April 8th, 1987
Dean Winchester blinks bleary eyes open, pushing himself up to sit on the bench seat in the back of the Impala. He's careful not to disturb Sammy, who's curled up under a couple blankets beside him, breathing soft and slow. The stars shine bright, casting everything Dean can see in delicate blue light. His father snores and huffs from the front seat and the leftover dream-smells of burning hair and wood fade from Dean's mind. The leaping flames and burning house he sees in his sleep disintegrate and Dean props an elbow up in the shallow window cavity. Trees leave dark shapes on the ground. Three days left in Canada, Dean thinks. Three more days of funny, high accents like people in Minnesota and chill wind before his Father drops off whatever's in the trunk that Dean's not allowed to look at and picks up something else to drive back down into the States. Dean knows the drill. It's been the same for almost four years now. Dean will miss the maple syrup on every diner table, regardless of the time of day, and the giant moose they often see on the side of the road. Three more days, then it all begins again.
June 16th, 1987
"For real, Dad?" Dean's voice is high and shrill but he can't even bring himself to care, to pull it back to the manliest tones an eight-year old can produce. "For real?!"
Sammy echoes him, bouncing up and down on his seat, seatbelt forgotten. "For real, for real, for real?!"
John chuckles, but Dean can hear the exhaustion behind it and a fierce protectiveness for his Father wells up in him. His Dad should sleep more.
"Yeah, boys. For real. I think it's about time we find a more permanent home, don't you?" His smirk is subtle and proud and for the first time since his wife's death, John carries the distinct feeling that he's doing something good for his sons.
"Where are we gonna find a home?" Dean asks.
"Wherever we want. Pick a State, boys." They've been to every State at least twice, save Rhode Island, Hawaii, and Alaska, and John knows his boys have found something good to say about every single one of 'em. They don't mention Kansas anymore.
"Oklahome-a!" Sam shouts, bursting into a fit of giggles.
"No!" Dean shouts, pushing Sam's arms away where he swings them in his face. "No, Illinois!"
A surprised chuckle bubbles up from John's throat. "Illinois? Why?"
"Last time we drove through there we saw like, ten bears!"
"Illinois doesn't have bears anymore." John deadpans at the same time as Sammy whines, "Bears?! I don't want bears! Dean, I don't want bears!" his face screwing up in the start of a tantrum.
"Yeah, well tell that to the ones we saw on the interstate!"
John takes a fortifying breath. They're doing this. They're really doing this. "Sammy?" He looks at him through the rear-view. He's got his arms crossed, lips pursed in a pout. "Illinois?"
Sam takes a big breath, his shoulders lowering but his arms not uncrossing. "Okay. Illinois."
"Illinois." Dean repeats, a smile taking up half his face. "This is gonna be awesome."
June 26th, 1987
Dean grabs Sam's chubby little hands and they start swinging around the lawn, dancing ridiculous dances to songs only they can hear. Their smiles are so bright and so wide John's chest aches. His guilt and his shame weigh heavy on his shoulders. He needs a drink. The prim woman in the suit beside him slaps a red 'SOLD' sign on the board swinging in front of the one-story white-sided building in a town of nine hundred. John breathes deep, taking in the wide, low wooden porch that will need more than a little work, the cloudy windows on either side of the screen door, the weeds and wildflowers growing tall beneath them. It's not perfect, and it's not new, and it's not clean, but John is certain that he and his boys can turn this into a home. His heart clenches for Mary.
June 28th, 1987
Dean drops the last bag inside with a huff. The up-side to moving from a car into a house is that their belongings are minimal. About four duffel bags, total. He breathes deep, taking in only the smell of wood and shelter and ignoring the stale, musty tang of a house abandoned for years. An uncontrollable smile pulls at his cheeks, which hurt already from grinning so constantly. He has a home. A real home.
He swings around to face his Father, who's taking inventory of jobs to be done. "Can I go look at the backyard, Dad?"
John nods distractedly. "Not into the forest yet. I don't want you getting caught in a fuckin' bear trap, okay?" Dean nods hastily and rushes to the screen door on the other side of the living room that opens into the backyard. "And take your brother with you!"
"Yes, sir!" Dean calls over his shoulder, swinging around the overgrown side of the house to grab Sammy's arm from where he's sitting poking at ants on the cracked driveway.
