Look Right Through Me

by darkforetold

It's his senior year in high school and Dean cares about little else than what makes him feel good. When an unexpected tragedy strikes his family, it shatters his world. Heartache tears at him while guilt worms through the wounds—and only a second chance can set him on the road toward healing.

"Yeah. I'm leaving now."

Dean Winchester didn't wait for a goodbye. He snapped the phone shut, his boots pounding out a hurried tempo on the wooden stairs. The faded whisper of Mom's spaghetti—tomato sauce and parmesan cheese—hit him before he reached the bottom. Basil. Garlic. A richness that reminded him of the countless dinners they had spent together as a family, crowded around the kitchen table with its apple placemats.

He straightened one of the placemats out of habit on his way by. From the living room, a shrill laugh barked out, followed by a deeper rumble—Dad and Sammy, laughing together over a sitcom on TV; something they watched every Thursday night. The happy sound mingled with Mom's humming. In the kitchen, she swayed from the small island to the sink, carrying dirty dishes caked in spaghetti sauce. Her white apple apron moved with her, the dance almost hypnotizing. He couldn't help but pause and watch her.

When the buzzer went off, Mom whirled, slipping her hands into matching white apple mittens. She stooped low and opened the oven door. The scent of apple and cinnamon tickled his nose, the golden crisscross pattern and plump filling making his mouth salivate. He took a big breath and licked his lips absently, staring as she set the steaming apple pie on the counter. When he looked up, Mom smiled. Flour dusted her cheek and the kitchen's recessed lighting haloed her golden hair.

"Are you staying for pie?" she asked, her smile as bright as the sun.

"Nah, Mom. I gotta go." He flipped his phone open. 7:43 PM.

"I'm going to the store later. Do you need anything?"

"Nope. I'm good." He turned his back on the pie and stepped away, ignoring the grumble of his stomach.

"Okay," she said. "I'll see you when you get home. Be safe, all right?" Her unseen smile touched and warmed her voice. "I love you."

"Yep."

A loose floorboard creaked underfoot. He palmed the kitchen door's knob, turned and yanked it open before flicking on the light. Inside the mudroom, shoes peppered the worn tiles, coats and jackets hanging from hooks like slack-shouldered Marines. One in particular, Dad's leather jacket, had seen many tours of duty, the evidence worn into the scarred leather. Faded and cracked from the sun, spots rubbed down to show a paler color beneath dark brown. Two sizes too big for him. Reminded him of Dad.

He plucked it from the peg. The old jacket welcomed him with a creak of aged leather, swallowing him up in familiarity and weighted warmth. Its earthy smell brought back memories of early morning fishing trips, of fresh rainfall in the predawn hours. Shoving his hands in the pockets, his fingers grazed the cool metal of the Impala's keys, a jangling sound likened to silver bells.

His boot heel scraped against concrete as he moved through the door and into the garage, the temperature inside at least ten degrees hotter. He coughed his complaint against the humidity and popped the button mounted on the wall. The light clicked on as old rusty wheels and chains peeled back the garage door with a loud metallic roar. There in the cheap lighting stretched his girl, a '67 Chevy Impala; a car more beautiful than any woman. His eyes traced her dangerous curves, his hand gliding over her sleek body. The smell of her, the groan of her leather. He melted in the driver's seat and closed his eyes. A second of reflection—two, three. His mind drifted to the day Dad had given him the keys, the first time he'd driven her down the winding roads of rural Kansas. The thrill of pushing her to her limits, the gleam of her black lines and the sparkle of her chrome.

He smiled and turned over her engine. She roared to life, the sound music to his ears. Deep and powerful, and no less beautiful than on that sunny day in the Kansas countryside. Her growl sent vibrations up his leg, her rumble echoing in his chest. His heart skipped a beat to match hers and, together, they drove off into the night.

:::

The Impala's wheels crunched over rock as he rolled her to a stop. Ahead of him, an old van sat nestled among the pine and birch trees, distant city lights twinkling beyond its hulking silhouette and pitch-black windows. The night sky watched from above as he took a moment for himself, to calm the frantic pitter-patter of his heart. Excitement jumped up his throat, the pulse point in his neck punching through skin. In anticipation, his rock-hard dick strained against the zipper of his jeans, palms sweaty against his thighs. He sucked in a quick breath.

The beastly growl of his girl's engine died when he cut the ignition and stepped out into the cool air. Even from here, several feet away, the van's loud music thumped in his ear, competing with the easy chorus of crickets. Pot tainted the fresh smell of pine and the promise of booze tickled his tongue. Lured like a bloodhound on the fox's trail, he approached and knocked on the van's door. He didn't need to wait long. With a sharp pitch of laughter from the inside, the door slid back and—Trisha, Tammy, something—poured out, unsteady and high on life.

"Hey, baby," she said, alcohol thick on her breath. She brushed a kiss against his jaw line, but that wasn't enough for him. Greedy, he sunk his fingers into her candy-apple red hair and pulled her closer, kissing her. She was porcelain-doll fragile, her skin soft beneath his lips. He nipped at her throat, dotting kisses across her tattooed chest; twin, barrel-crossed guns with roses on either side—his kind of girl. Her lips tasted like alcohol, her mouth the bitter smokiness of pot. If loneliness had a smell, a touch, it would be her cheap rosewater perfume, the desperate skirting of her fingers against his face. She was ungrounded and untethered. Looking for a good time where drugs and sex were plenty. Enough to drown herself in the excess while wearing a plastered-on smile.

Just like him.

She smiled against his mouth, gripping his upper arms and pushing him back. "I brought a friend," she whispered in the dark. "Hope you don't mind." She tilted her head toward the van.

His eyes shifted that way. Couldn't see shit until she crawled inside and flicked on the van's overhead light. From the backseat, she ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek, almost presenting him like a new kitten she'd found on the street. The kid couldn't have been older than he was, possibly younger. Hard to tell with the longer blond hair that covered half his face, swept to one side, like one of those grunge-wannabe skater dudes. Small, slender physique, wiry muscles tight on his arms, noticeable through his thin, short-sleeved shirt.

The kid peeked up at him and dropped his gaze immediately. Shy. Nervous. Broken too, spelled out in the jagged, self-harm cuts on his forearm. The lost, confused look in his eyes said everything. Told the story of a troubled, gay teenager who'd been rejected by family and friends; by people who were supposed to love him. A young boy who no longer knew which end of the world was up or down. In a way, he could relate.

He climbed into the van and sat next to him. The kid tensed up, keeping his eyes on the van's brown, dirty carpet. Green eyes, like his, a bruise coloring his sharp jaw line. The sign of abuse, ugly and quick—something he wasn't a stranger to either. He knew about the hits that just kept coming; the rough ass fucking meant to hurt. The same shit was written in the blues and purples, the yellowed edges of his skin.

He grazed gentle fingers along the bruise, kissing it lightly after the kid flinched back. It was an apology. A gesture not only for this lost teenager, but for himself too; an apology to the scared boy in the past who hadn't known any better than to put up with the abuse. With another soft kiss, he reached for the kid's opposite cheek, to tilt his chin inward. Lips close, he pecked a kiss against his mouth. Their eyes met.

It was the spark that spread the wildfire.

They grabbed each other and the promise of a quick, hard fuck welded them together. He sucked down the kid's groan, lips crushed and bruised, tongues searching and tasting. Alcohol and pot, a tongue-stud sweeping the inside of his mouth. Tammy… Trisha—he should know her goddamn name—kissed the curve of his spine as the kid shoved a hand down his pants. A groan shot out of his throat, dick pulsing between strong fingers, each impatient stroke leaving him wet. Somewhere behind him, hands ran along his hips and fake nails grazed his skin. He jerked forward, fucking hard into the kid's hand—

The phone in his pocket buzzed.

Still lip-locked, he tore it out and held it up, cutting a sidelong glance. Sam. It buzzed again, vibrating between his fingers. Needy hands tore at his jeans, ripping and yanking them open. Sammy would have to wait.

He shut the phone down and threw it. It clunked somewhere in the dark as he fell into soft skin and cheap perfume.

:::

He woke up to warm skin—a leg draped over his hips, an arm across his chest. Moonlight seeped through the van's dirty windows and the smell of sex, drugs and alcohol filled his lungs. Soft rock music had stopped long ago, pulling the curtain on the fuck of his life. No discrimination between hard dicks, firm asses or soft, full tits.

He exhaled an easy breath, the taste of alcohol and come still on his tongue. Lazy, half-awake, he shut his eyes and the night replayed on the underside of his eyelids. The desperate, needy kissing; fucking the kid's tight, perfect ass until his breath gave out. Somewhere between sucking dick and eating pussy, he suddenly remembered.

Sam had called.

With a grunt, he sat up. His muscles ached and a dull flash of pain slithered down his body. His hand went on a search for the missing phone, blind fingers feeling through the dark. The brush of a nipple, a box of condoms, the curve of an ass. Nestled between small of her back and the wall, he found the phone and brought it up to his face. He squinted, waiting, waiting, until it turned on. Ten voicemail messages.

What the fuck.

Something cut through him and left him breathless—dread or fear, he didn't know. He lifted the phone to his ear with shaky hands as his heart pounded in his throat. The first message opened with Sam's voice, cracking over unshed tears.

"Dean? Where are you? Call me back. Please. Mom's been in an accident. Please, please call me back. I don't know what to do."

The news stabbed a knife into his chest, ripping him open. He shot up and rummaged around for his clothes, holding the phone between his face and shoulder.

"Dean? Why aren't you answering your phone?" Sam choked back a sob. "Mom's hurt real bad."

"Dean. Please answer your phone."

"Dean." The gruff, angry tone of Dad. "Where the hell are you, boy? Your mother's in the hospital."

"Mom's not doing good. Please answer your phone," Sammy pleaded. "We're at St. David's—"

He jerked into his jeans, threw on his shirt and jacket, and shoved the phone in his pocket. Someone stirred in the dark and mumbled his name, but he didn't care. He whipped the sliding door open, jumped out of the van and sprinted for the Impala, fumbling for his keys. They jingled, slipped out of his hand and fell into the dirt, somewhere out of sight. "Fucking—shit!"

He fell to his knees. Beneath the Impala, his hand skittered over dirt and rock, the sudden sound of metal a relief to his ears. He grabbed the keys and jumped up, ripped the door open and got in. Tires punished rock as he wheeled out, the Impala's roar deafening as he shot down the dirt road. The darkness of the woods gave way to city lights and squat buildings, each stop sign earning a one-second pause. Between a blown red light and the blare of a horn, his mind went numb, spinning over Mom.

In an accident. At the hospital. Not doing good.

Not even two hours before, they'd had dinner—Dad, Sammy and Mom. Laughing together. Mom's bright smile, the kiss she pressed against Sam's forehead. The brush of fingers on Dad's shoulder as she started clearing the table. He clenched his jaw, sucking down his rising guilt with a deep breath. The fact that she'd made apple pie for him, that he had traded it in for sex and drugs. If he had just stayed…

Mom's gonna be okay. He wiped a hand down his face. She's gonna be fine. She has to be.

As stoplights and houses sped by in a haze, he reached for the phone again. His eyes darted between the keypad and the road, fingers quick to find Sam's number. Ringing, ring—

"Dean!"

"Sammy!" he rasped out. "I'm coming. Just—hold on, okay?"

"Dean…" Sam's voice wavered on the edge of hysterics. Dread hit him like a sledgehammer.

"I'm on my way, Sammy. I'm almost there."

He slammed the phone shut and threw it. His whole body trembled, hands white-knuckling the wheel. A tear trickled down his face as he sucked in another breath. Deep down, he knew. He already fucking knew. Growling, he pounded his fist against the dash. "Fuck!"

At the hospital, he parked and ran to the emergency room. He cornered a nurse for information and the rest of it—a blur. Mom had been rushed to the operating room in critical condition. Internal injuries. A drunk driver. After getting directions, he sped through the halls, legs burning with the effort. He burst through the doors and just… stopped running. He heaved in air, his lungs aching with the lack of oxygen, his muscles throbbing. Weighted down, he dragged himself toward the double doors at the end of the hall, as if it'd delay the inevitable. Maybe even stop time.

It didn't.

Instead, his boots kept time, the tick-tock, tick-tock of heel-toe tapping out his fear. The fear that he'd lost his Mom to a fucking drunk driver, that he'd been too late to say goodbye—

He swallowed hard and pushed past the doors. Dad sat in the cold waiting room, staring at the pale tiles, his face a blank slate. Sam sat next to him, knees up to his chin.

"Sammy? Dad?"

Sam looked up. Tears streamed down his cheeks, big eyes blood-shot red. Slowly, his little brother stood up and shambled over to him, loss betrayed in the slump of his shoulders.

"Mom's gone."

He couldn't breathe. His head swam and he stumbled back a step, bump-bracing himself against the wall. A strangled breath broke through the iron bars of his ribcage and another tear slipped down his face. Mom's gone… He threw his hand out and clutched Sammy's shirt, pulling him close. His little brother hugged him and sobbed into his chest. Somewhere between tears and regret, Dad wrapped his arms around them.

"We're gonna be okay," Dad said through the noose around his neck. "We're gonna be okay."

Stunned, lifeless, they stood in the middle of the sterile waiting room. The emotionless faces of nurses and doctors passed them by; just another cold touch of reality made harsher in the fluorescent lighting.

:::

He stared at the white steel casket. The sun glared in its glossy finish, stinging his eyes, as a westward breeze brought with it the promise of an early fall. As it brushed against his face, cooling his skin, he remembered spending last summer poolside, lounging in the Kansas sun—the way a summer should be spent. The smell of suntan oil and aloe, the sounds of splashing water and his kid brother's laugh. Instead of enjoying the yearly summer vacation with family, they were here at Mom's fucking funeral. The choked back wails of family and friends clawed at his back, the stench of freshly dug dirt thick in his throat. Not even the vibrant flowers on her casket smelled sweet. They too were dying. Cut from their roots. Abandoned. Suffering.

Sam buried his face into his side. Dean looked down at him and held him close. A mess of brown hair covered his head, hanging down in front of his eyes. Sam needed a haircut bad and Mom wouldn't be there to do it. She wouldn't be there to send Sam off to the first day of his freshman year. Wouldn't be there when he graduated or got married. The realization ate a hole into his chest.

Mom was gone.

He clenched his jaw and squeezed Sam's shoulder. His little brother gripped him hard, with a tightness he hadn't remembered in years—since back when they were kids. The desperate hug of a little boy after a nightmare. The fearful cling of a younger brother found aimlessly wandering in a store, lost. As Sammy trembled, it took every bit of self-control to keep his anger in check. Anger directed at himself because he couldn't save Sam from this heartache; because he hadn't been there when Mom—

He swallowed the lump in his throat, blinking back moisture from his eyes. His anger didn't stop at just himself, but reached high, high into the Heavens. God must be laughing at them, enjoying their pain. Not giving a single fuck that He'd taken away the one person that mattered most to them; the glue that had kept their family together.

Fuck God. He was a sadistic son of a bitch anyway.

The steel grip on his shoulder brought him back down to Earth. He didn't need to look back to remind himself that Dad stood rigid behind him; his face a hard mask of steel, tempered and unyielding under his years as a Marine. His firm touch said so many things his face wouldn't; don't worry, I'm here; help me, I'm barely hanging on. Realizing that Dad was just like them—fragile, human—scared him shitless. Without his anchor, his Dad's strength, he drifted alone on the sea. Hopeless. Lost.

He tried to concentrate on the funeral. The priest droned on about God's grace and eternal love; a bunch of bullshit, weightless and monotonous, that began to sink in and hit him hard. He forced back his tears and Sam buried his face into his side again; Dad's hand like an iron-vice on his shoulder. Around him, the people he loved were falling apart.

Out of nowhere, Sam slipped out of his grasp. His natural instinct was to reach out and pull him back to warmth and safety, to protect him from everything. He closed his fist around empty air instead. Sammy's hand trembled as he laid a red rose on top of the casket, his face streaked with tears when he turned back around. He pulled Sam back to his side as Dad slipped past them, to lay a rose next to Sam's. Standing at the casket, the strong line of Dad's shoulders faltered. Bobbing up once, down, before straightening again. Dad didn't sob, but rather shed a few tears and moved on—the one time he'd seen Dad cry at all. This time… would be different.

When Dad turned around, more than a few tears drew track lines down his cheeks. Dean had to drop his eyes to the ground. They shouldn't have to deal with this shit. Their lives should be happy. Mom should be alive—

"Son?"

He snapped his head up immediately like the good soldier he always tried to be. The lines of Dad's face tightened, dark eyes full of expectation. Under Dad's stare, he gripped the stem of his rose, eyes gravitating toward the ground again. The flash of its vibrant red color drew his attention. Its petals sprawled out from its center like the blades on a pinwheel, each of them flawless. The evergreen leaves, the purity of its smell—a perfect rose to some. To him, the token of his denial. If he put it on her casket, it would be the same as accepting her death. He didn't move. If this was his one act of defiance—

Dad's nice shoes, the ones he had polished for the funeral, intruded on his peripheral vision. Strong hands framed his shoulders, the smell of whiskey invading his nose. With a squeeze, Dad whispered, "Dean," before leaning in closer. "Put it on your mother's casket."

"I don't want to, Dad," he said, licking his dry lips. "—sir."

Dad sighed—God, the sound of disappointment—and squeezed his shoulders again. "It's okay, son."

Dean nodded, the flood of relief not making him feel any better. A tear slipped free as the funeral progressed without his rose, treading over his denial. Defying her death hadn't stopped anything. It didn't stop Sammy from sobbing into his black suit jacket or the casket from descending into the earth. The hole in his heart still ached and Dad was still barely hanging on.

"Give her, o Lord, your peace and let your eternal light shine upon her."

The white casket disappeared from sight and the whispers of amen cut through sounds of mourning, slicing him like a knife. He fought hard against his tears and muttered, "God stopped giving a shit a long time ago," with a venomous hiss.

The funeral ended. Those in attendance left one by one, sparing their condolences before going home with their complete families. The three of them stood there in silence, left behind, and stared at the hole in the ground. The white steel casket looked so… wrong like that: surrounded by dirt and roots and—fuck. There shouldn't be a casket in the first place. This wasn't right. This just… wasn't fucking right.

"Come on, boys. Let's go home."

He looked up. Dad started walking toward the car while Sam stayed behind, looking up for reassurance. Dean ruffled his hair and said, "Go on with Dad."

"What about you?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll be there in a second, okay kiddo?"

Sam nodded and hugged him tight. One second, two, ten. Sammy didn't let go. Dean held on as long as he could before prying off his brother's strong, little arms. "You been workin' out? Crushing my ribs here, man." That earned him a slight smile. Just a glimmer of old, happy Sammy. He thumbed a tear from Sam's face. "Get outta here. I'm right behind you."

Sam nodded and headed off toward Dad, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Dean tried his best to shoot his little brother a smile as they walked off.

Alone, he looked down at the white casket. His heart dropped into his stomach while his chest tightened with an overwhelming feeling of loss and emptiness. He had to claw open his ribcage just to breathe, his eyes blurry from the hot tears falling freely down his face. Here, on a sunny day in July, Dean Winchester fell apart as his entire world unraveled around him.

:::

The screeching sound of his alarm clock grated against his ears. He opened his eyes with a groan, his head throbbing a steady drumbeat to the shrill wails. With a hiss, he flipped over and slammed a hand over the goddamn thing until it shut up. The echo of it blazed a trail through his conscious, dull and hazy, while the beginnings of a headache crept behind his eyeballs. He buried his face into his pillow to hide from it and turned to liquid against the mattress, arm oozing off the edge. As his fingers grazed lukewarm glass, he remembered.

Fucking hangover.

After Dad had passed out, he tiptoed down the stairs and grabbed one of his whiskey bottles. Blew the night away, drowning it in alcohol. Anything to escape this fucking pain; an emotional anguish that had turned physical, bringing with it numbness and body aches. His whole fucking body hurt—hell, his whole life was just one big, shitty bruise.

He turned over and pulled the blankets up to his chin. Soft cotton brushed against his face, warmth wrapping him up in a cocoon. A single stream of sunlight reached through the seam of the drawn curtains and inched across the ceiling like a worm. Shadows clung to the corners where light couldn't touch, a deep darkness where monsters lurked. They waited for him, ready for the chance to eat him alive. Loss—teeth like razors, powerful enough, vicious enough to snap his bones. Guilt—its eyes red and claws sharp, ripping through skin and muscle. A hellhound that left him in pieces, holes gaping open and ragged. For a second, he wished monsters existed. Horrible, twisted things that'd just… put an end to it all, stop the suffering.

Suck it up, asshole.

The alarm blared again. Instead of accidentally hitting the snooze button, he ripped it out of the goddamn wall. Today marked the first day of his senior year and the responsibilities of an adult loomed ahead of him—just like one of his monsters from the shadows. Instead of teeth and claws, there'd be tests and teachers. Not glaring red eyes, but the silent pity of everyone around him. He'd need courage to face that shit.

Liquid courage.

He grabbed the whiskey bottle and sat up on the bed, twisted the cap off and brought it to his mouth. The whiskey burned its way down his throat, seared his insides and formed a lead brick in his gut—but it wouldn't be enough. Just to take the edge off, just so he could concentrate on making it another day, he took another long swig. His brain teetered between pain and the beginnings of another hard buzz; another escape; one more breath between living and dying.

Being so fucked up never felt so good.

He tightened the cap and slid the bottle under his bed. His spine creaked as he stood up, feet slapping against the floor as he moved toward the bathroom. The wooden floorboards, rough and cool against his skin, groaned like old bones, adding to the eerie silence that had settled over the house. He remembered when things had been good, when this home had an undeniable life to it. The laughter of happy parents, the way Mom sung in the mornings—God, the smell of her cooking. Everything that had given this place its energy. The vitality this house had thrived on was gone, leaving behind the ghosts of happier days—days he'd never see again.

The tickticktick of the bathroom's leaking faucet had replaced Mom's voice and the stale stench of dirty clothes stuck to his nose hairs. When he turned the light on, a cold soft white chased away the dark—but not the monsters. A zombie stared back at him in the bathroom's mirror; face worn, skin pale with dark circles beneath the eyes. Hair shot up like daggers on his head and his cheeks had sunk in—hollow, just like everything else. Overall, he looked like shit. The stubble on his jaw line had grown longer than he usually kept it, his eyes glassy and blood-shot.

Fuck it. Who cares.

He brushed his teeth and smoothed his hair down before snagging a shirt and a pair of jeans—clean or dirty, he didn't care. After dressing, he headed downstairs. Sam sat at the kitchen table, staring down at his empty cereal bowl. No expression, no light in his eyes. Completely lost. It tore his fucking heart out. He'd go through Hell, if he could, just to see his little brother smile again.

He cleared his throat and tried to put on a smile; something to give Sam a little hope. "Hey, kiddo. Ready for the first day of school?" Instead of sounding cheerful, his voice cracked pathetically.

Sam looked up. Red splotches rimmed his eyes, his movements minimal and lethargic. The kid looked tired. Probably worn out from crying all night. He'd heard it through the thin walls.

"Yeah, sure," Sam whispered.

It was so fucking hard to keep cool and casual. Difficult not to make a big deal out of how much Sam was hurting. Like always, the instinct to protect his little brother woke up, got angry and punched him in the gut. He had to trust that Sammy would come to him if he needed help.

"You eat?" Dean asked him on the way to the kitchen counter.

"Not hungry."

He nodded to no one as his own stomach bubbled, in need of food. He ignored it in favor of making Sam's lunch. The kid loved anything healthy—the freak—so he made him a turkey sandwich, threw some carrots in a little baggie and called it a day. It probably wasn't enough for a growing boy, but. He sighed through his nose. Sammy wasn't much about eating lately. He glanced over his shoulder to check on him. Sam stared off into space, a tear slipping down his cheek. Turning, Dean spread his hands flat on the kitchen counter and leaned into them as if a weight had been dropped on him, leaving him unbalanced. He took a deep, unsteady breath as his eyes sunk to the dirty tiles. If he could just… find a way to help him—

Footfalls like concrete blocks thumped down the stairs. Sam flicked the tear away and straightened his posture. Dean too couldn't help but fall in line, nodding as Dad reached the bottom of the stairs. A thick, graying beard made him look older, his dark eyes lacking the spark that made Dad him. Wearing an old, blue button-down, Dad had clearly dragged himself out of bed. Half dead to the world. Just like them.

It didn't take long to notice Dad's good 'ol friend Jack Daniels. It seeped through his pores; the whiskey's sharp, smoky notes pungent. Dean couldn't fix that either—Dad's drinking—and that fucking hurt too. Shit, he couldn't even help his own goddamn addiction.

Dad sat down at the kitchen table. Sam tensed up immediately. "You boys ready for school?"

"Yes, sir," he answered quickly. Sam said nothing.

"Good."

The conversation ended there. Dad looked at Sam and smiled; a sad, heartfelt smile as if he understood what Sammy was going through. When Dad tried to reach out to him, to touch his arm, Sam shrunk back. Dad's expression fell and a guarded frown carved deep lines into his face. The tense exchange made Dean turn around and idly straighten the oil and vinegar bottles on the counter. Dad and Sam's relationship had eroded, swept away by the current of Mom's loss—and it hurt every fucking time something like this happened.

There was a sudden scrape of a chair across the floor. The sound rang in his ears, adding to the shit he already had rattling around in his brain. Sam stormed out of the kitchen, past the mudroom, and into the garage without a word. Sam's unpredictable outbursts; just another thing to come out of all this. So wound up and tight that he sometimes flew off the handle, no warning at all.

He offered Dad an apologetic look, but he wasn't paying attention. Dad was turning the gold wedding band around his finger, staring at it with this… far-off look on his face.

"We're gonna get going, Dad."

It took Dad a second or two to look up. He nodded. "Have a good day, son."

"Yeah," he sighed out. "You too, Dad."

He grabbed Sam's lunch and left the kitchen. In the mudroom, he shouldered into his old leather jacket and stepped into the garage, hitting the button. The garage door peeled back and let the sunlight in. It gleamed in the Impala's hubcaps and dazzled her chrome, her glossy chassis blacker than spilled car oil. Even now, on the edge of breaking, his girl managed to put a smile on his face. She remained constant while his home fell apart. He realized then that they'd never be homeless. Not if they still had her.

He opened her door and eased into the driver's seat. Gripping her wheel, thumbing it gently, he stole a glance at Sam and noticed the expression on his face. Jaw in a tight line, eyes rimmed with new tears. His feel-good moment evaporated. "Hey, what's goin' on there, kiddo?"

"You been drinkin' again?"

The accusation, quick and brutal, punched him in the chest and jump-started his heart. The guilty boomboomboom echoed in his aching head. Shit. When he didn't answer, Sam shot him a glare, colder than ice. A chill ran up his spine. Dean stared straight ahead at the garage wall. "Just… let it go, Sammy."

"No," Sam snapped. "I don't want you to end up like Dad."

He white-knuckled the steering wheel and clenched his jaw. Stabbing him in the heart with a knife would have been less painful. Saying nothing, Dean threw his backpack in the back seat and handed Sam his lunch. Sam hadn't stopped staring at him. His eyes glistened, a tremble in his lip. Goddamnit. "Come on, Sam. I don't want to talk ab—"

"I don't care," Sam rasped out. His baby brother filled a small pause with his sniffle. "Promise me."

"What?"

"Promise me you're not gonna end up like Dad." A quick, ragged breath. "Promise me you're not gonna—kill someone out there or get killed…" Sam looked down, voice mouse-quiet. "…like Mom."

"Dude," he shot out. "I'm not gonna end up like Dad, okay? Or… fucking die or—kill anyone. God." Dean heaved a breath, eyes zeroing in on the bumper-shaped dent in the sheetrock—the first and last time he'd tried to show Sam how to drive. When he had the courage to look back, Sam's concern hadn't gone away. His little brother's face was still twisted in a frown. "I promise, okay? I'll…" He licked his lips, hesitating. "I'll stop," he added quietly. Exhaling hard, he met Sam's gaze. "All right? Can we go?"

Sam nodded.

He turned over the Impala's ignition. Her familiar purr mingled with the radio's croon of soft rock and it helped ease his frazzled nerves. Free's All Right Now poured through the Impala's speakers as he backed her out of the driveway and headed toward school. He and Sammy… they didn't speak another word.

He took what little solace he could find in the cool, late summer air. It tumbled over his skin from the open window, the smell of early morning rainfall quick on its heels. Quiet streets with brick houses rolled by. Cars backed out of driveways, marking the beginning of the morning's hustle and bustle.

The ride had gone smoothly until The Beatles' Hey Jude came on the radio. Before the opening notes could shove needles into his skin, he jerked forward and clicked the radio off. Sam's face betrayed his devastation; jaw line hard enough to break teeth, stare vacant and forward facing. Of all the goddamn songs in the world, it had to be the lullaby song Mom sung to them when they were kids. Of-fucking-course.

When Sam turned his head to look out the window, the urge to apologize clawed at his throat. He wanted to tell him that it'd be all right, that they'd make it through this; all this sad, lonely shit; all the heartache and dark nights spent crying themselves to sleep. In the end, he kept quiet. Winchesters dealt with their own shit, their own way.

He pulled the Impala into the school's parking lot. As soon as he had cut the engine, Sam made a move to open the passenger's door, as if being in the car for one more second would kill him. Without thinking, he grabbed Sam by the arm. They locked eyes. With so many things racing through his head—

We're gonna be okay. I'm gonna take care of you. We got this, I promise.

—"Hang in there, Sammy," came out instead.

Sam nodded quickly, grabbed his backpack and lunch, and got out of the car. The door closed with a heavy note of finality. He ran a hand down his face. Mom would have known what to do: how to soothe Sammy's pain, how to save him from all this crap.

He slumped back into the leather seat, overwhelmed to the point of exhaustion. The thought of disappearing or sleeping forever tumbled through his brain. Fading away and leaving it all behind sounded fucking amazing—but Winchesters didn't run away or hide. They grew a pair and sent shit packing with a give-'em-hell attitude. He wouldn't do anything less.

He opened the car door and stepped out into the crisp air. Ahead of him, Lawrence Independent Academy stood proud and regal. A nonsectarian private school that demanded the best out of its students; smart kids that had parents to foot the bill. Its tall, center building with narrow windows belonged to the Gothic revival period—according to some chick he'd dated in his sophomore year. With its three-door grand entrance and semi-modern architecture, the placed looked more like a small college than a high school. It was early yet, but some of the kids started filing in, others gathering in small groups in the grassy, shaded areas.

He folded his arms across the Impala's hardtop, exhaling a quick breath. An okay enough place. At least Mom thought so. She had work there for many years. Now, the halls would be empty without her laugh, darker without her kind smile; the classrooms robbed of the way she had cared about her students—each one of them special little snowflakes.

Sam disappeared inside the building. Knowing his brother wouldn't be able to sit in one of her classrooms hurt. Knowing Sammy would be starting his freshman year like this—nervous, depressed—fucking killed him. He issued a sigh through his nose and concentrated on something else. The familiar faces, the new ones. Gabriel, the jock, and overall wild party guy. Becky, the gossip hound. He lost interest in the sea of faces as the school's bell screamed, splitting his head open with a bludgeon of throbbing pain. Fuck.

Out of nowhere, something touched his shoulder.

"Hi, Dean."

He jumped, heart racing a mile a minute. When he turned, doe brown eyes stared back at him, the warmth of her gigawatt smile reaching out to the cold emptiness inside him. Lisa. God, she had gotten prettier every year. Long brown hair brushed against her shoulders and her smooth, flawless skin had a nice summer's tan. Memories of the early part of their sophomore year came back immediately. The bendy weekend that had started their brief, intense relationship. The fight—I wish I had never met you. You're the worst mistake I ever made!—and the eventual friendship after their broken pieces had healed.

He smiled. "Hey, Lis."

"Hey," she whispered, laying a hand on his forearm. "How're you holding up?"

"Fine," he lied. "I—uhh…" He looked away, trying to find something else to occupy his attention. "—never got to thank you for coming to Mom's funeral."

"It's—you don't have to thank me for that. You know I'm here for you."

"Yeah," he clipped, looking down. "Thanks."

"If you need anyone to tal—"

"You know what?" He flinched at the tone of his voice—sharp, rough. His eased up and gently said, "I'm good."

"Okay. You have my number, right?"

"Sure. Never deleted it," he said, smiling at her.

