Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and I make no profit off of this work.
Please enjoy :)
Castiel gazes out the window, somber blue eyes tracking the rivulets of rain that run across the foggy glass. He sits, hands clasped stiffly in his lap. The scenery passes before him in a blur; the grey of the early morning sky blending with the yellow-green countryside grass. It's almost Fall and Castiel tries not to shiver as the 1986 GMC Sierra Grande picks up speed and the wind, which had before been a tolerable gust, begins to lash at him from the driver's open window. They've been driving in silence for the better part of ten hours and Castiel, who normally appreciates the solace of his own thoughts, now yearns for the distraction of conversation.
Seconds passed, then minutes, a half hour. He can feel the grief he's been trying to repress begin to coil in his gut. It eats at his heart. The emptiness of loss, the ache of fear, the twist of agony – they lingered in his stomach, chest, and lungs. He feels heavy, useless. Simultaneously too big and too small: an unnecessary liability. Tears prickle at his eyes but he fights to keep them down, focusing on his breathing and the fleeing landscape.
He is spared, though, when his companion begins to speak.
"You've never met Sam and Dean," the man beside him starts gruffly, "but they're good boys. I think you'll get along fine." He gives Castiel a small smile, who nods in return – a bit apprehensive but more than grateful for the man's interjection. John Winchester is a little rough around the edges and Castiel imagines he looks much older than he actually is. He doesn't seem to be well-versed in the art of making conversation, but then again, neither is Castiel so that's more of a blessing than a problem. John has two children and he supposes was a friend of his mother's, but besides that the boy knows very little about the stranger who will now act as his impromptu caretaker.
"Sam must be . . . let's see, around twelve now. Dean's a little closer to your age – sixteen?"
Castiel nods again. "Yes, I'm fifteen."
"Hm." John harrumphs in acknowledgement. "Well we don't have much," he begins a little awkwardly "but we've got each other, and that's gotten us this far."
Castiel isn't really sure what to say to that so he keeps quiet and returns his gaze to the scenery beyond his window.
"That includes you too now," John says after a few moments of silence, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I probably won't be around all that often, but the boys will look after you. And I'll trust you to look after them." It is both a promise and a threat and is doesn't take Castiel a great deal of insight to realize that letting people in is not one of John Winchester's strengths.
"Of course," Castiel speaks softly, though his voice does not waver. "Thank you."
It is silent once again after that and Castiel welcomes the sleep that pulls at his eyelids.
X~X~X~X~X
They arrive in Muscatine, Iowa early the next morning. Castiel guesses somewhere between 2:30 and 3:00, but he can't be certain. The sky is pitch black and the strip of concrete that lies before the lined doors of Muskie Motel is barren. John climbs from the car and he follows. They unload the back (John retrieving a not-quite-full but heavy looking duffel and Castiel grabbing a his small backpack of belongings) and make their way to what Castiel assumes to be their rented motel room. John reaches for the key in his pocket and glances left, then right before moving to open the door. Castiel notices how he seems to make a point of entering first and when he, too crosses the threshold, he understands why. A sandy-haired boy stands before them both, gun pointed directly at John's heart, but when he (most likely Dean) recognizes the man in front of him, he immediately lowers it.
"Oh hey, Dad," Dean greets, a little surprised. "Thought you weren't gonna be back for another week." And Castiel can tell (despite Dean's attempts to hide it) how thrilled he is to see his father. Hugs, love, and grins must not be the Winchester Way – though he hadn't suspected that it was. "Who's this?" Dean asks, peering around John to get a good look at Castiel who fidgets under the scrutiny. Dean's eyes suddenly widen. "He's not a –"
"No, Dean. He isn't." John must've given him a pointed look then, because Dean instantly shuts up. John sighs and walks in, setting his things on an old wooden table in what must be the "kitchen" part of the small condo. "How's Sammy?"
Dean smiles at that and nods towards a stubborn looking lump in one of the queen beds. "Just the way you left him. He's been sleeping a lot – been a bitch to get him up in the morning."
"You two been going school?"
"Yes sir."
"Good." John says and gestures for Castiel to come in. "Grab the door, Dean. Castiel, we'll find you a place to put your stuff." He turns to Dean. "Is there a pullout?"
