HELLO I AM BACK BUT IT IS NOT WITH LES MIS I AM SORRY.

I'm fully integrated into that fandom, and roleplaying e/R like there's no tomorrow, but I'm still shy about writing actual things. Though I DEFINITELY have ideas. Definitely. So maybe there'll be something soon.

In the meantime, I present you with yet another 20th century Americana Destiel AU. Because I can't stop myself.

We were learning about the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl in class, and learned all about the droughts in Kansas, and the CCC, and the WPA, and I thought "OH MY GOD DESTIEL DESTIEL DESTIEL."

So I wrote it.

Here's part one of a two-shot. Part two will be up in four days, hopefully.

Please review with your thoughts, friends! If you liked it, if you didn't... let me know. I love feedback very, very much.

And with that...

The Depression hit everybody hard, but it probably hit the Winchesters the hardest.

The Winchesters. The only family keeping Lawrence, Kansas together in any way whatsoever. A beautiful couple with their beautiful, strong sons—the youngest smart, the eldest good with his hands. They all helped out around the farm, producing just as much as was needed of them, and were well-provided for by the state in terms of financial security.

And then the soil dried up.

Every family in Lawrence (and all over the Dust Bowl) with any sense sent its eldest son off to California, or the East Coast. There would be work there, and he could send back money and supplies. But the Winchesters kept their sons, or, rather, their sons kept the Winchesters. Dean—for that was the eldest son's name—flat-out refused to be sent away from his momma who needed him, his poppa who needed him, his Sammy who needed him.

And because of this, Lawrence, Kansas managed to survive. Dean worked extra, milking the now-arid land for all it was worth, just to keep his family living and breathing. He insisted that Sam keep going to school, though it was almost pointless at that point: the teachers were too hot and too hungry to teach, and the students were too hot and too hungry to learn.

As to Mary and John, parental units of this tough-as-nails family, well—they didn't approve of Dean's wasting his opportunities to have an actual life (at least, John didn't approve: Mary was just glad to know both of her sons were alright every day). They thought Dean would be more help outside of Lawrence, but were too shy to tell him so, so they let him stick around. He was 17, and old enough to make his own decisions. Sam was 13, and therefore too young to, but no one would have let him leave even if he were. He was far too loved in Lawrence.

(It wasn't that Dean wasn't loved. He was very popular—before the Depression, he'd kissed every girl over the age of 15 in town. He didn't bother too much with school, because when the soil was fertile and the harvest was plentiful, he was always helping at the farm. But, without fail, he attended each and every dance that was held in the town hall.

After the soil dried up, there were no more dances for Dean to attend.)

Sam was Lawrence's baby, in a way. All the mothers wished he was theirs, and no mother was more proud of a child than Mary was of Sam. He was mild-mannered and well-behaved, and he loved nothing more than curling up with a good book.

All of that changed when the dust storms hit, and then Dean became the Winchesters' prize son. Sam had to work out on the farm when he wasn't at school, but when he was at school, Dean worked extra. He would walk miles and miles—that is, after the car wouldn't run and the horses wouldn't go—to the nearest big town to restock supplies, try to haggle for better seed to sow, get better tools for the farm.

He didn't tell anyone, but when food started getting low, he would give up his meals to Sam. His brother was still growing, needed extra nutrients, but Dean—Dean was mostly already done.

And as the dust and dirt swirled in the air and the Winchesters huddled in the cellar, they prayed for rain and respite that they thought would never come.

Halfway across the country, in San Francisco, California, the Miltons had barely even known about what was happening across the mountains.

The Miltons were a large, quiet, religious family of musicians. Together, they were a chamber ensemble: the youngest son played the clarinet, the youngest daughter played the flute, the middle son played the viola, the eldest son played the violin, and the father played the cello. When Mrs. Milton was still alive, she played second violin. Their music never sounded quite the same with her gone.

When the Great Depression hit, a religious fervor that they'd been missing for years lit up inside of them and they signed up to be a part of the WPA.

The Works Progress Administration was started by the President to help towns in dire need of assistance—the portion that the Miltons became a part of was the one that brought culture to backwoods areas that may never have heard classical music before. Together with a small troupe of actors, painters, and other musicians, they set out across the Sierra Nevadas into the dusty Midwest.

Castiel, Rachael, Gabriel, Michael, and their father, Abraham, packed up their instruments and left their life behind for the greater good.

Nevada was first, but it was mostly alright there.

New Mexico was startlingly bleak, and oddly devoid of eldest sons—all the mothers proudly announced their boys were in the CCC—and received the Miltons well.

But when they got to Kansas…

It was a disaster zone, more or less. The Miltons had heard there would be plains, and not very many large cities, and Castiel had found pictures in the library, but none of them had expected just what devastation they would find there.

The first few towns they came through weren't even towns anymore. There were houses, but upon inspection, they proved to be abandoned.

The Milton children said double prayers that night, and Castiel had nightmares.

They saw clouds of dust in the distance, first thing the next morning, but the storm wasn't headed in their direction.

Supplies began to run faintly low on their third day in Kansas, so the children prayed extra hard to find a real town.

And the very next day, they did.

The sign read "Lawrence," and the houses, although shabby, looked very much lived-in. Castiel thought he could see faint flickers of activity behind the canvas-covered windows, but they may have been shadows cast by his imagination—since there were no clouds in the sky.

But no one came out to greet them.

Everything around was sepia or in shades of grey. It was like walking into a black-and-white picture, Castiel thought to himself. There were a few very sad-looking dogs skulking in the shadows, but beyond that—no one.

The WPA party stopped their cars and got out to explore. If the people weren't going to come out to them, they were going to come in to the people.

Castiel walked with his siblings for a few minutes before ambling off alone. He always thought better when he was alone—even though he didn't have much to think about now.

And after crossing almost halfway through the town, he saw someone.

The someone was a boy. He looked to be about a year or two older than Castiel, although he was much taller and broader and just as sepia-coloured as the land around him. His sandy-haired head was uncovered, and he was clad in a simple pair of britches and a dusty white wifebeater. He was carrying a bucket in each hand as he walked to a large structure that appeared to have once been a stable.

Castiel's heart leapt and he quickened his walking pace in an attempt to approach him, but he soon noticed that something was wrong. The boy's stride was faltering and his shoulders were slumped, and after a few more steps, he glanced up once at the sky before crumpling to the ground.

Castiel let out a startled cry and ran over to him without a thought, calling for his father to come and help. He fell to his knees by the boy's side and pulled his upper half into his lap, feeling for a pulse, a heartbeat, a breath, anything.

He looked up again desperately when he thought he didn't find anything, calling out for Abraham again, when there was a dry chuckle from below him.

"Relax," a voice croaked, "ain't you ever seen a little heat stroke before?..."

Castiel jumped, startled, and looked down. The boy in his lap was smiling weakly up at him, sandy eyelashes fluttering over warm green eyes. His cheeks were dusted with freckles, and something in his expression changed as his gaze locked with Castiel's.

"N-no," Castiel managed to stammer out, still surprised by this stranger's apparent resurrection, but the boy wasn't listening to him, pupils going wider.

"Lord, Momma," he whispered, one hand trembling up a little but not quite making it to Cas's face, "so much blue—Momma, it's rainin'…"

And with that, his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness again.