Wowowow I got this up a lot sooner than I thought I would! normally at this point in a story it'd take me a long time to think up a more detailed plot. I'm just so glad it took a few days instead of a few weeks, haha.

Well, here you go!

WARNING: This chapter has abuse and self-harm, so if any of you are recovering from said things or are very prone to relapsing, please do not continue because I'd hate to be the reason for a panic attack or anything worse. Stay safe, you guys.

When Castiel opened the front door to his home, he almost instantly sprinted back the other direction.

"Castiel," his father's voice rung out, clear and strong. "Get over here, now."

Feeling his heart thump rapidly and painfully against his chest and nausea start in his gut, Castiel walked into his house, abandoning his backpack at the door. Hiding from his father would only make the punishment worse, later on. He knew that for a fact. So he quickly made his way to the kitchen where Mr. Novak was holding a sheet of paper in one hand and a beer in the other, his face fuming with anger as he leaned over a counter, rage tensing his broad shoulders.

"What is this?" his father asked coolly, shoving the dull yellow paper right in front of Castiel's face so the teen had to blink to focus his vision on it. The boy quickly realized the problem when among the A's on his progress report, a C stood out like a sore thumb, right next to his math class.

Feeling his mouth go dry when he realized what was to come, Castiel swallowed back the large lump in his throat as his body tingled with adrenaline. "I-I'll bring it back up," he stuttered frantically. "It was just a bad test grade. I studied the wrong material, and-"

"We made a deal," his father interrupted, reddened eyes filled with disgust and anger, his icy tone menacing, now. He had been drinking a lot. Castiel could smell the liquor on his breath, mixed with the scent of beer. His father was only violent when he drank. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Castiel looked his father in the eyes, preparing himself for the worst. "The only reason I haven't kicked you out is because you are going to get all A's so you can get scholarships for some fucking college that I don't have to end up paying a shit ton of my hard-earned money for! I'm being charitable! You should be happy I'm not going to kick you out, right now!" he began yelling, all cool and calm abandoned and replaced with white hot rage.

Before he could fully process it, his father's beer bottle was flying towards his head. Castiel dodged it, and he heard the distinct shatter of glass against wall. "I'm sorry!" Castiel cried out in fear, hoping to subdue his father's tirade. His shaking hands covered his head in defense as he forced himself not to close his eyes in fear that another object could be thrown at his head.

"I don't need a fucking apology," his father hissed. "You know the punishment," he reminded Castiel as the teen got back on his wobbly feet, backing away from his father who advanced on him anyways. "Until that grade is back up to an A, you can forget about me providing anything for you," his father threatened.

"Dad, please, I-"

A giant fist met Castiel's cheek and with a sharp crack of pain the boy was instantly on the ground, blinking stars out of his swimming vision. "I am not your father!" the taller man bellowed, and Castiel nodded frantically so as not to get hit, again. "Now go clean that mess up," Mr. Novak ordered with a slur as he pointed to the shattered beer bottle.

"Yes, sir," Castiel replied as he got back up and hurried over to the kitchen to retrieve a paper towel roll and wet sponge. He busily cleaned up the spilled beer and shards of glass, slipping one of the shards into his pocket when his father wasn't looking. After cleaning up the mess, he picked up his backpack, went to his room, and locked the door.

Taking a deep breath, Castiel slumped onto the floor and tried to stop the tears that ached to be shed, burning at the base of his throat when Castiel thought of all the things that made him a worthless and terrible son in his father's eyes. The voices wouldn't stop listing reasons, nagging at him about how awful he was and how he didn't deserve to live. Castiel took a deep breath, his bottom lip quivering as he bit hard onto it and felt his nose tingle and sting, the skin of his left cheek pulsing with pain. His grade was a 79. It'd take a lot of 100's to bring it up to an A, again. And he only had half a semester left. By the start of second semester the grades would all be back up to 100s and last semester's grades would be permanent on his transcript.

