A/N at top so not to disrupt the flow at the end. These two chapters are meant to be intertwined, so you'll find they bump into each other a lot. You should be warned since halfway through I wrote lovestruck!Dean and that'll probably slap you in the face XD Anyways, leave it to me to make the single purpose of this chapter to explain Castiel's mission then forget to explain it... SO. I will write ANOTHER chapter that I PROMISE IT WILL explain Castiel's mission. BTW I know it says End at the end, but I may still add little drabbles and small stories after this that don't have to do with the main plot, but take place in this AU.

OKAY ONTO THE STORY:

Dean

If you were to ask Dean, his entire life was just a big mistake. Everything was indescribably painful for as long as he could remember. However, that wasn't exactly the case. The first four years of his life were magnificent. His mother used to sing to him each night, cut the crusts off his sandwiches; his father would let him help out in the yard work, and to a child, to help out Dad was everything. When his little brother was born, he thought it was the happiest moment of his life. He'd never seen his mom more elated, though tired from all the work. He'd never seen his parents so happy together. Six months after that—that's all Dean can remember.

It seemed just like any other day, everyone oblivious to what would happen later on. Mary had made breakfast like any other day, and John helped out barbequing lunch, and Mary would have made dinner, except that she didn't.

"John," she said weakly and turned over in bed. "I think I have a fever. You wouldn't mind making dinner tonight?"

John agreed ,"Of course," he kissed her forehead, "is there anything else you need? Glass of orange juice?"

Mary shook her head, her eyes fluttering closed. John had never seen an angel sleep, but it couldn't have looked more beautiful. "I just need to rest," she said softly and John nodded. His fingertips lingered on her cheek before he tore his gaze away.

Picking Sam up and carrying him downstairs, John sets him down by Dean on the couch, watching TV. Dean glanced over before ignoring Sam again and continuing the show. Sam crawls over and falls over Dean's lap, but Dean doesn't seem to mind.

"Watch your brother," John instructs and goes into the kitchen. He pours oil into the pan, heating it up and throwing in some potatoes after it'd warmed. He reached for some salt, knocking over the olive oil on mistake. He cursed under his breath, picking up the bottle and deciding to clean it up later so the food didn't burn.

Dean flipped through random channels as Sam crawled around him, tugging at his shirt and his arms.

"Stop it, Sammy," Dean grumbled and leaned back.

Sam made a noise, squirming around some more. Dean pushed Sam off of his lap only to have him crawl up again, eyes wide and innocent. Innocent, yeah right, Dean thought and picked him up, setting him on the opposite side of the couch. Sam did sit still for a while, giving Dean enough time to grin in triumph, flicking to the next channel and finally finding something interesting.

Sam kicked his feet and looked admiringly to his brother before turning and crawling over again. Dean groaned, trying to make Sam go away again, but Sam reached up and snatched the remote because if Dean is doing it he wants to.

"Sam!" Dean yelled in irritation and tried to reach for it back. Sam hopped off the couch. "Give it back, you big meanie!"

Sam giggled and bit the top of the remote. Dean glared and chased him, which only made Sam laugh more because Dean's playing with me! Eventually Dean had caught up because there's only so fast a six-month-old can crawl, and Sam fell over. Dean got the remote back, glaring at his little brother who made a face of discomfort and then started to cry.

"No, no! Don't cry! Stop!" Dean said hurriedly, pushing the remote back at him. "Look! You can have it back!"

But Sam apparently didn't care about the remote anymore since he kept crying. The next time Dean looked up John was standing by them, picking Sam up.

"What did you do to him?" he asked tiredly.

"Nothing! I swear! He just fell!"

John gave him the look and Dean's eyes fell down. With a sigh, John carried Sam back up to his room, hopefully to keep him occupied with his toys while he finished dinner. He didn't have time to set him down before he heard Dean yell.

"DAD! DAD! THE KITCHEN!"

John ran downstairs again quickly, Sam still in his arms, whining and squirming. Flames had already spread half across the room. John cursed audibly, Dean glancing up curiously as if he didn't understand the words, but nonetheless knew they were suitable for this situation because when did Dad do anything not good?