Lisa nodded, sliding her hand from his arm. The ghost of her touch lingered and the need for more, any sort of human physical contact, left him aching. She smiled at him, waved, and walked toward the school. If he gave half a shit, he'd have watched the sway of those hips. Just to feel human again. Normal.

The second bell smacked him in the eardrums, rattling his skull. A fucking hangover and late on the first day of school—just his goddamn luck.

:::

The first day of school had come and gone. He met his teachers, both old and new, and had seen some of his old classmates from his sophomore year. If he heard I'm so sorry about your mom one more fucking time—

"Long time no see, man," he heard a familiar voice say. He looked up from his locker combination. Ash high-five hand-grabbed and pulled him in, patting him on the back. "Hey, sorry about your mom. Tough break."

Fucker.

"Yeah, tough break," he mumbled, fiddling with the dial. Ash still had that ridiculous mullet—all business up front, party in the back—and dressed as if he were living in the 80s. Red flannel button-up with the sleeves cut off, a grungy t-shirt underneath and holes in his jeans. The only reason Ash fit in at all was because the dude was smart. Dr. Badass, a freak genius with a DeLorean time machine in his garage like Doc Brown. Probably. The guy was that smart.

"Hey, you comin' to Gabe's party tonight?"

His fumbling fingers froze on the dial. Party shortchanged his lungs of air. He inhaled a sharp breath, heart ricocheting off his ribs. After Psycho-dick, he'd avoided parties altogether, not wanting to risk the chance. That abusive asshole still lived in Lawrence as far as he knew, probably still hung up on his fine ass. Motherfucker.

"No," he said nonchalantly, keeping it cool. He spun the combination dial. "What party?"

"What party?" Ash echoed. "You been livin' under a rock all day?"

He rolled his eyes, finally popping his locker open. Without answering, he grabbed a book and shoved it in his bag.

"Come on, man," Ash huffed. "Get fucked up, forget all your worries. What's not to like?"

"I can't—and why the fuck is Gabe having a party already? It's the first day of fucking school."

"To start off our senior year with a bang, dude. Makes sense."

He scoffed, still didn't answer him.

"Chicks and booze," Ash tempted.

"Not everything's about chicks and booze."

"Whoa, whoa. Is this the Dean Winchester I'm talking to? Lawrence Indy's equivalent to Bruce Wayne? The ladies' man—"

"Dude! I get it. Holy shit." He glared and Ash returned it with a stupid grin. Clenching his jaw, he took a deep breath and shot it out his nose. The thought of a quick fuck, booze to calm his nerves or—shit, get completely fucked up. Tempting. But he had promised Sam. "You know what, man? I can't. Stuff just isn't the same anymore." Wait— "But I'm still Batman. That hasn't changed."

"Batman goes to parties."

"Pretty sure he doesn't."

"Dude, you know Batman's been to some cool-shit parties, man. Anyway," Ash clapped him hard on the back, massaging his shoulders a little. It didn't make him feel comfortable at all. "The party's tonight at nine. Gabe's place. You comin' or what?"

Dean shrugged his hands off. "I don't fucking know."

"Well, you think about it," Ash said, slapping him on the ass. Goddamnit. "Trust me, man. You could use a little drinkin'. You look like shit warmed over."

"Hey, why don't you try sweet talking me first before asking me out on a date," he said irritatedly.

"Just did, big boy," Ash winked, walking away. He threw up the horns. "See ya later, bro."

"Asshole," he grumbled, slamming his locker closed. He jumped, suddenly face-to-face with Sam. Startled the shit right out of him.

"You going to a party tonight?"

"What? No," Dean said immediately. The chance to let off some steam, to get back to his normal life of fucking and drinking floated away. "I promised, remember?"

"Yeah, okay." Sam nodded, eyes downcast.

He ruffled his hair. Sam kicked his head back and frowned, brown strands falling into messy, sharp angles. Big brother fucked up on cutting his hair. Real bad. Poor kid. Probably still pissed at him. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, me too."

They started walking toward the entrance of the school, passed the beige walls, seamless tile flooring, wooden doors and archways. After a moment, Sam looked up at him, narrowing his eyes. "You're not Batman."

Dean grinned. "Dude, I am so Batman. You don't even know."

Sam smiled a little bit. It was a start.

:::

At home, after settling down to watch some TV, Dean started making dinner. Mom's spaghetti and meatballs; the only other thing Sam would eat other than his stupid salads. That tiny smile had set him on a mission. Operation Happy Sammy. A simple yet difficult plan to make his little brother as happy as he possibly could, however he could do it. Hell, he'd even watch a Jet Li movie over Chuck Norris if he had to. Just because.

The smell of spaghetti sauce filled the small kitchen. Tomato, velvety smooth. Garlic. Black pepper. His stomach growled, mouth salivating as he pulled fresh, hot bread from the oven. By the time the table had been set, the rumble of Dad's truck vibrated the decorative plates on the walls. The kitchen door flung open and Dad walked in.

"Hey, Dad."

Dad said something inaudible and brushed past him on the way to the cupboards. A bottle of Jim Beam and a shot glass became quick friends, the honey-gold liquor disappearing down Dad's throat. One shot. Two. Before Dad could think of pouring another one—

"Could you put that away?"

"I had a rough day at work, Dean," Dad intoned firmly.

"Yeah, I get that," he said, softer. "But it bothers Sammy. So… could you knock it off? Just until later?"

Dad stared at him, glass stalled midway to his mouth.

"Sir," he added respectfully.

Dad looked into the well of the glass, shoulders slumping. A sigh announced his disappointment. "Yeah."

A glimmer of hope. The clarity of it rang in his voice. "Hey, I made dinner too. Spaghetti and meatballs." He almost managed cheerful—fucking exhausting.

Dad put away the bottle and hid the still-full shot glass behind a canister of flour. It was a small step, but it counted. As Dad sat down at the kitchen table, Dean divvied out good-sized portions of spaghetti, each plate getting two huge meatballs. An accomplishment that had him feeling stupidly proud.

"Dinner's ready, Sammy!" Dean called out.

His little brother padded in from the living room, scanning the place like a scared little mouse. Sam took a tentative seat and Dad gave him another one of those sad, apologetic smiles; no doubt knowing he had a lot to make up for.

Dean set down a plate of food in front of Dad, Sam and one for himself before sitting down. He didn't even hesitate. He shoveled forkful after forkful of food into his mouth, chasing it down with a bite of garlic bread. Everything tasted pretty fucking good: the garlic bread garlicky, the tomato sauce richly flavorful. Even the meatballs—

He looked up from his plate. Dad and Sam weren't eating. Instead, they stared, but not at him. No—at the counter. He turned his head, eyes catching...

A fourth plate.

His gut dropped to the floor, his fork clattering against the table. Like a fucking idiot, he had served a plate for Mom. He hadn't been thinking—what the fuck. He jumped up from the table, chair howling and grinding against the floor. With the flip of his hand, the fourth plate tumbled into the sink and cracked. He didn't move. What stupid dumbass served dinner for his dead Mom? God fucking damnit. He clenched his fists as tears clouded his vision, the very act of breathing—agonizing.

Wiping his face on his sleeve, he turned around. Sammy's bottom lip trembled, eyes glassy. And Dad—he looked away, to the shot glass he'd hidden. It was all over Dad's face; the need to wallow at the bottom of a whiskey bottle. Muscles tight with the urge to jump up, grab the shot glass and suck it down.

Right now? He wanted to do the same fucking thing.

The cement beams of his legs carried him over to the chair, his rigid body sinking, sinking into it. Silence strangled the life out of the room. No one said a word. Sam's fork scraped against the plate, sending the jitters up and down his skin. Instead of eating, Sam rolled a meatball over his plate while supporting his face with a fist. Dad watched Sam. Dean watched Dad. As another irritating sound of metal against plate clawed at the tension, Dad heaved a steadying breath. "Eat your food, Sam."

"I'm not hungry."

"Sam—" came the warning tone.

"Dad, it's okay," Dean interjected.

"I'm. not. hungry!" Sam hissed, jumping up from his seat. A glass tipped over, silverware clattering and ringing like the swords of battling knights. Neither he nor Dad could stop him from running from the room.

"Get back here, boy!" Dad roared.

The bedroom door slammed, barking out a proverbial fuck you.

Dad leveled with him. "You need to get that boy straight."

"Yessir," he said instinctively. Dad's face hardened, jaw tight and brows drawn in. He knew that look. Knew it like the back of his hand. Disappointment. "I'm—I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't—"

"It's okay, son," Dad said. But the sharp edge in his voice hadn't gone away. Worse, Dad stood up and left the room without another word. A second bedroom door slammed, startling him.

He sat there, alone. The tick-tock, tick-tock of the kitchen's clock hammered a spike into his skull. Boom, boom. Guilt, guilt. He'd upset Sammy, pissed off Dad. "Can't even get dinner fucking right," he whispered to dirty plates and knocked over glasses.

He exhaled hard and peeled himself off the chair. Gathering up the dishes, he ignored the ghost behind the canister; the shot of whiskey Dad had forgotten—his potential escape from all the shit. He shook his head, piling the plates into the sink. No, he had promised Sammy.

It's just one shot. Sam doesn't need to know.

He bit his bottom lip and turned on the faucet, cleaning out a dirty glass. The promise of that burn, the smoky sweetness of that honey-gold…

Fuck it.

Abandoning his chores, he beelined for the shot glass and whipped the canister aside. The smell of the whiskey, the weight of the glass in his hands—he sucked in a breath and closed his eyes, kicking it back. The whiskey set fire to his throat, burned and numbed his insides. Took chunks out of his guilt with jagged teeth.

Relief.

It wasn't long before an itch crawled up his skin and burrowed into his bones. He needed to escape, get the fuck out of here for a few hours. Pretend to live a normal life. He looked up at the clock. 8:02 p.m. He could make it.

He grabbed his keys and jacket, and walked out the door.

:::

Gabriel guzzled a huge fucking pitcher of beer and threw it to the floor empty. "Let's get fucked up!"

The crowd roared.

He should have stayed home.

Someone shoved a beer bottle in his hand and slapped him hard on the back. He frowned into Ash's wide-grinning face. "Hey, man. Glad you could make it."

Dean smirked and popped the beer open with his keys. He couldn't get it to his mouth fast enough, chugging it to half in one go. Sweet and heavy with a hint of coffee, the smell of vanilla rolling down his throat—fucking horrid. Whatever. As long as it fucked him up.

"Shots?" Ash asked, watching him down the rest of the god-awful beer.

He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and licked his lips, setting the empty bottle on a table. "Lead on."

Ash weaved him through the crowd. He couldn't stop his eyes from darting around nervously, expecting to see him lurking within fingers' reach. The psycho-dick who loved to bruise and bite, whose fist was quick to slug him if he got too lippy. He saw little bits of that asshole in everyone. In their frowns, the beat down and painful recovery afterward. In their smiles, a sadistic ass fucking that left him sore for days.

He choked on the sweltering heat of hot, gyrating bodies and grabbed the nearest beer—right out of a dude's hand. Ignoring the strangled 'Hey!', he poured it down his throat to fight off the warring butterflies in his stomach. His head whirled, the smells of perfumes, body odor and alcohol a riot in his gut. Someone bumped into him hard and laughter pulsed in his ear. A break in the crowd allowed him to pop through. There, at the kitchen counter, he stumbled in next to Ash, tight fingers gripping his shoulder in relief. As if all this shit—being here and the memory of a long-gone ghost—was suddenly too fucking much for him.

Get a fucking grip.

Ash pulled him into a side hug, blurring the lines of personal space. Stomping on them by kissing his cheek. "Let's get this guy some shots, huh?"

Shot after shot came at him—silver bullet, jäger, something called a purple nurple—and he downed each one to cheers. They burned, hit him like a freight train… and tore every one of his worries to pieces. All the guilt—just… gone. No Mom, no Dad, no Sam. Just… awesomeness. Floating. Free.

He sat on the couch with his head tipped back. The spot on the ceiling… shape of a small dog. Ash came out of nowhere, peering down at him. "You nice and fucked up, man?"

He nodded.

"Good. You need it, brother."

Ash patted him on the chest and vanished. Everything swirled around him. Sounds of laughter and yelling… distorted. Shapes… meant nothing; semi-solid blobs of color and movement... people, furniture, maybe even farm animals. He lulled his head to the side and focused on a dark splotch… someone dressed in black. Staring at him. Dean narrowed his eyes…

And choked on his breath.

He jolted straight up. His heart rushed in his ears, gut lurching. He tried to stand, but the spinning, the confusion, kept him down. He whipped his head, eyes bouncing from face to face. More fleshy, indistinct blobs. No one dressed in black at all. Just a dark jacket slung over a chair.

Not him.

He heaved a breath and sunk back into the couch. The thunder in his chest slowed and his gut loosened. As his muscles relaxed, tension poured out of his fingertips, his toes… body tingly all over. Felt fucking good... real good. The type of good he'd hang himself with if he coul—

Someone flopped down beside him. Warm and close... giggling; the sound of wind chimes. The smell of alcohol sweet and spoiled; flowers rich and dainty. A flash of red. Something tickled his nose.

"Hi," said a girl's voice. Slowly, he turned his head. Red hair, green eyes, a killer smile… pretty girl. Drunk as fuck. Her head was on his shoulder, thick hair soft on his face. She peeked up at him… another gorgeous smile. His dick twitched. "Uh, hi." Smooth, asshole. "Do—uhh… Do I know you?" Stupid, stupid.

Rhonda, she said—maybe. Blood rushed from his brain to his dick. Everything just… shut down. Thought… comprehension. She kissed him, tongue deep in his mouth, and he went with it. Kissed her back… hands in her hair. She moaned as his hand slid up her outer thigh. Shit, he'd fuck her right here if he had the chance. Sexsexsex was the only thing on his mind. She cupped his balls… gently squeezed his dick and—

Goddamn it.

"Shit. Sorry," he murmured against her lips. "I gotta take a piss."

Didn't stop her. She grabbed his hair, kissed him again. Swept her tongue into his mouth. Another groan, this time from him. "Really… really bad," he said, breaking away from her kiss. "I'll be back… promise."

He stood up from the couch, unsteady on his feet. The whole room… blurry, twirling around him. He looked back at her, just to ground himself, to make sense of the random colors and shapes. Pretty in her green dress… color that matched her eyes. Pale skin sweet like… strawberries and cream. She winked, her hands smooth against her supple thighs… moving up, up. Beneath her skirt. She slipped her panties down, shoved them into his hands. "You better be," she teased. "I'm going to want those back."

Holy shit.

He gripped them in his hands. Smooth, warm... maybe even a little damp. He looked down. Satiny… pink. His mouth hung open. Swallowing hard, he stuffed them in his pocket. "Wait right here."

She nodded… I want to fuck you painted in the little smile on her face.

"Don't move," he said, pointing a finger. He stole a glance at her before stumbling into the crowd. More sticky closeness, body heat… the smell of stale liquor and heavy food. A kid threw up in a potted plant; another took a body shot from a girl's tits. The pushing, the resistance… drunken assholes everywhere. He pushed back… squeezed through. By the stairs, Ash clung to the railing, beer in one hand, talking to a chick.

"Want to see my tracking device?" he heard Ash ask. The girl rolled her eyes.

"Ash—"

"Hey, buddy," Ash said, turning—just in time to catch him before he dove face-first into the stairs. "Whoa, dude. You are fuuucked up."

"No shit," he rasped, pushing Ash back to arm's length. "Where—where's… the goddamn bathroom?"

"Around the corner—"

He nodded, stepping in that direction.

"—but it's clogged to high heavens, dude. If you don't want to die, I don't suggest goin' in there."

"Where's one that works, jackass?" he growled out.

"Upstairs. Last time I saw, two people were fucking in it."

"Goddamnit," he hissed. "Never mind."

Fuck it. He'd take a piss outside. He took another step… a wave of dizziness hit him full-on. He stretched out a hand… braced himself against—something. A wall maybe. Nausea next… his stomach churning. A belch fired up his throat and tasted fucking gross. If he didn't make it in time, he'd either piss himself or throw up on someone—he couldn't decide which was worse.

He dove into the crowd again… broke through on the other side. The glass sliding door looked like freedom to him: a pasture to roam… a pot to piss in. Out into the air, down the porch steps… passed the tall, wooden gate. The greenbelt out back… dark, wide. Deep. No more sounds of music… shouting… laughing. Just crickets.

Peepeepee.

He unzipped his fly, whipped it out. The slam of the wooden gate, the crunch of dead leaves—

He wasn't alone.

His heart sputtered, drilling an up-tempo beat into his ribs. A pinch of dread low in his gut. He didn't bother looking; concentrated on pissing. His dick refused to cooperate. Hard breathing behind him. Closer.

"You mind, buddy?"

His voice cracked over fear. No answer. Fucker kept silent and his dick—just… nothing. No piss. "You are one… creepy son of a bitch, you know that?" Small talk. Why not. No response from either dick. "You need a closer look there, buttercup?"

He turned—and let it rip. A stream of piss shot out of his dick. Aimed it for the… black blob in front of him—the outline of a man… dark silhouette against the glow of the party's lights. He swung his hips from side to side to get the asshole real good. Nice and wet with piss. Relieved, chuckling, he tucked himself back in. The zzzzip! of his jeans loud in the dark.

"You shouldn't have done that."

That voice… The 's'—they dragged, slurred together. Words forced through cotton and mothballs. Dean gulped in a sharp breath. Limbs froze still. Head spinning. His heartbeat a roar in his ears.

"It's been a long time."

He didn't move. Couldn't. His body wouldn't listen, locked down by fear.

It was him. Shit. It was fucking him.

"I've been looking for you, Dean. Couldn't wait to see you again."

"Fff…" Throat dry, hoarse. "F—Fuck you, Alastair."

Movement. Too quick. Pain erupted on one side of his face. His world tipped back, back. Face-first into the dirt, leaves sticking to his cheek and sticks poking at his skin. A heavy weight on his body. Psycho-dick lying against him, chest-to-back, breathing hard against his ear. Panting. "I'm going to rip you apart…"

His eye socket throbbed, head aching. His body jerked—once, twice. His ass naked to the air, jeans down to his knees. Somewhere behind him, a belt buckle chimed. A zipper hissed. He knew what was coming. Growling, he tried to get up. Sent hands in search along the ground… for a rock, a stick; anything. Psycho-dick jerked his hands back. Pushed his head forward. Mouth full of dirt, blades of grass up his nose. He hacked and coughed.

Pinned down.

Trapped.

Alastair's bare skin was against his ass. Hard cock at the small of his back—

"Go to Hell," Dean croaked weakly.

He couldn't scream for help. Couldn't fight him off. He'd be raped here, deep in the forest. No one around to care. Fine. Just as well. He'd failed Dad…. Sammy… Couldn't keep his family together. Hadn't been there when Mom died. Didn't have the chance to say goodbye.

I deserve this.

He forced the air out of his lungs, went limp… gave up. He'd think of something else, ride it out. Alastair spat and the wet sound of hand and dick canceled out the wind in the trees. As Alastair's cock traced his lower spine to the crack of his ass, he closed his eyes. The family's last dinner together played like a movie in his brain. Mom and Dad... happy. Sam's smiling face, spaghetti sauce at the corners. He smiled too. That memory was all he needed. He could forget everything else—

The crickets.

Alastair's moan.

The snap of a twig.

The crunch of bone.

Alastair screamed. The weight of him gone. Dried leaves rustled, branches snapped with the hard fall of a body. In the dark, Alastair cried out. Once, twice, in tandem with the sound of impact. Someone hitting him. Another scream. Another. Then… nothing. No moaning. No screaming. Just—

"Dean."

It was a voice fired over coals and tinted dark. Deep with unmistaken authority. A shudder ran down his spine, his breath still in his chest. The way that voice affected him—he knew… it was the sound of salvation.

Strong hands skirted along his hips, yanked his pants up. Fingers gripped his left shoulder. Just as it'd gone down, his world came up, away from earth and rock. Suddenly, he was warm, cheek against firm muscle. Cradled in arms, holding him close. His brain spun with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. Blood and sweat mixed with danger. His vision faded in and out.

Blackness all around—going… going…

:::

Cinnamon and vanilla. Warmth and Safety.

Dean lay on his side, nestled in his bed, the body of someone else pressed against his back. Someone he trusted, cared for—someone that made him happy. A gentle hand brushed against his hip, fingers running up his side and ribs in a way that tickled and aroused him. Dean let out a groan as lips kissed his neck, as teeth grazed the shell of his ear. The same fingers teased and pinched a nipple, hand spread flat on his chest to pull him back. Closer. Fitted together as if they were made for one another.

From behind, it slipped in effortless and gentle, filling him up. Slow, easy, their heartbeats and bodies found the same rhythm. Hands explored, lips tasted soft skin. Fingers traced a line up his arm, gripping his left shoulder. A bolt of excitement, arousal—even love—struck him down and ran through him. Dean gasped and reached back, far back, grabbing ass to jerk and drive that hard cock deeper. The pace quickened, his breath heavy. Dean rolled his head back as lips brushed his earlobe.

"Dean…"

That voice again. Rich and deep, the roll of thunder, gravel-rough and otherworldly. The touch on his shoulder disappeared, reached lower—he was almost there. So close… so fucking close.

Slick fingers gripped his hard cock, slid down the wet shaft and—

Dean let out a gasp and arched his back as his orgasm ripped through him. Powerful, fucking incredible, the force of it jolted him upward, half in surprise, half in—

The sudden movement racked him with nausea. Before he knew it, he was rolling off the bed, onto the floor, scrambling for the trash can. He grabbed and jerked it toward him and—just let loose. The night's alcohol, crappy food and confusion spewed out of his mouth. The shit slopped at the bottom of the trash can; the smell, the sound of it making everything worse. Not even a breath later, his stomach revolted again. More crap came out and left an acidic taste in his mouth; the memories bitter on his tongue—bullshit he had a hard time piecing together.

Weak, exhausted, he collapsed, body spread out like a fleshy, boneless rug on the floor. He smushed his face against the cool, wooden boards, the creaks and groans of the old house muffled against his ear. Goddamn it. What a fucking night. The hangover rolled through, a huge cannonball crushing the insides of his skull, his—

He groaned, inching his fingers up toward his face. Gingerly, he tested the fragile skin of his cheekbone, a sharp sting of pain forcing a hiss out of him. His eye socket, his temple—the same. One, big fucking bruise. He emptied his lungs with a sigh, relaxing, thinking—

Ash... shots… satin, pink panties… Alastair…

Alastair.

"Fuck."

It took a lot of effort to roll over onto his back, every one of his muscles screaming in pain. He covered his face gently with his hands to block out the light of the morning. The stench of his vomit lingered but he lay there anyway, brain bouncing over the hazy fragments of last night. The punch and the fall to the ground. Dirt in his mouth. Ass bare to—

His breath caught in his throat. Alastair had intended to—he swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought. The question went unanswered: did he? He scanned his body for clues, reaching down and back to touch with fingers. Gentle searching and prodding came back with nothing. No pain, no… damage. A sigh of relief. He took stock of his intuition, his inner knowledge that, if Alastair had taken advantage of him, he would have known immediately. Would have felt it. For days. His head whirled. So close to getting brutally ass fucked. Shit. He took a deep breath and pushed the realization down. Uplifted that Alastair hadn't violated him. Thank fuck for small favors.

No. Wrong. Thank fuck for saviors.

He remembered too that someone had saved him; had come out of the dark, out of nowhere, to beat the living shit out of Alastair. He fought through the brain fog, rummaging for bits and pieces of his savior. Cinnamon and vanilla. Warmth and safety.

The dream. The wet dream.

The smooth glide of their bodies, the tenderness and soft touches. Beyond that, the trust, his complete surrender… the happiness. It stole his breath away… and left him hollow inside.

Just a fucking dream. You don't deserve any of that shit.

He clenched his jaw. Slowly, he sat up, grabbing the edge of the mattress as another wave of nausea crashed into his sore body. No, he didn't deserve any of that shit. Fairy tale endings didn't happen to him. Never would.

He eradicated the dream from his brain, left it behind with the dust bunnies on the floor as he hoisted himself to his feet. He wobbled a step or two before regaining his balance, bare feet lazy on the way to the bathroom. In the mirror, he inspected his battle wounds. Blues and purples stretched across one side of his face, fading into one another like some morbid sunset; an aftermath that made him look like a cross between a pathetic loser and a badass hero in a movie.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he settled for pathetic loser. The looks on Dad and Sammy's faces told him that he fucked up. Real bad. The painful mix of his hangover and bruises didn't even compare to the sting of disappointment in their eyes. It dug deeper than any knife ever could.

"Sit down, son."

He sat down immediately, the disappointment in Dad's voice a barb beneath his skin. Sammy didn't even look at him. His little brother stared at his cereal bowl, Lucky Charms soggy in stale milk. Guilt squeezed his heart, his stomach carrying a sack of rocks.

"You want to tell me what happened last night?" Dad asked. But it wasn't a question. It was a veiled order.

The thought of lying almost crossed his mind. "I went to a party…" he said, eyes downcast. He hoped that'd been enough, but—Dad's frown said otherwise. "... got drunk. And uhh—" Now's the time to lie, dumbass. "Got into a fight," he finished quietly.

"Why?" Sam asked sharply. The frown on his brother's face, his narrowed eyes; the kid looked pissed. Pissed and… hurt maybe. His little chin wobbled, a quick tick or two before his jaw drew a tight line. Glassy eyes—yeah, definitely hurt too. Shit. He'd rather face a horde of Hell's monsters than his little brother's hurt interrogation.

"Sam—" Dad warned.

Sam looked down into his bowl, biting his bottom lip.

"Look," Dean said with a sigh. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I know, I'm an idiot—"

"Dean," Dad cut him off.

He shut up.

"Sam, why don't you go to the car."

Sam looked up at Dad, huffed and got up from his seat. Saying nothing, the kid grabbed his lunch, backpack and slammed the kitchen door on his way out. Dean exhaled hard through his nose and slumped in his chair.

"You need to get your head out of your ass, Dean. Some kid had to bring you home last night because you were drunk out of your goddamn mind."

Some kid.

"Who?" he shot out, not thinking.

Dad narrowed his eyes. "Cas-something. Dean, that's not the point. The point is…" Dad said with emphasis. "You need to stop thinking about yourself, all right? The state Sam was in—" Dad shook his head. Dean could imagine. Crying maybe. Worrying about him for sure. Just like Sammy always did. "You need to think about him—"

"Yeah, kinda like how you think about him when you get drunk—"

Shit.

Dad stared at him long and hard. The hurt and anger that lanced across his face could have crumbled a statue. Dean steeled his jaw line. All he wanted to do was apologize. He was being stupid.

"We both need to think of Sammy," Dad said, recovering gracefully. "No more bullshit, you hear me? I need you to be responsible right now. Help me—" Dad exhaled a quick, heavy breath. "… help me piece this family back together." The bags under his eyes, the weight in his voice; Dad looked tired. "Okay, son?"

"Yessir," he said immediately.

"No more trouble."

"No more trouble," he repeated.

"Good. Now, go on. Get to school."

He stood and grabbed his backpack, heading toward the kitchen door.

"And Dean?"

He stopped and shot a glance over his shoulder. "Yeah, Dad?"

The distinct, militaristic sternness in Dad's face was unmistakable. "Next time, you'd better watch your tone with me, boy."

"Yes, sir." He had never said those words with more sincerity in his life.

In the garage, he stepped closer to the Impala, slow and careful as if any false move would shatter the thin ice underfoot. Dealing with Dad had always been easier. But Sam… disappointing his little brother might as well be the same as getting tortured. The times he had disappointed Sam exceeded the number of fingers on both his hands.

He slipped into the driver's seat and shut the door. Sam didn't look up, holding his lunch against his chest like a life vest in a shit storm. The concrete wall of tension between them couldn't have been smashed down by a wrecking ball. Instead of facing the issue head on, apologizing for fucking up, promising to try harder, he chose the coward's way out. Shut his mouth. Didn't even look at him. He couldn't take the disappointed look on Sammy's face.

He started the Impala, backed out of the garage and headed for school. Neither of them said a word, the silence hanging thick in the air. He kept his eyes on the road. The crinkle of Sam's paper bag lunch and a frustrated sigh broke his concentration.

"What's the matter, Sammy?"

"I don't like any of this stuff."

The fact that Sam had answered him at all— "Sorry, kid. Dad's trying the best he can."

"Whatever."

Everything fucking sucked, but it was his flippant comment that tossed him over the edge. "Whatever? You know what, Sammy? Get over it. This shit between you and Dad has got to stop."

Sam's face burned brighter than a red light on a Christmas tree. The little brat flopped himself into the seat and whipped his head to stare out the window. Frustrated, Dean let out a growl. Two ticking time bombs in the same car—not fucking good. As soon as he parked the Impala at the school, Sam exploded into motion, grabbing his backpack and lunch on his way out. Under his breath, Sam whispered, "Wish it woulda been Dad instead of Mom."

Goddamn, if Sam didn't know how to push his fucking buttons—

Quick as lightning, he grabbed Sam's upper arm and yanked him back. Sam yelped. "You're hurting me!"

He didn't fucking care.

"Look at me, Sam! How can you even say that?"

"Let go of me," Sam growled.

"You look at me, goddamnit." Sam choked back a breath and gradually raised his eyes. "How can you even say that?"

No answer.

"Huh?" He demanded. Nothing. He gripped Sam's arm harder. A flicker of pain registered on his brother's face. "Listen to me. Mom's gone, okay—"

"Don't you say that to me—"

"Shut up, Sam." He ignored the tears welling up in his brother's eyes. "Dad's the only one we got left, all right? Wishing it had been Dad instead of Mom isn't going to change a goddamn thing. So do me a favor. Stop being a little bitch about it and deal. This is our life now. The sooner you get that, the better off we're all gonna be."

"Yeah?" Sam challenged, jaw like iron, face stern. Trying so hard to be tough while inside… falling apart. "Well, I don't care what you say. You're so full of shit, you can't even see straight." His voice cracked. "You can't even keep one promise, Dean. One promise."

Guilt clawed at his throat as Sam looked away, then down. A tear finally rolled off his cheek and plummeted, staining the brown paper bag. Out of frustration, his little brother jerked his arm away, sat back and sniffled. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. How could he have been so fucking stupid? Sam was right. He couldn't even keep one fucking promise. Too concerned about getting fucked up, laid, just so he wouldn't have to deal with his own pain. He'd forgotten about Sammy. Hell, Dad too.

Sam didn't seem to want any more of the silence. Before he could step out of the car—

"Sammy, wait…"

Sam stopped and looked back at him. Eyelashes wet, big eyes glassy—and he was the one hurting him. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm—" such a fucking idiot.

No response. Sammy looked down, a frown taking over his face. He looked a lot like Dad right then. Finally, after a moment or two of saying nothing, thinking probably, Sam said, "You scared me." His little brother swallowed, small fingers idly scratching his arm. "When Castiel brought you home—"

"Wait, who?"

Sam frowned.

"Yeah, sorry. Doesn't matter." Castiel.

"When he brought you home, you were bloody, drunk…" Sam trailed off, drawing in a breath. "I don't want to lose you too."

"Dude, is that what this is all about? Losing me?" Sam wiped his wet eyes. More tears had tumbled down. "Hey, hey. C'mere." He stretched his arms out, grabbing his little brother gently. Sam didn't struggle as Dean hugged him, the bagged lunch smushed between them.

"Listen to me, kiddo." He pushed him out to arm's length, looking him straight in the eyes. "You're not gonna lose me, okay? Heaven—Hell? Fuck 'em. I'm always gonna be here. You gotta make that stone number one and build on it. You understand?"

Sam nodded several times.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam sniffled.

"Good," he said, hugging his brother one more time. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered into his mop of brown hair. "I'm gonna try better. This time I mean it." Sam nodded again, hair tickling his nose. He patted his brother's back. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

He nodded and then tilted his head toward the school. "Go on. Get outta here."

Sam grabbed his stuff and stepped out, shutting the door behind him. When his brother looked back, Dean smiled. Even smiling, pretending that everything was okay, hurt like fuck. Every step Sam took toward the school sunk him into the quicksand of his guilt until it swallowed him whole.

:::

He weaved through the crowd of students, the end-of-day rush and shove further agitating his already-frazzled nerves. The clang of lockers rose over the din of conversation, ringtones and the blips and pings of cell phone text messages. He'd get Sammy, go home, sit in front of the TV and vegetate. Perfect ending to a shitty, stupid day—a day full of pointing and laughing, and talking behind his back. A few bruises had lit up the rumor mill, hordes of kids feasting on the he-said-she-said like free Turducken Slammers. Assholes. All of them.