"Um, yeah. Should be." Dean falters for only a moment before he's across the room, pulling some browning pillows from a worn couch. He glances back at the other teen. "Castiel, right? There should be some blankets in one of the closets. Bring some over, will ya?"
Castiel places his bag on the floor next to him and after a couple of minutes, finds the linens on the top shelf in the room's one wardrobe. He heads to Dean and hands them to him, helping to make the bed the older boy has just unearthed. He can hear John in the bathroom, hear the water running, and chooses to focus on this instead of the person beside him.
Dean has other plans. "So where are you from?"
Castiel sighs to himself. Here come the questions. "Maine," he answers quietly.
"Oh cool. I've never been. The lobster as good as they say it is?" And when he looks up, Dean winks at him.
"Yes, I suppose," he replies, a little taken aback.
"That must've been a long drive."
"About twenty hours."
Dean whistles. "You ever travel that far before?"
"Not by car." He looks hesitantly at Dean. "Have you?"
"Further," he laughs. They finish making the bed and Dean gives him an easy smile. "Make yourself at home. Bathroom's over there, food's in the fridge, you can change wherever." He looks skeptically at Castiel's bag sitting in the kitchen. "You have something you can sleep in?"
Castiel nods. "Yes, I'll be fine."
"Alright then," Dean shrugs and Castiel watches as he moves across the room, shucks off his tee shirt, and to his surprise, crawls into Sam's already occupied bed.
Castiel doesn't bother redressing. He just slips off his shoes and into the covers. He's asleep as soon as his head hits the hard, dank pillow.
X~X~X~X~X
Castiel wakes the next morning to the sound of Dean's hushed voice.
"Okay but Dad – no, I get it. It's just . . . ! Yeah, but why can't we – yes, sir . . . okay, bye." Dean flips his cell phone shut with more force than is probably necessary and runs a hand through his hair. "Goddamnit!"
A bleary-eyed Castiel sits up in bed and when Dean notices him, his shoulders relax a little and he actually chuckles. "You look like Hell, dude."
Castiel ignores him and rubs at his eyes. Sam's bed is empty as is the one next to it, but both are slept in. "Where is your father?"
Dean rubs at his temples. "Working a case. He left a couple hours ago."
"Oh." It only takes a moment and suddenly Castiel feels like he's drowning. Like he'd been half asleep yesterday, but now everything's back in high definition. The realization of his situation: his mother's death, this foreign state, the anonymous town, living among strangers. It's too much and he can feel his heart plummet to the pit of his stomach. He tries to breath, but the air is stifling and before he knows it, he's throwing off the covers and vomiting into the motel's ugly toilet.
"Woah, hey, you okay?" Dean's hand is on his shoulder, but Castiel doesn't find comfort in it. The retching continues and pretty soon he's emptied his entire stomach into the porcelain bowl. He flushes the toilet, unable to look at its contents and rests his back against the bathroom wall. His heads lulls against the dry wall and he forgets that he's got company until Dean hands him a toothbrush. He recognizes the toothpaste as his own.
"Thanks," he tries, but his throat is shot and he ends up coughing instead.
"Don't mention it," Dean laughs and there's a sort of empathy in his eyes that Castiel has not seen in a long time. "I can grab your bag if you wanna shower," he offers. Castiel's affirmation is immediate and Dean snorts, but he leaves to get Castiel's backpack anyways. As he's setting it on the counter, he glances at the fifteen year-old and tells him "take your time" in a voice that implies he's speaking of things that neither of them have mentioned. Before he can read too much into it, though, Dean's smiling again and closing the door leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts.
Castiel rarely allows himself to cry and now would not be one of the occasions that he does. He washes his hair with the motel shampoo (surprised that they even supply it) and rinses his body until he feels the griminess is gone. He brushes his teeth again and shrugs on a clean, dark pair of jeans and a Nirvana tee. When he walks into kitchen where Dean's making . . . something . . . he gets a nod of what is unmistakably approvable.
"Nirvana? Nice."
"It was my brother's," Castiel says by way of explanation.
"Guy's got good taste." Castiel's too focused on that thing on the counter though to really pay attention to Dean's last remark. He frowns at it. "Problem?" Dean raises an eyebrow at the face.
"What is that?" he asks, crinkling his nose in distaste.
Dean is mildly offended. "Oatmeal." He crosses his arms.
"Would you like some help with that?"