"Take your brother and run outside! Wait for me!" John said, words rushed and he handed the infant over.

John ran over to the phone, calling the fire department. Still on the phone, shouting out an address, he ran upstairs, heat tauntingly close and the mocking scent of oil and burned potatoes drafting behind him.

"MARY!" he shouted, but the fire was crossing through the doorway. His wife was still asleep in her bed, flames spreading and surrounding her. Alas all his shouting, Mary would not wake up. John felt something tear at his heart and he jumped through the flames, ignoring the burn and small flames that caught on his shirt. He shook his love's shoulder. Mary awoke disoriented and weak, eyes red and voice scratchy.

"What..?" she said softly, not understanding yet. She coughed harshly.

John picked her up, jumping through the flames again and darting downstairs. I will not leave her, he shouted to himself in his mind and ran faster. But Mary fell from his arms as he slipped on the last few steps. She lay on the ground as John coughed violently, smoke penetrating his lungs.

"Mary," he said hoarsely, "Come on."

Mary did not move.

"MARY!"

"Dad?"

"GET BACK OUTSIDE, DEAN!"

Dean shook, scared from the outburst and ran back outside.

The fire swallowed Mary out of sight and by that time firefighters had already arrived, grabbing his arms and trying to pull him the few meters to the door.

"No! My wife is still in there!" John begged, but they were stronger than him.

John was dragged outside the house, held by two firefighters as more were busy putting out the fire and two more in the house searching for Mary. John felt fear biting at his heart as he fell to the ground because there was nothing left he could do. It was nearly sunset and starting to chill but it was nothing compared to how cold he felt inside.

Dean was next to him, holding Sam. "Dad? Where's mom?"

"Be quiet," John bit out in anger at himself, at Sam, at Dean, at the firefighters, at the world.

Dean was taken aback by the bitterness his father showed, but brushed it off because Dad wasn't mean. He held his brother protectively and tightly, feeling the comforting body heat spread through him in the night air.

"Don't worry, Sammy, Mom's gonna come out soon," he said convincingly, "Because you know what she says to me every night? You too? Angels are watching over us, so they won't let Mom die."

A few moments later a fireman burst through the flames cinematically, holding Mary in his arms. Her skin was red and blistered, her hair burned and crisped. John broke free of the others' hold and rushed over, not noticing the tears starting to fall from his eyes.

"Mary? Mary, look at me? Mary?" he said urgently, but he was pushed aside again.

"We need a medic!" the fireman yelled another man rushed over.

Mary was laid down on the ground, and despite everything that had happened she could have had wings and a halo in John's eyes. Her burnt skin was still beautiful. Her face was still graceful. She was magnificent in every way possible, and John loved her more than anything in Heaven and Earth and he pled to God oh, please, just give her back to me.

The medic held her wrist, before looking up at the fireman with a grim expression. He shook his head slowly.

"The smoke suffocated her before the fire could hurt her," he explained to John somberly.

But John hardly heard him, teeth grinding and fists clenched, he turned to anger as last resort. The fireman started talking again, but his words went unheard. Dean looked up at him, partly confused, partly scared of his father's stance. His lips parted slightly in effort to speak, but Sam spoke first—well more like chirped and/or garbled. Dean held him closer, blaming the cold night air despite the dying fire.

"Dad?"

John didn't look at him, barking, "Get in the damn car," and slammed the car door closed after them. Dean jumped in another pinch of fear from the loud sound and buckled in. He didn't understand when they started to pull out without their mom.

"Dad? Why are we leaving mom?"

"Shut the fuck up," John's grip on the wheel tightened.

Dean shrunk into the back seat, kissing Sam's cheek. He still had Sam. He still had Dad. Maybe they would meet up with their mom later. He smiled to himself, leaning on the car window and starting to fall asleep. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to The Lord as he did every night. Thank you for protecting our family.

