One time, when Castiel was young, he ventured outside to brood silently in the park as he usually did. This time, though, the park was not its usual, desolate self, there was a woman. She was not pretty, but she wasn't ugly, not short, not tall. She had burnt pumpkin hair and a worn but smiling face, with glowing eyes and prominent musculature. She had been sitting, wrapped in flannel and denim, on a bench, a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird nestled under her chafed hands.
He had walked past cautiously, folding his wings tight against his back so she wouldn't see them, but she looked up with a smile as he passed. He met her gaze apprehensively. The little voice at the back of his mind, that centuries-old instinct, told him she could see his wings, to run, alert his father, have her eliminated, but she just nodded. "Evening, angel." She said. Her voice was laced with a southern drawl and had the sharp tongue and warm softness of a mother. He stood in shock for a moment at her calm demeanor, watching as she closed the book and laid down on the bench. Her eyes closed, her breathing shallowed, and her muscles relaxed as she slept. He approached her, wings extended slightly, and pressed a hand to her forehead. Mind reading wasn't very comfortable: Images flashing around and around and only glimpses to see. This woman had pictures of two boys, small, scrawny, green-eyed, and a man, gruff but kind, and a little girl, white-blonde and sweet, with intense feelings of love accompanying the images.
A family, he thought, is this what a family is?
Her eyes fluttered open and he pulled away sharply.
"It's alright, Angel," she said with a little smile as she sat up. "I can feel you, poking around in my head."
"There's a lot of love." He whispered. "People you love."
"Yes," she said. "They're my family. Do you not have one, Angel?"
He didn't even stutter. "I have a family." He said.
"Do you love them?" She asked.
He stared at the woman for a moment. He couldn't think. That wasn't what families were for. They were your team, your loyalties, your superiors.
He ran, oh he ran.
The seeds are dropped into the dirt.

A dull ache settled into Castiel's legs as he woke up. His mind didn't even realize it was from the rigorous training the day before, the ache was so common that he unconsciously reached for the bottle of ibuprofen on his black brushed steel shelf. He washed two pills down with a swig of Gatorade and climbed out of bed.
He didn't bother brushing his hair, it just looked bad, so he threw on his tan hoodie and grabbed his Senheisers and was out the door before Michael could bust him.
The winter air was pleasantly cold, and he felt himself smiling as he rubbed the arms of his hoodie for friction and warmth. The streets of Los Angeles were packed with cars and people, dead looking and washed out. A young man with long black tattoos of tentacles running up his arms and a tattooed eye on his forehead strolled past, chatting into his phone casually. A brusque man in a blue scarf with tangled black hair pushed past rudely, followed by an apologetic middle aged blonde. He kept walking, his feet touching the pavement in a slightly slower beat than his music. He nodded softly as he reached a packed crosswalk, a blonde girl in a blue leather jacket pushing frantically past. She elbowed his back, and he arched up protectively, strings of pain pushing through the bones of his wings. She shot him an apologetic glance, and his eyes narrowed in a silent conversation, hundreds of which he had daily.
The crowd of crosswalkers began to shift, and he lagged behind just enough to stay out of the fray as they migrated across the street. One of the cars was too far in: A black Chevy, manned by a dirty blonde man in a leather jacket, a tall brunette bodybuilder riding shotgun. He glared at them narrowly, but they didn't seem to notice.
Once he was on Ventura, he wandered down the pavilion until he hit the bagel shop he loved so much. He ordered three sourdough bagels and took a minute to admire the floral arrangements. He sat on the patio and ate his bagels, taking sips of his juice and staring at the cheap hotels and European eateries adjacent to the boulevard. Cars rushed in and out, a bird landed on the bushes briefly, couples came and went, and he finished his breakfast in silence.
"Castiel?"
He whipped around, arms protectively snapped out, like an instinct, to see a blonde man in baggy cargos and a green field jacket layered heavily over a sweatshirt and a wife beater. His cutoff gloves were wrapped around a grungy, paint stained backpack, and his hair was loosely wrapped around his ears.
"Gabriel."
He bristled at the sight of his elder brother, partly out of fear, partly out of respect, but mostly out of anger. Gabriel had abandoned the family business shortly after Luke and Michael had a falling out, leaving the younger children to be raised by the strict and abusive Michael.
"Hiya, Cassie. Mind if I sit?" He queried, lifting an eyebrow and nodding towards the empty chair opposite Castiel.
"Go ahead." He grumbled.
He threw his backpack under the table, hitting Castiel's legs with a metallic thud.
"Still doing your 'art'?" Cas grimaced. He'd seen Gabriel's graffiti everywhere around the city, most commonly in the river, and every time he looked at it he kind of wanted to punch someone.
"Yup!" Gabriel grinned, smug excitement spreading through his features. He stole a sip of Castiel's juice. "Still training like a dog, little brother?"
"I train because I want to," he hissed through his teeth, knuckles white as he gripped his iPod.
"Whatever, but I'm still calling you Michael's little bitch." Gabe scoffed. Castiel grabbed the juice out of his brother's hand and capped it, shoving it in his pocket and standing up. "I'm not even supposed to be talking to you. Michael's gonna kill me."
"Why do you listen to him?" Gabe sighed loudly. "He's a dick!"
Castiel tried very hard not to slap his older brother. Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out, back home.
The seeds were watered.