At his locker, he threw a book inside, grabbed another one and shoved it into his backpack. If the snickering and whispering hadn't been bad enough, he still hadn't found his mystery superhero. The dude who had saved him from Alastair's evil, twisted, fucking clutches.

Castiel.

A shiver rolled down his spine. Just the thought of meeting him face-to-face—his gut bottomed out, skin pinpricked with a spidery tingle of anticipation. Fucking nerves. He took a steady breath and closed his locker, single strapping his backpack over a shoulder. It was time to get the fuck out of here. He turned around—

—and froze.

His name is Castiel. Super cute. He's got dark hair, these gorgeous blue eyes...

Becky had been right; those blue eyes. Bluer than a clear Kansas sky, deep and intense. Unmistakable. Dean swallowed hard as Castiel locked eyes with him from several feet down the hall. The whole goddamn world stopped around him. Noises of kids and lockers slamming, the smell of stale cafeteria food… gone. Nothing. Only him and this… this guy. He reminded himself how to breathe as Castiel walked toward him. The purposeful grace of his strides, the confidence—his heart sped up and his head spun. Dizzy, confused, he couldn't even fucking move. Just stared.

Castiel stopped in front of him, inches away; the concept of personal space lost on him. His blue eyes seemed to study every bruise and freckle, fall to his lips and rise back up to meet his eyes. As Castiel sorted through his broken pieces, Dean took a breath. Cinnamon and vanilla, cedar and musk. Notes of cologne that promised a hard, dirty fuck while still managing dignity and class. Like James-fucking-Bond.

—and he'd be the Honey Ryder to his 007.

The thought of getting fucked by him, dick balls-deep in his ass, made him hard. Dean shifted uncomfortably, wiping a sweaty hand on his jeans. While Castiel stared, he imagined him naked, his dark hair more bed-tousled than it already was. Blue eyes blown wide with a mind-blowing orgasm. His body—fuck. Imaginably tight and toned beneath his slim-fitted tailored shirt and dark jeans. He'd fucking grab that thin, blue tie and use it to his advantage; tie him up, make him beg for it. That eager mouth, those full lips—

"Hello, Dean."

He could have come right then and there. His heart rushed over the sexy, smoke-and-whiskey roll of his voice; a deep, rich bass that had his dick jerking with excitement. Instead of saying anything, he stood there stupidly. Castiel continued to study him as if he were a new, fascinating species of fish. Worth something. Maybe even something important.

"Uhh. You Cas—" Fuck. He'd forgotten the rest of his name.

"Castiel," he said plainly. "Yes."

"Castiel." He let it roll off his tongue slowly, tasting every syllable. He wondered how it'd sound between a groan and breathlessness. Castiel considered him in their shared moment of silence; a moment that seemed to stretch endlessly. His blue eyes traced a careful line over his face. "Are you all right?"

Alastair. The bruises. Last night. Suddenly, the world resumed around him. The loud clang of metal in the air, the shuffle of feet, the bits and pieces of conversation. Today's cardboard pizza smelled worse than it had just minutes ago, lingering and heavy in his nostrils. A small dose of reality. Just enough to snap him out of whatever spell this Castiel guy had over him. Between awe and rock bottom, he remembered who he was. Dean-fucking-Winchester.

"Do I look all right to you?" he snapped. Castiel frowned, but he didn't care. "What the fuck happened last night?"

"You were in trouble," Castiel said simply. "I helped you."

"Why?"

His heart skipped a beat, his own question stopping him short. Castiel stared at him. The slight tilt of his head, the narrow of his intense eyes—as if he were trying to figure him out. "You'd rather I'd let him hurt you?"

The question rocked him back on his heels. His brain whirled. What if Castiel hadn't been there to stop Alastair from ripping him apart? Who gives a shit. "Yeah, sure, why not," he answered, shrugging. "What difference does it make?"

Castiel watched him, stripping him bare with those eyes. Leaving him raw and exposed. Dean hung onto his every breath, couldn't help but stare as those lips parted—

"What's the matter, Dean? You don't think you deserve to be saved?"

Lightning could have struck him with how hard that simple statement hit. This kid—this fucking angel-faced nerd—had figured him out in ten seconds flat. Wounded and scared, he retreated inside himself. "You know what? Fuck you, man. You know nothin' about me." He turned and walked away, leaving Castiel behind. He couldn't get three steps away before—

"Dean."

"What?" he snapped, stopping to glare at him.

"Why… would he want to hurt you like that?"

The concern in Castiel's eyes—tangible, real enough to reach out and grab. He seemed to be the one dumb son of a bitch who actually cared. "That's none of your fucking business." Not a beat later... "What'd you do to him, huh?"

Castiel said nothing.

"You cut him up and put him in your locker or something?"

"That would be unsanitary," Castiel deadpanned.

He flinched. "What?"

Castiel licked his lips and took a steady, patient breath. "He won't be bothering you any longer."

"What the fuck does that mean?" He second-guessed himself— "You know what? I don't care. Carve him up and eat him for all I give a shit. Whatever it is you do, keep me out of it." Before he could walk away again—

"Dean."

"Holy shit," he spat out, whipping around. "What the fuck do you want, dude?"

"My condolences on your mother's passing."

The nerve of this asshole…

"Go to Hell," he growled and stalked off.

:::

"Castiel seems nice," Sam said on the ride home.

"What?"

"I said—"

"Yeah, I heard what you said," he interrupted, gripping the Impala's steering wheel. The sun glared at him through the windshield, the cold air from the window a little too much. He rolled it up, balancing his attention between the road and his brother. "When did you talk to Cas?"

"Cas?" Sam scrunched his face up. "You already have a nickname for him?"

He flinched, scowling the discovery away. "Just answer the goddamn question."

Sam stared at him and then shrugged. "I don't know. Earlier today, after lunch." His little brother looked down into his lap, fiddling with a button on his coat. "Someone had to thank him for driving your drunk ass home."

Ouch.

"Yeah, okay, that's sweet and all, but—" He clenched his jaw. "—just don't talk to him, all right? He's an asshole. Trust me."

No response from Sam. He flicked his eyes off the road again. Sam's frown told Dean that he didn't approve. Eventually, Sam rolled his eyes and turned away, looking out the window. Silence. It was the beginning of a proverbial storm; clouds dark and ominous in his body language. A roll of distant thunder in his sigh. He could feel it; the air between them charged with… something— "What happened last night anyway?" Sam asked.

He knew his brother like the back of his own hand.

"Hey, I thought we were past this," he said, shooting him a glance.

Sam shrugged. The kid was still worried about his big brother. It was obvious in the way he bit his bottom lip, tensing his jaw like all Winchesters did.

"Nothing happened—nothing I can't handle, Sammy. Can we drop it?"

"I guess."

"Hey, dude. Lighten up. I'm here, aren't I? That's gotta count for something."

Sam nodded, but didn't any anything. Too occupied with his button and then, outside the window. Quaint houses rolled by, a convenient store, a stop sign; an entire world that meant nothing to either of them. Dean concentrated on the road, ignoring the thickness of the air. Rolling down the window a crack, he discovered it wasn't the air, but the tension. Something was weird between them. Maybe the party thing, the broken promise; maybe something else. Whatever it was, whatever was keeping him from his little brother—he didn't like it.

"You going with us to Mom's today?"

Fuck. Not this again. He issued a sharp sigh, wiping a hand down his face. He hadn't been to Mom's grave since— "Sammy, you know what I'm going to say. I don't know why you gotta keep askin'—"

"Can't you go with us?"

"Sam. I gotta go to Bobby's—"

"Just this one time. Please."

"No. I'm not gonna visit Mom, so stop fucking asking," he snapped. Harsh. Way too harsh. He stole a glance at Sam. With the kid looking out the window, he couldn't make out his face, only the razor-sharp line of his jaw. His small Adam's apple bobbed up and down, fists clenched at his sides—he could tell that Sammy was fighting to keep it together. He focused on the road again as an avalanche of guilt threatened to crush him.

:::

After dropping off Sam at the house, he popped over to Bobby's. He hadn't been back to his old job since before Mom. Months ago. He'd up and quit out of nowhere—didn't say a goddamn thing to anyone. Like a stupid fucking kid, his priorities hadn't been right; too much fucking, drinking and smoking pot. Not enough time to fit in a half-decent job like the one Bobby had given him.

Bobby Singer. Just another person he had disappointed.

The Impala's growl died when he cut the engine, boots grinding into the pavement as he stepped out. The place hadn't changed one bit.

The old, dilapidated sign hung lopsidedly on the small garage, the faded words 'Singer's Auto Repair' in need of repainting. Yellow, sun-bleached brick and three service bays opened up to him like hungry, empty mouths. The shop needed to be repainted, the shingles fixed, the floodlight bulbs replaced. Dirty. Run-down. Even with old beat-up cars, shoddy tools and spare parts, Bobby's place had almost been a second home. A place where he could manipulate and control the moving parts around him—because he simply couldn't do that in his own life.

The familiar tinktinktink of a small hammer against metal soothed his aching head as he stepped closer. Drying oil, tires and grime brought him back to a better time in his life. A time and place as a young boy when his fascination kept him on his tiptoes as Dad fixed up the Impala in the hot, Kansas sun. The clickclickclick of a ratchet dialed down his guilt and the sound of Ellen's singing helped lessen the stress on his shoulders. Here, away from everything else, the depressing reality of his life didn't seem so… overwhelming. Maybe even manageable.

He almost smiled.

"Hey, old man!" he called out over the noise. "You gonna service my car or what?"

A clatter of tools preceded Bobby's grunt, heard above the grinding ratchet. "You're gonna have t'hold your horses—" Bobby started, looking out from beneath the hood of a beat-up Dodge. "Well, I'll be—"

The old codger smiled and wiped his dirty hands on an old rag. Bobby hadn't changed a bit either. Graying hair, beard and the same old, dirty hat. Sight for sore eyes; one he had strangely missed these past few months.

"Where the hell y'been, boy?" Bobby said when they met up. The warmth in his eyes didn't last long. "What? No call? No nothing? Y'just up and left us high and dry. I ought'a bust your tail for that."

"Yeah, about that," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I uhh—"

"Y'know what? Forget about it," Bobby said, cutting him off. Dean raised his eyes in surprise. "I was a stupid kid too, once."

"Yeah, back in the stone ages," he said with a wry grin.

Bobby snorted, dark eyes raking over his face. "You're prettier now than when you left. Your brother smack you around finally?"

The bruises.

"Nope. Got into a fight. You should see the other guy," he nodded once.

"Psh. I'd more believe y'ran yourself right into a tree than kicked someone's ass in a fight, boy."

"Good stuff coming from an old man."

"Yeah, I ain't dead yet, son. You keep it up and see what happens. When I'm done with you, I'll make those bruises look like a girl hit ya."

"You boys bickerin?" came a familiar, rough voice. "Already, I gotta separate you two."

Ellen Singer, Bobby's wife; a strong-willed woman with dark hair, expressive eyes and a take-no-shit attitude. From anyone. Least of all from Bobby.

"Hey, Ellen. Still beautiful as ever," Dean said with a wink.

"Wish I could say the same for you." She grinned. "You gettin' into trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle, ma'am," he said.

"Tough like your daddy," Ellen said. Bobby scoffed.

The conversation strained and stalled. He couldn't let the awkward silence linger. Too much of an opportunity to unearth topics he'd rather keep buried instead. "I just thought I'd come around. See if you still got some work for me."

Ellen and Bobby exchanged glances. Hesitation. After he had fucked up and left them in a tight spot, he couldn't blame them for not wanting him around. "You know what? It's okay—"

"We could always use someone around here to break things so Bobby can fix 'em," Ellen said, her smile guarded. The playful, gentle ribbing wasn't lost on him. Even quieter, she said, "We missed you 'round here."

"Don't listen to her," Bobby quipped. "The shop's been in one piece since y'left."

"He's just grumpy that he actually had to do work while you were gone. Ain't that right, Bobby Singer?"

"Quiet, woman," Bobby grumbled before nodding toward him. "Come on out back. I got some work for ya."

Like Bobby, the old garage hadn't changed. Worn tools covered benches, lay rusty in ancient toolboxes and littered the floor. A couple of empty, plastic oil bottles lined one of the far walls while the pungent smell of machine filled his nostrils. Disorganized, outdated—completely Bobby Singer.

Farther out back, a 1972 Monte Carlo slumped under the Kansas sun. Dark blue, rusted to hell and back; a ghost of her glory days. The best thing about Bobby's shop was being able to work on good, well-made cars. Fix them up nice and new. Give them a new lease of life. This old girl would need to be refurbished, stripped inside and out, and the thought of opening her up made him giddy. Yeah, he could do this. If nothing else, this he could do.

"Pretty girl," he said, looking her over.

"Bought her at an auction real cheap. Yep," Bobby said, patting her hood. "Gonna fix her up real good."

He and Bobby didn't have much in common other than their love of the old classics. Good enough, as far as he was concerned. Bobby grabbed a ratchet out of one of the toolboxes and handed it to him. When he tried to take it from him, Bobby didn't let go. The change in his face—hard lines to soft, skeptical brown eyes to warm—had Dean throwing up his defenses. He knew what was coming.

"Hey. Sorry—"

"How 'bout we just… can the sorries, okay Bobby? I've heard about enough of them to last me a while," he said, yanking the tool out of the old man's grip. He didn't want to think about Mom, Dad—any of it. "Not here, okay? We good?"

"Yeah, kid. Sure," Bobby said quietly, as quiet as the gruff bastard could be. He motioned to the car. "Don't break her."

"I won't," he promised. "And, hey—" he licked his lips. "Thanks. Really, I—"

"Don't mention it, boy."

Bobby took one last look at him and left. Immediately, Dean got to work, rolling up his sleeves and diving deep into her nuts and bolts. The poor girl had been neglected for years. Rusted thick, parts oozing with dirt and grime. He'd fix her and put her back on the road as good as new, just like the first time she'd been driven off the car lot. Bobby's shop was the one place he could fix anything. The only place. Full of inanimate objects with no expectations or feelings. No one to disappoint because he'd broken a promise. The garage didn't have drunk Dads or brothers that cried themselves to sleep at night. Best of all, here, he could escape from the busted pieces of himself. Pieces he'd never be able to put back together again.

Or so he thought.

He bowed his head low, hovering over her engine. No Dad. No Sam. Just himself—and all the demons he carried with him.

The guilt—

How could you break your promise to Sammy? It was one promise, you fucking loser.

The shame—

They're disappointed in you. Always have been.

The self-loathing—

They'd be better off without you. Mom certainly is.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, his vision swimming in front of his face. He'd kept everything under control around Dad and Sam. The fear, the pain, the guilt of losing Mom. But here, alone, facing himself, he just… couldn't do it. Piece by piece, the hard exterior he'd kept up for Dad and Sammy's sake began to fall apart. He gritted his teeth against its inevitable downfall and continued working, shoving all his fucked-up emotions back where they belonged; deep in the dark places of his brain. Places where he fantasized about ending it all.

Nut up.

He swallowed a hard lump in his throat and concentrated on the ratchet's cranking. Anything to escape. Popping the oil cap on the old girl somehow reminded him of Mom. The first time he'd changed the Impala's oil under Dad's supervision—he just had to show her. She had watched him, proud, her beautiful smile convincing him he could do anything in the world. He missed that smile, missed Mom—fucking hell.

His phone rang, knocking him out of his pathetic self-reflection. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the screen, and put it to his ear. "Yeah, Sam—what do you want?"

"Dean, you gotta come home—"

Goddamnit. "Why?"

"Mike called." Mike Guenther, co-owner at Dad's shop. "He said Dad's real drunk. Tearing up the place. Dean, you gotta—"

"Yeah, Sammy. I'm… yeah. I'm on my way."

He shoved the phone back in his pocket and stood there, teetering between despair and— "God fucking damnit." His body trembled, unable to take it anymore. His shitty fucking day and now Dad? He ran a hand down his face, fingers shaking. So fucking mad.

Fuck it. Fuck everything.

Without hesitating, without thinking, he grabbed and swung the crowbar once, twice. The windshield cracked and then shattered under the force of it, spitting pieces of glass over the dash. He played out his anger, destroying the old car's windows, denting her side, before throwing the crowbar aside with a metal clang. There, slumping down next to her broken chassis, Dean held his head in his hands and let himself go. For the first time in months.

:::

The days had grown shorter, darker, the weather colder as the months wore on. Kids had traded out lightweight jackets for heavy coats, scarves and gloves to ward off the chill. Winter had come early this year.

A fresh coat of snow covered the parking lot and the skeletal hands of gnarly trees reached for the gray sky. No sun. White as far as the eye could see. Dead. Everything dead. Not even warm, childhood memories could pull him out of the cold, depressive hole he'd dug. Memories of snowball fights with Sammy; of dressing up snowmen like Dad in flannel shirts and thick wool coats.

Dean slumped back in his chair, peeling his eyes from the window to glance up at the clock. Ten minutes until end of fifth period Math class. One period to go and he'd be free. Free to get the fuck out of here and go home before racing off to Bobby's. He still had so much to do on that car. Still so much to make up for.

Mr. Turner walked up and down the rows, handing out tests—the latest failure among many. Too goddamn tired to breathe let alone care, he looked out the window again. A piece of paper, purposefully flipped over, slapped down on his desk. "See you after class, Winchester."

The class erupted into a chorus of ooo's.

He didn't give a shit.

Turner walked past him, laying doom and gloom on other kids' desks. He ignored his test paper and watched the snowflakes tumble down until the scream of the bell split his skull in two.

The other kids filed out one by one. He didn't even need to look to know that Turner was staring him down. He could feel his dark eyes on him, judgment searing through his skin. Clenching his jaw, Dean grabbed his test paper, stood, and stepped up to Turner's desk. The resounding thud of his backpack hitting the floor announced his bad attitude. "I only got five minutes."

"You'll live, kid. Have a seat."

"Dude, I'm gonna end up being late for my next class."

"Keep up with that lip. See if I write you a note," Turner shot back. "Now, sit down."

He kept his growl in check and flopped into the nearest desk, oozing into it with legs spread wide.

"Nice test score," Turner said sarcastically.

He kept quiet, didn't give a fuck enough to open his mouth.

"Didn't even look at it, did you?" Turner said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You got a whoppin' thirty-seven. That's an F, kid."

"Sounds like one of my best," he bit out. "I'm gonna see how low I can go next time."

"You're goin' to flunk out of this class—"

"So what?"

"So what?" Turner echoed. "You got a bad attitude. Your shit? Don't smell like roses," Turner announced, pointing at him. "You need to start carin' about your grades."

He rolled his eyes. He had more important shit to worry about.

"Now, I know your home life ain't good, with your kid brother and daddy—"

"Whoa. Whoa," he interrupted, holding out his hands. "None of that is any of your goddamn business."

"And I'm not tryin' to make it my business, son," Turner said quickly, a touch softer. "Look, the way I see it, we both got the same problem and it's you failin' my class."

"I wouldn't be failing if you knew how to teach," he mumbled.

"Boy, you're failin' because you've got your head ten feet up your own ass," Turner shot back. "Now, I know you can do this. You've pulled yourself outta slumps before—"

"Yeah, that was different," he muttered.

"Don't matter. You still almost failed your sophomore year and I'll be goddamned if that happens again." Turner went quiet and Dean didn't look up. Those eyes again—fucking crawling all over him. "You givin' up?"

Dean shrugged. "Who cares about grades, man."

"Your momma did."

Fuck you.

"You know what?" He wanted to say so many things to this asshole. Get up, walk out—something. But he couldn't. His anger, hot and debilitating, kept him welded to the chair and his mouth sealed shut.

Turner leaned back behind the desk, interlacing fingers over his stomach. Smug son of a bitch. "She fought for academic excellence here and helped little brats like you succeed. I'm surprised you're gonna step all over that."

"Don't talk about my Mom," he growled.

"That's right, kid. Get pissed. Take control. Put on your big boy pants, ace this class, and make your momma proud," Turner said. "You wanna make her proud, don't you?"

He clenched his jaw tight.

"Of course, you do. So here's what you're gonna do…"

He rolled his eyes.

"You're gonna go about seein' Mrs. Mills and gettin' yourself a tutor."

"Goddamn it. I don't need a tutor—"

"You shut your mouth," Turner interrupted. "I ain't askin' you to get a tutor. I'm tellin' you," he said firmly. "You're a smart kid. But that don't mean you can't get a little help."

He didn't respond.

"You gonna do it or do I gotta take you down there myself?"

"I'll fucking do it. Don't get your Depends in a wad, old man."

"Boy," Turner said, pointing a finger at him again. "You're lucky I can't kick your ass right outta this classroom."

"Yeah, lucky me."

"Counselor. After school," Turner said.

"Yeah, I get it," he mumbled, grabbing his backpack.

"Don't make me hunt you down."

He slammed the door violently behind him. It rattled on its hinges, drawing a curse from Turner inside—the small joys of life. He couldn't find it in him to hustle down the hall, didn't care if he made it to free period before the next bell rang. The fucking shit about his grades… If he knew Turner, and he knew the old bastard well, he'd be informing Mrs. Mills about his bullshit situation and soon. Fuck.

Ahead, Sam stood by his locker, his head drooped and eyes down at the floor. A what now attitude bowed his shoulders and sapped the energy out of him as he approached. "Why aren't you at your next class?"

Sam looked up, eyes a little puffy. A bruise colored his jaw line. "I don't feel so good. Can we go home?"

"Dude, it's one more period. You're going to have to suck it up," he said. "Besides, I got a thing after school."

"But it hurts."

"What hurts?" he snapped.

"My stomach."

"Then go to the nurse. I gotta take care of some shit."

"Fine," Sam said quietly, an edge to his tone. Half a second later… "What thing after school?"

"Just—nothing, all right? I gotta see Mrs. Mills." He nudged Sam out of the way and popped open his locker, shoving his Math book inside.

"Why?"

"Holy fuck, Sam. What's with the twenty questions?"

Dean yanked out his English book—stupid fucking English test tomorrow.

"What's this?"

He turned. Sam held up a piece of paper, a frown on his face. He didn't recognize it until—

Shit. His Math test.

He snatched the paper out of Sam's hands and crumbled it, throwing it inside his locker. Any secret he'd hope to have kept from his brother about his grades—completely fucked. Sam's frown deepened. "Look, it's nothing, all right?"

"How many classes are you failing, Dean?"

The accusation in his tone stabbed him with a thousand needles. How many times was he going to disappoint this kid? He forced it down with all the other bullshit he had to deal with. "One, two. All of them. I don't fucking know. They're making me get a tutor, okay?"

"You gotta fix this, Dean. You—"

"Sam!" He growled. Sam shrunk back. Taking a deep breath, he softened his voice. "I'll fix it, all right? I got this."

The late bell ended their conversation.

"I gotta go. Get to class—er, the nurse's office. Whatever you're gonna do," he said, turning. "I'll see you after school."

He left Sammy behind and didn't look back. There were only so many times he could look into the kid's disappointed face.

:::

The end-of-school-day excitement buzzed around him. Kids beelined to their lockers, tossed books into bags, and took off with their friends. Everyone else had somewhere important to be; stress-free homes with perfect families; the popular after-school hangout down the street. Even the library to finish off homework.

Left behind, he stormed to his own locker for different reasons. Not to hurry home or meet up with friends. Especially not to do fucking homework. Instead, he rushed around, throwing books into his bag, just so he could get his meeting with Mrs. Mills fucking over with. Maybe go home after that. Definitely retreat to Bobby's garage.

Shouldering his backpack, he wound his way through the rapidly thinning halls, past glass cases filled with trophies and photos of sports teams. Nearly deserted, a murmur of distant noises settled over the eerie ghost town of beige lockers. A forgotten test paper rolled across the tile floor like a dried-up tumbleweed.

He walked to the end of the hall and stopped in front of Mrs. Mills' office. The door, partially opened, allowed him a peek inside. Minimalistic and clean, a few motivational posters framed on the walls. One about persistence, courage, dreams—

Let go of the past and go for the future. Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life you imagined.

Bullshit. The life he imagined had a happy brother, a Dad who didn't drink night and day, and a Mom alive and well. For whatever goddamn reason, he let the insult of a stupid fucking poster get to him, and it translated into three consecutive angry bangs on the door.

He didn't need to wait long for it to open. Behind it stood Mrs. Mills. She had a different kind of smile than most people. It lit up her entire face, full and bright, but came with a warning label. Sassy and quick-witted; qualities he didn't need to read in the quirk at the corners of her lips. The wild spark in her caramel eyes reminded him she knew all about his bullshit, past and present. Wasn't going to take his pissy attitude either if the hand-on-hip perch was any indication. All rosy cheeks and fuck you; that was Mrs. Mills.

"I'm here to see a pretty lady about a date," he said nonchalantly.

"Dean." Mrs. Mills grinned. "I see you haven't lost your charm."

"Does this mean I get to kiss you?"

"I think my husband might have something to say about that," she laughed with the toss of her brown hair. "Get in here. Sit your keister down."

"They doing good?" Dean asked, moving inside. He took up a chair, putting his back to the stupid poster.

"My husband and son?" she nodded, sitting behind her desk. "Very good. The kid loves cupcakes. Can't get him to pick up an apple for the life of me."

"You should introduce him to pie," he said matter-of-factly as if it were the answer to all of her problems. "Pie's much better."

"Gee, thanks for the parental advice," she said humorously, rolling her eyes. "What about you? How've you been? Haven't seen you in a while."

"Good, good. Never better, actually," he said, picking at a hole in his jeans. "Home life good. Acing all my tests," he said sarcastically. "Super."

"Well," she said. "That's why we're here—your grades. Mr. Turner tells me you're failing his class and other teachers have come to me with the same concerns," she said seriously. "What going on, Dean?"

He shrugged. "Just got more important stuff going on, Mrs. Mills."

"Jody."

"Jody," he corrected. Jody had always been on a personal, friend basis with him. Being a counselor, he guessed that was part of her job. Lull kids into a false sense of friendship so they'd spill their guts. Good plan, except it didn't work on him. At all.

"Let's talk about that," she said. "The more important stuff."

"Yeah, no offense, Jody, but—" he shook his head. "I'm not the chatting type."

"Okay. That's fine too," she said diplomatically. "How about your grades? Do you have a tutor lined up?"

"Uhh—" he stalled. "Yes?"

"Nice try, Dean." Jody smiled. The down tilt of her lips told him she'd detected a huge, steaming pile of bullshit. "Look, grades are important here—you know that. You're going to have to bring your grades up if you want to graduate." She folded her arms on top of her desk. "I know you want to graduate."

He shrugged again, tearing a loose thread from his jeans. Light blue, soft—he twirled it in his fingers. The most interesting thing in this room right about now.

She caught on. "Don't you?"

"I don't know, Jody," he said truthfully. "Thinkin' about dropping out. Getting my GED."

"What—"

"I just don't have time for school anymore."

"Can't you make time?"

"I got work, Sammy—Dad to take care of," he said. "No time."

"There's got to be something—"

"Ma'am," he interrupted. "I know you're just trying to do your job, but this shit just isn't important." Language. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Jody said. "Dean, this isn't like you. You used to care. Hell, you had good grades once."

"Yeah, well." Mom isn't around anymore to keep my ass in line. "Things have changed."

"Dean," she said with a sigh. "I'm not about to tell you what to do, okay? That's not my job. But I want you to think about this before you make any drastic decisions, all right? Give this tutoring thing a shot. Find someone you like, who'll be patient with you."

"Yeah? Who? Who's gonna be patient with someone like me?"

"We can find someone. Fix you up with someone from Sunesis—"

Sunesis. The tutoring group here, filled with super smart kids who never got laid.

"Yeah, no. That's okay. Those kids are…"

"Smart? Top of their class?"

Better than him. Judgmental.

"Exactly," he said. "No thanks."

Jody pointed at him. "We're going to give this tutoring thing a shot, you hear me? I'm not going to let you give up. You can do this. I know you can. You're Dean Winchester."

Shit. She made him sound like a superhero. Taking care of family, saving grades—the usual business.

"You just need some faith in yourself, is all."

"You make it sound so easy," Dean said.

"Yeah, well—" she shrugged. "I believe in you."

"You get that from your motivational posters?"

"This?" she pointed all around the room. "It's all bullshit." Language. "Oops. Sorry."

"It's okay," he grinned.

"So anyway," she said, waving a hand. "Tutor—we'll find you one. I'll keep an eye out and so will you, all right? That perfect someone could be right under your nose."

"Sure," he straightened up, ready to get the fuck out of here. "We done?"

"Yeah," Jody said, smiling. He stood up. "Oh, I know you do this already, but—" She bit her lip. "Keep an eye on Sam, will you?"

He narrowed his eyes. Red flags shot up in his brain, alarms sounding. "What's going on with Sammy, Jody? He say something to you?"

"I can't tell you that, Dean," she said. "It's just that he's been going to the nurse's office a lot lately. Stomach aches. Headaches. Something going on?"

"Other than the usual shit?" he asked. "No, not that I know of. But don't you worry. I'm on it."

"I know you are," she winked. After a second of silence, she shrugged. "Well, if there's nothing else—"

"Nope."

Jody nodded and said, "That's it, then."

He grabbed his backpack and stood up. The extra stress weighed like a ton of books on his shoulders. Grades. Tutors. Stuff with Sammy. The fact he hadn't noticed that his baby brother was in trouble. Shit. How far did he have his head up his ass?

Dean stopped before leaving and turned back. "Hey, thanks."

"You're welcome, Dean. Have a good day."

"You too, ma'am."

His boots pounded out a familiar beat as he headed for the school's entrance—SamSamSam. He moved quickly toward the three-door entryway and shouldered it open, stepping out into the crisp winter air. Snowflakes fluttered down, the almost-empty parking lot covered with a fluffy blanket of snow. Everything even whiter than before, ethereal in a winter-wonderland kind of way.

Frowning, he fought through the snow on his way to the Impala. His heart leapt in relief when he saw Sam, standing there perfectly fine—and then dropped into his stomach. Beside him, Cas sat on his baby's hood with his hands shoved into his black pea coat. It fit him snug, tapered at the waist and flaring out over his hips. Black jeans and charcoal gray scarf clung to him, dark hair tousled as if he'd just rolled out of bed after a night of amazing sex.

His heart revved like a brand new engine every time he saw the fucking bastard. Every 'Hello, Dean,' leaving him anxious, fucking annoyed and half-hard. It didn't even matter that they hadn't talked over the past few months. The wet dreams hadn't stopped.

He tore his eyes away and headed toward them. His heart raced. When he got closer, Sam smiled, real big, as if he'd won a prize at a carnival. Not sick at all, as far as he could tell. The bruise on his face, though—

"Hello, Dean."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, the usual half-hard dick making an appearance. Fucker. "Cas."

"Castiel."

"Yeah, I don't care," he said, turning to Sam. "Can I talk to you a second?"

He didn't let Sam answer before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him away. Sam winced under the tight hold, the pain vanishing from his little brother's face once he let up. "What's he doing here?" More importantly… "Where'd you get that?" he demanded, brushing a finger against his bruise.

"I fell," Sam stated evenly, kicking his head back with a wince. "And he's here to help. I asked him to tutor you."

"You fell—" he flinched. "You what?"

"He said he'd help you."

"That guy?" he thumbed toward Cas, stealing a glance at him. Cas was still sitting on his baby, ankles crossed, looking out across the snow-white parking lot. "Hey, GQ! Get the fuck off my car!"

Cas looked back at the Impala, raised his eyes to him in a smoldering kind of way, and then stood up.

"That guy's an asshole," Dean announced, noting his brother's deep frown. "What makes you think I want him tutoring me?"

"Who cares. You need to fix your grades and he agreed to help."

"Yeah? Well, so what. I don't need anyone's help—least of all fucking his, all right? I can do this myself."

"No, you can't."

"Wow. Good to know my brother's got my back," he hissed.

"It's not even about that," Sam shot back, growing more agitated. "You know I believe in you, but this is different."

"Different how—wait. You know what? I don't care. He's not gonna be my fucking tutor, Sam. End of discussion."

"Look! I don't give a fuck what you think, Dean."

What the hell?

"Watch your fucking mouth," he scolded, lowering his voice.

"No, goddamnit," Sam snapped. "You think I don't notice you running yourself ragged taking care of Dad and me? Or not coming home because you don't want to deal with the bullshit?"