"Sammy, come on!" Dean cries, hoisting him up onto his feet. Sam, pouty as ever, makes a noncommittal noise and pulls him arm out of Dean's grasp, but runs alongside him anyway.
Dean outright cackles when he sees the land before him. He'd heard his dad talking to the lady who helped them buy this house and he's pretty confident in saying that they have at least two acres between their house and the forest in the distance. They're framed by a wheat field on one side and a wooden fence holding cattle on the other. The grass under his bare feet is baked crispy and yellow and it pokes between his toes. Dean can't bring himself to care.
Dean sucks in a fortifying breath and lets out an animal cry before taking off. Sam stumbles a bit in keeping up with him so Dean slows fractionally. Sam's legs are just turning from baby-fat-laden sausages to unproportionally long, thin things that Dean knows means he's gonna be tall. Not taller than Dean, though, Dean hopes.
The yard is barren, Dean realizes halfway into it, save a few low trees that look excellent for climbing and what he assumes used to be a fire pit. There are holes every few feet that Sam trips over and Dean guesses they're for rabbits or something. In the corner of the yard, stretching from the forest and curving into the cattle's pasture, to both their delights', is a creek, bubbling and shallow and small and cool, and Sam squeals and claps when he approaches and four frogs jump synchronized into the water.
"Sammy, this is so cool!" Dean gushes, stepping carefully onto a rock in the middle of the water. "Come on, you can stand on that one!" He points to a big flat rock beside him, the water splashing angry and high against its sides.
Sam eyes Dean woefully before holding his hands out for balance and shakily placing his first bare foot on the rock.
"Dean-" His tone is worried and nervous, but Dean laughs and reaches over to pat him on the shoulder.
"Come on, Sammy, you can do it!"
Sam puts all his weight on that one foot, and he's gone. The splash is loud and water soaks Dean's shorts.
Sam's wails start up loud and whining, and he lies there in the middle of the creek on slippery rocks and probably a few frogs, until Dean springs into action, an endless chant of "it's okay, Sammy, it's okay, you're fine, it's okay" on his lips as he steps carefully onto a couple rocks beside Sam and hoists him up by his forearms. Sam lets Dean pull his dead weight, head lolling back and eyes closing dramatically, being no help whatsoever.
"Ugh, Sam," Dean groans, finally pulling him up onto the shore.
"No, Dean." His voice is small. "That's it."
"Whaddya mean that's it?"
"I'm dead."
"No, the frogs your big butt sat on are dead. You're fine." Dean kicks some loose dirt on him for good measure before turning around to face the forest.
At that same moment, a bush at the forest's edge rustles. A dark shape darts from it to behind a tree three feet to the left.
"Sam." Dean's voice is suddenly quiet and he's standing alert. His fingers twitch. He wonders if he should've brought a weapon.
"WHAT?!" Sam cries emphatically from the ground. "What, Dean?! Just, what?!"
"Shut up, you loser. There's someone in the forest."
At this, Sam sits up, expression curious and open. "What kind of someone?"
"How the heck am i supposed to know?"
"Go look."
Dean huffs and glares at Sam. "Why don't you go look, Braveheart?"
Sam glares right back and they stay like that until another loud rustle breaks the silence of the country.
Dean creeps forward, slow and low to the ground. "Hello?" He calls.
Absolute silence, save the buzzing of the cicadas that herald the heat.
"Hello?" A little louder.
Dean's at the edge of the forest. The burnt grass and brome of their yard turns to green clover and moss. He looks back at his brother sitting wet and wide-eyed at the edge of the creek, and then back further to their little white house in the distance. His father has pulled the Impala around to the side of the house.
Dean takes a step forward. And another. More rustling. To his left. Dean's breath is coming fast and harsh. He leans forward. There's a small shape curled behind a tree. Dean steels himself and swings around. Twin yells echo up into the sky. Sam yells faintly behind Dean, always hating being left out. And Dean finds himself face-to-face with a boy, about one inch shorter than he.
Dean comes up dumb. His mouth gapes, taking the boy in - his shaggy, tangly black hair, his tanned skin, burned a little on his nose and cheeks, his clothes, dirt-stained and holey, and his eyes: huge, round, blue things, blinking owlishly at him. There's a slingshot clutched tightly in his fist. His mouth is open slightly and he's missing one of his front teeth.
"H-Hi." Dean tries.