But he was wrong when he said he still had his dad. After that night, John had started drinking, staying out late, sometimes leaving for days on end, sometimes bringing back a strange looking woman who smelled of alcohol and wore smeared red lipstick. Sometimes they disappeared into Dad's room and sometimes he heard groans and moans and sounds that made him think John was hurt or something.

Dean grew up too fast. It was either grow up or have himself and Sam starve, both of food and love. When Sam started kindergarten, Dean talked him through the Do's and Don'ts, showed him the bus stop and where the best place to sit on the bus was. He was the one that raided Dad's drawers for lunch money to give to Sam, and Sam grew up happier than he did. Seeing his smile every day made everything Dean did worth it.

During the days they didn't have school, they either didn't see their father at all, or they wished they didn't. When Sam was six John started to get abusive and Dean started to get protective. Sam with wide eyes, and a sweet smile, innocent questions and incomprehension that Dad didn't answer questions like—

"Where's my mom?" he asked, "Kids at school all have moms. Do I have one?"

Utter anger and resentment over took John's face like a poison. He tightly clenched a beer bottle glared daggers at his son.

"No," he spat out and Sam flinched back. "You don't have a fucking mom, and it's your fault—your crying and whining and distracting. You killed her!"

His arm raised, and for one terrifying moment, Dean was sure the look on his face was that he was about to hit his brother. Stepping between them, Dean pulled Sam closer to him.

"Don't! You know it wasn't his fault!" even Dean wasn't sure what he was implying, though the angry look on John's face heightened. Dean hastily added, "It's mine! I was chasing him when he fell!"
John was quiet for a moment, and Sam was just confused. The silence between them was unbearable and Dean grew even more scared by the seconds that passed. No tick on the clock could comfort him.

Finally John spoke, "You're right," he said darkly and Dean felt his heart drop because was he right? John backed both brothers against a wall.

Dean closed his eyes in fear, blocking Sam from his Dad's range completely and waited for the blows to strike because no one looks like that unless they're going to hurt someone. But he didn't touch them. He turned around and his footsteps sounded like thunder. Just as Dean's guard dropped, he pulled Sam into a tight hug, a scared embrace, an I almost lost you embrace.

A loud SMASH broke Dean away from Sam as a beer bottle crashed just an inch away from Dean's face on the wall. Shards of the bottle clinked as they fell to the ground and wasted alcohol dripped from the wall. Dean shuddered in fear and grabbed Sam's hand and ran up to their bedroom. They slept together in one bed that night, and Dean wasn't sure if it was to protect Sam or to feel safe himself.

Despite Dean's tormented life, Sam lived in relative happiness. He went to school every day and loved learning the most, specifically religions and mythology. He still prayed every night even if Dean said he wasn't sure he believed in God anymore. For having someone like Dean, God had to exist. So each night in thanks—Thank you for giving me Dean— and every day in school, Sam went through life with a smile.

As a child, he didn't remember his mother at all, and hardly remembered his dad. He saw John sometimes, but Dean always made Sam leave the room, not that Sam knew why. Either way, Dean was all the family he needed. When he drew a picture of his family in school, his teacher looked at him strangely.

"Where's your mom and dad?" she asked, indicating to the nearly blank page.

"Dean's my family," Sam replied happily and colored in his hair. "I don't have a mom. I don't know Dad well."

The teacher's gaze lingered a little longer, possibly sad, and continued walking around, smiling at students' drawings.

Sometimes when Sam got home, he would notice Dean limping or holding his arm more than usual, checking in the mirror two times more than often. If he asked, Dean would laugh and ruffle his hair, don't worry about it. Sam brushed it off, he was being silly wasn't he?

Sam got home once and saw Dean putting make up concealer over a new bruise on his cheek.

Dean doesn't know he saw.

Sam found an excuse to kiss his cheek that night.

Sam was making straight A's in school, he only expected Dean to do the same. When he was nine he saw Dean's report card was all C's and a D. Dean had papers scattered all over his room, some crumpled and some stained with alcohol. His first thought was maybe Dad came in and spilled some on it, but he wasn't so sure that was the case anymore.

Sam brought home a permission slip for the Spelling Bee one day.

