Sam glanced at the calendar that was hanging on the wall. It was about time they got a wall calendar, he thought. Red x's told him that today was the 28th of November. It was Thanksgiving. Sam didn't need a calendar to tell him that though. The Chinese take-outs that littered the center table in the bunker did all of the informing for him. Sam had gone the extra mile to liven up the pot and brought back pie, chips and he cut up raw vegetables (mostly for himself). It was ironic that they were celebrating Thanksgiving and yet no one had bothered to pray. Nobody protested abstaining from it though. God was in some faraway place as far as they were concerned. He wasn't listening. What would be the point?

It was Thanksgiving. Another lousy Halloween had come and gone with the expected surfacing of supernatural disturbances that it rang in. Halloween (and October in general) was seasonal for supernatural killings; it provided camouflage for the enemy. The Winchesters, by design, hated the pagan holiday. Castiel was still a hunter-in-training, but his aim had gotten a lot better over a matter of several months. He still preferred close combat though, but only because he still forgot at times that he wasn't "immortal". Kevin had been shown the ropes as well. However, Castiel had Kevin at a disadvantage; he had already seen the brutality of war. He had already been hardwired to be insensitive to what would traumatize most humans. It wasn't to say that human terror was lost on him though. He had a number of scares himself. But Castiel was far more able-bodied than Kevin Tran. By default, he was created to be a warrior. He had not lost that element of his being even after the Fall.

Dean was sitting next to Castiel, and Castiel was sitting next to Kevin. Kevin was sitting at the end of the long table, and Sam was sitting next to Kevin, across from Castiel. Everyone ate in silence. There was nothing to be said. It was just another day in the bunker, but Team Free Will decided to take the day off in lieu of the holiday. It kind of bothered Sam. He was itching to get his hands on the next case and get back on the job. It felt strange to be kicking back. Dean certainly wasn't complaining though. The break was his idea. Castiel wasn't objecting either. Or Kevin. Sam was drumming his fingers on his thigh under the table. Finally he decided that he was done eating and pushed himself up from the table. All eyes were on him, but Sam simply cleared his plate away. Kevin glanced to Dean, a mouthful of lo mein noodles hanging from his lips.

Still nothing was said. Castiel picked his way through his plate. He didn't like the bean shoots in his fried rice. Dean had to keep from scolding Castiel. The guy was still an extremely picky eater, even months after adjusting to the fact that eating was a prerequisite to staying alive and breathing. He could be such a child sometimes, but Dean refrained from commenting. Instead he wondered about Kevin. The kid was obviously Asian, but he wondered nonetheless. He would have asked sooner, but knowing wasn't ever important. And it wasn't worth rustling the kid's jimmies by prying. He guessed Korean.

There was some cause for alarm when Sam climbed the slope of stairs and left the bunker. But Sam only wanted to get some fresh air. Being holed up underground for so long was enough to drive anyone crazy. He stepped out to the gravel road a few feet in front of him, and peered around the tree line that hugged the road, sloping with the road as it curved out of sight. It was late afternoon. A lazy fall day. Sam saw the sun through the trees, and then he looked out to the expanse of river beyond the road. He looked back to see the steel bridge that towered over to the east. The old brick building at the top of the rocky incline where the bunker was nestled looked as decrepit as ever. Sam wished that they hadn't returned to the bunker so soon. Sure, the bunker was well-furnished, but again, being holed up for so long was indicative of cabin fever.

A hand clapped on his shoulder, and he jumped.

"Are you alright?"

"–Hey, Cas," Sam sighed, relaxing, even though his friend's touch was slightly unnerving still. "I just needed some fresh air." Castiel, not for the first time, was able to empathize.

"... I understand the feeling."

Sam looked at Castiel for a long moment. Another spike of irony pricked Sam and it saddened him. He never thought he would actually miss Castiel's ignorance. Never in a million years.

—

Dean cleared his plate and left Kevin to take care of himself. He washed his dishes and began putting leftovers away in the refrigerator. He glanced to the bunker door once or twice. Cas must've decided to keep Sam company outside. He bit back a yawn and looked at the clock. It was only four, but he felt like packing it up early and hitting the sack. Considering how screwed up their sleep schedules were, it wasn't a sin to sleep in on occasion, whether it meant sleeping into the night or into the morning. He scratched lazily at his stomach, and looked around the room. The bunker was stocked beyond stocked with books, and even though Dean wasn't much of a leisurely reader, he could have chewed off at least half of the books available to him, if they all weren't boring records of information. He'd leave it to Sam to be the bookworm; he'd scrape the summary from his brother later.

