Title: Let Me Be the Place That You Hide
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: foster care, orphans, hurt/comfort, rape/non-con (not Dean/Castiel), first time, bottom!Dean, protective!Castiel, self-worth issues, angst, fluff
Summary: Castiel has been in the foster care program all of his life. He doesn't trust or care for anyone other than himself because life has taught him it's easier not to. That is, until he meets his new foster brother and roommate, the friendly and easy-going Dean Winchester. What he first thinks if just infatuation quickly turns out to be affection and eventually love. When Dean gets abused by their foster father, the two of them run away together, and Castiel tries to undo the damage of his attack.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story, nor do I make any profits from it. I apologize for any grammatical issues and misspellings, this is unbeta'd.
Author's Notes: There is going to be some heavy stuff in this story. I will give warnings for any sexual content or possible triggers at the beginning of each chapter, so please read them carefully if they are there. Dean's attack doesn't happen for a few chapters, but I will let you know beforehand. I didn't mark this story as rape/non-con because it is not Dean/Castiel, it doesn't happen from Dean's perspective, and it's not graphic or written as a kink.
The references I am getting for the foster care system are from Google, and my friend's mom who was in the system for a few years. If I have something wrong, I deeply apologize. This is just for fan fiction purposes, and I hope I don't offend anyone.
Title taken from the beautiful song "Run Away With Me" from the musical The Unauthorized Autobiography of Samantha Brown.
Prologue
The house wasn't much to look at. On the smaller side for a four bedroom, two-story house, it didn't do much aesthetically. The whitish-blue paint was faded and peeling, and the lawn was in need of some landscaping, with the brown grass and overgrown weeds. A lot of areas suffered from neglect, and the garage looked like it was in need of some serious repair. It sat behind a largish front yard with a few full-grown trees, with branches littering the area from the harsh April winds.
And it was Castiel's new home.
The Kennedy's had seemed nice enough when he was dropped off at their house, though he knew better than to trust first impressions. Whether it was a trait he developed from his life in the system, or because he was naturally gifted with observation and instinct, he could always pick up on people's true character behind the well-polished first impressions.
Like now; barely sizing them up, he was able to notice his new foster mother's smile was clearly forced and insincere. Her husband was not even trying to fake pleasantries, which was a relief in it's own way- certainly made things easier- and was turning back towards the house before the social worker had pulled out of the driveway.
He looked back up at the house, unimpressive and insipid, and he wondered how long this one would last.
It was second nature by now, this whole process of "meeting his new family." There was a time when it used to affect him- after all, it's not the easiest thing to adapt to, being in the foster care system. Castiel had lost count of all the times he was brought into a new home, adjusted to the family's lifestyle, and then had it all uprooted as the whole process started over. Each family had a different reason; "There's not enough room," "We're expecting another child," "Money is just too tight for us," but they all meant the same thing: "We don't want you here."
No, it wasn't easy. But when your life getting uprooted becomes the norm, when everything you've known got taken away so often that it's routine, it's hard not to get used to it. You develop certain habits, some because it's all you know how to do, but most for your own preservation and sanity.
Like going to a new family. For all of the different families Castiel had been a part of over the years, each for different lengths of time, he had never felt like he belonged in any of them. It was no surprise that he had grown apathetic when it came to meeting new people. It wasn't like he was likely to stay there long enough for them to even remember his name, let alone get to know him. No, it was easier to keep himself distant. Cut off. Indifferent to the group of people that were introduced as his "new family." Castiel doubted any of them even know what that was supposed to mean.
The dictionary defines a family as a group consisting of parents and children living together in a household. Well, Castiel thought bitterly, they were definitely that, if not much else.
The act of parenthood lasted as long as it took to get to the door, as Castiel had expected.
"Alright, Caz-deel," the foster father- Curtis was his name- began. "Listen up, cause we're only gonna have this talk once"
He laid into him the house rules; no running, to touching anything, stay out of the kitchen, don't make a mess, no TV without permission, no noise past 8pm, and on and on. Castiel heard it all, and loosely translated it to, "Let us pretend you don't exist."
It wasn't a big deal, he'd had this talk before.
His foster parents of the past were more often than not lazy slobs of some form who were taking advantage of the system. Only twice in all of Castiel's life had he been placed in a family that genuinely wanted to care for children. They were also the only two times in his life he had let himself have hope. Hope that maybe- just maybe- somebody wanted him, wanted to take care of him. Wanted him to belong. It never lasted, though, and the other parents he was placed with were sure to keep his hopes from making a reappearance.
Worse than the parents, if that was possible, were the other children- his "brothers and sisters." At the top of the list of foster family members to avoid when possible, were the biological children of the house parents. They were, more often than not, spoiled brats who loved getting away with anything they could by successfully placing blame on the troubled and disturbed orphans. If there were ever any foster parents that didn't immediately believe their own flesh and blood over their temporary cash cow, Castiel had never met them. Luckily, the Kennedy's didn't appear to have any of their own children.
The other foster kids all came from different backgrounds, and everyone had a story. A very common one that Castiel had heard was the one where the parents were neglectful, and cared more about their next fix than they did about raising their child. Other classics included some form of physical abuse. Of all the kids Castiel had met moving from house to house, those were the ones he felt the worst for; they always looked so defenseless, so vulnerable, like they thought just their presence in a room, or making some form of eye contact was enough to get them into trouble.
Castiel was one of the lucky ones, in that respect- he had had his fair share of verbal and emotional abuse, sure, but so far, he had managed to avoid being seriously physically harmed. A few parents had pushed him around a handful of times, and many kids- biological and foster alike- had landed some good punches over the years, but he had never broken a bone, been to the emergency room, never even gotten a noticeable scar.