"Dean!" Sam ran up to him and Dean greeted him with a hug.

"You want some chicken? I made some a few hours ago. I think—"

"Where's Dad? I need him to sign this for the Spelling Bee!"

But instead of saying where Dad was, Dean took the paper from Sam's hands and signed it himself.

"I got his signature down," Dean grinned cheekily, "Don't worry. Dad wouldn't want to sign this shit anyways."

Sam looked down for a moment. "He can't come? What if I win and no one sees?"

"Dad would never go," Dean says with a bite of anger in his tone. Sam looks taken back and Dean instantly looks apologetic. "Sorry. I just know he won't go."

Sam looked down again, trying to hide his sadness and doing a very bad job at it. "Oh… Okay," he said softly.

Dean ruffled his hair again, "Don't worry about it," he smiled, "You want some chicken?"

"Can I have spaghetti instead?"

Dean laughed to himself before taking out a pot. "Sure, sure." And after all those nights of torture, he was finally genuinely happy. Sam took a huge bite out of his spaghetti and Dean had a smaller bowl for himself, eating slowly. That all changed when the door slammed open. Dean hurried Sam and his bowl into his bedroom and once again, Sam had no idea why. Nonetheless, He started eating in his room, and Dean came back a half hour later, looking weary.

He dropped onto his bed and fell asleep immediately. Sam put down his bowl and walked over to him, looking at his face and bringing his hand over it, wiping away the makeup he saw him apply before. He kissed the two bruises and four cuts goodnight and sent a prayer of thanks to The Lord for giving him Dean.

"Sam Winchester. Spell the word: Overcast."

"Overcast. O-V-E-R-C-A-S-T. Overcast."

"Correct."

Sam smiled to himself and sat back down, watching the fifth person in line stand up and spell the word triumph correctly. He took a deep breath, telling himself to calm down because he can definitely win. Someone next to him waved to her mom in the audience, and he felt slightly discouraged. No matter, he cheered himself up, You can win even if Dad won't come.

His eyes scanned over the audience anyways, widening as he saw Dean in the seventh row. A huge grin broke out on his face and Dean smiled back, giving a small wave. Sam had gotten out of class to do the Spelling Bee, so he vaguely wondered how Dean was there when he should have been in class, too, but he supposed his teacher let him out as well.

"Sam Winchester," he heard his name again and stood. "Spell the word: Rancid."

"Rancid. R-A-N-C-I-D. Rancid."

"Correct."

Sam smiled and sat back down. Dean flashed him a big thumbs up and Sam giggled to himself. And when the Spelling Bee was over, Dean took him in the car and drove them both to get frozen yogurt. Sam won second place and Dean had ranted the entire time Who the hell needs to know how to spell entrepreneur? That game is fixed. FIXED!

Sam laughed, shaking his head seeing as Dean couldn't even pronounce the word right. When they got home, laughing and giggling, the house was dark which meant their father wasn't home. Dean smiled wider. They went up to their room, starting to talk gossip, how Sam had seen this cute girl, Jessica, in his science class, and Dean started teasing him about it.

"Have you ever had a crush on anyone?" Sam asked.

"Ah, um," Dean said softly, looking down. "Actually, I dated this girl Lisa for a while."

Sam sat up straighter, wanting to know all the details. His eyes prodded and poked at Dean in a way that almost made him feel uncomfortable. He never opened up to people—but then again this wasn't people. This was Sam.

"She was nice," he said lamely, "I think—ah… We were together seven months. She was…" Dean trailed off, unsure of where to go. "Well anyways… She wanted to meet Dad, and I wouldn't let her. She thought it was something like I didn't trust her enough to let her meet him, or didn't take her seriously. She broke it off."

Am I just a one-time fling that will never meet your parents?

Come on, I didn't mean it like that! We're more than that!

You've met my mom! You've met my sisters!

It's DIFFERENT!
"Oh."

Dean nodded emptily.

"Do you not like Dad?" Sam asked, knowing how Dean always made everyone avoid him.