He rocked back on his heels, a bullet of guilt sinking deep into his skin. He'd been escaping to Bobby's garage, sure. Maybe even a lot. But it was because of the car he'd busted and the promise he made to Bobby to fix her up.

Wasn't it?

"Come on, Sammy. It's not like that."

"Yes, it is, Dean. Don't lie to me," Sam said. "You can't do this by yourself, too. You need help, okay?" It came natural to him; that hurt, puppy-eyed look. Big eyes, slight pout.

It played him like a fiddle every goddamn time. Almost.

"Like I said, Sam, I don't want his help, okay? It's not just about my grades," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I don't want anyone coming into the house and seeing Dad the way he is. Or getting into our business, or—whatever the fuck, all right?"

"You guys can go to the library—"

"No, Sammy," he said firmly, dead-set on turning away.

Sam grabbed his arm before he could. "Dean! I trust him, okay? Look at me," Sam said, jostling him. "He's not going to judge us."

His little brother seemed so convinced, small face stern and jaw line rigid. So naive. "How do you know that, Sammy?"

"Because he's my friend. Has been since he brought you home that night."

He couldn't help but watch him for a second. The sincerity in his voice, the weight of the statement. Sammy totally believed in this guy. Shouldn't that mean something to him? "This means a lot to you, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does," Sam said. "If it'll help you—yeah. I just—" he sighed. "I don't want you to fail school, Dean. It's important. Always has been. You know how Mom was about school."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "Yeah, I do. Dad too."

"Dad too."

"Okay. So… trust the asshole," he said, peeling his eyes away from his brother. Cas stood statuesque, white snowflakes gathering on his shoulders and in his hair—a guardian keeping watch over the silent, empty parking lot. Unmoving. Completely expressionless. Fucking creepy. "And you're sure he's not a serial killer?" After all, Alastair hadn't shown his face again…

"What?"

"I don't know," he said, keeping an eye on him. Cas hadn't moved at all. Not even a millimeter. Was he even breathing? "Something's not right with that dude."

Sam sighed a sound of disgust. "You're being stupid, Dean."

"He's just weird, all right?"

"You're weird."

"Your face is weird."

Sam went slack-faced and didn't come back with anything. Wasn't even looking at him anymore. Dean huffed out a small breath. "Look, kiddo. I'm trusting you. If this guy does anything—"

"He won't," Sam stated gravelly. "Let's—let's just go."

He frowned as Sam stared past him. His face had fallen completely, eyes wide, mouth open in a little 'o'. Fear, as if he'd seen… a ghost. Whirling, Dean searched the parking lot for any signs of—anything. A car, a particular face that'd maybe scared the shit out of his brother.

Nothing. No one. White everywhere.

When he looked back, Sam had already made it to the car. His little brother scrambled inside and slammed the rear door, the sound of it reverberating. Something was going on with him, that much he knew. As the snowflakes started to fall quick and hard, pelting his face, he got in. That big brother sixth sense gnawed at his bones as he slipped into the driver's seat. Dean glanced up at the rearview mirror. In the back, Sam had slumped down, small body folded almost in half as if he were trying to avoid being seen. Yeah, something was definitely going on with him.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam didn't have time to answer.

A dark shadow moved beyond the frosted windshield. Without thinking, he lunged for the passenger door and smacked down the lock knob. He half expected a monster with huge fangs or claws—something that would've freaked his brother out like this. Cas appeared at the window instead, black pea coat dusted with snowflakes, nose and ears red from the cold. The dude didn't bother with the door, just dropped his eyes to the lock and back up again. Dean couldn't help but flash him a wide, smug grin.

"Dean, let him in," Sam hissed.

"What? Why? We're not going to do this tutoring shit today."

"We'd still have to take him home."

His brother's tone left no room for argument. Nonchalant, Cas knocked on the window with two curled fingers. Patient. Face blank save for those expressive eyes—blue eyes that could've compelled him to jump off a bridge.

He sighed dramatically and flipped up the door lock. The Impala hissed to life as he turned her engine over, windshield wipers scraping aside the light dusting of snow. A blast of cold air chilled his bones. Door slam. The click of a fastened seat belt. Dean tossed a glare at Cas. And Cas—that bastard cut him a sidelong glance, slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Smug as if he'd won. Asshole. When Cas reached to turn up the heat, he slapped his hand. Hard.

"I've killed for less," he warned. "Don't touch my fucking car."

The Impala pealed out of the school parking lot, her roar mingling with Sam's frustrated sigh.

:::

He couldn't concentrate. Not with Cas so close.

Cas sat beside him at the kitchen table, pointing to a problem in the Math book. Barely an inch separated them, the warmth—almost fucking unbearable. The brush of their knees, the lazy drag of Cas' hand across the back of his chair. As Cas' thumb drew a line over his spine, an intense jolt of energy jumped through his skin and the hairs on his neck stood on-end. Integers, polynomial functions and coefficients blurred together as the whisper of his cologne invaded his nostrils; hints cream and cedars preventing him from doing… anything else. Thinking, moving, breathing. The closeness, the accidental touches, the smells… intoxicating. Distracting.

Annoying.

Cas leaned in and another series of touches short-circuited his brain. Frowning, he looked up. "Cas," he said with an unintended hoarseness. "Personal space."

Their eyes met and held for several seconds. One, three, five. Cas studied his face, took a deep breath, and whispered, "My apologies," before scooting his chair back. Dean rolled his eyes and angled his book away, scowling into the pages. "I still don't understand this shit."

"Yeah, because you weren't paying attention," Sam piped in.

Dean narrowed his eyes. His asshole brother sat across from him, peeking up from his homework to wiggle his eyebrows. Losing the argument, he'd been forced to endure Cas' goddamn tutoring, making way for Sam's not-so-subtle comments. Comments lost on Cas, but not on him. Sam flashed him a cheeky smile and then buried his nose in his book. Fucker.

Cas' cell phone buzzed with another text message. The sixth one in the last two hours, each one of them ignored. His Mom again, asking why aren't you answering me in the text box.

"You gonna get that?" Dean asked, tapping the phone with his pen.

Cas grabbed the phone and slipped it into his pea coat, the glow of the screen dying in the dark pocket. Face stern, Cas pointed to the Math book. "Concentrate, Dean."

He rolled his eyes and slumped back in his chair. "When am I ever going to use this crap?"

"On your next test," Cas returned matter-of-factly.

"Very funny, wise ass."

Dean ran his fingers through his hair and closed his eyes. The tingly sensation in his brain told him he was past simple confusion. It ran deeper, bled into exhaustion, both mental and physical. Math problems, the shit with Sam, his entire fucking life, left him fried. "You know what? I think I'm done for the night."

"There is a science lab tomorrow—"

"Yeah, I know," he snapped.

"You need to read your science chapter—"

"I get that, Cas," he growled. "You've told me a hundred fucking times."

Cas opened his mouth to answer when the rumble of the garage door cut him off. Dad's home. "Dude, get your stuff."

Dean jumped up and grabbed his coat. Leaving Sam behind, they hurried to the kitchen door. It swung open wildly and slammed against the wall, the sudden swell of alcohol overwhelming. A hulking figure, shadowed by the lightless garage, stood in their way, unsteady and leaning against the doorframe for support.

"Uhh—hey, Dad," he said quietly.

"Dean," came the low, deep answer. Dad furrowed his brows, attention falling on Cas. "Castiel, right?"

"Yes, Mr. Winchester," Cas answered politely. "It is good to see you again."

Dad lifted a finger, poking it into Cas' chest a little harder than he should have. Cas took it in stride. "Good kid," Dad said, speech slightly slurred. "Take care of my son."

Weird thing to say.

Cas nodded and flattened against the wall as Dad pushed his way inside. Dean sighed as Dad stumbled over nothing. "You going to bed, Dad?"

"Where's Sammy?"

"He's asleep," Dean lied. "Go to bed, Dad. I'll be home after I drop Cas off."

Dad lifted a hand dismissively, moving deeper into the house and out of sight. Clenching his jaw, Dean pulled out his keys. "Let's go."

Silence and awkward tension dominated the drive to Cas' house. Cas stared out the window while he mulled over Dad. The fact that Cas had seen him so drunk—it was an invasion of privacy, simple as that, and he wasn't okay with it. "I don't know if this is going to work," he said suddenly, crushing the silence. "This tutoring thing."

Cas continued to stare out the window, nodding. "I understand."

He balanced his attention between Cas and the road. "Yeah? That's it?"

"Dean," Cas said, turning to finally look at him. "I can't force you to learn. Your brother—he's…" Cas paused. Dean hung on to his every word. "—he's worried about your grades. If I were you, I would concentrate on that."

"If you were me," he echoed, scoffing. "Right."

He gripped the steering wheel and rolled his eyes, jaw iron tight. Road signs and stoplights whipped by, blobs of reds, greens and oranges disappearing into the darkness beyond the rearview mirror. Licking his lips, he darted his eyes over, narrowing them at the back of Cas' head. "What else does he tell you?"

It sounded accusatory.

"I'm not a threat, Dean," Cas said, still looking out the window. "Sam simply asked if I would tutor you." Cas turned his head again, eyes dark. "I said yes unequivocally."

He had nothing to say to that. Their eyes met before his found the road again; the asphalt and yellow lines illuminated by the Impala's headlights. He kept his thoughts to himself, about Sammy, the bruises, his weird behavior lately. They were friends. They talked. Maybe Cas knew—

I'm worried about my little brother. I can't lose him too.

"Keep an eye on Sam," he said roughly. "Just in case."

They pulled up to his house. The well-maintained lawn stretched long and wide, framing a winding, stone walkway dotted by landscape lighting. And the house itself—fucking immaculate, something right out of Better Homes and Gardens. Picturesque with its neutral colors, white framing, and multiple gables.

So, the asshole was rich too. He should have known by the clothes, the cologne and the fancy phone. More things to add to the 'reasons why Cas sucks' list.

Dean nodded toward the house. "Must be nice having a perfect life."

"My life isn't... perfect," Cas said, almost humorously.

"Yeah? You wanna elaborate?"

The porch light flicked on and the door whipped open. A petite woman stood stiff, arms crossed over her chest. She didn't even wait two seconds before stepping out onto the lawn, storming toward the car.

"Freedom is a length of rope, Dean," Cas said, grabbing his backpack and opening the car door. He looked back, stoic as always. "I don't even have the luxury of hanging myself with it."

He flinched back, frowning a little.

"Don't forget your science chapter."

Cas closed the door behind him, and he and the woman—his Mom probably—met in the middle of the stone walkway. She pointed wildly at the Impala, following Cas as he led the charge into the house. The front door slammed, the porch light extinguished, leaving him with a shade of guilt. This tutoring bullshit was bad for everybody, even Cas… not that he cared. He definitely didn't care about Cas.

He ignored his doubts and sped off into the night, his mood as dark as the house he left behind.

:::

"Sam," Dean warned, still finding him in bed. "Come on, man. It's time to get up. We're gonna be late."

Sam didn't move. Sighing harshly, he jostled his shoulder. A hiss rang out from beneath the pillow and his brother jerked away—almost as if he were having a nightmare.

"Hey," he said, ripping back the covers. Sam tensed up immediately. "What's wrong with you?"

"I don't want to go to school today," Sam mumbled. "Don't feel good."

"That's bullshit, Sam, and you know it," he accused.

No response.

"Dude, come on. You can't keep doing this every goddamn morning. It's been like—what—the third time this week you tried to skip out on school? You either don't want to go at all, period, or you want to go home early. I'm getting a little fucking tired of it."

Sam hugged his pillow over his head.

He growled under his breath and grabbed his arm. "Enough is enough, Sam. Get up."

Sam cried out and jerked back, inching away from him with such immediacy that it took him by surprise. Something nagged at the back of his brain as he watched Sam bury himself even further under the covers. Again, that big brother's sixth sense kicked in, a voice telling him to listen and look at the clues. This wasn't acting out. Something was going on.

Carefully, he sat down on the edge of the bed, inspecting his brother's littler form. A simple gray t-shirt and blue flannel pajama pants hugged his scrawny body, too small for him already. The hem of his pants ended just above his ankles, his t-shirt too tight—

A bruise glared out from under his shirtsleeve.

What the fuck.

He leaned forward, pulling up the soft, gray cotton. Sam pulled away before he could see the extent of the bruising. Pissed him right off. "Let me see it," he snapped, grabbing his lower arm and pulling him closer. He yanked up the sleeve faster than Sam could react, exposing a large bruise, blacks and blues sprawling over his skin. Fucking ugly.

"Sam," he said, bewildered. "What the fuck? How'd you get this?"

"I fell during gym class," Sam stated evenly, ripping his arm away.

"Fell during gym class?" he echoed. "Bull fucking shit, man."

I swear to God, if someone—

He took a steadying breath and scrubbed a hand down his face. The thought of someone hurting him— "Sam," he said heavily. "You gotta tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on."

"Dude, don't you lie to me. Not about this. Not if someone—"

"Dean," Sam said firmly. "Nothing's going on."

"Yeah? Well, guess what. I don't believe you, okay?" he said. "Whatever it is, whatever the fuck is going on, I can fix it—"

"I'm not a baby, Dean," Sam growled out, shooting a glare at him. "Even if there was something going on, which there's not—" Sam said evenly. "I'd fix it myself."

He doesn't need you. He never did.

The thought hit him like a truck, smashing up his insides and leaving him in pieces.

You had one job, man, and that was taking care of your little brother. You can't even do that right.

He clenched his jaw, the urge to hit something—anything. He growled instead and shot up from the bed. At the door, he whipped his head around. "You going to school or what?"

"No."

"Yeah, of course not," he said harshly. "Running away's a good start on fixing your problem. Real smart, kid."

"Seems to work for you," Sam shot back venomously.

Fuck you.

"You know what, Sam? Don't come crying to me if it doesn't work out, all right? You're on your fucking own."

He slammed the door on his way out, the sound echoing the hollow ring of his guilt and regret.

:::

"Listen up, class," Mr. Henriksen began. The classroom chatter died down. "Like I mentioned yesterday, we'll be learning the effect potassium nitrate has on other substances. Your assignment was to read chapter ten in your science book preceding today's experiment. Did anyone not read it?"

Shit.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair, but didn't raise his hand.

An uneasy quiet settled across the classroom. Henriksen nodded slowly, disbelief gradually making it to his face. "Everyone read it? I'm impressed."

"We're excited to blow shit up," Gabriel called out from the back. Laughing and shouts of agreement followed.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm," Henriksen said humorlessly. "But let's make one thing clear. If any of you light these smoke bombs in the classroom, you and your partner will receive a failing grade for the assignment. Understood?"

There was a collective murmur of agreement.

"Good," Henriksen said. "You have five minutes to pick your partner and get to your station."

The classroom exploded into action. Kids jumped out of their seats and dashed toward each other, a hum of excitement building. He sat there, unmoving, in a completely different world—away from science class and experiments. Discovering that bruise on Sammy's arm had thrown him for a fucking loop. He couldn't get the imagery out of his head. The deep, ugly colors, stretching across his skin; someone pushing him over in gym class or, worse, hitting his baby brother on purpose. If someone was abusing him—

Dark jeans came into his peripheral vision. Slim fitting. Low across the hips. A white belt barely kept them up and a dark gray, button-up shirt left little to the imagination. The toned physique, the quiet athleticism, bled through the close-cut, expensive cotton. His eyes traveled up. Angular jaw line, stubble, blue eyes and bed hair. Cas. Goddamn. Fucker knew how to dress.

Cas could have said something for all he knew, staring at him as intently as he was. Blue eyes chasing him down and holding onto his attention for dear life. "Dean."

He blinked and snapped out of it. His heart thrashed in his chest. "Yeah, what?"

"Do you want to be partners?"

"Yeah, I guess."

Cas nodded and turned, heading for the lab at the far end of the classroom. Reluctantly, he got up and followed. The other kids buzzed around their stations equipped with silver nozzles, hookups, and small sinks. Glass bottles in cupboards lined the walls, containers of dry ingredients—some of it dangerous shit—in a cabinet at the back. Padlocked in case some dumbass tried to get into it.

They stood at their station, a hot plate, dry ingredients in a beaker and a small strip of burning fuse scattered across the dark counter top. He remembered this kind of stuff from when he was a kid, when things were good. Normal kids went to baseball practice and boy scouts. He and Dad blew shit up.

"What you see in front of you is potassium nitrate, sugar and a small fuse. Enough stuff to make a small yet potent smoke bomb—"

"Dean."

The way Cas said his name—heavy and meaningful as if it were something he revered—sent a shiver down his spine. Cas had leaned in, the words, "Did you do the reading assignment?" a low rumble in his ear. Fuck. Even that was sexy as hell.

When their arms touched, goose bumps flared up on his skin like a rash; the warmth of Cas' body close and intense. He almost forgot the question as his dick took the wheel, flashing a half-second image across the backs of his eyelids. Balls-deep inside of him, fucking him slowly here on countertop—shit. He scoured his brain of the thought, swallowed and turned his head. Cas was right there, just inches away, staring him down.

"Uhh—" Cas' eyes gravitated to his mouth. Dean's gaze fell to his. "No, I uhh—no. Yeah. I forgot." He looked away, trying to concentrate on something else. "Too much shit going on."

"That's understandable," Cas whispered, minty breath tickling his neck. "Sam?"

"Yeah—um, dude," he said, pushing Cas back. "Personal space. We talked about this." Cas nodded and stepped back, but didn't give any verbal response. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I already know how to do this stuff," he explained. "Dad and me blew shit up when I was a kid. Not exactly this, but," he said, shrugging. "It's the same thing. Not that hard. We probably don't even need the book."

Pensive for a moment, Cas looked down and away, reaching for one of the extra science books. Dean frowned. "What are you doing?"

"We should follow the book, Dean."

"Like I said, we don't need it, Cas," he argued. "I got this."

"Do you?"

Cas leveled him with a look. It was a look he'd seen too many times in his life; the look of doubt, a look that had convinced him he wasn't worth much. Just some stupid fucking kid who didn't matter. He was fucking tired of it.

It'd be the first and last time Cas ever doubted him.

"Yeah," he said, in Cas' face. "I do."

Without another word, he ducked low and moved to the back of the lab, his target the cabinet full of dangerous shit. The cabinet's padlock—standard, gold, cheap—didn't scream high-efficient security. An easy lock to pick, no doubt.

Flipping open his pocketknife, he shoved one of the scissor blades inside the lock, jiggling it carefully. Three pins maybe, each one of them folding under the pressure of—click. He looked back. Frown and jaw tight, Cas didn't look too pleased, but he didn't give a shit. In fact, he was past giving a shit about a lot of things.

He set down the padlock, opened the cabinet and reached for the glass jar of sulfur. It was heavier than he expected, weighing down his hands, his conscience, rounding out his shoulders as if he'd picked up a boulder. Half of his brain told him to put it back, the other half—

He locked the cabinet up and snuck over to Cas with the jar in his hands, casually popping back up at his station; Hendrickson and the rest of the class none the wiser.

"Dean." This time Cas' tone churned darker, like a heavy thunderstorm growling in the sky. "Sulfur?"

"Yeah, that's what it looks like," he said, unscrewing the jar and mixing a spoonful of it with the potassium nitrate and sugar. Just a little bit more sulfur.

"That's too much."

"Have a little faith, Cas," he scolded. "I know what I'm doing."

"Sulfur isn't an ingredient—"

"Yeah, I know that!" he cut him off with a hiss. "Calm the fuck down."

For doubting him, it'd serve Cas fucking right if the goddamn thing exploded. Part of him didn't give a shit even if it did. All the stress lately with Dad's drinking, Sammy's problems, not having enough time to pay back Bobby—

He whipped the mixture in the beaker, quick and angry. The combination of dry ingredients began to melt, thicken, and turn a caramel color—the color it was supposed to be. He cranked up the hot plate to five hundred degrees.

"Dean, if this heats too quickly—"

"Shut up."

He didn't give a fuck about experiments or failing grades. Right now, he wasn't in a classroom at all, but in a darker, destructive place. Pitch-black where ending it all was a common, running theme. Tired, broken, he just wanted to rest. Escape. Disappear forever. All of this goddamn shit was just too fucking hard.

His eyes searched for other things to throw into the mixture—explosive things. As his chest tightened, as his anxiety flared, his fingers frantically searched through the bottles on the counter. His field of vision narrowed, dimmed—he couldn't breathe. Panic.

Someone grabbed his hand, drawing it tight and down to his side. Fingers entwined with his, calm voice whispering in his ear. "Dean." It was Cas. "You're all right. Breathe."

He sucked in air, gripping Cas' hand as if his life depended on it. Breathing became easier, his vision sharpening. The tightness in his chest lessened and, after a moment of clarity, he looked up. Cas was close, blue eyes filled with concern. Time stopped. Only they existed.

Somewhere, something exploded.

Kids started screaming and coughing. The eye-watering stench of rotten eggs filled the classroom, reaching down into his throat to squeeze his lungs. Smoke clouded his vision, the sounds of scrambling feet beyond the thick, white screen.

"Goddamnit!" Mr. Henriksen yelled, a haggard cough cutting him off short. "Kids, get out of the classroom!"

The clamor of glass beakers crashing, kids coughing and yelling, running out the door, had him moving. He couldn't see Cas and didn't need to. Cas' hand, strong and authoritative, grabbed his fingers tight and pulled him in an unknown direction. Eyes watering and lungs burning, he stuck close, duplicating step after step behind him. A fire extinguisher went off and the urgent scream of the fire alarm blared. From the classrooms, kids came pouring out, the noise of shouting, squealing and coughing a loud boom in his ears. The crowd thickened and became an undulating, fleshy monster breathing on its own. Pushing, shoving toward the school's exits. Anywhere that led to cold air and safety.

The blast of chilly winter air nipped at his cheeks. He sucked in a clean breath, sputtering and coughing out the sulfur gasses. Cas led the way, tugging him along the ebb and flow of warm, excited bodies. Once they had broken away from the crowd, he focused his attention on the school. Anywhere but Cas. He couldn't face Cas' disappointment. Not right now.

"Are you all right?" Cas asked. No anger in his voice. Nothing. Frustratingly patient, even.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he answered. They were still holding hands. He jerked his hand away and stepped back as if Cas had suddenly contracted a disease. Beyond them, the fire alarm continued to blare, callous notes ringing as distant sirens rose up to join the symphony of chaos. All of this was his fault. "Go ahead," Dean said, unable to look at him. "Tell me how much I fucked up."

Cas didn't have time. Out of the crowd, Mr. Henriksen barreled toward them on a mission, face tight and stern. The dude looked pissed and rightfully so. One of his dumbass students had almost burned down the school.

"What the hell happened in there?" Henriksen asked as he reached them. Dark, narrowed eyes fixated on him, the question direct as an arrow. It was an accusation; no innocent until proven guilty with him.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because your record isn't exactly stellar, Winchester," Henriksen shot back.

"So? Doesn't mean I tried to blow up the goddamn school," he lied. Not on purpose. Not entirely, at least.

"Cut the bullshit," Henriksen snapped. "You and your partner—" he tossed a glare in Cas' direction,"—were the only ones close enough to the sulfur."

"Yeah, you should get a better lock on that," he quipped.

Henriksen got into his face, a straight and rigid finger leading the way. "You could have seriously hurt someone, Dean. Did you think about that?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clenching his jaw, and didn't say a word. His silence was the eventual match that caused Henriksen to explode. Henriksen glared at him, then Cas, and growled out, "Failing grade. Both of you," before stalking off.

"Mr. Henriksen," Cas called after him. The desperation in Cas' voice caught him off guard.

"Ignore him, Cas. He's an asshole."

Cas turned slowly and leveled him with an intense, even stare. Smitey and righteous. Angry. The exact look he must've given Alastair before kicking his ass into next year. Cas took a calculated step forward and, mirroring it, Dean took a step back. "Shit, man. What's your deal?"

Cas charged him, grabbing him by the shirt collar. A shot of adrenaline coursed through his veins and drugged him up, throwing his head for a loop. His heart banged in his chest, a pinprick of excitement tightening his gut. Shit. An angry Cas thrilled the fuck out of him. The stoic bastard actually felt something. And he was passionate.

"I like it when you get rough, Cas," he said, voice suddenly deeper and fucked-up on sex. "Makes my dick hard."

Faces an inch apart, Cas' laborious breathing swept across his skin in short puffs. Blue eyes dropped down to his lips and a split-second urge to close the distance between them stole his breath away. All he wanted was a barely-there brush of lips, the warmth, the taste of him.

At about the time Cas had narrowed his eyes and pushed him back, a signal had already reached his dick. He exhaled a single breath, completely emptying his lungs as Cas stomped away. Between guilt and a half-hard cock, Dean stood alone in the cold.

:::

He rolled down the Impala's window to let the freezing air in, hoping it would clear his head. Why pissing Cas off bothered him so much, he didn't know. It wasn't as if he liked the guy. Not at all. Cas was more annoying than anything else. Always standing too close. Staring. The way he frowned when he thought too hard, the extent of his fucking patience and understanding… Those expressive eyes, his full lips—

Get a fucking grip goddamnit.

He fidgeted in the front seat and then jerked forward, turning the radio up. The lyrics to AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long flooded his eardrums, loud enough to drown out anything else. Doubts. Guilt. The stress of yet another shitty fucking day. Cas.

He let out a full release of air as he pulled up to the house, popping the garage door opener on the visor. The garage door let out a squeal and pulled back to reveal Dad's truck, a 1986 GMC Sierra Grande. With a suspension lift, stainless steel exhaust and rock-solid engine, the truck had always been real tough. Badass. Just like Dad.

Like Dad used to be.

He parked the Impala next to it and cut her engine. Climbing out, he shot the truck a deep frown as if it had personally insulted him. It shouldn't be there. Not at this hour. Something was up and the weight of another potential shitstorm—just… He sighed heavily, leaning against his girl for support. The chill of her body on his skin gave him the moment of clarity he needed. Her consistency and strength grounded him, giving him enough courage to drag himself into the house. Back into the fray and turmoil of his crappy life.

Inside, the kitchen had been cleaned, signs of Sam all over it in the aligned chairs, straightened place mats and dishes in the drying rack—just like Mom had taught him years ago. From here, the rest of the house seemed quiet and empty, brooding in the dark. The TV murmured from the living room and a creak in the floor from the upstairs bathroom signaled blips of life on his radar.

He angled his head up at the clock. Twelve thirty. Dad shouldn't be home.

Carefully, he crept into the living room. The light from the TV glowed in the darkness of the room, curtains pulled tight to prevent any light from coming in. A shudder walked up and down his spine, an overzealous sixth sense that screamed someone's out there just because it was dark.

The pungent, smoky scent of whiskey stung his nostrils as he stepped closer to the reclined La-Z-Boy. In it lay Dad, curled up with a bottle of Jack Daniels. Dad let loose a low, rumbling snore while he stood there staring.

Not even one o'clock and you're already wasted.

Sighing, he peeled the bottle from Dad's hands and set it on the floor nearby. From the window bench, he pulled off one of the folded blankets and shook it out before laying it over him. Dad stirred, mumbled something in his sleep, and then stretched. He waited until Dad got settled in again before tucking the cotton blanket under his chin. Dad would be out for a while. Always was when he got this drunk.

Dean clenched his jaw and couldn't stop staring at him. Didn't used to be like this. Dad didn't used to come home and drink until he'd pass out for hours. Shit, probably the only way Dad got to sleep anymore; so fucking wasted that his body just… gave up. Shut down. Probably better than dealing with the constant fucking pain. Better numb and oblivious than raw and gasping for breath because everything hurt so fucking much.

He wiped a hand down his face, ignoring the single tear that'd fallen on his cheek. As Dad mumbled Mom's name in his sleep, he leaned forward to squeeze his shoulder affectionately. Dad shifted a little, tugged the blanket closer to his face, and let out another snore. Dean gave him one last look—

I miss you, Dad.

—before grabbing the whiskey bottle and moving toward the kitchen. Soft light from the window reached for the whiskey as he poured it down the drain; the warm, amber glow catching his eye. His mouth salivated, the smell of it tempting him. Bitter and sweet. Overpowering. An escape from all the shit. God, after a day like today…

No.

He dropped the bottle in the sink and took a stumbling step back. His promise to Sammy kept him sober and it was going to stay that way. Alcohol was ripping apart this family enough as it was.

He took the stairs two at a time and barged into Sam's room without knocking. Sitting on the bed, Sam whipped his head up and frowned. "Dean?" He looked at the clock on his laptop and then back up again. "What are you doing home so early?"

"Well," he started, rubbing the back of his neck. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "Funny story, actually."

"Oh boy," Sam mumbled. "Here we go."

"I kinda—well, I really kinda—" he stammered. "Pretty sure I fucked up at school today. In fact," he laughed a little. "—really pretty sure I fucked up. Not only with school, but with Cas too."

"What'd you do?" Sam groaned, his face screwing up. "And what's that smell?"

"Hey, would you take it easy? I had a bad fucking day," he said, ignoring the second question.

"Yeah, well. It wasn't sunshine and butterflies here either."

"Why? What happened?" he asked, nudging Sam over. Sam scooted to make room for him, setting his laptop beside him; a screen that had Facebook up on it and a 'Jessica Moore' chat tab. He leaned forward to take a closer look and Sam closed the lid immediately.

"Who's Jessica Moore?"

"Some girl from class."

"A girlfriend?" He grinned.

"Dean," Sam huffed, rolling his eyes. "Anyway. Dad woke up early and drank the whole morning away. Didn't go to work or anything. He's getting really bad, Dean. Fucking sucks."

"Well… shit," he sighed, leaning back against the headboard. Dad not going into work, drinking the morning away—just as he'd suspected. "Yeah, that does fucking suck."

"What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know, Sammy," he said, rubbing his temple. "But we'll think of something."

"Yeah," Sam murmured. They both went quiet, each off in their own little world about Dad. After a few seconds… "So," Sam started, breaking the silence. "What'd you do?"

"Oh, you know," he began, shrugging, lolling his head to the side. Sam gave him a look. "Almost blew up the school. Pissed Cas off. The usual."

"What?"

"What, I gotta spell it out for you? I fucked up, dude. Got me and Cas a failing grade on some—fucking experiment, all right?"

"You got Cas a failing grade?" Sam echoed.

"Yeah, that's what I fucking said."

"Oh, dude, that's not good."

"Well, okay, I get that for obvious reasons, but—"

"Cas' parents are way strict, Dean," Sam explained. "They're going to be pissed. Like, super pissed."

"Whoops," he sighed. "Goddamnit."

"Yeah. You gotta apologize or—or something."

"I guess," he said with a shrug. Of course, he had to apologize. That was probably the least he could do. He pulled back the covers in search for Sam's phone. "You got his number?"

"Shouldn't you—I don't know—go over there? Apologize in person?"

"Uhh—"

"It's the right thing to do, Dean, and you know it. Cas is a nice guy. You're really going to apologize to him—over a text?"

"Isn't that the way things work these days?"

"Dean."

He rolled his eyes and grabbed the remote control instead. Couldn't even breathe before Sam bellowed out a long, frustrated sigh. "Holy shit, Sam. I'll do it later, all right? He needs a chance to calm down anyway. The dude was pretty fucking pissed…" He flicked on the TV, mumbling, "… fucking grabbed me and shit."

"Yeah, well. You're lucky he didn't punch you," Sam said. "You kinda deserve it."

"Oh, get off my nuts," he hissed. "Go back to talking to your girlfriend."

Sam gave him a look, rolled his eyes and grabbed his laptop again. As he channel surfed, Sam clacked away on his keyboard, typing much faster than his older brother's hunt-and-peck. They said nothing, enjoying each other's quiet company in the murmur of technology.

"Hey," Sam said suddenly, shifting on the bed. "Is Dad gonna be okay?"

He twisted his head. Sam's big eyes watched him, mouth pursed. Despite the fighting lately, Dad's long stint of drunken nights and sleeplessness, Sam looked concerned. Of course, he was concerned. Sammy loved Dad too.

"Yeah, kiddo," he said easily. "If anyone can beat this, it's Dad." His eyes fled to the TV, opening credits for Dr. Sexy rolling across the screen. "Nothing gets him down for too long. He's kind of a superhero like that."

He believed every word of it. Things were just that simple sometimes.

:::

Even superheroes had bad days.

Dean sped down the road in the Impala—away from one of Dad's all-night drinking binges; from yet another fight between Dad and Sam. This time, instead of intervening, instead of being the peacekeeper, he just fucking left. Him and his girl—that was all he needed right now. Fuck everything else. There was only so much he could take.

