesson." More than a hint of judgment came through in her voice. "Now she's got a herd of her own boys, and they're pretty well raising themselves, for all she works to keep 'em fed and tended to. It's chaos up there, make no mistake."

"But that's terrible," the teacher murmured, biting her lip and frowning in thought. "It was pretty apparent that the home situation wasn't ideal there, but…he's such a sweet child. So quiet, and he just tries so hard to do well at everything in class. I don't want to speak out of turn, here; when I came to this school, the other teachers told me that this community looks out for each other, really closely." At the other mother's nod and reassuring noises, Miss Barnes continued, "He just seems so tired. A student can't learn if he's sleepy! And his lunches – when he brings one, it's barely adequate, but he forgets just as often. I thought it was carelessness, but…"

Dean thought about how sometimes Cas would sit beside him in the lunchroom with an apple, insisting that he just wasn't hungry that morning. Sometimes Dean's mom would pack in extra treats, which Dean was always proud to share with his friend, just to see him smile. His own stomach felt uncomfortable now, thinking about how Cas's eyes would light up when Dean offered the food.

Caught up in his own worries, Dean jumped in surprise when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Mary stood behind him; she was gazing at the speaking women, her face full of consideration. After a moment longer, she bent and kissed Dean's cheek, reassuring him with her eyes. Dean felt his anxiety ease a little; he didn't know what he could do, but he'd never had any reason to doubt that, no matter what the problem, his mom and dad could take care of it.

The next afternoon, when Cas and Dean were playing with army men on the front porch, Mary stepped out and smiled at them. "Cas, you're having dinner with us tonight."

He sat up and frowned a little. "My mom says I have to be home before dark."

"I just spoke to her. She's working tonight, and I told her we would make sure you get a warm meal. The weather's getting colder, and I need more taste-testers for my famous tomato rice soup. And I even made a pie!" Dean gasped in delight, and the boys grinned at each other, worries about curfews forgotten.

If Cas became a regular face at the Winchester dinner table after that, nobody said anything about it. Dean thought that his mom was having a little difficulty estimating how much food to prepare in order to serve everybody; it seemed that often, there would be far too much food, and Cas would simply have to take leftovers home, or else "it'll just go to waste." Besides the meals, Cas was a routine participant in homework hour around the table, trips to the library, and even regular chores. And, of course, it was never unexpected to see two little heads buried into Dean's pillow at night instead of one, and Mary's quiet phone conversations smoothed over any friction or concerns. As far as anyone was concerned, Cas had a second family in the Winchesters.

Late at night, when everyone was sleeping, Dean and Cas would whisper to each other, sharing anything and everything on their boyish minds. The future loomed large and exciting, and Dean was more than ready to leap into it.

"Maybe we'll live on the moon!" he said, dramatically dropping his voice. "We could meet martians!"

"Martians are on Mars, not the moon," Castiel corrected him.

"Okay, then we'll live on Mars," Dean shrugged agreeably. "Would you go?"

"Of course," said Cas. "If you do."

"Where would you want to live?" Dean whispered. All their fantasy plans had come from his imagination, and he very much wanted his friend to contribute to the dreamscape. Cas's daydreams were always terrific.

"I'd want to live…" Cas thought, biting his lip. "Somewhere else. Just anywhere, so long as it's not here."

"Aw, here's not so bad," Dean said, loyal to his home. "We have our woods."

Cas nodded. "There are lots of woods, though. We can find other woods, and they'll be just as good, so long as they're ours."

"They will be."

"Then I don't care where we go. We'll go together, though, right?"

Dean was as sure as he'd ever been. "Always, Cas. I promise."