"It isn't like that," Dean said tiredly, "He's just… Confused. He'll snap out of it eventually," though his voice wasn't so sure.

A few seconds later there was the loud BANG of a gunshot. Both Dean and Sam jolted, fear racking over them. They sat still, listening to the sound of their breathing before realizing the silence had gone on too long.

"I'm going to go find Dad," Dean said softly in a shaking voice, feeling sick.

"Dean—"

"Stay here."

Dean rushed out of the door and closed it behind him. He walked quietly, stealthily through the house as if he were robbing it. The house was still dark and Dean crept up the stairs to his father's bedroom. He pushed the door open.

His Dad was lying on the bed, left arm hanging off the edge and right hand clutching a pistol to his temple. The sheets were a dark crimson, and Dean wasn't sure they were bought that color especially since it was only red around his head and shoulders. It was soaking through the mattress.

"Dad?" he asked shakily.

His Dad didn't move.

"Dad," he said more sternly. "Dad, sit up."
He didn't.

"Sit up dammit!" he yelled and marched over angrily. "Sit up! Wake up! Open your fucking eyes because I KNOW you didn't just—" his voice cut off as he choked on his words. He clenched his fists, banging on his chest. Once, twice, three times—"WAKE UP! FUCKING WAKE UP!"
"Dean?"

"GO BACK TO THE ROOM, I TOLD YOU NOT TO MOVE!"

He heard Sam retreat quickly, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. He shook his Dad's shoulders violently, the gun falling from his limp hand and his eyes cold and lifeless. He dropped him back on the bed and clenched his fists because How could he do this to them? Dean collected himself in under a minute and walked back downstairs, opening the door to Sam's room slowly and quietly.

"Dean? What happened?" he asked, fear biting at his tone as if he was scared of another outburst.

Reminded of himself and his father, Dean apologized, "Sorry I yelled," he said softly, weakly. "Nothing's the matter. Go to sleep."

Sam didn't seem like he believed him but obeyed. He turned over and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Dean walked over and kissed his forehead, his lips lingering longer than they should have and he pulled him into a tight hug. Before Sam could question it, Dean let go and walked out of the room.

Sam fell asleep.

Outside, Dean walked and kicked up rocks in the ground. He ripped at his hair and didn't care if the neighbors heard him when he yelled—

"FUCK YOU! FUCK EVERYONE UP THERE! ANY GOD OR FUCKING ANGELS THAT MIGHT BE UP THERE!" he shouted, anger and frustration pouring from him like rotting caramel. "YOU TAKE MY MOM THEN YOU TAKE MY DAD, WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

His voice died, and he was wrecked with sobs. Everyone he ever felt close to was ripped away, and now his brother and he were orphaned. He cried softly, covering his face as he fell on the ground and hugged his knees for he had no one else, and had he had someone else he could not burden them.

"What do you want from me?" he asked absently, knowing—believing—there was no one up there that could hear him, watch over him, help him.

The next morning he called his uncle, Bobby, and explained everything. Bobby told him to wait in the room with his brother while he buried the body. Getting others involved would end up in Dean and Sam getting put into an orphanage, and with Dean being eighteen in a few months, he could take care of the two of them perfectly well. Nonetheless, Bobby still checked up on them, made sure they had money and food. Bobby was a biology teacher at the high school, so Dean saw him more often than he would normally.

Life passed like a rock falling steadily in an ocean. Dean passed through the motions but had nothing to sustain him. He was walking with Bobby—Mr. Singer, he was reminded to say in school—when he saw a boy on the ground, battered and bruised like he had been before. But before he could say anything, the boy pulled himself up and ran into the bathroom. He watched him until he disappeared behind the door.

Mr. Singer broke his thoughts.

"You should take that boy to the clinic."

The boy's name was Castiel, Dean discovered, and wow what a name. His eyes were just beautiful, screaming, whispering, yelling, speaking blue. Don't even get him started on Castiel's hair, his face, his height, his tongue, lips, his voice, it was all perfect, and Dean had never fell this hard since Lisa. It hardly registered that this was a boy and that Dean should be questioning his sexuality at this moment, but right then, nothing could come close to the burning in his chest. Castiel didn't talk much, so Dean kept trying to keep a conversation going, but even without words, just being in his presence was enough.