Dean saw that Kevin was already hogging the flat screen. It was at least a month and a half before Dean had finally caved and bought a TV, and got cable. Sam was a bit leery about letting the cable man into the bunker. Dean was hesitant himself, but it was irrefutable fact that if they didn't modernize the bunker at least a little bit, all remaining sanity would fly the coop. They managed to comfort their worries though: he was just a cable man.

Kevin was watching a Game of Thrones rerun. Dean could only imagine how well Kevin would get along with Charlie Bradbury... but there and again, Charlie was a different level of fantasy enthusiast. She LARPed, for Pete's sake. Charlie outclassed Kevin on that premise alone.

"Hey."

Kevin looked away from the TV screen.

"What?"

"Mess," Dean pointed to the table that still wasn't fully cleared away.

"I'll get it," Kevin waved him off with an eyeroll. Dean's eyes narrowed a bit, but he said nothing and headed down the three stairs that led to the library. From there he headed to the corridor where the bedrooms were stacked.

Sometimes Dean felt like he was a surrogate parent to Kevin. How old was the kid? Nineteen? Dean didn't know Kevin's birthday either. It just wasn't something important to know. But he did feel partially responsible for Kevin's normal life being so suddenly derailed. The only thing that eased his "guilt" was the fact that Kevin was a predestined prophet. The angels had chosen him. Or God. Or Metatron, or whoever. Dean hadn't willfully plucked Kevin from his home. That didn't rest on Dean's shoulders. Still, he felt responsible for the kid sometimes. Not responsible enough to dote though. Hell, he and Sam had forced Kevin to ball up and translate the Demon Tablet locked inside Garth's "boat house", cut off completely from the outside world, living off of nothing but weak coffee, meager fridge scraps, and aspirin. Kevin hadn't been exactly under top-notch care then. But after Kevin experienced just what exactly Crowley was capable of, the Winchesters were bent on not neglecting Kevin so cruelly like that again.

Whatever happened to Garth anyway-

Dean racked his fingers through his short hair. No. Today was his day off, he wasn't going to get all worked up over freakin' Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth. He would turn up sooner or later. ...Even though it had been six months since they had last made contact. How did the name "Garth" survive in a family tree for four generations though? Dean could only imagine what the first three Garth Fitzgeralds were like.

Dean swept off his t-shirt and jeans. He worked his way into sweats and a turtleneck. Bathroom. He brushed his teeth and washed his face. He looked into the mirror, stared into it. The man that stared back posed a question, one that had crossed his mind countless times before. How would he be, if it wasn't for this?

Sometimes Dean thought this whole situation was incredible. Here he was, thirty-five years old, holed up underground in the library of a dead secret society, with his ex-demon blood junkie little brother, a high school dropout who was in advanced placement-turned-prophet of The Lord, and an ex-angel of The Lord-turned-human. It was crazy. But the even crazier thing to Dean was trying to imagine what his life would be like if he hadn't got sucked into all of this. Would he have a wife? Kids? Would he have gone to college and aspired to something great? Would he have settled for a humbling career as a mechanic? Would he have long-lasting friends to drinking with on weekends? Would his life have been cut short by any one of the creatures he now hunted? Would he be unafraid of the dark?

If there was anything that kept Dean Winchester awake at night, it was questions like these that plagued his mind.

—

Kevin was midway through his episode of Game of Thrones when Sam and Castiel came back into the bunker. He craned his neck to look up at them descending from the balcony. He remembered when Sam and Dean had first brought him to the bunker. It was both liberating and despairing. Liberating because finally after so long, Kevin didn't have to see the same rusty walls of Garth's ramshackle house boat. That house boat had been the "desert" so described by the angels, where he was to "learn the Word of God", but that boat quickly became a prison cell due to circumstance. Kevin remembered having gone mad in that place. He barely had any windows to see out of, and no matter where he looked, painful reminders stabbed him in the eyes. This is your life now. You belong here. You were destined for something great and this is it.

The notes, translations and guesstimates of translations were pinned and taped in colors all around him.

If there was anything that Kevin Tran could discern then, it was this: being a prophet of The Lord was nothing comparatively close to being like the heroes in his videogames that were so idolized. Being Luke Skywalker sucked. It sucked more than anything. A lot of nights, Kevin would either cry himself to sleep or cry himself awake because there was no way he would be accepted into Princeton and become America's first Asian-American president. That dream was as shredded as Dean Winchester's innards had been when Lilith sicced her hellhound on him. It was done beyond repair.