"Why, think you can do better?"
"Yes," Castiel replies simply, searching the shelves and refridgerator for unspoiled ingredients.
"I doubt it," Dean challenges, but he plops into a chair at the table.
"Dean?" a voice sounds from an adjoining room. "Is breakfast – oh hi! Castiel?" Sam asks excitedly as he enters.
"Yes, hello," the teen answers, having turned to get a good look at the room's newest occupant. This must be Sam. He is short, lanky, and a bit scrawny. Though brothers, Dean and Sam are almost polar opposites. Castiel notices similarity only in their eyes.
"Castiel, this is Sam – Sam, Cas," Dean introduces accordingly. "Cas is gonna be staying with us for a while, Sammy." Dean grins. "He's from Maine." And Castiel knows he's being teased because Dean's emphasizing the word like he's speaking of someplace exotic.
"Long drive, huh?" Sam smiles and moves to sit next to Dean. "Hey," he accuses, frowning at his brother, "I thought you were making breakfast."
"Cas 's got it covered."
"He hasn't even been here for twenty-four hours and you're already making him do your dirty work?" Sam gawks.
"I didn't make him do anything!"
Sam ignores Dean. "Do you need any help Cas?"
"It's no trouble," Castiel says, giving Sam a small smile. "I'm almost done anyways." He pauses. "Although I am not sure where the bowls are."
Sam's up in an instant, grabbing the dishware from a low cupboard and handing them to Castiel.
"Thank you." Sam returns to the table and Castiel follows, food in hand. He hands a bowl to both Sam and Dean and huffs a little in amusement as their eyes light up.
"This looks really good, Cas," Dean acknowledges, astonished. He raises an eyebrow when he notices that Castiel hasn't made any food for himself. "Aren't you gonna eat?"
"I'm not hungry," he explains, and when neither Sam nor Dean move, adds, "but please, eat."
"Suit yourself," Dean shrugs and digs in, moaning when he takes his first bite. "Thihf ith awefuum," he says, mouth full.
Sam rolls his eyes, but begins to eat as well.
When they've finished and everything is cleaned and put away, Dean sighs. "Grab your bag, Sam. We're gonna be late and we've got to get Cas registered," he calls to the open bathroom door.
"Almost ready!"
Dean turns to Castiel. "You don't have to start today, you know. We could always get you signed up tomorrow."
"No, I would rather go to classes than have the day to myself."
Dean chuckles. "That makes one of us. C'mon Sammy, we're leaving!"
X~X~X~X~X
The drive to the school is short and Sam and Dean bicker in the front seat. Castiel is grateful for the noise, though, because it keeps his mind off of other things. Dean seems to be very proud of the car he drives. "Baby", as he calls it: a 1967 Chevy Impala. Castiel can see why he likes "her". She's glossy and classic and even though Castiel knows next to nothing about cars, it's easy to see that this one is unique.
They drop Sam off at the middle school across the street and then head to the Thoroughgood High's admissions office. It takes all of fifteen minutes to get Castiel set up and he leaves with his new schedule and stomach full of nerves. Dean must sense his unease because he puts a firm hand on his shoulder for the second time that day.
"Don't sweat it. It's a small school, you'll be fine." He smiles easily at Castiel.
Castiel nods and they part at the entrance of Castiel's first class of the day.
"I'll see you in . . .," Dean takes a look at Castiel's schedule, "Bio. Try not to break too many hearts before then," he says as he walks away, winking at Castiel over his shoulder. Castiel blushes and leaves to fill the only available seat in the room, the bell ringing at his back.
Castiel survives AP Calculus and Introduction to Art (a class Dean insisted he take) before lunch. He's eating at a table alone when Dean finds him, characteristic grin plastered on his face.
"How's your first day been?" he asks, sliding into the seat in front of Castiel.
"Alright, I suppose," he says, looking up at Dean with thoughtful, blue eyes. "Is Mr. Manners – "
"Always like that? Yeah, you'll get used to it," Dean laughs. "He's really chill, but he can sometimes be . . . ," Dean pauses, searching for the word.
"Abrasive," Castiel supplies in a deadpan.
"Haha, yeah. That. When you're done, I'll walk you to Bio. Mrs. Larpson isn't too bad, but man, she can talk for hours."
Castiel smiles a little at that. At least the afternoon looks promising.
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