But they were all here for the same reason, the foster kids; some had other family members- aunts and uncles, cousins, even older siblings- that didn't take them in, and the rest didn't have anyone else at all. In the end, no one wanted them either. They were all thrown together, and labeled "damaged." And they were, in one way or another.
One would think that would make them closer, all of them being through the some of the same things, but most of them were like Castiel- they had closed themselves off to avoid being hurt further. Very rarely did any of them stand up for each other, or stick their neck out for someone who was little mare than a stranger to them. They were far more likely to cover up their hurt by hurting each other, or protect themselves by letting someone else take the blame.
The Kennedy's had two other foster children in their care besides himself- Sara and RJ, both of them older. Apparently, when one of them "moved out," (or rather, turned eighteen and was no longer in the system, therefor kicked out for being of no monetary use,) they brought a replacement in, always fourteen or older, so they can mostly take care of themselves.
After Curtis's talk, in which Castiel only listened, the foster dad stalked off to the living room to plop on the couch and watch TV. His foster mother led him down the hall, tossing loose pieces of Kennedy Trivia at him ("On Wednesdays, we have spaghetti for dinner."). He was sure to observe every piece of the house he passed by, taking inventory of all the information it offered; nothing on the floor- they were at least clean; two empty beer cans by the recliner- Curtis was a drinker- a serious one, as it was only 2pm; there were no pet or infant toys laying around.
When they reached the top of the stairs, he saw three doors; there was one to the far left, on straight ahead, and one on the right. The door in the middle was the only one open- a look inside revealed a decent sized bathroom, and the one to the left, he was told, was Sara's room.
Castiel did not miss the deadbolt locks on the outside of the bedroom doors.
"And this is where you'll stay," Shirley Kennedy said, opening the door that was closer to the bathroom and on the far right. Once he stepped inside, the door was closed and he heard her footsteps as she walked off.
It did not come as a surprise that he was not getting his own room. Having never had one before, it wasn't exactly a loss. The other occupant, and therefor his roommate, was a surly 17-year-old named RJ who quickly took to using Castiel as his personal punching bag. Turned out RJ was very territorial and quick to tell him where he could and couldn't put his things. Castiel was unsympathetic when he was "sent on his way" on his 18th birthday a few months later.
Only when he was in the middle of relocating did he vaguely think he might be a little lucky to have always been in the system, and not come from a real family of his own. He imagined it was a lot easier to have never had something than it was to have it, and lose it, being powerless as it was taken away.
It also helped that he didn't have anything from home to take with him when he moved; he'd seen what cruelties await those who had pictures or dolls or jewelery from their life before foster care, when it got taken and dangled out of reach, or if it was of any monetary value, got stolen and sold.
With just a small torn backpack with a few hand-me-down clothes and cheap toiletries, Castiel needed not fear anyone wanting to take his belongings, and could hardly care if they did.
Castiel would be turning seventeen that summer. Used to being amongst the older foster children in the house, at the Kennedy's, he found himself himself the youngest, though the other kids would be in for quite the surprise if they thought having a couple of years on him made him weaker. At every opportunity he had over the past few years, Castiel stayed outdoors, doing after school sports, or just going to the track to run. It was better than being stuck with his artificial family, and it had earned him some muscle over the years. It was hard to hit something that could outrun you.
It had taken a matter of hours for Castiel to figure out what type of foster parents he had. Just by the behavior of the other kids alone, he knew he would have to watch his step around them. The father, referred to as "sir" when spoken to directly, and "Old Bastard" when no one was listening, took the beat-the-problem-out-of-them approach to parenting. Coupled with his excessive drinking and fast temper, he was definitely one to avoid when possible.
The mother was your typical look-the-other-way-and-hope-for-the-best type. She was never around when her husband picked up the bottle, always getting home after 2am when he would be passed out. She was cold and unsympathetic towards them, which Castiel learned was because she couldn't have any children of her own.
They carried on easily enough for almost half the year, from April to September. His birthday came and went unnoticed, but that was fine by him, and school was easy, which was fortunate as he had come in so late in the year. Castiel was even able to find a weekend job.
Then that September, RJ was kicked out. For the first time in his life, Castiel had his own room, and though it would not last long, he did his best to enjoy it and make it his before the next kid showed up.
The room was small and bare, no posters or pictures on the walls; there were no trophies on the dresser, no birthday cards on display. Yet, despite the lack of personal items, the room had a very lived-in look to it.
A wooden bunk-bed was pressed against the wall opposite the entrance. Two old and mismatched dressers stood side-by-side to the left of the room, one for each of kid, though they were both Castiel's for the time being. Taking a look around the room, he started to think about all of the things that he wasn't allowed to do before.
Like the worn desk in the corner- it had held all of RJ's useless school crap. Even when he wasn't using it, Castiel was not allowed to move any of his stuff, and to avoid any problems, Castiel had taken to doing his schoolwork on his bunk bed, or on the floor. The desk was bare now, and Castiel plopped his backpack on top of it, no longer containing ripped clothes, but laden with his school books and supplies.
The sight of his bag on RJ's desk triggered something in Castiel. Because no- it wasn't RJ's anymore.
Castiel walked to the window, the only one in the room. RJ had never allowed it to be open, always keeping the curtain drawn heavily over it, blocking out any light. But now RJ was gone, and Castiel pulled the curtains all the way back, and opened the window as far as it would go. It was such a simple thing, opening a window, but it made Castiel smile. It was the whole concept of ownership- not of stuff, but of being the one to say "this window stays open,"- that was so foreign to him.
It slowly started to sink in. He had a say. This room- for however short a time- was his.
Whoever his next roommate was going to be better not try to challenge him on the stance of window openings.