Kevin was doing much better now though. He had long since come to terms with reality. Or he was at least finding reality more agreeable than before. Kevin still looked back sometimes and guffawed at the transition. When he looked at Sam and Dean, he didn't have to imagine the things that they had seen anymore. He only had to imagine how in God's name they managed to survive for this long. When he learned that Sam and Dean had been hunters since practical birth, it left Kevin impressed. He didn't know which was worse: having a normal life and having it torn away, or never knowing the blessings of a normal life at all.

"Hey Kev," Sam greeted. Castiel only nodded to the teenager. Sam saw the mess that Kevin had left on the table and he was automatically inclined to clean it. Whether Sam or Kevin cleaned it, it wouldn't make a difference; Dean wouldn't know.

"Hey," Kevin tossed back, before returning his attention to the TV. He turned up the volume when the racket that Sam was making in the kitchen began to grate on his nerves. He stared at the screen but he was finding it hard to pay attention. His vision was turning out of focus. Kevin blinked. He felt tired. Maybe he'd follow Dean's example and call it a night. Even though it was only–he looked at the clock–five-thirty. But he didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to succumb to whatever nightmare was waiting to ensnare him in a comatose state. Would Crowley revisit him? How about his mom? Maybe Channing? Or whatever monster was hiding in the Mystery Box. Maybe he would get lucky tonight and actually get some restful sleep. He could only hope.

Kevin realized that Castiel was staring at him.

"...What?"

Castiel was hardly deterred by the bite in his tone. He didn't say anything. Instead, he just shuffled off to the kitchen. After watching him leave, Kevin huffed in vexation and turned back to the TV once again.

—

Castiel quietly padded into the kitchen, and watched Sam work from by the doorway. He wiggled his toes inside his socks. There was something about the human sense of touch that would always nag him. The sense of discomfort. Castiel understood the benefit of wearing socks, but his toes felt trapped. He couldn't settle his toes comfortably. The end seam that met at the toe tips dug under his big toenails. He shifted the seams to sit on top of the nail but it still didn't feel right because now the fabric was being stretched upward against his toes– socks would drive him crazy.

Castiel applied a method that Dean had taught him to use in times like this: think of something else. Anything else. He thought of the first time he tasted water, and the refreshment it brought him then was pleasant enough so that he forgot the unpleasantry of the sock seams. Sam noticed Castiel's presence because he had stopped working.

"You wanna pitch in?"

Sam may have sounded a little harsh, but the period of grace that Castiel had received from the Winchesters was by this time curbing. They could only remain so kind to their fallen friend. Castiel had begun to take their sympathy for granted in some respects. For the first few months, he moped around as if there was no reason to go on living. When he finally was found and brought to the bunker, the first thing that Castiel did was arrange everything. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had taken a strange grip on the angel. It had been as if Castiel was trying desperately to fix everything he had broken in a severely misplaced effort within their new home. All he wanted to do was set everything right, put the pieces back together in order. Castiel may have been powerless to fix Heaven, but he could at least redesign the bunker to his liking. Sam, Dean and Kevin learned not to give Castiel Skittles or M&M's, otherwise he would be sitting there all day, arranging them by color. But Castiel would always find a flaw in something, and impulsively make it his mission to straighten it out. It was a sad thing to watch. But the Winchesters helped him through that. He had been like an abandoned child, a baby in a trench coat. But the trench coat was long ago hung and it was time for little Castiel to grow up.

Castiel moved away from the door and nonverbally assented. He dried the dishes that were piling up in the rack. Sam wasted no time in resuming his work. The two men worked in silence. They spared each other furtive glances. Well, they were furtive mostly on Castiel's part. He felt like he should say something, but there was still nothing to say. So Castiel was left alone to his thoughts.

Castiel recalled target practice. Sam and Dean had taken him and Kevin out for their first target practice. The boys tried to teach Castiel and Kevin, just like how their dad and Bobby once taught them. Neither Castiel nor Kevin were inherently successful. But he recalled something Dean had said to him that day.

"You gotta get your head out of the clouds, Cas! You can't hit the target just by willing the bullet to punch the bullseye via the Grace of God. You're not an angel anymore, Cas! You're human! You need to concentrate and aim!"

As Castiel sank into this memory, he became detached from the task at hand.

"CAS!"

Castiel blinked away his shock. He was bleeding. The knife he had been wiping slipped through the dish towel. The white fabric quickly blotted dark red. Sam was scrambling for his dad's army medical kit, while applying another towel and pressure to Castiel's left hand.

—

"Damn it, Cas!" Sam grunted as he hauled the angel back out to the center table. Kevin looked up from his seat in alarm. And Sam got to work stitching up Castiel's hand, Dean came bolting into the room.

"What happened?!" he demanded. Sam paused to look at his older brother.