The boy takes a small step back, expression blank, and then twists so fast Dean can feel the second-hand whiplash, and he's off running.
"Wait!" Dean finds himself yelling, taking off a split-second after. "WAIT!" He reaches forward, certain he's going to trip. He's never run this fast, he thinks. A little more, a little faster, his calves burning, and Dean fists the back of the boy's shirt. He hears a distinct rip before the boy twists around and suddenly they're both tumbling, limbs tangled, in the leaves, needles, and moss lining the forest floor.
The boy turns to glare at Dean but all Dean can do is pant for air, still holding the back of his shirt tight. "Wait," He huffs. "I'm Dean. We live there." He swallows and raises his other hand to point at their new home.
The boy raises an eyebrow before he speaks. "You moved into Dan Dell's house?" His voice is kind of low for his age, raspy like those goody-goody kids in the cookie commercial, like Dean's sometimes is when he just wakes up.
Dean shrugs. "I guess so."
The boy seems to evaluate him, eyes narrowed. "Where you from?"
Dean shrugs again. "Everywhere."
This answer seems to please the boy and he sits up, untangling his legs from Dean's, and Dean is forced to let go of his shirt. "I'm Castiel."
Dean nods, brow furrowing. Like Hell is he ever going to be able to remember that, let alone ever be able to spell it. He doesn't try to repeat it, an unwarranted blush starting to rise hot on his cheeks. "Cool."
Cas-whatever cocks his head to the side like a puppy Sam and Dean once found outside a motel and he raises another eyebrow at him, like he's judging him. Dean gets a weird kind of vibe from him, to be honest, but he looks smart and like he knows things, and for some reason Dean decides that he likes him.
He sticks out a hand between them and tentatively the kid shakes it. "I'm gonna call you Cas." Dean mutters awkwardly. He already forgets what the long version was.
Cas nods. "Okay."
"Cool slingshot."
"Thanks."
There's a beat where it's quiet and all they're doing is staring, as if they're trying to read each other. Cas' eyes are blue and piercing and they trap Dean's and he finds it hard to look away. He wonders distractedly if he's being mind-read or mind-controlled or something like that, like on TV. He thinks to himself that Cas would make a very good alien.
"Why are you in our yard?" Dean blurts, realizing as soon as he says it that that kinda sounds rude. He hopes dearly that Cas isn't someone who takes everything personally. He doesn't think he could deal with that.
But Cas looks unfazed and he looks past Dean and points to one of the trees Dean'd thought would be good for climbing. "I like sittin' in your trees." He gestures subtly with the slingshot. "I try to catch birds." There's another pause. He's staring out into Dean's yard, not looking at him. His expression is closed but Dean thinks he sees unease there. It unsettles him. "No one's lived in your house for a long time."
Dean nods along, fingers idly playing in a patch of Scotch moss. The bugs seem deafening around him. "Ever catch any?" Cas looks over at him, confused. "Birds." He clarifies.
Cas looks away again, digging a shallow hole with the handle of his slingshot. It looks handmade, Dean realizes, with a sanded stick and leather and elastic. "Nah. Birds are fast."
Dean nods, about to apologize for ripping the guy's shirt, and then Sam is screaming, "DEAN!" and Dean can hear his hiccuping breaths and his pattering steps as he waddle-runs up to them. His face is sad and pouty when he pushes past the final bush into the little clearing him and Cas are sitting in. "Dean." He repeats, avoiding Cas' interested stare as he takes a seat inches from his big brother.
"This is Sam," Dean supplies off-handedly. "who is too much of a baby to stay by himself for three frickin' minutes."
"I'm not!" Sam roars, shoving at Dean's arm, but when he crosses his own arms, he burrows tightly against Dean's side and Dean doesn't miss the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of Castiel's serious mouth. He decides that he and Cas are going to be friends, possibly for a very long time.
Hey, everyone. This story is something very different for me, not only in structure and language, but in that I actually have it all planned out (for the most part), beginning, middle, and end, so I shouldn't get stuck halfway like I usually do.
This story is all at once an Ode to my Childhood in a stupidly small town of farmers and the elderly, an 'In Memory' to a very good friend of mine, and a tragic love story very close to my heart. Also I absolutely love good-old-country-childhood-Destiel fics and they're hard to come by so I'm making my own. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear what you think!