And magnificent wasn't enough to describe him, nothing was. Dean fell too hard. He didn't know how anyone could lay a finger on such an angel. His hand would brush against Castiel's, and he knew Castiel didn't notice but it was electrifying. He did it a few more times and wondered if Castiel would mind if he held his hand. That was weird wasn't it?
They were outside English class after the clinic, and Dean was still curious—

"So wha'dya even do to make those kids pick on you like that?" he found the words sloppily tumbling from his lips, and damn he should have spoken more clearly because a beautiful person deserves to be spoken to in beautiful words but before he could try to correct himself Castiel—

"I told him that his father is wrong to ever beat him."

Time stopped. In that minute Dean almost thought Castiel was talking to him. That John was wrong to beat you, and his eyes that apologized in themselves. That he could look into his eyes and just know—

"What the hell, man? You don't just say things like that!"

Castiel looked at him for a long moment and Dean was starting to think he really could see into his soul.

"He looked pained," Dean felt his breath caught in his throat because Castiel looked right at him—but he looked away. "I thought it would help him."

Dean let out a huff of breath like a hurricane just came and robbed him of precious oxygen. Him. The boy that got fisty with Cas. Castiel was something else. Dean would do anything to have him. And so all of English class, Dean stared at Castiel—did you know he has two freckles on his shoulder?— and Castiel showed no sign of realizing this. Dean realized his pencil was moving, doodling on the corner of his paper. He didn't care, doing whatever he felt like as his heart raced and he counted the strands of hair sticking up from Castiel's head. He only realized the bell rang when Castiel stood up. He gathered his stuff, looking at the blank paper with hearts doodled all over the margin and blushed, mentally slapping himself.

What the hell am I? A thirteen year old girl?

He kept the paper.

And so, his crush developed quickly. He tried to speak to Castiel on multiple occasions but always ended up chickening out because how could someone so insanely beautiful love someone as wrecked as him? Nonetheless, Dean ended up having to collect paper more frequently, unable to stop himself from doodling on his essays and then not wanting to turn in the girly paper, rewriting it. His grade in English dropped from a B to a C but Dean didn't care. Not when Castiel was right there.

But he couldn't just keep watching, that was creepy. Dean decided he would work up the courage, I mean, Hey, Cas, can you come over after school? isn't that difficult a sentence. However, the next time he saw Castiel, it wasn't the way he wanted to. He and Sam were about to go home when he saw him beaten and battered by the gym locker room. He cursed and ignored Sam for the first time in his life and he ran to help him. Sam seemed bewildered but followed him.

"Cas? Cas? Shit, are you alive?" and though he was half joking, he did look badly beaten.

"You know him? How can you recognize him?" he heard Sam ask.

"Shut up, Sammy, help me sit him up."

Sam helped Dean push Castiel into an upright position and drops of blood dripped from those—beautiful soft beautiful mine beautiful—lips. Fear dripped down Dean's heart as Castiel started to cough and more blood stained his shirt, but his eyes blinked open. Thank God, Dean sighed under his breath in relief. He saw Castiel lick his lips and then cringe at the taste.

Dean racked a hand through his hair, "Castiel? Holy shit, man, what'd you do this time?"

But Sam apparently didn't let Castiel talk since, "Castiel? Like the angel Castiel?"

"Shut up Sam!" Dean snapped, wanting nothing more than to hear Castiel's voice.

Castiel blinked a few more times, uncomprehensive of the shapes in front of him. Dean leaned closer.

"What?" the lone word sent Dean's heart soaring. He had it bad.

Dean fought the urge to chuckle and stood, pointing for Sam to go to Castiel's left side. "C'mon let's get you to the clinic. Sam, you get that side."

Dean pulled Castiel's arm up and, you're so warm, Sam picked him up on the other side. Castiel limped along weakly and Dean hugged an arm around his waist because he'd always wanted to do that, and though he felt bad about taking advantage of the situation, he didn't. Castiel had a thin waist, almost able to feel the soft skin under the shirt and then—

"Sam."