Buildings and streetlights zoomed past him. He didn't know where he was going or how fast and he didn't give a fuck. The old houses of his neighborhood morphed into larger, more expensive ones; lush, green lawns instead of patchy and undernourished; pale stone siding instead of rotting wood. Stuff he didn't have—stuff he didn't deserve.

He blew past a stop sign just because; an act of defiance against his shitty fucking life—a fuck you to the world. Out of nowhere, his chest tightened again, followed by the predictable tunnel vision. Another fucking panic attack. He was Dean-fucking-Winchester. Stronger than this. He should be able to take a little bit of stress.

Everyone would be better off without you. You're such a fucking loser.

"Fuck you," he growled, gritting his teeth. Clinging to the steering wheel, he fought through his blurry vision, pulled over and rolled to a stop. He couldn't breathe. Fucking goddamnit. He couldn't breathe.

You're all right.

Cas' words came back to him over and over, guiding his breathing to a slow, even rhythm. He took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. His vision cleared, his heart a raging waterfall in his ears. Anxiety left exhaustion in its wake and all he wanted to do was sleep. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the rumble of his girl, the vibrations she sent up and through his body. She calmed his nerves—just like she always did.

When the danger passed, when he felt calm and collected, Dean opened his eyes. A large house loomed ahead of him. Its multiple gables, winding stone walkway and porch swing—he recognized it immediately.

Cas' house.

The windows were dark, the house quiet with his family undoubtedly sleeping inside. A second-floor light flicked on, stopping him from just driving off and leaving Cas' peaceful life behind. Another light on the first floor. The porch. He'd woken someone up. Maybe his Mom, worse his Dad.

Cas stepped out the front door.

His heart jumped in his throat and the Impala's roar whimpered and then died out as he cut the engine. Nervousness threw his gut into a jumbled mess. Cas was probably still pissed at him. Would probably yell at him and tell him what he himself had always known; how much of a goddamn loser he was. Cas wouldn't be the first. Certainly wouldn't be the last either.

Cas waited on the porch in his dark gray t-shirt and black pajama pants, hair more ruffled than usual. He couldn't see his expression from here but the non-verbal cues said it all. The straight, rigid line of his body told him that he was poised, ready for a fight. Unmoving and stiff-backed like a soldier that had fallen in line—a Marine ready to gun down the enemy. There'd be no avoiding this confrontation.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he finally got out, shut the door and walked up the stone pathway. A chill ran up his spine as snowflakes began to fall and pepper his face with tiny shards of ice. Even when Cas' bare toes invaded his peripheral, he didn't look up—couldn't. He forced his hands in his jacket pockets instead and kept his eyes to the ground. The disappointment in Cas' face would kill him.

Except there was none.

When he finally found the courage to look up, Cas had the tiniest smile on his face. Barely there, but—he could see it. No hatred there. No disappointment. Just… Cas.

"Hello, Dean."

He bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling, to keep the relief off his face. "Uh—hey, Cas," he said quietly, looking down again. "Shouldn't you—shouldn't you be asleep or something?"

"I was."

"Oh," he said stupidly. "Yeah—it's... it must be late."

"Midnight."

"… shit."

The conversation reached a natural dead-end. He stood there awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as the silence built up around them. "So anyway, I uhh—I just… you know, came over to…" Suddenly, exhaustion hit him, weighing down his shoulders and chewing at the edges of his brain. What could have been a well-thought out apology got lost in the moment. "Look, Cas," he said, blowing out a chilly breath. "I was an asshole, okay? Shouldn't have gotten you that failing grade."

Cas nodded once. "It's okay, Dean."

"It's okay?" he echoed. "So, that's it? You're just gonna—" let me off easy?

"What would you rather me do—"

"Yell at me or something, man. Come on. Don't you think I deserve it?"

"No."

The way Cas said it—so simply, so matter-of-factly—rocked him back on his heels. No ounce of doubt; as sure as gravity itself.

Almost as if he'd been sucked down to the core of the earth, his shoulders slumped, his muscles turned to liquid. He stood there, wavering, drained of… everything.

"What's the matter, Dean?"

"Tired, Cas. Just… really fucking tired."

He ran a hand down his face and closed his eyes. The squeak of wood and chain made him look up. On the porch swing sat Cas, with just enough room on his left side. Cas didn't say anything, didn't need to, hands interlaced on his lap as if he were waiting—for him.

Dean stood there for a minute before trudging up the porch steps. Without a word, he slipped in beside him. Snow seeped through his jeans and the winter air nipped at his nose, but he didn't feel cold at all. Instead, here beside Cas, there was only warmth. Warmth and quiet comfort.

They sat there for a long time and watched the snow fall.

:::

They fought through the early morning crowd at school, breaking off into different directions. Before Sammy could get away from him, Dean playfully hit his little brother's shoulder and gave him a quick nod. "Have a good day, kiddo."

"Thanks," Sam said. A short, cut-off reply.

His eyes lingered on Sam for a little bit as the kid walked toward his locker. The way his brother looked around—the quick turns of his head, this way, that way—suggested a subtle nervousness that he hadn't seen in a long time. A skittishness as if the kid were waiting for someone to jump out and scare him shitless.

He didn't like it. Not one bit.

Reluctantly, he tore his eyes away, shoving books into his locker. The stale, lingering stench of rotten eggs teased his nose hairs, reminding him of yesterday: the thick smoke, the burn of his lungs, Cas' angry face. Not a good day. Sam had been right about apologizing in person. It had been the right thing to do.

The mental clang of lockers jarred him out of his thoughts. Kids filed in from the different entrances and hallways; girls giggled among themselves about… girl crap while some of the boys trashed talked one another over a new video game. Over the din of a new school day, a sharp whimper pierced the air.

He would've known that cry from anywhere.

It was the sound Sam made when he pinched or punched him too hard, the exasperated noise after a whole fuck-ton of tickling. He whipped his head around immediately. There, in front of Sam, stood a taller, older kid. Sandy blond hair and thin build. Leering over his brother with the kind of suggestiveness that shot off more than a warning sign or two. Sam said something to him, lips curled into a snarl, and pushed him back. His surge of pride disappeared in an instant as the asshole grabbed his brother's face until Sammy let out another cry.

This fucker—he was the guy. The son of a bitch who was bullying Sammy. Had to be.

"Hey, asshole!"

The dude looked up and spared him a slow smile. Smug, slithering across his lips. Son of a bitch let Sammy go and turned, heading off in the opposite direction. Without hesitating, he dropped his books and gave chase, pushing kids out of his way, almost knocking one over.

"Dean, let it go!" he heard Sam yell behind him.

The guy's stupid blond head weaved in and out of the sea of faces. He tailed him, forcing his way through the thick wall of bodies. With one last push through the crowd, he lunged forward and grabbed a hold of the dude's shoulder. The momentum jerked the asshole back, allowing him to follow through and slam him into the lockers. Whoever this guy was—he didn't seemed fazed at all. He smiled instead; a cold, fuck you smile that tossed fuel onto the fire.

"You fucking hurting my brother, man?"

"Oh hello, Dean," the asshole said. "Aren't you a surprise."

He narrowed his eyes, slamming him into the lockers again. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick your ass right here, right now."

"Why?" he asked. "What could I have possibly done to deserve such… anger?"

"Like I said, you stupid son of a bitch," Dean growled in his face. "You're the one who's been hurting my brother," he accused, another push against the locker. "No one touches him. Not on my watch."

"Oh, that? Come now," asshole said, smug smile still on his face. "You should know I'd never hurt Sammy. Not really."

"His name is Sami/, asshole," Dean growled. "His name is Sam."

"Sam. That's right," he corrected, smiling wider. The way he said his brother's name, oozing with… God only knew what—made him fucking sick. "See? I like you, Dean. So full of... fierce loyalty. So protective. Exactly what a brother should be," he declared heavily. "But you can't always watch him, can you? It's impossible—"

"Like fuck I can't," Dean shot back, right in his face. "You don't think I'm on to you now, motherfucker? You think I'm just going to let you get away with this?"

"Oh, I know you won't," asshole admitted plainly. "But… haven't you already failed in a way? I mean, if you really think about it," he said. "I already got to him once. Where were you then, when he needed you?"

He narrowed his eyes and braced himself against the guilt. Fuck if the son of a bitch wasn't right. The truth of it, vile and painful, hurt worse than a hammer blow to the head. His arm almost gave out beneath the crushing weight of that realization; that he had failed his brother. Failed his brother because he was too fucking selfish. Refused to see the signs. Because he'd run away instead of taking care of his family.

A ripple of anger raced up and down his body, drawing his muscles taut. He could barely keep himself from strangling this asshole. "Fuck. You."

"All that pent-up anger," he oozed. "I wonder, though. Who are you really angry with? Me? Or the face you see in the mirror?"

Dean clenched his jaw tight, hard enough to break teeth. The ability to talk, say a goddamn thing to this fucker—completely gone.

"Cat catch your tongue?" the asshole asked, never once losing that slick smile. "It's okay, Dean. You're not always going to be around. Eventually, you'll have to take your eyes off him. No one can fault you that, can they? You're only human."

"Dean," came a deep voice behind him. Gentle fingers touched his shoulder and squeezed. He didn't need any more clues other than that voice to know Cas stood behind him.

As if a switch had been flipped, he let the asshole go and stepped back. Son of a bitch flashed a smile at him. It boiled his blood.

"Anyway. I enjoyed our chat, Dean," he said. "Sadly, it's off to class with me."

With a wiggle of fingers, his brother's tormentor walked away, devil-may-care. Guilt and anger manifested itself into a full-fledged punch into one of the lockers. Pain shot down his fingers, numbing his hand, his arm, and nestled in with the hollow ache in his chest.

"Who was that?" Dean shot out in one breath, nursing his hand.

"Lucifer. He's a senior here. New to the school this year, I believe," Cas replied simply. "Should I be concerned?

"No, Cas. Stay out of it," he snapped. "Family business."

Fuming, he pushed past him and stalked down the hall, counting the many ways he'd fuck up this Lucifer dude.

:::

"Dean, can I talk to you for a second?"

He whirled. Jody stood in front of him, her bright smile gone. A seriousness had settled over her face and darkened her eyes. Obviously, she meant business. Business that could only mean he was knee-deep in shit.

"Um. Can't this wait? It's lunch time and I'm kinda starving." As if on cue, his stomach barked out a growl of denial and his mouth watered.

"This'll only take a minute," she said. Without another word, she turned and started walking down the hall.

"… shit."

The smell of cheeseburgers—today's menu item—tempted him to risk it all. He could run, dive into the cafeteria line and get his fucking food, quick and easy. Sit next to Sam in the lunchroom and keep an eye on him. Keep him safe from that goddamn lunatic. Decisions, decisions.

Jody looked back over her shoulder. Stopping, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a look. It left no room for argument; the kind of look and body language that told him she wasn't going to take his shit.

Frowning, he started to walk toward her, bringing out his phone. He flipped it open, typed out a message—keep an eye on sam—and sent it to Cas. His phone chimed not thirty seconds later with: Of course. Are you all right?

He shot Jody a smile and flipped the phone shut. In her office, she closed the door behind them and sat down behind her simple desk. This was going to be a less-than-friendly conversation. He could already tell.

"Have a seat," she said, indicating to the chair.

"Nah, I'd rather stand if it's all the same," he replied. He leaned against the door to emphasize his point, not really planning to stick around for long.

"Okay," she huffed out. "Listen, let's get to the point: you're in trouble for yesterday's stunt. They wanted to suspend you—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"—but I convinced them," she glared at him for the interruption. "To knock it down to after-school detention."

"Detention?" he echoed incredulously. "How many?"

"The jury's still out on that," she said.

He rolled his eyes.

"Hey, it's better than nothing, all right? I did my best."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean said callously. "Well… when?"

"Today—"

"Can't do today. Sorry."

"Dean," she warned. "Detention isn't meant to be convenient."

"Jody," he shot back. "I can't do today, all right? That's all there is to it."

"Why do you insist on making my job harder?"

He flinched. She didn't snap at him, but the question alone hurt, smarting like a rubber band's snap against the skin. He knew he didn't have a fucking choice; read it in the wild sparkle in her eyes and the frown on her face. Goddamnit. Swallowing hard, he mulled over his options. He had to keep Sam safe, bottom line. Detention got in the way of that. Unless—

"What about Cas?"

"Dean, you know I can't talk about—"

"Come on, Jody. Work with me here." His tone turned gentle. "What about Cas?"

She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Castiel received a lighter sentence, so to speak. One detention, at least."

"I'll take his detention."

"That's not how it works."

"I get that," he said. "But it's my fault. I'm the dumbass who added sulfur and almost burned down the school. Not Cas. He had nothing to do with it."

"I don't know, Dean."

"Just—please. All right? I'm asking nicely," he said. "Give me his detention."

Jody studied him, lips pursed together. The chime of his phone cut through the silence. Sam's message—Where are you?—prominently displayed on the screen. He ignored it, returning his attention to her.

"I'll have to see if it's okay—"

"Thanks, Jody. I really appreciate it," he said, giving her a wide smile—as happy as he could manage while dying inside. "We done?"

"Yes, Dean," Jody sighed. "Today. Detention."

"Got it," he winked, palming the door handle.

Without another word, he walked out and hurried toward the cafeteria. Detention sucked major ass, especially with a fucking psycho after his brother. But this way, taking Cas' detention, there'd be someone to look after Sammy even when he couldn't.

The thought of not being there when Sam needed him—again—fucking ripped his heart out.

:::

He tapped a pen against the desk over and over again, drumming out an irritated rhythm—something to occupy his idle, restless fingers. No detention teacher in sight. The clock on the wall read 2:56 p.m. At 3:05 p.m., he'd bolt if no one showed up.

In his nervousness, he picked up his phone and reviewed his text messages.

2:50 u get sam yet

2:51 hello?

2:52 cas?

2:53 Yes. I have him.

2:53 good tell me when u get to the car

2:54 u there yet

No answer. He snapped his phone shut and put it inside his pocket. Staring at the phone wouldn't do him any good. He'd study. Keep his mind off things. He shifted in his chair, took out his Math book and flipped it open. The Math formulas stared back at him, taunting him, a jumble of letters and numbers. Bullshit he'd never understand even on a good day. Growling low in his throat, he moved around in his seat again and closed his Math book. 3:02 p.m. Shit.

He gathered up his stuff, ready to leave, just as the door opened. Fergus McLeod, his first period English teacher, stepped into the classroom with a smug smile. Always two steps ahead, that bastard. Evil incarnate—and that was solely based on the amount of homework he gave out.

"Ah, Dean Winchester. The bad boy everyone loves to talk about," McLeod said, words thick in that Scottish accent. "You're quite the topic in the teacher's lounge these days, you know."

"It's because I'm adorable, isn't it?"

McLeod smirked, a wry smile taking up one corner of his mouth. "Let's not waste any time and get this show on the road, shall we?"

He'd heard that McLeod's version of detention was Hell. Plain and simple. It hadn't been an exaggeration. For the last five minutes, the bastard had him walking in a line, heel-to-toe, from one end of the classroom to the other. 3:11 p.m. Thirty-four more minutes of this bullshit.

"This is cruel shit, man," Dean hissed out.

"Keep walking," McLeod said, turning a page in his book.

"Fuck me," he grumbled under his breath.

Heel, toe. Heel, toe—the door flung open and slammed against the opposite wall. His heart reacted first, jumping inside his ribcage and firing off before the rest of his senses caught up.

"Dean!"

He whirled. Sam ran toward him, barreling into him, tears and—a fucking bruise on his face. Immediately, an uncontrollable rage took control, his growl vicious. His mind leapt to all sorts of conclusions, sparking images and linking together clues to form an idea of what had happened. In his arms, Sam trembled, mumbling something incoherent. He grabbed his little brother's face, running a thumb across a cheek to flick away a tear. "Sam. What the fuck happened?"

"Lucifer, he—"

"Fucking Lucifer," he growled. "What'd he do, man?"

"He came out of nowhere! Hit me. Cas—he's," Sam swallowed, trying to catch his breath. "He's still out there."

"Cas is still out there? With Lucifer?"

Sam nodded about twenty times, sniffling through his tears. Dean stood up, said, "Stay here," to Sam before his eyes immediately flicked to McLeod. "Watch him."

He didn't even wait for a confirmation before turning and running out the door. His name, yelled by both Fergus and Sam, fell on deaf ears as he sprinted through the halls. Everything smudged together in splotches of color and shape, the halls dead quiet save for his boots thundering against the tile floor. He took the small staircase two at a time, slid toward the three-door grand entrance and busted through them into the cold air. There, in the small grassy knoll, stood Lucifer and Cas, facing off. Lucifer drew back his arm and snapped it forward, fist hitting Cas square in the nose. Blood gushed everywhere, down Cas' face and shirt, like something straight from a horror flick. Cas recovered quickly, shook his head, and came in hard, looping his hands around the back of Lucifer's neck. Fingers interlaced and tight, Cas drove his knee up into Lucifer's gut twice, before delivering an elbow down onto his hunched-over back.

He skipped down the stairs and ran toward them, tackling Lucifer as the fucker fell to the ground. After a quick struggle, he ended up on top, driving a fist into the asshole's face. Once, twice. Three times. He couldn't see, blinded by fucking rage. Blood, groaning, his named screamed behind him—he didn't fucking care. All he wanted to do was punch the fucker until he stopped moving, until his anger and hatred had fully played out. No one fucking hurt his brother, goddamnit. No one.

Strong hands intercepted another punch, iron-tight fingers around his wrist. Someone else's hands—maybe even several people—grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back, dragging him away. He tried one last ditch effort to kick at Lucifer's body and missed, hitting his calf instead. He struggled wildly as he was pulled away. Once stable and up on his feet, he ripped his arms away and whirled. McLeod and Henriksen. Wide-eyed, both faces shocked.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, kid?" Henriksen asked, dumbfounded.

"Get out of my face!" he growled, turning. Searching. "Sam!"

"Dean!"

They met in the middle; Sam's face red and puffy, eyes wet. "Get in the car now! We're leaving." Sam didn't hesitate, running for the car.

"You can't just leave!" Henriksen declared.

"Fuck off," Dean growled back. "Cas!"

He flagged Cas down and headed toward the car. At the last second, he altered his direction and stormed over to Lucifer instead, pushing past the kids helping him up. Blood tickled down from Lucifer's nose and a deep bruise closed one eye. His lip had been split open, teeth washed in red—he'd done a number on him. Got away fucking easy, as far as he was concerned.

He grabbed Lucifer by the shirt collar and pulled him in. Hands grabbed at him again, but he shrugged them off and sneered in Lucifer's face. "Touch my brother again and, I swear to God, I'll make sure they lock you up in a cage so tight you never get out. Understand?"

He didn't wait for an answer and threw him to the ground. "Get the fuck off me!" he hissed, pulling away from the lingering touches and hands. Other kids stepped back as he thundered through, bolting toward his car where Cas and Sam waited inside. He climbed in, turned over his baby's engine and pealed out of there, leaving everything behind. The aftermath of blood, shocked faces and whispering crowds died in his rearview mirror.

"You okay, Sammy?" he asked, one-second pausing at a stop sign before blowing past it.

"Yeah, I'm—I'm fine," Sam said shakily.

"You sure—"

"Yes, Dean. I'm fine!"

Through the rearview mirror, Cas held his bloody nose with his head tilted up. "Cas?" In response, Cas waved a free hand, probably indicating that he was fine too.

"Give him your shirt," he directed at Sam. Obeying, Sam shouldered out of his second-layer—a dark green button-up—and handed it back to Cas. Wincing, Cas peeled his hand away and took up the shirt, holding against his nose.

"What the fuck happened back there, goddamnit?"

"I don't know. One minute, we were walking to the car; the next, Lucifer grabbed a hold of me—" Sam began.

"And where the fuck were you?" he growled at Cas.

"Dean—"

"I was there," Cas snapped, as angry as he'd ever heard him. "Where were you?"

"Fuck off, asshole," Dean snarled. "I told you to watch him!"

"I did—"

"He did, Dean! Lucifer was too fucking fast. Lay off him!"

He simmered in his seat, anger churning his blood; a volcano ready to go off. Out of frustration, he slammed his hand against the steering wheel. "Fuck!" A shaky breath and then, "He's fucking lucky I didn't kill him."

As soon as they reached home, they filed out of the car and into the house. Sam took up a seat at the kitchen table and Cas hovered over the sink, turning the faucet on. The sound of running water faded in the background as he moved throughout the house, grabbing a first-aid kit from the downstairs bathroom. Only now, after the adrenaline had been burned out of his body, did he realize how much his hand fucking hurt. He ignored the dull throb and made his way back to the kitchen, tossing the kit onto the table next to Sam. A Tupperware container of ice and a dishtowel completed his makeshift first-aid station.

"Come here," he said, sitting in the chair catty-corner from Sam. He dropped ice cubes on the dishtowel and wrapped them up, applying the ice pack to his little brother's face. Sam winced and jerked his head back, easing into the towel after the initial cold-shock. "You okay?"

"Dean," Sam said irritatedly. "I'm fine. He barely got me."

"The bruise on your face says otherwise, kiddo," he said, touching the towel to his cheek again.

"Look, okay—" Sam struggled, moving his head back. "I'm not a baby anymore. I can do it myself."

Every time his little brother's independence reared its head, it struck him deep—a painful, dull ache that fanned the flame of his failures. "Sammy," he said, his tone a cross between some sort of pathetic desperation and hurt anger. "Just—let me do this, okay?"

Sam stopped struggling and studied his face. Instead of meeting his brother's stare head on, Dean looked away, concentrating on the bruise—pink and puffy, mottled with deeper blues. He didn't like being under his brother's scrutiny. Sam knew how to slip through his defenses, knew how to find the broken pieces beneath.

With a frown, he toughened up, shaking off his brother's intense stare. Sam hissed in pain as he pressed the ice pack a little too hard against his face. "Why was that asshole picking on you anyway?"

Sam offered a tiny shrug. "I don't know—"

"Sam."

Sam rolled his eyes. "He was picking on someone else, all right? So I stood up to him. Told him to quit being a jerk."

"So he started picking on you instead," he concluded harshly, frown deepening as more anger built up. "You could have gotten yourself really fucking hurt, man. You don't have to be a goddamn hero—"

"Why not?" Sam asked simply. "I learned it from you."

He flinched back, leveling his brother with an incredulous look. The fact that Sammy thought of him as a hero… He swallowed hard. He hadn't amounted to much, but in his brother's eyes—he was worth something. As it began to sink in, the realization brought a heavy silence with it. He clenched his jaw as his tough exterior began to peel away, layer by layer, leaving him raw and exposed. Scaring him shitless. While Sammy thought the world of him, he couldn't get his head out of his ass long enough to notice his baby brother had been in trouble. Worth something or not, he was still a fucking asshole.

"Hey," he whispered, pressing the towel to Sam's face. "I'm—I'm sorry for not being there, man. I should have—"

"It's not your fault, Dean," Sam said quietly. "You can't always be there, you know."

He frowned. "I have to be. It's my job—"

"Says who?" Sam challenged.

"Taking care of you is who I am, Sammy."

"No—"

"Dude, can you not argue with me for once?"

Sam sighed and looked down, then up through his choppy brown hair. "Anyway, you were there. I mean, not literally, but," Sam shrugged. "You had Cas watch over me."

"Yeah, some guardian angel," he said sarcastically.

"Dean, stop being a dick to him, all right? He's our friend."

"Yeah, I don't know about that," he said, tending to the bruise again.

"Just… give him a chance, okay? He's a good guy—ow!" Sam jerked his head back. "Would you knock it off already? Cas is worse off than me."

Sam made a move to get up. Before Sam could slip out of his seat, he grabbed his arm. Their eyes met. "Hey look, kiddo. You did the right thing, okay? Just…" he breathed out a sigh. "Promise me you won't let anyone fuck with you again. Don't let—"

"…anyone push you around," Sam recited. "Yeah, I know. I promise." His little brother pulled his arm away and got up out of his seat. "Help Cas, okay?"

Sam left him there before he could say anything else. He tossed a glance over his shoulder. Cas stood at the back door with his arms over his chest, looking off in a different direction. He almost couldn't see the blood against the wine-colored shirt, slim-fitting like all of his other clothes. His face, though. Bloody, nose red and enflamed, bruise crawling up one side of his face. Yeah, like Sam had said, Cas needed attention.

"Get over here, Jet Li," he called out tersely.

"I'm fine, Dean."

"Bullshit. It looks like you went a couple of rounds with the Devil. You're not fine."

Cas cut him a sidelong glance. After a full minute of staring, Cas eased off the back door and settled into Sam's spot; nice and close. Cas' shirt reeked of blood, practically soaked in it. Nothing a good scrub and hydrogen peroxide couldn't fix.

"Sam," he said, "Go get one of my shirts."

Without arguing, Sam disappeared up the stairs, leaving them in the kitchen. Alone. He exhaled fully, lifting the makeshift ice pack up to his face. Like Sam, Cas kicked his head back as soon as the ice made contact. He frowned, but didn't make a sound. If nothing else, Cas was a tough bastard.

"Let me see if it's broken."

"It isn't," Cas said matter-of-factly.

"You want to do this?" he asked, holding out the ice towel. Cas said nothing. "Yeah, didn't think so."

He lifted the towel and pressed it against the left side of his face, lightening the pressure as Cas let out a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He tilted Cas' head back, keeping it elevated, and lifted his hand, planning to gently touch along his nose. Cas wouldn't let him. To get away from his fingers, Cas leaned into the ice towel and closed his eyes. "Dean, please."

The way he pleaded, how fragile he was right then—Dean inhaled sharply and let it out slow and easy. He cradled his face, inspecting the deep bruising on his cheek. "You're right," he whispered, sweeping a thumb across his sensitive skin. "It's not broken."

His blue eyes searched his face. With Cas this close, his warmth, soft skin, the strangled whisper of his cologne—all of it sparked images of his dreams. Filthy ones he tucked down inside himself and tried to forget. If he didn't have the tendency of destroying everything he touched, if he'd been anyone else…

He brushed a thumb over his cheekbone again. Cas looked down at his mouth. His heart punched through his chest. If he just had enough balls to kiss him—

You're not good enough for him. You'd just end up disappointing him too.

Dean jerked back as if he'd been slapped and Cas frowned at him in confusion. Clearing his throat, he grabbed Cas' hand and lifted it up to support the towel as he pulled away. "Anyway…" He gathered his composure. "You uhh—you look kinda bad ass like that… all banged up."

Cas held the ice pack to his face, blue eyes glued to him. "Like one of the good guys?"

"Yeah, Cas," he whispered. "Like one of the good guys."

Cas almost smiled; a little quirk at the corners of his lips. He lowered his eyes, the heaviness between them weighing his head down. "Uhh. Thanks, you know—" he spun his silver ring around his finger, "—for… keeping an eye on Sam." Tutoring me. Putting up with my shit. "—for everything, really."

"Of course, Dean."

Sam came down the stairs with lead feet, like a herd of elephants. He jumped off the last step and hurried over to him, holding out a shirt. Dean grabbed it and shot him a glare. "What took you so long?"

"None of your crap is clean, Dean," Sam said. "Took me a while to find a shirt half-decent."

Fine. His fingers crumpled the familiar gray fabric, soft and worn after years of—his AC/DC shirt. "So you got my favorite one?"

Sam shrugged. Dean glanced at Cas. After all the shit he put Cas through—he handed it to him reluctantly. Setting the towel on the kitchen table, Cas took the shirt carefully and laid it on his knee. Long, graceful fingers started unbuttoning his dress shirt, the bareness of his chest peeking through. Cas peeled it off, acres of toned muscle sliding beneath smooth skin. His athleticism took him by surprise. Sure, he'd guessed, but goddamn. His chiseled arms, shoulders, the definition of his collarbone—fuck, his stomach. Even his hipbones, cut and angular, diving into his dark blue jeans.

"Do you work out?" he asked in one, forced breath.

Stupid fucking thing to ask, dude. What the fuck.

"I run, yes," Cas answered plainly.

That gorgeous body disappeared underneath his AC/DC shirt, effectively snapping him out it. As casually as he could, he dropped his hands in his lap—to cover his ridiculously hard dick.

"Cas, you should stay for dinner," Sam announced, making a ruckus in the cupboards. "I could make my famous meatloaf."

"I'd like that," Cas said and looked at him for reassurance.

"Uhh—yeah, whatever," he said, pretending he didn't care. In truth, the idea of Cas staying for dinner kind of excited him; something he hadn't felt in a long fucking time.

:::

Dean concentrated on his test, trying to ignore that McLeod had answered the classroom phone. It had to be about him—

"Winchester," McLeod said suddenly, hanging it up. "You're wanted in the office."

Shit.

A rising murmur of ooo's spread across the classroom like wildfire.

"Settle down!" McLeod hissed.

Clenching his jaw, he picked up his backpack and left his first period English class to head down the empty hallway toward the office. Time to get expelled. He rolled his eyes, unable to think of any other outcome. Didn't deserve anything else, really.

He inched closer, toward his inevitable doom. His hollow footsteps matched the slow, heavy beating of his heart. The clamminess of his hands, the flutter of his stomach—it suddenly dawned on him how much getting expelled would suck. The disappointment in Dad's face, Sam's. Hell, even his future would be fucked. Definitely no college—not that he wanted to go in the first place. Shit.

In the office, Sam sat in one of the chairs, his little legs shaking with obvious nervousness. A frown pulled at his brother's face, thumb at his mouth. Biting at his cuticles, probably—a nervous habit he'd hung onto from when he was a kid.

"Hey, kiddo," he whispered, sitting in the chair next to him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Sam answered. "You?"

"Fine as I'll ever be," he shrugged. "They say why you're here?"

"Yeah. To talk about what happened yesterday." Sam sighed. "They gonna expel you, Dean?"

"Yeah, probably. I don't see any other option."

"That sucks," Sam said, flopping back in his seat.

"Well. I don't know about that," he said. "Sure, it'll disappoint Dad," which fucking sucked, "—and you, but."

"I'm not going to be disappointed," Sam said immediately, looking at him. "Why would I be disappointed?"

"I don't know. Kicked outta school," he shrugged again, scratching at a stain on his jeans. "That shit's for losers."

"Dean—"

Just then, the door to the principal's office swung open, cutting Sam off. Out of it stormed a petite woman, dressed in nice clothes and jewelry. Her long brown hair ended in soft ringlets, her wild eyes the color of jade. Her high cheekbones had a rosy color to them—from makeup maybe. Or from being pissed.

"I'm so sorry this happened, Eve," Mrs. Moseley said from the door.

"Evelyn, thank you," she corrected.

When the lady turned away and saw him, her face scrunched into a frown. She got right up in his face and pointed a finger at him. "You stay away from my son, do you hear me?"

"Uhh—"

"Mother," came a deep, authoritative tone. Cas slipped out of the principal's office and stepped behind her. "It's time for you to go."

Cas' Mom lifted her chin, sending her eyes sidelong to her son. Nodding, she shifted her attention to him again. "Stay away from him," she whispered coldly before stalking past.

"My apologies," Cas mumbled to him, following his Mom to the office's door. There, they had a small, quiet argument before his Mom stormed out.

"Shit," Dean said. "Cas' Mom is fierce."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Pretty strict too from what Cas was telling me."

"Sam?" Mrs. Moseley called out. "Can we see you now?"

Sam stood up immediately. Before his little brother could walk off, he grabbed his arm and pulled him close. "Look, kiddo. You don't have to tell them anything you don't want to, okay? Don't try to save me. Shit's gonna happen the way it's gonna happen. Nothing we can do about it."

"Yeah, well. I'm still going to try, Dean," Sam said. "I'm not going to let them kick my brother out of school without a fight."

"Sammy—"

Sam pulled away and joined Mrs. Moseley in her office. The door closed behind him. He couldn't control what was going on in there. Couldn't save Sammy even if he wanted to—and it freaked him the fuck out. Sitting there in the lobby, he shifted uncomfortably, trying to find something to keep his mind off it.

Cas came to the rescue, settling down next to him as gracefully and quietly as a falling feather. "Hello, Dean."

"Hey," he said, easing back into his chair. Cas had a weird way of calming him down. "Your Mom looked mad."

Cas nodded. "My apologies again. I—"

"You don't need to apologize, dude. Trust me. It's okay," he said. Should he say it? Fuck yeah, he should say it. "She's hot. Scary, but, you know, in a hot kinda way."