"Castiel cut his hand open."

"How the hell did he manage that?!"

"I wasn't paying attention," Castiel answered roughly, ruefully. Sam returned to suturing the split flesh, and Castiel wasn't worried about Dean's disappointment anymore. The pain in his hand was so intense that he moaned and rocked forward, nearly jerking his hand away from the younger Winchester.

"Damn it, Cas!" Sam repeated angrily, "Hold still!"

"It hurts!"

"I know it does!" Sam wrestled to keep the angel still, "But I can't help you if you don't bite through it- Dean! Kevin! Grab a hold of Cas, will you?!"

Dean and Kevin were on Castiel in an instant. It wasn't easy, but Sam managed to finish up the job amidst Castiel's relentless cries and howling. Sam wasn't the only one who considered knocking him out for the operation. The guy had no resolve when it came to injuries. He was as sensitive as a newborn. Though, to be fair, a cut requiring stitches wasn't exactly an every-day boo-boo.

When it was all said and done, Castiel was a collapsed mess of panting, gasping, and sweating in his chair. He'd turned awfully white too. Dean had left Kevin and Sam to hold Castiel for a minute during the ordeal. The older Winchester returned with a bottle of liquor and tried sobering up his friend a little with the strong and foul taste. Castiel fought the liquor too. Kevin was spent too. He wasn't as strong as Dean or Sam, but he was done. He retired to his room when he Sam had snipped the thread. Sam could have sworn that a dark cloud looming over Kevin's head trailed behind him as he left. Kevin was pissed.

Dean was walking off taking an angel's elbow to the groin. Sam leaned over and patted Castiel's shoulder soothingly. He chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Your first patch-up job. Welcome to the club."

That only earned him a scowl that -had Castiel been of angel status still- would have spelled certain death on the spot. Sam's smile dissolved.

"...Right," he grimaced. He saw how Castiel hovered protectively over his stitched hand. He looked exactly like a wounded animal that was cornered and terrified. Dean came hobbling back to them. He smacked a hand onto the back of Castiel's chair, glaring at his brother.

"Next time I say we knock out the tantrum-throwing angel," he sucked in a breath and wheezed, "we knock out the tantrum-throwing angel."

"Not even gonna argue," Sam agreed, throwing up his hands defensively. Dean hobbled off again. Castiel continued to nurse his hand. But then Sam saw that he was trying to pluck the sutures.

"No!" Sam sprang up and grabbed his wrist. The angel retaliated again, but he threw himself back so violently that he knocked over his own chair. Sam's fist collided with Castiel's face and it was lights out. Dean hadn't even made it halfway across the room to help his brother before it was said and done. Sam realized that he had balled up the angel's shirt in one hand to yank him in for the swing. Sam was breathing raggedly, but looking up to see the astonishment on Dean's face winded him more than anything.

—

"Dude, go easy on Cas, okay? He's one of the good guys."

"Dude, if anybody else -I mean anybody- pulled that same crap, I'd stab them in their neck on principle. Why should I give him a free pass?"

"...Because it's Cas."

Dean blinked. He shouldn't have been as dumbfounded as he was, but he was. Sam just full-on swayzed Cas without hesitating. His line of sight flickered between the unconscious man on the floor, and the man kneeling over him. He shifted on his feet and swallowed.

"Well... guess that's settled then."

Dean and Sam carried Cas to his bedroom, which was God-righteously clean. There wasn't a fleck of dust to be inhaled. Dean then watched Sam wrap up Cas's hand so that he wouldn't be tempted to pick at his stitches. But who was to say that Cas wouldn't be tempted to tear off the bandage to pick at his stitches anyway? Dean didn't really feel that bad for him. He had been asking for a sucker-punch by throwing a fit. But aside from frustrated shoves, nobody had ever gotten physical with Cas before. Dean was surprised that Sam was the first person to cross that line. It warranted concern from the older brother, but it was laid to rest when he finally decided to leave the room for some shut-eye of his own.

Sam decided that he would oversee Cas for tonight -oh the irony of the angel being watched over by a human. Dean trusted him that he would be able to handle the angel no matter what shape he woke up in. Dean shook his head. Cas wasn't going to be Sleeping Beauty when he woke up. It was an unusual thing to see, an angel like Cas being stirred to anger. Not just bitchface-level aggression, but complete rupturing. Dean had only witnessed Castiel rupture three times: once in an alley, when he was ready to give himself up to Michael, tonight, and sometime in between the first two events. Dean sank onto his bed and burrowed himself into the blankets. It wasn't the norm for him to lie on his back, but where his mind was drifting, he couldn't turn himself away.