Oh, right, they hadn't met. "My lil' bro."

And Sam smiled down at the beaten boy, having such trouble walking and letting out the occasional whimper or groan. Dean felt horrible, each of his sounds of pain shooting straight through him. They had to stop meeting like this. Next time they should go to the movies or ice cream or pizza or— Castiel was breathing rapidly, harshly and Dean hugged him tighter in encouragement.

"Almost there," he said softly, trying to keep Castiel going. He could see the room to the clinic.

"I thought I said I never—Oh my God, what happened?" Nurse Mills shouted as Castiel came into sight. He was rushed into a cot and Dean sat close by.

Dean's eyes ran over every inch of Castiel's body as if he could heal him with his sight. His fingers twitched at his sides, wanting so much to hold him while he was being treated or to help treat the beautiful boy himself. Nonetheless, he sat stiffly in the uncomfortable chair. Oh, he'd been asked a question.

"Same story as last week. Just found 'im like that."

It was hard to remember to answer things like that with an angel sitting next to you.

Dean believed that Castiel was an angel. He believed in Castiel, and had faith in him. What he did not believe in were other angels, a supposed God that was supposed to be looking over all of them because bullshit. Dean's life had been nothing but Hell and if Heaven existed, what sin had he committed to deserve a fate as the one he had? But someone as beautiful magnificent wonderful graceful lovely elegant brilliant perfect as Castiel just had to be an angel. There was no doubt in his mind.

Though he didn't know how to treat Castiel. Knowing he was an Angel of the Lord, how could they ever be friends let alone lovers? Was that even legal? The frustration built up inside Dean, the misunderstanding and rejection spilling from him like a broken glass because that's what he was and what happened just came out: You're insane.

But don't look at me so sadly when I say that. I don't mean it. I'm stupid.

Unable to cope with being with Castiel, he avoided him. He dreamt of his eyes and his hair and his lips and him and the second he came into sight he fled. Dreams filled with Castiel holding him and saying "I don't care about Heaven, I care about you." plagued Dean. Fabrications of lips. Fantasies of holds. Castiel, Castiel, Castiel, Castiel, oh my love I can't express the frustration of not being able to show myself.

He hadn't fallen this hard with Lisa.

What was wrong with him?

After a while he found himself and Castiel alone more often, and Castiel seemed more flustered than he was. Castiel would blush more often and Dean couldn't stop himself from laughing because he was just too cute. Sam would bring Castiel and him into a room, then make some excuse to leave—I have to use the bathroom, though he never came back. Nonetheless, Dean made unnecessary touches and graces, getting closer and closer and waiting for Castiel to push him away and he never did.

Even once Castiel tried to do his homework sitting next to Dean, and Dean tried to distract him. It was adorable, really. He would kick his foot softly, stretch and brush his wrist by the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel blushed and marked in another two answers quickly. Dean bit back a laugh when Castiel answered that George Washington was the sixteenth president.

He leaned closer, his lips a few inches from Castiel's ear and resisted the urge to kiss under it. A soft blush scattered over Castiel's cheeks and Dean could tell he was uncomfortable with him being so close, but he didn't care. He was selfish.

Dean wasn't sure which broke him more. You are faithless or the sound of Castiel crying and knowing it was because of him because… Dean didn't know why. He locked himself in his room, berating himself for being so cruel and for screwing up any chance he may have had with Castiel. He banged his head against the headboard, groaning in pain, and then accepting any pain anyone wished to force upon him because remembering Castiel saying "So why am I?" just killed him. Knowing that his feelings were requited Dean wanted nothing more than to run to him and kiss him all over, hold him all over, touch him all over, but he knew those feelings probably dwindled because of how shitty he was at being a good person. How could an angel ever be in love with someone like him? His self-loathing was interrupted with Sam yelling and shouting things excitedly. Dean groaned, getting up and pushing the door open loudly because—

What was Sam doing up so damn early?

End