Dean lolled his head to the side. Cas stared at him hard, blank as ever, before a small smile found his lips. Dean flashed him a grin and winked. The lighter note lasted for a second before the seriousness moved in, snuffing out the conversation. Small talk maybe. "You get suspended or anything?"

"No," Cas said simply. "Even if that had been on the table, my mother wouldn't have tolerated it."

"News flash, Cas. Parents can't do shit about that."

"They can if they regularly donate large sums of money to the school."

He frowned. "So, basically, what you're saying is you didn't get suspended because your parents are rich."

"It wasn't even an option—"

"Because your parents are rich, Cas!"

Their eyes locked. After a second, Cas frowned. "You're angry. Why?"

"I'm not angry—"

"You are."

"Okay, I am!" he snapped. "Not everyone can get rid of their problems by paying someone off."

"I didn't choose my life, Dean," Cas deadpanned, looking straight ahead.

"Yeah? Well, neither did I."

If he had, his life wouldn't have been so fucking shitty. He exhaled hard through his nose and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shooting a look at the door. Still closed, still keeping him from Sam. What the fuck was taking them so long? He leaned back in the chair. It squeaked under the pressure, wooden bones creaking. Another shift in weight, another creak—

"Dean." Cas turned his head slowly, almost glaring at him. "Sam is fine."

"Yeah, I know," he said every word through clenched teeth. He shot Cas a glare, whipping his head toward the door as it opened. Immediately, he stood up as Sam walked out. His little brother's head hung low. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly.

"They make you uncomfortable or anything?"

"I'm okay, Dean."

"Dean, can we see you?"

"Yeah, in a minute," he said firmly. Back to Sam. "I'll be back. You sit with Cas, all right?"

Sam nodded. After ruffling his brother's hair, he turned away and stepped into Mrs. Moseley's office, shutting the door behind him. Jody sat in one of the visitor's chairs. She smiled up at him. Tentative. Nervous. "Hi, Dean."

"Have a seat, Mr. Winchester," Mrs. Moseley said.

He sat down. Right then, an overwhelming flood of oh shit, oh fuck came over him. This was it. He was going to get fucking expelled. His stomach churned.

"We've got a situation on our hands here, young man," Mrs. Moseley said. "Why don't you tell us what happened yesterday."

"Does it matter?" he asked without thinking. The look Mrs. Moseley gave him—don't fuck with me, boy—shut down his shitty attitude immediately. He licked his lips. "I uhh—got into a fight."

Mrs. Moseley didn't look impressed.

Clearing his throat, he tried again. Except the words wouldn't come out. What was the point? "Look, ma'am. I don't know what you want me to say here. Some kid hit my little brother, all right? What was I suppose to do? Let it happen?"

"You're supposed let someone know you're havin' a problem at school," Mrs. Moseley answered.

"Okay. Then what? You think some suspension's gonna stop a kid like that from picking on him?" he asked. "There's no way I'm gonna sit back and let that shit happen. No way."

"Dean," Jody scolded quietly. "Language."

"You've still got no right to beat up another kid, boy. Not in my school," Mrs. Moseley said.

"Yeah, well," he clenched his jaw. "He deserved it. That fucker—that guy," he corrected venomously. "—hurt Sammy. I'm not gonna let that slide. Protecting him is my job," he said. "So—you know. Do what you gotta do."

After a long, drawn-out silence, Mrs. Moseley narrowed her eyes. "Beatin' up my kids, nearly blowin' up my school. That's not even countin' that bad attitude of yours. Hell, if I were a mean 'ol witch, I could throw in your bad grades for good measure. Sounds like you're a no good troublemaker to me," Mrs. Moseley said with a sassy nod. "Now, after all that, give me one good reason why I shouldn't expel you."

He flopped back in his chair as if his rap sheet had blown him over. A no good troublemaker. That'd about summed him up to a tee. Definitely undeserving of a second chance. Still, he rattled his brain for a reason—anything. The experiment had mostly been an accident, sure. But if he hadn't tried to show Cas he wasn't stupid… The fight? That asshole deserved every goddamn punch to the face. But if he'd been more vigilant, looked after Sammy better... Other than that, his bad grades and shitty attitude—lost fucking causes. Failure after failure.

He came back with nothing. No reason to save his own ass. Fuck, he couldn't save himself if his goddamn life depended on it. Raising his eyes, he clenched his jaw again, hit hard with the reflection of his own uselessness. "Look, lady, I don't have one, okay?"

"That's fine, kid. Because those two out there? Gave me all the reasons I needed," Mrs. Moseley without missing a beat. "Plus," she added, more somberly. "I think we owe it to your momma to look out for you."

Mom's mention shut him right up. He slumped back in his chair, muscles gone slack. Even while she wasn't here, Mom was still looking out for him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, just to keep himself from falling apart.

"You're lucky you got your brother and your friend, young man," Mrs. Moseley said quietly. "They think the world of you, you know. Came right to your rescue."

"Cas too?" he whispered.

"Castiel too," Jody said, smiling.

"So…" He ran a hand down his face, straightening his posture. "What does all this mean?"

"Means you'll be suspended for a week and makin' up your detentions when you get back."

"That's it?" he asked, dumbfounded. Mrs. Moseley gave him a look. "I mean—yeah, that sucks." Stunned by the turns of events, he didn't move, couldn't, still glued to his chair.

"Well," Mrs. Moseley said. "Go on. Best you get yourself home."

He snapped out of it and stood. "You going to tell my Dad?"

"Y'damn straight, I will."

"Shit—er, crap," he corrected. "Okay. Thanks." He smiled at Jody. "Thanks."

He turned for the door and grabbed the door handle.

"Mr. Winchester?"

He looked over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

Mrs. Moseley smiled, a nice change from the sternness she showed him before. "You got some good kids watchin' your back. Keep a good hold on 'em."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a nod.

He shut the office door behind him. The sound drew their attention and both Cas and Sam shot up, straight and tall. With their faces bruised, they looked like a pair of battle-torn heroes, waiting on the front line of a war they couldn't hope to win. It didn't matter. He'd face the end of the world with them. Win or lose.

Because after all, according to them, he deserved to be saved.

:::

He spent his first day of suspension at Bobby's, putting his free time to good use. Cleaning the garage. Salvaging a few parts from the old clunkers. He'd got himself sweaty, caked in grime and oil by the time he had to pick Sam up from school. Sam smiled and waved as he walked toward the car. Seeing him like that—no better feeling in the world. Lit up the dark and chased all the bad shit away.

Sam looked over his shoulder. He followed his little brother's glance to the entrance of the school. Out of the three-door entrance came none other than Cas, hauling a big load on his back. A backpack probably, filled with—shit. That was his backpack, stuffed to the gills with his books. He slumped in the front seat, running a dirty hand down his face. If they still planned on the tutoring bullshit—

When Cas caught up, Sam scurried over to the car, opened the rear passenger door and climbed in. "Hey, Dean."

Cas tried to open the front door and frowned when it wouldn't budge. These days, he kept it locked for exactly these types of occasions.

"What's Cas doing?"

"Trying to open the door—"

"No shit, Sherlock. Why?"

"Dean," Sam said exasperatedly. "Just because you're suspended doesn't mean you're on vacation. You have a crap load of homework and tests coming up. So, right now? You need Cas more than ever."

He drummed his dirty fingers against the steering wheel.

"Let him in."

He rolled his eyes and leaned over the seat, rolling down the window instead. Suave, casual, Cas leaned forward and crossed his arms over the window frame. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas," he returned with the grating of teeth. "What's your Mom going to say about this tutoring crap?"

A frown spread over Cas' face and darkened his eyes.

"She told you to stay away, didn't she?" Dean clarified. "If I were you, I'd listen to her. I'm bad news. "

"My mother doesn't know you."

"And you do?"

"I would like to."

The sincerity on his face and the way he said those words, as if they were the gospel truth, filled him with… warmth, an ounce of worthiness that he hadn't felt in—shit, as long as he could remember. After another moment of profound staring, he surrendered, waving him in. Cas popped the lock and opened the door, settling in the passenger seat with the whisper of old leather.

"This is on you," he announced, starting up the Impala. "Your Mom better not come after me, wanting to bite me or something. Actually—" he grinned, throwing Cas a wink. "—that might not be so bad."

"She wouldn't bite you, Dean," Cas deadpanned. "She'd eat your soul."

He couldn't tell if Cas was serious or not until he smiled. Cas had actually made a joke. "Kinky." Dean said, grin widening. "I like my women feisty."

At home, books of various subjects had been scattered across the kitchen table, half-eaten plates of food breaking up the battlefield of papers, pens and notebooks. Across from them, Sam studied for his Math test while Cas perfected his art in torture, jumping from subject to subject like a slave-driving taskmaster. No breaks. Somewhere between eight o'clock and English, he had lost his patience and mentally checked out.

"Dean."

"What?" he snapped, coming out of his daydream. A bikini-clad she-devil and angel going at it—

"You need to know the difference between third person limited, multiple and omniscient point of views."

"Omniscient what?" He didn't give Cas the chance to answer, flipping his book closed. "Dude, I don't care anymore. Creative Writing sucks."

"Dean—"

The squeal of tires stopped the conversation dead. The resounding crash had them on their feet in seconds, rushing to the mudroom to investigate. In the garage, Dad's truck sat idling, rumbling and vibrating the walls. Another paint can fell from one of the top shelves, smacking against the hood with a metal clank. The headlights flooded the garage, illuminating the wreckage. Dad hadn't stopped in time and ran his truck into the garage wall—minimal damage but still. That wasn't the fucking point.

When Dad climbed out of the truck, wobbly and stumbling, he could already tell that Dad was drunk. The smokiness of whiskey clung to him, the scent of it a thick cloud. From this distance, only a few feet away, cigarette smoke invaded his nostrils, burning his nose hairs. The desperation, the heaviness in Dad's eyes—there was no doubt that Dad had spent his entire fucking night at a bar.

"Dad?" Sam called out.

Instinctively, Dean took several steps back as Dad lumbered closer. Dad stumbled, braced himself heavily against the doorjamb and grunted something unintelligible before pushing past them. In that second, pressed up against the wall, he caught Sam's expression—a frown, jaw set stern. The kid looked pissed yet something else glittered in his eyes: a hurt beyond repair. The pain found only in a child's eyes when a parent had failed them. Dean frowned. The depth and rawness of Sam's hurt blazed a trail through him and left him angry. Pissed that Dad had stolen their recovery from them. A chance to piece together their broken lives.

Cas stood there, stoic as usual.

A shimmer of light reflected off the whiskey bottle in Dad's hand as he stumbled into the kitchen. Dean narrowed his eyes. Dad could have fucking killed someone driving like this. Shit, maybe even some family's Mom; or could have gotten himself killed, leaving them without a Dad. The fucking irresponsibility—Dean growled and rushed him. "Dad!"

Dad stopped and Dean grabbed the whiskey bottle. When Dad lost his balance and nearly fell, he was there in an instant, swooping in to support him. Dad wouldn't have it.

With a growl, Dad flung his arm out wide. "I don't need your help!" The force behind it sent him whirling, twisting and falling, smacking his forehead on the edge of the counter. Pain shot down his face and something warm—liquid, coppery… blood—trickled over his eye and onto his cheek. Beyond the confusion, he heard his name shouted. Strong, yet gentle hands cupped his face as the pain throbbed. Somewhere, Sam yelled at the top of his lungs. Dad growled something back.

When he dared to open his eyes, Sam stood guard dog between he and Dad while Cas kneeled beside to him. The caress of smooth hands didn't ease his frustrations and the light dab of a freshly-scented towel only irritated him more. With a renewed surge of anger, he batted Cas' hands away and stood, leaning against the countertop for balance. The time it took him to gather his bearings gave Sam and Dad more time to argue.

"You fucking hurt him!" Sam screamed.

"Sammy," Dad pleaded. "It was an accident, I swear."

"No," Sam growled through clenched teeth. "You don't get to call me that."

"Sam—" Dad whispered.

"You're always drunk. Always screwing things up!" Sam said, visibly shaking. "You're just a deadbeat dad. Why do you even come home? We don't even need you here!"

"Sam!" Dean hissed. "You don't get to say shit like that."

"Why not?" Sam snapped. "Why do you keep defending him?"

"Because he's our Dad, Sam," Dean said. "He's still our Dad."

"Sam—" Dad whispered again, stepping forward. He reached for him, fingers grazing his arm—

"Don't touch me!" Sam yelled, pushing him back hard.

Dad stumbled back a step. The hurt look on Dad's face, Sammy's hatred—it shouldn't fucking be like this. Dean snatched up the whiskey bottle from the floor and smashed it against the counter in a fit of anger. The glass cracked and shattered, spitting out shards all over the kitchen. No one moved. No one took a breath. A shocked, tense silence settled over the kitchen.

"Sam, go to your room," Dean said.

"Why—"

"Go to your fucking room!"

Sam stared at him for a long time. A single tear slipped down his brother's face before he turned and stormed out of the kitchen.

"Cas," he said quietly. With the slight tick of a nod, Cas put the bloody towel on the kitchen table and followed Sam out. The fact that Cas had to see all this bullshit— "Sit down, Dad. We're gonna have a talk."

Dad clenched his jaw, their stares locked even. He wasn't about to take any shit, not about this, and especially not from Dad. As if he'd read it on his face, Dad slowly eased himself into a chair at the kitchen table. The look Dad gave him—sad, with an apology in the slump of his shoulders.

"You gotta stop this," Dean started. "You gotta stop this right now, Dad."

"Dean, I'm sorry—"

"Sorry's not gonna cut it this time," he said gravely. He wiped at his bloody brow and exhaled a breath out of his nose. "What the fuck were you thinking, man? Driving home drunk?"

"Dean, watch your—"

"No, Dad! I'm not gonna watch my fucking tone with you. We're done with that, okay? Now it's your goddamn time to listen," he shouted. "Do you even know what you're doing to us? I mean—holy shit. Do you have your head so far up your own ass that you can't see that you're killing us with this fucking bullshit?"

Dad stared at him and then dropped his eyes. He'd know that shame anywhere—he saw it every day when he looked in the mirror. No matter how much he knew it fucking hurt, he wouldn't let up. "Answer me, goddamnit!"

No answer.

"You can't. You can't answer me because you're too fucking drunk to notice we're even alive," he growled. He got in his face, pointing out of the room. "Sammy hates you, okay? How does it feel to know your son can't stand the sight of you? Isn't that enough to stop the fucking drinking?" He hurled the broken head of the bottle across the room, into the sink. The ferocity of it, the angry energy behind it, shot more glass pieces over the countertop. Dean pointed. "Is this shit worth it to you?"

"No, of course not—"

"Then what are you doing!"

"Dean," Dad said, tilting his chin up, expression hard. "I don't have an answer," he said quietly. "Okay?"

Dean heaved a breath and watched him. Dad was hurting real bad. The alcohol, the late nights at the bar—same shit he'd done to deal with his grief. Drunk himself stupid; escaped to Bobby's. Like father like son.

He kneeled in front of him, touching a hand to his knee. "Dad, talk to me. We'll figure this shit out, all right, just like we always have. But I gotta know what the fuck is going on."

Dad dropped his eyes to the floor. He said nothing for a long time, his face sorting and fighting through a bunch of emotions. At his level, he discovered how truly broken Dad was. Dad was just as vulnerable, just as hurt and wounded as he and Sammy. Dad was human too.

"It's just—" Dad started, swallowing. "—too hard." Every word caused a ripple of pain across his face. "Living without her. Not seeing her face. Her smile. Hearing her laugh." A tear slipped down his cheek. "I feel… empty without her, Dean. Wandering, lost and alone. It's like…" Dad clenched his fist. "—someone ripped off my arms, plucked my eyes out. The pain—it's… too much," Dad whispered, clenching his jaw. "She'll never see you boys get married or… even graduate." Dad wiped a tear from his face irritatedly. "I just… want her back."

"I get that, Dad. I fucking… get it," Dean said, swallowing a lump in his throat. "But we're hurting too. You can't just… drink your life away. You don't get to numb all the pain with booze while Sammy hurts every damn day," he said angrily. "You just can't, all right?" His tone softened. "Dad… we need you. Here, with us. Mom may be gone, but you know what? You still have two kids to live for. That should be enough."

"It is," Dad said, resolute. "It is. I'm going—" Dad nodded, gripping his hand. "I'm going to get some help."

"You better, man, because Sammy and I—we're not going through this again. Understand? This drunk bullshit, coming home, making our lives hell? Has got to stop. If not—" he shrugged. "—we're done. I'll take Sammy and we'll go… somewhere, anywhere, to get away from this shit. I'm not having my kid brother live like this anymore. I'm just not," he said firmly. "So… you get your shit straight—just because."

Dad raised his eyes from the floor and studied his face. "When did you get so grown up?"

"Right about when I realized I was the only adult left," he said. Dad winced. Softening up, Dean gripped his knee again. "Don't worry. I still got a lot of growing up to do to fill your shoes, Dad."

Dad smiled. "Thanks, son."

"Yeah, sure," he whispered.

"Sorry, Dad," came another voice. Quiet, mousey in apology. Sam stepped into the kitchen, small face streaked with tears. Dean looked at him for a long time. The fact that Sammy had apologized at all… Right then, he knew.

They were going to be okay.

Dean waved him in and the three of them shared a deep hug. The desperation, the tightness—it spoke of their individual struggles over the past months, their tears and regrets, the fighting. It expressed their apologies to each other, the I love you's that Winchesters often couldn't say. When they finally broke apart, he could have sworn he was a little stronger because of it.

"Get Dad to bed, Sam."

Sam nodded and helped Dad up the stairs. At the kitchen door stood Cas, quiet as always. He avoided Cas' eyes, not wanting to see judgment there. Keeping his hands and mind busy, he picked up the discarded towel on the kitchen table and wetted it at the sink. Pain crawled over his skin as he applied it to his brow. "Sorry you had to see that, Cas," he said, dabbing at his wound. "Just give me a minute. I'll take you home."

At first, Cas didn't respond. The kitchen clock filled the empty space with its ticking, the wind chimes outside the window singing a solemn melody. Then, soft and gentle, Cas said, "I'd rather be here."

He flinched. Who would pick a broken family over… everything? He stole a glance at him over a shoulder, almost… disbelieving. Honesty looked back at him, plain over Cas' face. No bullshit. For whatever reason, he couldn't face that. He looked away—outside the window, across the yard. Anywhere but those blue eyes. The ground had frozen over weeks ago, a fresh blanket of snow covering what once had been a lush garden. Far-off streetlamps glittered like orange dots against the silhouette of houses. If he had a choice, he'd but anywhere but here.

"I can tell you love them very much," Cas said suddenly.

"Yeah, they're okay," he mumbled. Of course, he loved them, but love was fucking hard. "Sometimes, I just don't know if I can do this, you know? If I'm strong enough…"

No response. Just the plinkplink of—he turned. Cas kneeled on the kitchen floor, picking up shards of glass and dropping them into his hand. The simplicity of that gesture had him swallowing down something he couldn't quite describe. Gratitude? Surprise? Awe that someone like Cas could even tolerate being in the same room as his family—or him?

"Hey, Cas, no—" He stepped over to him and kneeled beside him, taking up his hand as gently as he could. Cas stopped and looked up. Inches from each other, he realized how incredibly blue his eyes were.

"I've got this," he whispered.

Cas smiled.

:::

He couldn't concentrate. Cas sat next to him on the bed with his nose buried in his Science book. He was warm, flush against his side, every small movement causing a tremor of excitement. Dean shot out a breath as Cas' arm brushed against his. Another moment frozen in time—agonizingly slow seconds he used to punish himself with thoughts of touching Cas in all the right, but wrong ways. Wrong because he had a track record of fucking up relationships. Wrong because being with him would be the worst thing for Cas.

Slowly, he traced the profile of Cas' face with his eyes; the sharp angle of his nose, his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth. Tapping the pen against his cheek, Cas frowned and narrowed his eyes. He had learned a long time ago that frowning meant Cas was deep in thought; theories of relativity, the possibility of time travel or whatever the fuck else swirling around in head. Cas swept his tongue across his bottom lip and it glistened in the soft light, tempting him, daring him to take a chance. Before he could even think about it, Cas exhaled a sharp breath through his nose and cut him a sidelong glance. His blue eyes shifted back to the book, mouth opening—

"You seem tense, Dean."

He blinked and turned away, clearing his throat. "Uhh—yeah. A lot on my mind." Least of all not fucking Social Studies.

Putting his pen down, Cas leaned his head against the headboard, staring him down. The invitation to talk, to spill his guts, didn't need to be voiced. He could see it in Cas' face; the quiet, open understanding of a friend who had, in his own fucked up mind, become more than that. Over the course of the last few months, ever since that huge fight with Dad and Sammy, Cas had become somewhat of a permanent fixture. Studying, spending time together, watching movies and eating hamburgers—whatever. He'd been there through all the fucking tests, the late night studying. He'd been his supportive rock when Dad went through a lapse in his sobriety and helped him pick up the pieces. Where there was one, the other hadn't been far behind. Just the way he liked it. Simple.

Except it wasn't simple anymore. Watching movies had become a test to see how close they could sit next to each other; tutoring an excuse to touch. Even now, sitting here, staring, they gravitated toward one another. Orbiting around flimsy, personal boundaries they'd rather forget and throw to the wind.

Inches apart, Cas' minty breath skittered across his face, his lips so close. His heart thumped in his throat, lightheadedness scrambling his thoughts and inhibitions. Kiss him, you fucking coward. He licked his lips in anticipation and his dick thickened, pressing against his pants. Just the thought of kissing him—

Cas' phone lit up and shouted out a shrill noise, cutting the invisible line that had drawn them together. Struck dumb by reality, they both jerked back. He was the first to grab the phone. April 12th, 5:02 p.m. A honeybee on a blue flower background and a text from Inias, asking: Would you like to go out Friday night?

"Who's Inias?"

Cas snatched the phone from him and pushed a button to make it go dark. "No one of importance."

He frowned and shifted on the bed. He should let it go— "Is Inias your girlfriend?"

Way to sound jealous, dumbass.

"Inias is a he."

"Oh," Dean said, idly creasing the corner of his book. "Boyfriend?"

Cas watched him closely. Under Cas' microscope wasn't where he wanted to be. "Why is this subject interesting to you?"

"Uhh—" Think quick. "Why are you acting so defensive?" he deflected instead.

"I'm not defensive—"

"Sounds a lot to me like you are."

Cas studied his face, his lips an even line. After a second, Cas shifted his study to his Science book, flipping a page. "Inias is a friend. That is all."

He sagged against the wall and bit his lip, just to keep a smile from spreading across his face. A friend. His relief was palpable, his hope overwhelming—disturbing. You're in too deep. He shelved his doubts and anxieties, reaching over to grab the remote off the nightstand. Anything to keep him distracted or destroy the unsettling silence in the room. A dramatic gasp from the TV did just that as Dr. Piccolo collapsed on the hospital room floor.

"What are you doing?"

"What's it look like, Cas? I'm watching Dr. Sexy—"

"I see that," Cas said calmly. "But you have a Math test tomorrow."

"It can wait."

"Dean—"

"Shh!" He turned the sound up.

Even the suspense and questions surrounding Dr. Piccolo's collapse couldn't keep him awake. Somewhere after Dr. Palmer's emotional love confession, he'd fallen fast asleep. Heat, citrus and cedar made him dream of a warm, summer's day, picking lemons and oranges with Mom and Sammy. When he woke up—

He swallowed hard and almost jerked away. Cas lay on his shoulder, sound asleep and breathing methodically. His dark hair tickled his nose. The citrus smell of his shampoo, his warmth and the cedar note of his cologne—he didn't move an inch, frozen on the bed as if he'd been stuck in front of a headlight. Here, with Cas so close, so… tangible, he found himself between a rock and a hard place; between what he wanted and shouldn't have. Shouldn't because he just… fucking didn't deserve it. Not in a million years. Not after all his fuck ups.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with Cas. To him, he smelled like heaven, some sort of heady mix between innocence and seduction. He held his breath and kept it trapped in his chest until his lungs burned. Whatever the fuck this was, he eased into it and melted into the mattress, succumbing to yet another excuse to have him so close.

Slowly, he moved his arm, taking a chance to loop it around Cas' narrow shoulders. He stilled when Cas suddenly exhaled a sharp breath and nuzzled into him, snuffing out any gap between them. It wasn't until Cas fully settled in that he dared inch his hand into his hair, running fingers through the messy strands. The sweetest noise came out of Cas' throat; something between a groan and the whisper of a name—maybe even his. It left him broken, bordering on the urge to wake him up, say fuck everything else and kiss him. Instead, he kissed the top of his head and drew lazy circles over his spine with his fingers, leaning in, head-to-head.

Yeah, he didn't deserve this, but he'd take it while he could.

:::

So, I'm hung up on my best friend.

The thought slipped down his spine as the water from the showerhead trickled over his back. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to him. The connection—that spark of electricity—had always been there from the very beginning. It had just taken him this long to come to the conclusion that he was fucking crazy about Cas. Fucking crazy about him but unable to do anything about it. He had a good thing going on with Cas right now; best buds, spending a lot of time together—all that normal shit. Shit he didn't want to screw up with something more… complicated.

Who the fuck was he kidding? It was already complicated.

The sweep of his hands became hurried and forceful, almost angry, soap slick on his chest and stomach. He forced the confusing bullshit out of his mind and thought of something else—anything else. What he planned to do today, what he'd eat. Fuck, he even thought about his next test. Nothing stuck. Nothing except for Cas. His blue eyes, the warmth and softness of his skin, the way he lightly sucked on the cap of his pen as he studied.

His dick responded, hardening right about the time he swooped a soapy hand over it. The image of Cas sucking on the tip of his cock lanced through his brain. Heavy in his hand, his dick shot up to full mast, throbbing with the need for some rough handling. He couldn't deny the lure of rubbing out a quick one and started fucking into his tight, warm fist—or, for the sake of his fantasy, Cas' hot, eager mouth.

Cas sucked on it gently, slow and methodical, just enough to tease him. He moved his hand in tandem, savoring the needy ache of his dick as it slipped between his fingers. When Cas concentrated on the tip of his cock, giving it a few barely-there kisses, he pulsed his fist over the flared head with rapid strokes that—fuck, urged him to take it harder, faster. He took a deep breath and slowed it down instead, returning to the long and fluid rhythm. His mind had other ideas, though, and skipped the foreplay.

Cas was no longer on his knees, sucking his dick, but in the shower with him, facing forward. The slope of his spine ended in the perfect curve of his ass; exposed and waiting for him. He didn't hesitate. Sucking in a breath, he shoved his hard cock into Cas' tight hole, gasping as he yanked on his dick. Too far gone, too fucking aroused, he traded in the slow ebb and flow for a rough fucking. His slick fingers ran down his stiff dick in quick, short pulls, ratcheting up the need for release. In his head, Cas reached back to grab his ass, forcefully pulling so that the thrusts would be harder, rougher. Moans from Cas' throat—or his, he couldn't be sure—reverberated off the shower's tiles, adding another level of urgency for orgasm. The crest of it, intense and overbearing, reared up. His breath labored heavily. His heart screaming in his ears. His dick pulsed in his hand and he fucked Cas hard until—

A deep groan punched out of his mouth as his orgasm slammed into him and left him boneless. He stroked himself through the last dying seconds of his climax; his fingertips, his legs, his entire body, tingling with a feel-good sensation. He released a pent-up breath and his heart began to slow down. Calm. Weightless.

Out of nowhere, the bathroom door crashed against the wall.

"Dean!"

His heart sounded off like the backfire from a car's engine.

"Holy shit, Sam! What the fuck?" he snapped, pulling back the shower curtain and sticking his head out. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Jessica wants to go to the fair," Sam blurted, obviously ignoring him. "I need a ride."

"Dude, I'm not your goddamn chauffer—"

"Dean, please."

His little brother's please rolled over several syllables, just like it had when they were kids. Instead of ice cream or a cookie, or even a bedtime story, Sam wanted a ride to a stupid fair to impress his girlfriend. His little brother was growing up. "Fine, but you better be ready in five minutes."

"Thanks, Dean!"

The bathroom door closed, unable to keep out the sounds of his brother's excitement.

:::

The county fair stretched farther than the eye could see. Happy kids with cotton candy pulled on their parents like untrained, overexcited puppies while gaming booths blared music. The pop of a balloon went unnoticed and the smell of popcorn, fried food and candy salted and sweetened the air. Sam and Jessica walked in front of them, shouldering their way through the crowd as Cas hovered at his side, as close as he'd always been. He wasn't sorry that he had dragged him along for the ride.

While Sam was oblivious to anything but his girlfriend, Jessica looked back at them. Her long blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder, her big green eyes sparkling with the multi-colored lights of the fair. The smile on her lips lit up her entire face, embodying words that people threw around way too easily. Words like kindness, beauty and even innocence. Yeah, Sammy had picked a good one. Jealousy tickled his bones like the legs of a spider on skin.

The ring of a bell tore his eyes away. A little girl had won a stuffed pig and lifted it up to show her older sister. A clown with colorful balloons walked by, obscuring his view in a lens of blue, red, yellow and orange. Screams came from a high-speed ride and the heavy scent of corndogs called to him.

Ahead, Sam leaned in as Jessica whispered in his ear. They shared a laugh just before his little brother turned and said, "Hey, Dean. We're gonna—"

"Yeah, go." He didn't even need to hear it. "Keep an eye on your phone, okay? Let me know when you…"

They were already gone, swallowed up by the hunger of the crowd. He glanced sidelong at Cas who smiled back and used the eye contact as an excuse to step closer. Bodily warmth lit up his side, the accidental brush of fingers on his wrist. The hairs on the back of his neck danced as an electrical current shot up his arm. A different warmth—something on an emotional level—settled in his gut.

"They seem happy," Cas said, walking alongside him.

He looked up from the ground and saw the ghost of Sam and Jessica round a corner and disappear behind a game booth. "Yeah. I haven't seen Sammy this happy since…"

Mom died.

He let the uncompleted sentence hang in the air. Over the course of their many months as friends, Cas knew well enough when to leave things alone. Knew too how to get him talking, under what circumstances and even where to do it.

"Are you happy?"

Now wasn't one of those times.

The question caught him off guard and he averted his eyes. A younger man bumped into him, mumbled an apology and hustled by, carrying a large stuffed bear on his back. His girlfriend, a brown-haired woman in a flower sundress, turned and grinned, hugging him and the bear in tandem. Happiness—it'd been too long to know what that felt like. Maybe it was in the smile of a kid with the giant lollipop, or in the Dad who'd shown his son how to win at darts. He tasted a little bit of that happiness when Cas bumped against him, reminding him he hadn't answered the question. In the end, trading looks with one another, he said, "Honestly?" then stopped. No. Now's not a good time. "Look, I don't want to get into this. Let's just… try to have fun or something."

His eyes followed the line of various game booths and food vendors. A caramel apple cart, another place serving frozen coffee on a stick and deep-fried Oreos. Dart Time with its neatly arranged balloons spanning the colors of the rainbow. At one of the booths, Water Gun Fun, a stuffed bee with a big smile sewn onto its face hung from one of the hooks. "What about that?"

Cas looked over at the game skeptically at first. With a nod, Cas headed that way and took an empty seat. Most of the seats were empty, in fact. A kid at the very end of the row narrowed his eyes at them. He had pudgy cheeks and hands, and a small pile of stuffed animals and candy. A spoiled brat or a fairway robber, stealing sweets and prizes from unsuspecting fun-seeking tourists.

While Cas paid the game attendant, he stood behind him. Cas spared him a look over his shoulder. "You're not playing?"

"Nah, I'll watch."

The bell rung and the race was off. Already, Cas had wasted precious seconds lining up his stream of water at the bull's-eye. The other kid's tube filled up quickly, the pressure from the water sending a little stopper up, up, up. Close to the top. Too close. At least an inch higher than Cas'. "Come on, Cas," he whispered to himself. But it was too late. As soon as the kid's stopper reached the top, the bell went off, signifying a win and a loss for Cas.

"Wow, you suck," the brat said.

Dean narrowed his eyes. The little shit glared back at him. And just like that, it was on. Cas didn't have a chance to fully stand up. He pushed him back down in the seat and hovered behind him, leaning over, chest-to-back. "Let's show that son of a bitch what we're made of," he said into the shell of his ear. He reached around and held onto the gun's twin handles, their fingers and hands entwined. With the screech of the bell, the race began and the torrent of water sprang out from the gun's nozzle. After that… he couldn't recall anything even if he'd wanted to.

He lost himself in the smell of Cas' clean skin, the feel of it as they came together, connected at the cheek. Soft, yet sandpaper rough, his stubble lightly scraping against his chin. The way Cas emitted a sweet, hushed little noise in the back of his throat; the tilt and turn of his head to expose his neck to him. An invitation. His lips brushing against Cas' ear and the temptation to whisper something, anything, proved to be too great. "Cas…"

He didn't need to say anything else. Cas let slip a choked-off groan, nuzzling back into him with the roll of his head. His dick gave the teasing a standing ovation, straining hard against the zipper of his jeans. No doubt, Cas could feel it too. Cas rounded his spine and pressed his back into him, increasing the pressure against his cock tenfold. He couldn't respond in any other way than grazing the shell of his ear with his teeth. Their groans died beneath the power of the bell. They'd lost. Again.

Inhaling sharply, he straightened. He'd gone too far. Cas looked back and up, and their eyes met for a second. In that moment, they shared their mutual questions, doubts and fears. He turned his head, breaking eye contact, somewhere between I need you and I'm scared.

The kid stared at him, pudgy face twisted in disgust. "Fags."

His blood boiled hot. Snapping his hand out, he grabbed Cas by the arm and hoisted him up and out of the seat. No care was taken as he moved Cas aside; revenge the only thing on his mind. "All right, you little fuckstick," Dean growled, sitting down. "Your ass is mine."

The bell chimed. A jet stream of water shot out of his gun right into the bull's-eye, not even a second wasted. He applied steady hands, slow, easy breathing and a sharp eye, relying on the gun-handling techniques Dad had taught him when he was a kid. Different gun, same principles. The little fucker didn't have a chance.

He didn't need to check his progress. The bell cheered and the light above his station flared to life. A tight squeeze on his shoulder and a proud, "Dean, you won," confirmed it—he'd won against that stupid kid. He flashed the bastard a grin, the middle finger and twisted away, getting up and out of his seat.

"Congratulations. What prize would you like?"

He looked up to the assortment of stuffed animals lifelessly hanging from the hooks and pegs. "That one," he said, pointing to the bee with the wide smile. The attendant turned and plucked it from the hook before giving it to him. He handed it off to Cas without a thought. Cas smiled and held it tight to his chest, like it'd been the best gift in the entire world. Making Cas happy? He felt like a fucking badass.

They shared a secret smile and turned, walking past the dumbass kid. The bastard didn't have a chance to react before the long, twisted-rainbow lollipop was grabbed from him—a horn-shaped candy that looked like it had belonged to an edible, gay unicorn.

"Hey!" the little shit squealed.

He pushed the kid off the seat, snickered when he toppled over onto the ground. "Lay off the sweets, kid." The little brat swore and struggled to get up as he and Cas walked away.

In the crowd, among tired parents and excited kids, they walked side-by-side, close as if they were attached at the hip. He didn't need to look up from the ground to know Cas was staring. Somehow, after all these months, he could feel it. His gut tightened up like a coiled spring every time.

"Thank you for—"

"Yeah, no problem," he murmured, kicking at a Styrofoam cup.

He peeled his eyes from the ground. Slowly, Cas pulled back the wrapper from his lollipop and slipped it past his lips, sucking long and hard. For fuck's sake. He swallowed as Cas swept his tongue along its length, taking it into his mouth again to bob up and down on the tip. His cheeks grew hot and he averted his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck.

They trudged through the crowd, balloons and food stands, and ended up at the Ferris wheel. Without a word, he and Cas climbed into one of the empty cars. The Ferris wheel jerked to life and began to turn, sending them to the top, slowly and gradually. He should have been paying attention to the view: the long stretch of colors and lights, the sea of people below. But he couldn't. Not with Cas sucking on his lollipop like that. Out, in. In, out. Inch by inch as if he were doing this shit on purpose. The yellow light bulb right over Cas' head illuminated him and the stick glistened with his saliva; wet, eager mouth sucking it down again.

He shifted uncomfortably. His hard dick made everything else—sitting, breathing—a trial of patience. Cas cut him a sidelong glance and then turned his head, extending the candy toward him with a smile. Like a demon offering up Pandora's Box.

He shook his head. "Nope. I'm good. You just…" keep sucking.

As Cas eased the lollipop back in his mouth, he leaned back to watch the show. Cas swirled his tongue around it, cheeks bulging in turns as it swept to either side. Back to the in and out motion, slow, teasing. It took every fiber of his being not to grab his dick and start jerking off right then and there. Fuck. He was so hard he couldn't stand it.

At the top, the Ferris wheel jerked to a halt, popping him out of the best porn he'd ever fucking seen. Cas stopped his sucking and lowered it from his mouth, staring out. Following his eyes, Dean found out why. City lights shimmered against the darker silhouettes of buildings and houses, suspended in midair. The starless night sky and the blackness of the earth had melted together. He couldn't tell where one began and the other ended.

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah," he said. "Sure is."

Casually, he looped an arm over the back of the car, fingers so close to touching Cas' shoulder. They sat there like that, enjoying each other's company until the Ferris wheel started moving again. Descending back to earth, from the heaven of their shared companionship. His heart sank as the Ferris wheel stopped altogether, putting an end to something that had just begun.

It's just a fantasy, man. Forget it. He's better off, anyway.

The thought weighed him down as they got off, feet shuffling in the dirt. When he looked up, Sam and Jessica were waiting for them just beyond the small, metal barrier. Jessica smiled through her blue rock candy while Sam stared at her, mesmerized by—

He grinned, nudging against the current of people on his way to get to them. Sam blinked and looked up as Dean looped an arm around him. "I feel your pain, man."

Sam frowned out his confusion. "What?"

He could only grin wider.

:::

The Impala pulled up in front of a small, modern home that Sam said belonged to Jessica and her family. The yellow house stood out among its brown and gray neighbors, white porch and trim reminding him of a homemade lemonade stand. The silvered wood fence leaned lazily against one side of the house, lounging beneath a large oak tree. With its patchy lawn and young, almost bare shrubs in the front, the home looked… exactly like that: a home. Welcoming in its imperfection.

Sam reached for the door handle, ready to bust out. Dean grabbed him by the arm before his little brother could escape. "Hey. You going to be ready for the fishing trip tomorrow?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam groaned, yanking away.

"Dude, I'm coming to get you real fucking early. You better be awake."

"I will," Sam hissed, halfway out the door.

"Wait, wait."

Sam sighed heavily and rolled his eyes, angling back to throw him a dirty look. Biting his lower lip to suppress a grin, he pulled out his wallet, and from it, a condom. The loud gasp was almost comical. "Dean!"

"What's the matter, Sammy? Too big?"

"No!" Sam shouted, somewhere between fuck you and denial. "But I'm not going—"

"Dude, don't give me that shit. I saw how you were looking at her last night. How many times did you imagine her sucking on your—"

"Dean!"

"I'm just saying, kiddo. You never know," he said, enjoying his brother's red cheeks and embarrassment a little too much. "Take it."

Sam growled and snatched it from him, stuffing it in his pocket. "You suck."

"And hopefully she will too." He winked.

"OhmyGod," Sam groaned, stepping out into the cool, spring air.

"Bright and early tomorrow!"

The slam of the door punctuated Sam's embarrassment and the hard noise echoed in the car's small space. He watched Sammy hurry away on lanky legs and take the stairs two at a time. The kid had grown since winter. The little bastard wouldn't be little for long.

Triumphant, he turned the engine over and sped away, passing homes and businesses of varying sizes and color. The playful giddiness stayed with him as he parked in front of Cas' house, walked up the stone pathway and rang the doorbell. His gut churned with sudden nervousness, heart bouncing in his chest a little harder than usual. For him to show up unexpectedly—unlike him. He'd have to think up a good reason.

His eyes wound up the intricate pattern on the door, black ironwork and beveled glass—through it, the distorted image of a person. When the door opened, there stood Cas. His wet hair shot up every which way, more so than usual, and a sheet of moisture glistened on his skin. A simple, white t-shirt and dark blue jeans breathed with him, snug and fit. This was as dressed down as he'd ever seen him. Maybe he'd caught him right after a shower, a dip in the pool or working out…

Languidly, Dean leaned against the doorframe as if he needed to catch his breath. He tore his eyes away, trying to act cool, and traded in Cas' gorgeous body for a boring plant in the flower bed. "Your parents home?"

"No." Even a simple word carried with it the rich coarseness of his voice, bass notes found legal only in the bedroom. "They're currently in Hawaii."

Thank fuck.

"And you didn't go?"

"I wasn't invited."

He peeked up at him. The way Cas said those words—nonchalant, matter-of-factly—told him that being left behind was normal. To him, having a family that wasn't close was as strange as a burger without onions. "Sammy's gone too. Off at Jessica's to spend the night." The smallest prospect of Sam getting laid— "We should celebrate," he said with more excitement than he intended. Perfect excuse. He pushed his way inside.

"Why?"

"Because I have a feeling Sam's gonna get some tonight." He wiggled his eyebrows, turning away before a frown made it to Cas' face.

"Not everyone is a sexual conquest, Dean." There. The chastisement darkened his voice, dropping it past kiss me to please fuck me.

"Says who?" he shot back easily, winking at him. Half a smile cracked Cas' mouth. "Yeah, so, chop-chop. Let's celebrate. Get the booze—whatever."

Cas didn't move, crossing his arms over his chest. Strangely defiant. "Is… Sam's potential of…"

"—getting fucked…" he helped after Cas had trailed off.

"—a reason to celebrate?"

"Uhh—" he stuttered, palming his pockets blindly. He pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it, showing it off proudly. "I got an A on my Social Studies test?"

Cas probably saw through his bullshit if those narrowed eyes were any indication. Skepticism flashed across his face. And why not? His excuses to spend time with him were getting more and more questionable. Soon, he'd run out of plausible reasons and skip straight to ridiculous—vampires, werewolf attacks, alien abductions. Because Sam actually having enough balls to make a move? Seeing a chupacabra was more likely.

Being a chicken-shit obviously ran in the family.

With a wry smile, Cas turned, walking out of the foyer with the shake of his head. His ass in those jeans—fuck. He snapped out of it and tucked his test in his back pocket, letting his eyes canvas the details of the house's interior. Dark wood stretched across the floors, up the intricately detailed archways, to the built-in cabinetry and doorways. Sleek and sophisticated, the olive green walls boasted expensive paintings while the simple, black iron chandelier watched silently overhead. A white sitting chair with an accompanying lamp hugged the curve of the staircase, inviting his eyes to travel along the wooden handrail up to the top, to a niche with a decorative plant.

It was the first time he'd ever been inside Cas' house. As impressive as it was, he didn't belong here and he knew it. Inadequacy tugged at him. The place seemed to get dirtier the longer he stood there, as if his filth had rubbed off on the clean floors, the polished mirror and marble inlay. He drifted toward the staircase and crept up the stairs, admiring the twisting, black ironwork balusters and white stair runner. If his dirty boots left behind a stain…

He broke away from the top of the staircase and explored, opening up each of the rooms. One of them was too grand, too ridiculous to be Cas' and another—a theatre room. He rolled his eyes and shut the door, choosing the last door on the left of the hall; the only other one that could possibly be a bedroom. He twisted the knob and opened the door. Nope. Not that one. Didn't even match the rest of the house—which fit Cas to a tee.

He stepped inside, transported to a very different world. Instead of opulence, simplicity. Instead of overblown furniture rich in detail, the room had a bed, a desk, and a window. Non-descript. Not impressive by any means. But the textures… Pale wood paneling with thin, horizontal slats occupied one wall; the others painted black. The glow of the bamboo flooring cooled the stark contrast of color in the room. With the tree blocking the window's view, the place had an earthy touch to it, a hideaway from the oppressing feel of the rest of the house. No books or pictures—except for one.

On the desk, in a simple black frame, was a picture of them, together. Both smiling and tucked in close. He remembered that day. It had been the first sunny day of spring in his backyard. That was it. Just a simple day in the middle of his shit storm life, a reprieve from all the doubts, stress and guilt. He gave the photo a lingering glance before opening the desk drawer. Nothing except for a book. Caramel leather, no print lettering. Not a book at all, but a photo album. When he opened it up, family pictures neatly lined the inside, snug in their clear insert pockets. Faces he didn't know, exotic places lost on him. Right then he realized how much he didn't know about Cas. Too wrapped up in his own life to ask questions or even care. Another example of his selfishness.

He brought it with him, sinking deep into the bed. One of those expensive foam mattresses. With a flop back, he nestled himself in the fluffy pillows and peered at the pictures. His Mom was smiling in one of them—his Mom never smiled. The fragile clink of glass-against-glass shot him up to a sitting position and he tucked the photo album under a pillow quicker than he could blink.

"Dean?" Cas peeked in, carrying a bottle and two glasses.

"I found your room," he announced, standing up from the bed. He smoothed the comforter with his hand, sending wrinkles to the floor.

"You don't have to get up." Cas said quietly, setting the glassware on the desk. Obediently, he melted back into the mattress as Cas poured the wine. Sinking, sinking, sinking. The tension seeped out of his muscles and turned his bones to jelly. He could float away on his puffy cloud, but the aroma of wine tethered him back to earth with its berries and spices. And the taste—holy fuck. Tart and rich, tickling his throat on its way down. After not drinking for months, he'd get drunk off this rich man's shit.

"Good?" Cas asked, sinking into the space next to him.

He nodded while tipping his head back, downing the rest of it. Grabbing the bottle, he poured more wine into his glass. "This shit looks expensive, Cas."

"It is," Cas confirmed. "The last bottle of my mother's favorite."

He cut him a sidelong glance, grinning wide. "You fucking rebel."

Cas laughed into his glass and sipped his wine, all prim and proper. They clinked their glasses together in a toast.

"To Sam and Jessica," Cas said.

"May they get laid," he added with a brow wiggle.

He lost himself in the decadence of the wine; its depth and aroma, the feel-good everything as it slowly took him away. Away from all the shit the last year had brought him—far away from Cas' heated stare. Cas' disapproval could cut through steel, even the fog of too much wine. He didn't need to look to know that he'd somehow pissed Cas off. Because he was an idiot, he looked anyway.

On his lap sat the caramel-leather photo album. The evidence of a frown darkened Cas' face with quiet disappointment. He'd violated Cas' privacy and the resulting guilt tasted like bitter wine. "I uhh—yeah," he said stupidly, dropping his eyes to the white comforter. "Sorry."

Cas nodded simply and picked up the book, no doubt planning to put it on the nightstand. Before Cas could move his hand an inch, he caught it and held it still. "It's just that… I don't know anything about your family—"

"There's nothing to tell."

Cas lightly pulled his wrist, but Dean didn't let go. "Come on, Cas. You pretty much know everything about me. What I like on my burgers, what I—"

"Extra onions," Cas finished for him.

"Yeah, see? Exactly. So…" he said with a shrug. "Trust runs both ways."

Cas dropped his eyes to his wrist and nodded. Together, they shifted back into the pillows. Cas sat straight and rigid while Dean oozed into the bed, into softness of the high thread-count sheets. Slouched and lazily, he leaned his head against Cas' arm. From here, he had full view of the photo album. Pressed up to his side, the tension in Cas' muscles couldn't have been more real. Wound up so tight that even opening the book proved to be a big deal. Before Cas could open it all the way—

"Hey," he whispered. "We don't have to do this."

"No," Cas said quietly. "It's fine."

"You sure?"

Cas didn't say anything else. He opened the photo album, scanned the first page quickly and almost moved on to the next. A photo of a little boy grinning from ear-to-ear and a fish in the sand caught his eye. Dean stopped him from turning the page, pointing to the photograph. "Is that you?"

"Yes," Cas breathed out. He pointed to the fish. "A fish had washed ashore, still alive. I almost stepped on it, but my father stopped me. 'Don't step on that fish, Castiel. Big plans for that fish,' he'd said jokingly." Cas swallowed, frowning into the pages. "I remember that day clearly. It was one of the few good days father and I had spent together."

The velvet-smooth texture of his voice had become rough, coarse with some sort of… inner pain. He angled his head up. Cas' face had gone hard, jaw line stiff and unyielding. His blue eyes reflected that hurt. "Shit, Cas. I'm sorry." He wasn't a stranger to Dads and bad days either.

Cas skipped passed a bunch of pages. When he opened his mouth in protest, tried to flip back to them, Cas gripped the book tight and whispered, "Please." Something agonizing in those pages, beyond the photos of a little boy who'd known better days. It was visible in Cas' face, in the tremor of his chin, in the watery clearing of his throat. He let it go, allowing skeletons to remain in the closet.

Cas moved on and flipped another page. A family photo stared back at him. The kind any family would get to send as a Christmas postcard or—just because. In this one, no one smiled, all of them straight-faced. Something simmered beneath those faces. A mutual animosity or just… a family that'd never known the definition of family at all.

"My father Charles," Cas said, pointing. Full beard, kind eyes, brown finger-length hair. He'd never met Cas' Dad. Never even heard Cas mention him until now. "A heart surgeon over at St. David's hospital," A breath and then… "Absent father, at best."

"You know my mother Evelyn," Cas said, not bothering to point. He'd know that scowling face anywhere. Tight-lipped here, yet no less intimidating.

"Still don't get why she hates me," he mumbled.

"Because she thinks you're a bad influence, Dean," Cas answered simply. "That you… 'corrupt everything you touch'." Cas must have noticed his wince. "Mother has a different opinion of you than I do."

"Oh yeah?" He swallowed down the afterburn of his Mom's words. "What's your opinion?"

Cas didn't answer for a long time and his face twisted with his struggle. Before Cas could open his mouth, Dean let him off the hook. "Just… forget about it, Cas."

"Dean—"

"Who's this?" he interrupted, pointing to a guy with dark hair and bright eyes. Clean-shaven, handsome. Belonged on the cover of a magazine.

"That's my brother Michael," Cas said. There was an edge to his voice. It sounded— "The perfect son." —bitter, almost angry. "He's following in father's footsteps to become a surgeon. Hasn't ever made a mistake in his entire life."

"So… wild guess here, Cas," he began. "You two aren't close."

"Far from," Cas answered quickly. He couldn't imagine a life where he didn't have a brother who knew his insides and outsides. Probably better than even he did. Must be—

"Isn't that… I don't know," he stammered. "Doesn't that make you feel… lonely?"

"I don't know the difference. I've never had a close relationship like you and Sam, Dean."

"Well… that sucks." He could tell that Cas was growing more and more uncomfortable. Only one more to go. He pointed to the red-haired girl with hazel eyes. Fucking gorgeous. "Who's that?"

"My sister Anna," Cas mumbled, brushing a slender finger over her picture. A strange gesture. Affectionate. The explanation stopped there.

"What happened to her?"

Cas shrugged. "Mother and father, they… disapproved of something she did. She rebelled and I…" Cas trailed off, swallowing again. "I haven't heard from her since. That was two years ago." A little sigh. "I miss her."

Making Cas go through this pain—shit. He felt like an asshole. "Hey," he whispered, closing the photo album. "Let's forget about all this, okay? We've got more wine to drink." He flashed him a mischievous grin, just to lighten the mood. Cas responded with a nod and a little quirk of the lips.

More than half the bottle later, they'd stumbled over an invisible tripwire of laughing and playful touching. Somewhere between a moment of stolen intimacy and a lingering brush of fingers, the topic of college had gotten in the way.

"Do you plan on going to college?" Cas asked suddenly, still recovering from one of his stupid jokes.

Just like that, the seriousness returned. He flopped back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. College. A future. The heaviness of it burdened his shoulders. The thought of leaving Dad and Sammy behind— "No. Not really my thing," he said, lolling his head to the side. "You?"

Cas nodded. "Stanford."

"Shit, Cas. That's—that's pretty far away." The realization of losing Cas... "Why there? I mean, what are you gonna do?"

"I—" Cas started, stumbling over his words. "Follow in my father's footsteps—"

"Bullshit," he cut him off. "You're reading from a script handed down to you by your parents and you know it." He flipped onto his side, tucking his hand under a fluffy pillow. "If there's one thing you wanted to do, anything at all, what would it be? What do you want to do? Don't think about what your parents want. Parents don't always know what's best, you know? You can make your own choices."

"I've... never really thought about going against my parents wishes."

"Sure, you have, Cas. Anyway, don't think about it like that. I don't know. Think about it like... freedom of choice. Rip up the pages, pick your own destiny. Make it up as you go. Crap like that."

"Is that what you do?" Cas asked.

"Yeah, generally."

Cas frowned with thoughtfulness. After a moment, his face smoothed over again, a touch hopeful. "I'd… like to go to K-State, maybe."

Shit, that was just… an hour or so away. He couldn't hide his grin. "Yeah. I could come visit, chase all the hot college chicks. Sounds like a match made in Heaven."

"You could apply—"

"Nope. I'm no good at school," he said.

"Dean—"

"Cas, zip it."

"College would be good for you."

"Yeah? So would a bowelectomy."

They went quiet and filled the empty space with more wine. His head spun. His body completely relaxed. Even Cas got tipsy, a little more talkative than he usually was. He learned that Cas knew a whole fuckton about bees, that he didn't know how to ride a bike, that his favorite game was Sorry! followed by Twister. A bunch of shit he should have known a long time ago if he'd taken the time to get to know him. He made a silent vow right then and there; stop being a selfish prick, spend more time with him and care.

They lay there side-by-side, facing each other, a few inches apart. Talking about anything and everything. The heat between them, the smells; the marriage between his cologne and the lemon-apple of his shampoo. The warm cashmere of vanilla and cedar; a sunny afternoon in a field of citrus trees. Lazy sex on a Sunday morning. He inhaled the rich scent as soon as he could wrap his head around it, soon after the laughter died down. They were staring at each other, lost in the moment. He licked his lips as his heart started pumping hard in his chest. All he could think about, all he wanted, was to kiss him.

Cas brushed the back of a finger down his cheek. He sucked in a breath and held it until he ached. Closing his eyes, he leaned into the touch, easing out the trapped air from his lungs. Cas was there, even closer, when he opened his eyes again, their lips… so fucking close.

"Dean," Cas whispered. "You had asked me about my opinion of you earlier…"

"Yeah." He remembered. "Let's just skip—"

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

"The party—"

"No," Cas said gently. "Before that. Our sophomore year."

He frowned. Fuck if he could remember anything from his sophomore year. He'd spent most of his time drinking, fucking and smoking pot. Didn't remember shit. Especially not— "No. Did we—"

"We met once," Cas started. "I remember it clearly." A small smile lit up Cas' face, his blue eyes had far-off look to them as if he were remembering something good. "After Raphael had thrown my books to the ground, you stopped and looked at me. It was as if… the entire world… completely froze. It was just us in that hallway."

Dean swallowed hard.

"You picked up my book, handed it to me and said…" Cas took a deep breath. "Don't let anyone push you around. Stand up for yourself." Cas' blue eyes found him again. "My life changed after that. Because of you."

He lay there, somewhere between in disbelief and confusion. "I did that?" he echoed. "But I don't remember—"

The nerdy kid with the glasses. Thin and timid. Blue eyes. Holy shit, that'd been Cas. The hazy memory of that day rushed him, swallowed him up. The fucker that'd knocked Cas' books down. The dorky, shy smile Cas had given him. Don't let that asshole push you around, dude. Stand up for yourself.

God, Cas had changed so much.

Dean studied his face, his smile. He looked so happy right now. Cas brushed another finger down his cheek and he reached up and grabbed his hand, pulling it down. He held it for just a second before letting it go, trading in fingers for strands of his dark hair; bed-tousled shards that poked up all around his head. Too intimate right now, too heavy, he aimed for humor, reaching up to smooth it down. "Your hair looks like a bird's nest…"

Cas frowned and lifted a hand to his head, running fingers through his hair. "It's not… a bird's nest."

They shared a smile, but that too died quickly, returning to the heaviness. Daringly, Cas inched forward, their faces… so fucking close. He could almost taste his lips, the warmth of Cas' full mouth right there.

Please fucking kiss him, goddamnit.

He leaned forward, but before he could bridge the gap and press their mouths together—

"Dean," Cas whispered. "I've been in love with you since my sophomore year."

His brain blew out. Stopped functioning. His breath— "What?"

"I—"

"You're drunk," he accused.

"Not… particularly," Cas said. "Dean, I—"

Dean put a hand over his mouth. "S—stop talking."

The shit with Alastair, coming out of nowhere to save his ass. Running Lucifer out of the school with his batshit crazy parents and lawyers. Being there for him every turn. The puzzle snapped together. But beyond that, one word echoed in his brain over and over again. Love. Fuck, Cas loved him.

Too much. This is too fucking much.

He pulled away, up and off the bed. "I—sorry… I gotta go."

Even when Cas called out his name, desperate and needy, he didn't look back.

:::

Sturdy pines trees stood like proud soldiers on the front line of the winding road, silently waiting to face off with their brothers on the opposite side. The Impala took the bends and sharp turns easily, eating up and leaving asphalt behind her. A steady stream of hard air whipped against his face from the opened window, a ball of it formed in his clawed hand—a superhero that could control the wind; an extraordinary man with powers. If only…

The scent of pine… he could almost taste it on his tongue. As the opening melody of Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive began, Dad reached for the radio and turned it up. Dad smiled at him from the driver's seat, Sam's humming coming from the back. Dean smiled back and focused straight ahead. Road signs and the long line of trees zipped by; a blur of smeared watercolor in the side view mirror. It reminded him of one of Sammy's paintings when he was little. The glob of yellow paint for the sun, stick figures of the two of them holding hands. The words 'best brother in the world' chicken-scratched at the top. He still had it, tucked away in one of his drawers back home. Good times back then.

"I walk these streets, with a loaded six string on my back…" Dad started to sing, off-tune.

It wasn't particularly Hell right now either.

He couldn't help but grin as Dad kept on singing. Horribly. Dad looked over at him and shared his smile. "I play for keeps, 'cause I might not make it back. I've been everywhere—"

"—still I'm standing tall," they sang together. "I've seen a million faces and I've rocked them all."

"—'cause I'm a cowboy!" Sam belted out from the back. "—on a steel horse I ride!"

"I'm wanted—"

"Wanted!" Sam screeched.

"Dead or alive..."

They couldn't keep it together, each of them busting out laughing as the Impala zoomed toward the fishing grounds. The sun hung low by the time they found a good spot and parked. A cool breeze soothed his skin as he piled out of the car and opened the trunk, helping Dad unpack. Sam helped too, grabbing one of the heavier ice coolers.

"You need help with that, son?"

"I've got it, Dad," Sam beamed, making a strangled sound as he picked it up. Dad ruffled Sammy's hair before the kid could waddle off with his load.

"He's a good kid," Dad said when Sam was far enough away.

"Yeah, he really is," he agreed, grabbing the fishing poles. The hum of the cicadas replaced the lack conversation between them. Perfect timing to get something off his chest; something he'd been meaning to say for a while. "You know, Dad. I'm real proud of you. Three months sober… that's nothing to shrug at."

Dad reached far into the trunk to grab the box of fishing lures. When he straightened up, Dad fixed him with dark brown eyes. Dad had gotten better, looked better, in these last couple of months. No more heavy bags under his eyes, his whole disposition, body language; changed. Dad didn't seem so… fucking lost anymore. Like—Dad had found… hope.

"Well, I couldn't have done it without you, Dean. I mean, without you boys—" Dad choked it off, struggling with whatever emotion that bubbled up. "Ah, anyway," Dad said with a warm smile, clasping his shoulder to give it a tight squeeze. "Let's get the camp set up."

"Okay, Dad."

At the camp, Dad had taken over setting up the tent, encouraging them to explore, take a load off, while he did all the heavy lifting. He and Sam walked along the riverbed, not saying anything. The sunlight trickled in through the leaves, bugs skimming across the river's glassy surface. Gnats flew around their faces, but they didn't care. They swatted at them quietly while Sam carried a stick, poking at the ground. He kept his own hands busy by picking leaves off trees and peeling them apart.

"So how'd yesterday go?" he asked.

"Uh—what do you mean, yesterday?" Sam looked up, saw his grin and rolled his eyes. "I guess you mean with Jess." His little brother heaved a sigh. "No, Dean. I didn't do anything with her."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Um, because."

"Because?"

"Wow, Dean. Way to make this conversation really uncomfortable."

"That's kinda my job," he said, tousling Sam's brown hair. "Embarrassing the shit out of my little brother."

"Oh yeah?" Sam said, a creepy smile stretching across his face. "Fine. What about you and Cas?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'what about you and Cas?'"

"You know what I mean."

"No, 'fraid I don't, dude."

"Oh, that's crap." Sam mumbled, poking his stick at a log. "I see the way you look at him, Dean. I'm not dumb. Each time he's brought up, you practically giggle like a girl."

"Dude, shut up."

"Is this embarrassing?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Anyway, it's not even like that."

"Whatever," Sam said. Dean breathed a sigh of relief. That was the end of it. And then… "So, why haven't you guys—"

"Sam! Enough, okay?"

"Fine," Sam huffed. "You deserve to be happy, you know."

"Who says I'm not? Who the fuck says Cas could make me happy—if that were even an option. If I even liked him that way—which I fucking don't."

"Dude, look. First of all, you're not happy. I've been looking up to you since—I don't even know. A long time, since I was a little kid. I know you. You're not happy. The only time I see you even close to happy is when you're around Cas. So don't give me that crap, Dean. I know you better than I know me. You can't hide from your little brother, all right?"

He steeled his jaw and ripped a leaf from a low-hanging branch, shredding it with his fingers. The kid was smart. Too smart. Everything he'd been keeping to himself—it didn't matter. Sammy could pick him a part and read him as if he were one of those ridiculous law books.

"I just want you to be happy."

Yeah, fat chance of that happening, Sammy.

"Anyway, I can tell you like him—" Sam said, after the silence had gotten too long. Before he had a chance of opening his mouth in protest… "Cas likes you too."

"Yeah, I know," he blurted without thinking.

"Wait… he told you?" they asked in unison.

"Uh. Yeah?"

"Well, that's fucking great," Dean said, kicking a rock across the dirt trail.

"We're kinda close, Dean."

"Yeah, I know all about your little bromance," he snapped, a little too harsh. The edge didn't leave his voice when he asked, "What else do you guys talk about?" with accusing jealousy.

"Dean," Sam said sternly.

He exhaled hard through his nose and looked away. Out past the trunks of trees, to the river where they used to play when they were kids. Simpler times when all they cared about was catching frogs and stick-sword fighting.

"Is that all he said? That he liked you?" Sam pressed.

"Why?" he asked, whipping his head around. He narrowed his eyes. "You know something different?"

"No," Sam said quickly. "I mean, I know what you do."

A lie. He could smell it on him.

"Cut the bullshit, Sam."

"You first," Sam challenged.

He rubbed the back of his neck. His brain raced back to that moment, when Cas had dropped that particular bombshell.

Dean, I've been in love with you since my sophomore year.

In love with you…

Love.

"Come on, Dean. What'd he say?"

"Dude, settle the fuck down," he hissed.

He couldn't wrap his head around it, let alone tell his bratty little brother. The fact that anyone could love him—

Sam stared at him intently, as if he were waiting for the boy to kiss the girl in one of his stupid chick-flicks. More hung up on his older brother's romance with Cas than even he was. "Do you need to write it down? Charades? We can play charades if you're having that much of a problem."

"Oh, fuck off," he snapped. "I'm not telling you this shit. Mind your own business."

"Did he say he loved you?" Sam jumped to the chase. Enough of the bullshit, obviously. The way he reacted—admittedly bashful; looking away like a shy girl—sent Sam off. "Holy shit, dude. That's fucking amazing—" Dean glared at him. "I mean, that must be stressing you out."

"Yeah, it fucking is."

More than just stress. It was freaking him the fuck out.

"So, what are you gonna do?"

"I don't fucking know, man," he said irritatedly. "Don't be so goddamn excited about this."

"Can't help it, Dean. I've been rooting for you guys since you two met."

"All right. Enough with the chick-flick bullshit already, Sam," he said, rolling his eyes. "Doesn't matter anyway. It's not gonna happen."

"Why not?" Sam demanded. "Why can't you be happy?"

"Just because."

"Just because isn't an answer, Dean," Sam declared. "What's going on?"

"Let's just fucking drop it, all right?"

"Why is it so hard for you to just talk for once?"

"Because it isn't that fucking easy, Sam! Holy shit."

"Okay, well. Try." Sam said quietly. "Is it about Cas? College? Dad? Mom?"

"I don't want to talk—"

"Dean," Sam growled.

"Yeah, it's about Mom!" he shouted. "Dad, you—everything. Okay? Holy fuck, Sam."

"I get it, Dean. About Mom, I mean. I miss her too."

"It's not about missing her. Well—okay, that's not what I meant. Of course, I fucking miss her. There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss her. It's just…" He swallowed down a lump in his throat. Shit. "Yeah, I… I don't want to talk about this."

Sam sighed quietly, his whole body moving with the sound. The slump of his shoulders, the liquidity in his limbs as he walked away—loose and careless, without form or shape. Down by the riverbed, at the base of a large oak tree, Sam flopped down, knees to chin, and poked the spongy soil with his stick. He shouldn't feel guilty, but he layered it on thick with the rest of it. "Sam—"

"You know what, Dean? For once… just one time, I'd like to be able to help you, all right? You've been taking care of me for a long time now."

This isn't about you, Sammy.

He sucked in a breath and leaned against the large, old oak tree next to the water. From one of its boughs hung a makeshift rope swing, the one he and Sammy had swung from countless of times when they were kids. Into the water one foot over and many feet down. On the other side of the river, several ducks squawked and paddled across the water. A close-knit family of two parents and ducklings hugged between them. Protective, looking out for each other. The way it was supposed to be. And that was all Sammy was trying to do: keep a look out for him.

He rubbed the nape of his neck and kept his eyes on the birds. Maybe it was time. Time to… shit, he didn't even know. "Fuck…" He sighed heavily. His heart jackhammered his ribs, the knot in his stomach twisting until he couldn't breathe. "It's—" He bit back another lump, dropping his eyes to frown at the dirt. "It's all my fault, Sammy." Fuck. Just let it out, goddamnit. "It's just my fault, all right?"

"What is?"

"Everything, Sam. I let you guys down." He clenched his jaw, tearing his eyes away from the river. To the ground. "After Mom died—I just… I couldn't keep it together. Dad started drinking. You—you were barely alive. Knowing I failed you guys? That shit fucking hurts."

"It's not your fault. I mean, what the hell. It's not your job to take care of us. Never was."

"Yes, it is—"

"Look, Dean. Believe what you want to, okay? Maybe all that added pressure was what… broke you, you know?" Sam said, quietly. "We're better now. Dad's sober. I'm doing fine," Sam said. "You gotta let go, Dean."

"Let go? Yeah? What about Mom? What about not being there when she died?" He bit out. "I wasn't there for you guys. Fuck—I didn't get to say goodbye." Admitting it aloud… fucking hurt. "How can I… be happy… with Cas or—shit—anyone after I've—" He swallowed hard. "… fucked up so many goddamn times. I'm just gonna end up failing him too."

Sam didn't answer. A frog croaked and the cicadas barked out their judgment. When he looked up, Sam sat motionless, the stick stabbed deep into the soil. Angry in its sharp angle. Rigid like Sammy's spine.

"Sam?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Dean," Sam said, voice suddenly hard. His little brother didn't even look back at him. "I'm not gonna lie and tell you that not being there when Mom died was okay. Because it—" His voice cracked, split over a sudden swell of anger. Anger mixed with hurt and sadness. "It wasn't fucking okay, all right?" Sam grabbed the end of the stick again and pulled it out… just to plunge it deep into the soft soil again. The energy behind it—it personified his anger right then. Sharp and quick. Yet, it spoke of his vulnerability too. "I was pissed at you for a long time after that."

"Shit, Sammy," he whispered, bowled over. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Too much effort. Too sad about Mom. Besides…" Sam sent his gaze over his small shoulder. "You weren't all there in the head. I didn't want to hurt you more than you already were."

He didn't say anything. Couldn't.

"I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago," Sam whispered. "Now, you gotta forgive yourself."

"How?" he croaked out. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know, Dean, but you gotta figure it out. You can't keep going on like this, okay?" In his tone, in the breath he took, Sam said everything while saying nothing at all. He didn't need to hear it to know that his little brother was worried about him. "Move on. Be with Cas. Whatever you gotta do."

"Sam—"

"Look, I know you're afraid of screwing it up with him. I get that. But you gotta suck it up and give it a chance. We all screw up. That's just part of who we are as people. That's just how life works sometimes."

He didn't respond, mulling over his little brother's words. Everything; from the fairy-tale crap about Cas, to… "Sam, I'm sorry—"

"It's not too late to say goodbye, you know," Sam said, cutting him off. Changing the subject entirely.

"Yeah, I know," he said quietly.

He kept his eyes to the ground, shredding up another leaf he'd plucked from the oak tree. Forgiving himself? Not that easy. It wasn't a switch he could just… flip and be done with. He had too much to atone for, too much shit to fix. Maybe if he said goodbye—

"So… you okay?

"I'll make do," he said with a shrug. Sam smiled. Here, in the fading sunlight, over the past few months, Sam appeared older. Wiser, somehow. "When did you get so grown up?"

Sam adopted a crooked smile. "Right about the time my stupid, older brother fell in love."

"Oh, fuck you. I barely even like him."

"That's bullshit and you know it!"

"Whatever," he groaned, rolling his eyes. One more bit of unfinished business... "No more secrets, okay?"

"No more secrets," Sam agreed. He went quiet for a second before opening his mouth again. "I uh—sort of, kind of… set you and Cas up on purpose. With the whole studying thing."

"Yeah, no shit, asshole."

"Hey, dude. No regrets. You needed someone to look out for you. Cas just happened to be the perfect guy." Sam shrugged. "Of course, I didn't know then that he was in love with you." Sam's kissy lips, noises and everything, had him looking more like a fish than anything else. Fucker.

"Your laptop? I'd probably burn the keyboard if I were you." He made a jerk-off motion with his fist, winking.

"Ugh! Fucking gross!"

Sam pushed him. The little shit was too quick, throwing him off balance. He was air born and then—water rushed up over his ears. Another distorted splash before he broke the surface of the river, sputtering and wiping his eyes. Sam came up too, sending a wave of water at him with his hand. They laughed and horsed around until it got dark and then headed back to camp. Around the campfire, Dad told ghost stories of a yellow-eyed demon.

:::

Let go.

Sam's advice bounced around his head. Exhaling in one, forceful breath, he eased back into the driver's seat, willing his muscles to relax, his frayed nerves to heal. They didn't. His body clenched up, tighter than a fist, and he kept unraveling, spinning on end. Out of control.

It's not your fault.

"Bullshit," he growled out, hands tight on the steering wheel. If he'd just kept it together… Dad's drinking. Sam's depression. The hurt and suffering they had gone through. If he hadn't been such a goddamn loser—maybe none of it would have happened.

He idled in the small parking lot. The twilight sun painted long shadows on the rows of headstones, throwing a once-colorful world into an old photograph. Tones of sepia turned the grass golden and the trees into lonely, stoned-face figures. Even the remembrance flowers, void of color, fortified the shallow beating of his heart.

With a deep breath, he cut the ignition and opened the door, stepping out into the spring air. An unsettling stillness lurked in the cemetery and the looming silence suffocated him. His chest tightened, a shortness of breath taking him by surprise. He shouldn't fucking be here. Everything told him to turn back.

He could easily turn around, start his girl back up and leave this shit behind. To what end? The question brought clarity. How far would he have to run from his own guilt? The blame? If he faced it now, if he could start piecing his life back together—

I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago.

He tried to put some weight to Sam's words, but it rang hollow in his ears. With another deep breath, he shoved his hands in his pockets and charged forward. Through the cemetery gate, up the broken and uneven path. The cool metal of the Impala's keys kept him grounded, calm, the jangling noise filling up the dead silence. He anchored his eyes to the ground and avoided the blank stare of headstones. The smell of freshly cut grass distracted him from the lingering thickness of death, a metaphorical scent that clung to his nostrils and invaded his head. When the cool breeze picked up, he concentrated on its freshness, the tickle on his skin, its whisper through the trees. Anything to distract him from the truth—the whole reason he was here to begin with.

But it didn't matter. His heart knew, kicking into a hard and steady rhythm against his ribcage, quickening as he got closer. His stomach knew the truth too. The twist, the heaviness—as if he'd eaten rocks and they were tumbling inside him. He kept his head down. He didn't need to look up to know where he was. Just one more foot, maybe two. Then he saw it. He sucked in a breath.

Mom's headstone.

The torture of dread and anxiety flushed away, the hole filled by an indescribable urge to—fuck, he didn't even know. Kick. Scream. Look to Heaven and curse God. Just… shit. An overwhelming wave of frustration and hatred erupted, threatening to bury him alive. Dumbfounded, he stood there. Lost.

Why the fuck am I even here?

The hushed rustle of leaves didn't give him an answer. Silence crept up the back of his legs, raising his hair on end. Even the jingle of the Impala's keys couldn't it chase away. He stood on pinpricks and needles, and the need to run away—

Do something. Anything.

"Hi—" the word caught. He cleared his throat. "Hi, Mom. It's—it's me. Dean. I uhh—" He licked his lips. "Sorry I haven't visited since… you know. Just been… busy, that's all."

He sucked in dead air and eased it out of his lungs. Her headstone judged him silently, the dying sunlight shimmering across the glossy surface. Mountain Rose, the memorial company called it. The color of her granite headstone. Flowers and In Loving Memory etched in the stone. Everything that shouldn't be because Mom shouldn't be dead.

He clenched his hands tight, the Impala's keys biting into his palm. Anger slipped down the backs of his shoulders and bottomed out; emptiness left behind, covering him like a shroud. More silence. The sounds of life muted by death.

"So Sammy's doing okay these days," he said suddenly. Anything to keep his guilt from destroying him from the inside out. "He's got a girlfriend. Jessica. You would've liked her, I think."

The gangrenous hole of his guilt spread, ripping him open. Tears stung his eyes. "Fuck—he misses you a lot. Sammy, I mean. Sometimes I can see it in his eyes, you know? That… far-off look, like—like he's thinking about something."

"Dad too." He clenched his jaw, his only defense against the threat of tears. "Dad's—Dad's doing better. It was touch and go there for a while. But—yeah, he's come back. Just like I knew he would." And quieter… "You'd be proud of him." His voice cracked, throat desert dry. "They're doing good, Mom."

"Me…" He inhaled an unsteady breath, head tipped heavenward as tears lined his eyes. "…not so much." A vice squeezed his chest, every intake of air painful. "Mom… I should have—" A tear slipped free. He swallowed hard. "I should've been there. If I hadn't been such a fucking idiot…"

He tore his eyes away, focusing his attention anywhere else but Mom's grave. The black, glossy finish of the neighboring headstone. The dozen of red roses at its base. Vibrant. Left behind to die. Another reminder of that fucking funeral, of the rose he couldn't let go. Maybe it was time to let go, say goodbye. Just like Sam said.

How?

Swallowing down a lump in his throat, he walked over to the neighboring headstone and pulled a single rose free from its brothers and sisters. He held it in his hand, relishing the pain as a thorn bit into his thumb. The cool breeze carried its thick, heady scent. With it, his hurts and aches should have floated away, should have reminded him of Mom when she had been alive and beautiful—but it didn't. Instead, the ghost of his guilt chilled his bones; the claws of his self-hatred shredding his flesh.

Here, in front of her headstone, he wavered on his feet until the earth's core sucked him down. He fell on his knees, gripping the rose in his fist. Like daggers, the sharp little thorns stabbed into his hand, but he didn't care. The only thing that mattered was Mom and how fucking sorry—

He pressed his forehead against the headstone, palm flat against its smooth granite. Another tear slipped down his cheek. "Mom…"

I'm so sorry.

Desperately, he tried to keep it together and his body trembled with the effort. His eyes blurry, his throat filled with cotton balls. Straightening up, he wiped his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his throat. "Anyway. I should get going."

He twirled the rose before placing it on her grave. His fingers lingered on the engraving of her name before he stood up and turned. His legs carried him one foot away, maybe two, before he stopped and looked back. "Goodbye, Mom."

I miss you.

He weaved through the headstones, toward the Impala. Sam had been wrong. Saying goodbye hadn't done a goddamn thing. The hurt didn't vanish. Didn't switch off. His attempt to… let go hadn't magically healed him of anything. He still ached, left raw by his emptiness. Nothing had changed.

His desperation clung to his lungs, weighing them down, squeezing them until he couldn't breathe. He grabbed at the Impala's door, yanked it open and sunk into her leather seat. Not even the sound of her engine, the blast of air from her vents calmed him down. His heart thundered in his chest, jolting against his ribcage. Dizzy, sweating… another fucking panic attack. All because he'd been stupid enough to think all his guilt and hurt would've somehow suddenly gone away. So fucking stupid.

He could barely see beyond his tunnel vision. Streets and stoplights looked all the same to him—meaningless shapes and colors that he didn't have the mind to heed. The Impala blew through them all, quick and reckless, barreling him toward home or… if he'd been lucky, a quick death.

His street. His neighbors. His home. He pulled into the driveway and almost crashed into the garage door, screeching his girl to a halt. With his lungs still aching, he fled to the backyard and clutched at his chest, bracing himself against the house as gravity pulled him down, down.

Nothing had changed. God fucking damnit. Nothing had changed.

He buried his head in his hands, shoulders sagging even though his muscles were tighter than a steel cable. He tried to breathe, just like Cas had told him, but it didn't work. He sucked in a deep breath and gagged on it, sputtering as if he were drowning. His vision faded in and out, his ears ringing. He was suffocating on his guilt, strangled with the rope of a hopelessness he couldn't seem to escape.

Was this what dying felt like?

Beyond the haze of his condition, he heard what sounded like his name. Deep and reverent on a voice he'd grown to need, savor. Maybe even love. Strong hands gripped his wrists. When he looked up, when he found the courage to open his eyes—

"You're all right, Dean. I'm here." Cas whispered, kneeling in front of him. "Just breathe."

"I—I can't…"

"Yes, you can," Cas said, cupping his face. "Breathe."

He gulped in air, clawing at his chest. "It hurts…"

"I know it does," Cas said calmly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

He nodded twenty times, grabbing onto Cas' shirt collar for leverage. Here on the ground, he took a deep breath, two, three, before his chest loosened, before his heart began its steady march downward. The tunnel vision widened, giving him a full lens view of how… close Cas was. Cas brushed a thumb over his cheekbone, his stare intense like it had always been. His heart raced for a different reason now, his head swimming not because of a panic attack but because—

He jerked at Cas' collar, pulling him in hard. Their lips came together and the sudden desperation, the searing heat between them made him groan. He kissed him as if it were the last thing he'd ever fucking do. Claiming him with a passion he didn't know he had. His soft lips, the taste of him… Hot and heavy, Cas moaned into it. The sound was breathless, on the very edge of bliss, and it was the sweetest thing he'd ever heard. Cas, everything he could have ever wanted—right here, right now.

He wrapped his arms around him, twisting his hands in his shirt, tugging at him. He nearly lost it when Cas slipped his tongue into his mouth, another throaty groan more beautiful than Heaven itself. He swallowed it down, sliding his hands up along his back to grip at his hair, pulling him closer. Never close enough. The intensity—he'd lost his breath for an entirely different reason.

Their lips lingered and when he finally pushed Cas out to arm's length, the agony of it left him empty. Together, they heaved steady breaths, their lungs shortchanged of air, stolen by the strength of their passion. They huffed a little laugh after a while, after they'd sorted through the massive jumble of silent questions and unneeded answers.

"Should've done that a long time ago," Dean mumbled.

"What took you so long?"

It almost sounded accusatory, but Cas' smile broke the flimsy tension. He snorted out a laugh and lifted his eyes up, shaking his head. "Honestly? I don't even know."

Cas cracked another smile and settled in next to him, back against the side of the house. And that was where they stayed, keeping each other company, talking well into the night under the canopy of stars.

:::

Graduation day had been a blur of faces, goodbyes, and yearbooks. There, on that stage, he'd never been so proud holding a stupid fucking piece of paper. Dad and Sammy stood in the crowd, smiles on their faces. He'd made them proud too and that was all he could ask for. If only Mom could have been there…

When Cas brushed a hand against his cheek, he forgot everything about that day. The excited chatter of his classmates, the ceremonial cap tossing to signify the end of their high school careers. The promises to keep in touch, the smiles from his teachers… the hurried flight from the school to the Impala.

From there, with nothing but the clothes on their backs, they drove across state lines with no particular destination in mind. They made it up as they rolled through the countryside, cities and mountains as the rising sun set the night sky ablaze. The unscripted version of their lives led them to a motel room, just outside Phoenix, Arizona.

They lay naked next to each other on the bed, stiff sheets scratchy against the skin and smelling of cheap detergent. The A/C unit's clunkclunkclunk spelled out its doom as the highway traffic murmured beyond the subdued lighting of the room. Inches apart, facing each other, Cas sent a feather-light touch across his cheekbone, down the length of his nose, to the bottom of his lip. Explorative. Gentle.

It tickled.

He buried his laugh in the hard mattress, fingers quick to catch Cas' hand before the tickling started. They shared another laugh together before a note of seriousness stole the humor from the room.

"Hey," Dean whispered, drawing Cas' fingers up to his lips. He kissed them gently before saying, "I'm thinking about applying to K-State."

More beautiful than a sunset, a wide, happy smile stretched across Cas' lips, the warmth of it reaching his eyes. He'd made him proud with that little statement—he could tell. He read it in the way he whispered, "Dean…" Breathless. Joyful.

It sounded like yes.

Strong fingers dove into his hair and pulled him close, soft lips pressing against his temple. He smelled the summer morning of Cas' citrus shampoo, freshly-showered skin and light notes of cedar and cloves. His body short-circuited and shuddered when Cas ran a hand along his hip, up to his side. The heat of Cas' fingers drew a line on his skin, igniting him with a burning need to bring them closer. With a tug, he brought their bodies flush together, hips squaring off. His dick shot up like an engine's piston. They breathed the same air. The heat, the slow pulse of Cas' breath on his face—

Their lips met in a slow, chaste kiss. The taste of mint and salt, the wet warmth of Cas' mouth, sent a bullet train of excitement down to his dick. It leapt, straining between them, and the urge to fuck him hard had him jerking his hips forward. Cas grabbed his ass and pulled him in forcefully, increasing the friction between their bodies. The slow drag of Cas' hips rubbed their hard dicks together, drawing a groan from each of them. After that, their mutual, timid exploration turned into something… animalistic.

Cas grabbed at his neck and pulled him in even closer. Their kiss became more passionate, tongues wet in the heat of their mouths. He cupped Cas' face, forcing all of his energy into that kiss, lips left abused yet eager for more. Finally, after all these fucking months…

Impatient, Cas' quick fingers navigated his skin, gliding over his chest, lightly pinching his nipple. He let out a sharp groan and jerked Cas onto his back, straddling his narrow hips between his thighs. His blue eyes were wild, his breath catching in the back of his throat as their dicks slid against each other. Another thrust had him calling out, sharp and needy. Just to tease him, he swung his pelvis forward again, hard, rough, and Cas arched his back, groaning out in a wordless sound that said fuck me.

His took up the silent command with his fingers, letting them do all the seeing his eyes couldn't in the near-lightness motel room; running over Cas' body, down and back up again. He memorized every detail through touch: the solid muscle of his chest, the soft and delicate skin of his stomach. And those fucking hipbones—God. A quick sweep of fingers over their sharp angles wouldn't satisfy him.

Greedy, he scooted down, straddling his legs, and dove toward those hips and nosed his skin, following the 'v' like a road sign. The sweet smell of him, the salty taste of his sweat… He licked his way up and found the hill of his hipbone, nuzzling it as Cas threaded fingers through his hair. He sucked and bit, drew a line of kisses from one hipbone to the other. The noise Cas made—a groan, a growl, he couldn't tell—bordered between impatience and bliss. When Cas tilted his hips up, when his hands gripped and pulled at his hair, he knew exactly what Cas wanted: the best fucking blowjob of his life.

But he wouldn't give it to him. Not yet.

He slipped off the end of the bed and grabbed his ankles, jerking him toward the edge. A sound of surprise broke free from Cas' throat; a gasp that turned into a long, drawn-out groan when he sent the flat of his tongue across his tight hole. There, on his knees, he mouthed him until he broke, until Cas' groans had pitched into breathy cries. With every lick, with every kiss, Cas' stomach dipped, his cock rising up with the excitement. He fucked Cas with his tongue, little jabs and long, firm strokes that had him palming his own dick impatiently. As Cas grabbed the mattress, gripping it tight, he jerked himself; once, twice, fucking into his own hand while working Cas hard and leaving him wet. He buried his face deep into his ass, licking and sucking, pressing hard kisses against his hole. Cas arched his back, gasped, groaned and then, breathlessly—

"Fuck."

He almost collapsed, almost lost it with a single word. Filthy and deep, it rolled over that gravel-rough voice, so totally fucked-out with sex that it had him weak in the knees. If he didn't stop this, if he didn't just take a break…

He pulled back. Even Cas' loud, desperate groan had him close to blowing his load. He took a breath, slid his hands over Cas' trembling thighs and slipped the head of Cas' hard dick between his slick fingers. Another loose groan. Cas angled his head, fixed him with pleading eyes; blown wide from the tease, intense with the need for more.

When he stood up, Cas used his elbows to crawl back to the middle of the bed. It gave him more room to position himself between his legs, the heat of Cas' cock blazing against his face. He licked his shaft in a long, even stroke that sent Cas' body up and off the mattress. Cas groaned and arched his back, spreading his thighs wide. He settled in between them, hands sliding up the inner muscles to frame his hips. Not so gently, Cas pulled at his hair again, sending a shiver down his spine in a sweet mixture of pleasure and pain. He didn't hesitate. Cas' dick jerked up before he could get close. The tip of his dick was wet against his tight lips, shaft full as it slipped slowly into his mouth. Above him, Cas gasped, the sound dying in his chest. He worked him easy, bobbing his head up and down, taking him in as far as he could. For Cas, easy wasn't good enough.

Cas' hands became forceful, pushing his head down while hips shot up over and over again. He let Cas fuck his mouth hard and fast, his reward the deep, rich groans that polluted the air with their sex. Coarse hairs scratched his nose, the tangy, salty taste of precome on the back of his tongue. The combination of soap and musk lit up his olfactory, and the image of Cas blissed the fuck out distracted him. He gagged on Cas' overzealousness.

Cas let out a needy groan when he slipped free, taking a moment to stick a finger in his own mouth. Slowly, gently, he teased Cas' hole with it, rubbing soft circular motions against the tight ring of muscle. Another groan, another curse word. He pushed it in and Cas gasped, using his strong legs to thrust himself down, fucking himself on it with an eagerness that left his own dick wet. He met every thrust with one of his own, sliding it in deeper and deeper to the encouragement of Cas' groans. Every one of his noises growing louder and louder. More desperate. Verging on a shout that'd have hotel management raining down on them. He added another finger, loosening him up—and it was more than Cas could take.

"Dean," he groaned in the dark. "Please."

He jerked his fingers inside him hard, smiling at Cas' breathless whimper. "Please what?"

"Goddamnit," Cas moaned, tilting his chin up in bliss. "Fuck me," he whispered, smooth voice cracking over his need. "Please… just—fuck me."

He groaned, a shudder rolling down his spine. The command had him up, off the floor, lunging for the nightstand. In the dark, the bottle of lube splurted, his own wet hands rubbing down his dick. He used the signature heat of Cas' body to guide him back into place. Positioned between Cas' thighs, cock pressed against his hole, the teasing and rough finger-fucking from seconds before melted away, leaving gentleness behind. He brushed the backs of fingers against Cas' cheek, through his hair, as he dotted tiny kisses against his lips. Cas pulled him in, deepening the kiss, and it became tender, meaningful. It said everything they couldn't.

He eased into him, inch by inch, sparing no expense to his comfort. Beneath him, Cas quaked with it, thighs spreading wider. The fluid line of his back arched again, pressing their bodies chest-to-chest; the thumpthumpthump of their hearts pounding through skin and bone. He buried his face into Cas' neck, kissing him, as he drew his hips back, easing them forward even slower. Cas whispered a groan against his ear, a jab of excitement jolting in his gut. Teeth grazed his earlobe, teasing, before the sweep of a tongue almost made him unravel. He let out a long, loose groan as Cas mouthed his ear, licking, teething it. All he wanted to do right then was abandon their slow, methodical rhythm for a hard, rough fucking.

At some point, the A/C unit had died out and left them hot and sticky. A sheet of sweat aided the wet slip and slide of their bodies; and the sweetness, the easy yet excruciating give and take—he just couldn't fucking take it anymore.

Reckless and greedy, so fucking aroused it hurt, he slammed into him once. The ear nibbling stopped immediately, replaced by a sharp, deep groan. Another shiver down the spine, another hard thrust. A startled, blissful moan punched out of Cas' throat. Cas wrapped his arms around him and gripped tight. To hold on, to brace himself—Dean didn't know. The strong jerk of those arms sent Dean's body forward, plowing his dick deeper.

Enough of the soft, loving bullshit.

He buried himself balls-deep into Cas, snapping his hips forward over and over again. Cas pulled him down and crushed their mouths together, accepting every rough thrust with a noise that died against his lips. The beginnings of his orgasm started deep in his balls, every hard jerk of his dick adding to it. Cas reached down to grab his ass, squeeze it, lifting his legs up and around him, spreading them to allow more and more access. Gripping the mattress, he used it as leverage to hold on, to fuck him, sending his hips forward as hard and as fast as he could.

Groans became heavier, deeper. Breathing labored in short, hard puffs against the skin. He lost himself in it. The taste of his sweat, his skin—the smell of it. He nipped at his ear, mouthed his collarbone. So fucking tight. A groan caught in his throat, his breath stolen from him. His thighs trembled, his ass clenched. He was at the cusp of it, could feel it low in his balls. So close, almost there.

Cas switched gears unexpectedly. With the hard jerk of hands, Cas forced him out and pulled him up with dizzying strength. Their mouths gravitated toward each other again, Cas' stiff cock teasing at his hole. Fuck, he could have come right then and there with the sudden turn of dominance. He was so fucking close, desperate, and started to grind his dick against Cas' hard stomach just to get off. But Cas wouldn't let him. Instead, Cas held him close to his chest, stilled his hips with a hug so tight it almost took his breath away. Dean panted against his neck, kissing it, moaning against his slick skin. Whispering out please in his breathlessness.

As soon as Cas loosened his grip, he speared himself on Cas' thick, wet cock. A gasp ripped out of his throat as it filled him up completely, stretching him with a brief tremor of pain. He rode him hard, thrusting back as Cas sent his hips up, the impact of their efforts driving Cas' dick deep and hitting all the right places. The headboard banged against the wall with every buck of his hips, every needy jerk. Their groans had reached a crescendo as if every thrust, every hard snap of their hips had somehow become painful. Dean gave into it, surrendered and the hard fucking threw him over the edge.

Rushing up, over his ears, his orgasm slammed into him like the force of a thousand bulls. Broke him open, ripping a groan from his throat. Somewhere in the dizzying mind fuck, Cas called out in the dark, hands writhing against his back, gripping and pulling as his orgasm took him too. They were slick between them, come smearing against skin.

Tingly warmth flooded his body, his limbs liquid and his muscles weak. Melted against Cas, he breathed hard against his neck, wet kisses pressed into his skin like a hundred little thank you's. Cas panted wildly in his ear and the rhythm of his heart mimicked his own.

Here, in the dark, he found happiness in the slow rise and fall of Cas' breathing, the low rumble of snoring in his chest—trapped between cinnamon, cedar and the sweat that clung to his skin.

:::

So this is it.

He stood there in the driveway, eyes zeroing in on the only suitcase in the Impala's trunk. Clothes, a few of his favorite porn mags and a family photo album lay inside. Surprisingly little needed in order to survive away from home. A tremor rippled through him. Away from home. He swallowed hard, throat scratchy and dry.

The kick and scuttle of loose gravel distracted him. Beside him, heavy boots crunched rocks underfoot. He didn't have to look down in order to see his brother anymore. The bastard had hit a growth spurt and stood almost an inch taller than he had at the beginning of the year. His clothes barely fit anymore; shirts too tight, the hem of his pants at his ankles. Dad would have to go clothes shopping for him soon—and he wouldn't be there to tell Dad that Sam liked nicer button-up shirts instead of flannel.

"That's all you're taking?" Sammy said, longer hair catching the wind. Strands of it came alive, riding the current of air and fluttering around his face like one of those hair commercials.

"You need to get a haircut before school starts," he said offhandedly. "You look like a girl."

"Shut up," Sam huffed, rolling his eyes. But the humor wasn't lost on him. His little brother—not so little anymore—smiled and punched his arm.

"You hit like a girl too."

Even the banter between them had changed. No longer was it edged in that brother cruelty—the fun yet purposeful ribbing hell-bent on a mission to hurt or push buttons; to start a fight that had always ended in a wrestling match of wills and brawn. This time, it had a hint of sadness to it. In a way, it was goodbye.

"You gonna be okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah," Sam said, grinding the heel of his boot into the gravel. He looked up, peeking through his girly hair. "You?"

He shrugged, squinting through the sunlight. Another summer's day, cooler as they approached September. "Yeah." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Anyway, I should probably get going."

"Yeah."

"Listen to me, Sammy. If you need anything—I don't care what it is—you call me, all right? Day. Night. Whatever—"

"I get it, Dean," Sam said. He nodded and the conversation died there until Sam said, "We're gonna be okay."

"You better be," he said. "Take care of Dad for me."

"I will."

Nodding, he turned and closed the trunk. The metallic bang sounded heavy, carrying with it a note of finality that he didn't like. They stood there with an awkward reluctance to close a chapter on their childhood, their tragedies and their close friendship.

It's just college. Not the fucking end of the world.

He smiled and grabbed Sam, pulling him into a hug. For once, his little brother didn't struggle or try to sneak in a punch. Sammy held on too, lingering until it had become more than a little awkward.

"Chick-flick moment," Sam said.

"Yep. You're right."

They pulled apart. He cleared his throat and looked up when heavy boots clunked down the front porch steps. Dad wiped his dirty hands on a rag, his flannel button-up shirt speckled with car oil and grime. Down the walkway Dad trudged, sticking out a hand as soon as he got close enough. Dean shook it with a tight grip, smiling up at him.

"Proud of you, Dean," Dad said, the smile he remembered—warm and wide—back on his face.

"Thanks, Dad."

Dad pulled both his boys in, hugging them close. One second, two, four. Sam slung a backhanded slap toward Dean's gut which he returned with the flick of his hand, slapping the side of his brother's head. No goodbye would be complete without brotherly roughhousing.

"Bastard," Dean grumbled, pulling away from the pair.

"Say hi to Cas for me," Sam called after him.

"Yep," he said, turning halfway to throw a wave over his shoulder. He opened the door and sunk into the driver's seat, stealing a glance at them. Dad and Sammy stood there, arms slung over each other's shoulders. Right then, a flood of doubt overtook him. He gripped the steering wheel tight, teetering between staying and leaving. After all they'd been through… It'd be too easy to say fuck it, stay home, and earn a living working on cars or flipping burgers. At least he'd have his family.

His phone chirped with a text from Cas—

There's a bakery close to our dorm.

—and a picture of an apple pie. He smiled, looked up at Sam and Dad, and turned over the engine. His girl roared, growling as he backed up. With another wave, he pulled away from his childhood home, filled with both excitement and dread. Off to start a new life.

His eyes bounced between the rearview mirror and the road. Dad and Sam stood at the end of the driveway and waved. They stayed there and he watched until he couldn't see them anymore.

:::

The pale brick and dark shingles of K-State's Hale Library loomed over him. A modern-day castle against the baby blue sky, picturesque with its green lawn, healthy trees and serenity. Postcard perfect. Intimidating as hell.

He gripped his books with iron-tight fingers, with white knuckles he could almost feel. The jittery tumble in his stomach, the beginnings of a headache—fuck if he were ready for this at all. Books, papers, studying… the stress of acing his classes and making something of himself. It ate away at him, leaving him raw.

Soft fingers slipped into his own. When he turned his head, Cas smiled back at him, squeezing his hand as if he knew. Hell, Cas always knew. Even late at night, when the darkness got to him, when the guilt came slinking back—he knew. Cas smiled at him and the nervousness vanished.

"Are you ready, Dean?"

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I think I am."

Hand in hand, they walked toward the library, ready to take on whatever college could throw at them.

Together.