Fighting back the anxiety in his chest, Castiel rubbed his eyes furiously. He didn't feel like crying. He knew that if he cried he wouldn't be able to stop. Snifflling, Castiel slipped a hand in his pocket and fingered the sticky shard of glass that sat there. Distraction. He needed a distraction. Getting back up, Castiel headed to the bathroom to clean the piece of glass. He was going to need it if he wanted to get through the night.

What did a couple more cuts matter, anyway?

"So how does pizza sound, Sammy?" Dean asked as he pulled out his cellphone, ready to dial the number for a local pizza parlor.

Sam looked up from his Physics textbook at the dining room table and snorted. "Despite the fact we've had it for the last three days, yeah- sure, pizza sounds fine," he replied with a sarcastic tone.

So an hour later Sam and Dean were dining on two large pepperoni pizzas and working on their homework. But Dean found he had a hard time concentrating. His mind was too wrapped around Castiel.

Normally, when he came to a new school everybody wanted to be his friend and talk to him. Castiel seemed to almost hate Dean, and he had no idea why. The kid didn't seem like he was strange in any way. He looked normal enough, to Dean. That was until they talked. Castiel talked like an old English teacher rather than a sixteen year old student. Also, Castiel seemed to ignore every attempt of Dean's small talk. It was almost as if Dean had done something wrong to the scrawny kid.

But then there was Alastair. He had told Dean how he shoved Castiel down the stairs during their conversation at lunch. Dean didn't ask why and just went along with it, even throwing in a laugh for good measure. What did it matter to him if Castiel was being bullied? The dude was a jerk. He flat out ignored Dean during lit. and if he wasn't doing that he'd be throwing in an insulting remark.

So why wasn't Dean mad at him?

To be honest with himself, Castiel just didn't seem that... mean. It seemed more like he was defensive rather than rude. Maybe it had to do with the bullying...

Dean blinked and focused on his trigonometry. Why did he even care? It's not like he was going to grow attached to anybody, since they'd probably be moving again in a couple of months. So what if the boy he sat next to in literature had alluring, bluest-of-blue eyes that seemed to just ache for attention? So what if his surprisingly deep and gravelly voice seemed to falter and pick up with interest at one point in their conversation? So what if he had messy dark hair that just seemed too damn perfect to be real?

Dean couldn't care less.

Castiel peeled off his shirt with a wince, his bones and skin protesting against the action. Fingers fluttered over the right side of his rib cage as Castiel inspected the large purple and yellow discoloration that matted itself into his skin. He smirked at it and gave a laugh that instantly hurt to do. Castiel found that he could barely breathe properly, let alone laugh. It hurt his side too much. But, despite the pain, he felt... happy.

Good, he couldn't help but think as he saw how large the bruise was. I deserve it. I deserve the bullying and the bruises and the name calling. I deserve each and every scar and cut and wound on my arms. I deserve it all.

It was all his fault. It was all his fault. It was all his fault.

With shaky fingers, Castiel dragged the jagged glass across his arm one more time, holding back a whimper before tossing it into a bathroom drawer where it settled with his razor blade. Leaning over the sink counter, the young boy resisted the urge to pass out as he hissed in pain. His head was dizzy from the punch and he could feel a migraine coming on. He was pretty sure he hit his head when he fell down the stairs at school.

Castiel wearily lifted his head to look at his reflection in the mirror; the crimson that dribbled from his cuts stood out terribly on his pale skin, swollen and bleeding bright red blood. Driving his attention away from his arms, Castiel looked at his face in the mirror. His left cheek was already starting to bruise where his dad had punched him, the bruise covering the whole of his cheek and making its way to settle right beneath Castiel's eye. Not only was there a nasty looking bruise, but the skin was split over his cheekbone, as well, cut by the force of his father's knuckles pressing flesh against bone. It was extremely sore and it hurt to open his mouth or use any kind of facial muscle. But, strangely, Castiel felt that familiar enjoyment at the pain, deep within his stomach. No matter how much he despised being bullied by his peers and abused by his father, he couldn't help but feel as if he deserved it. He couldn't help but crave it.

It was all his fault.

Choking back a sob, Castiel walked out of the bathroom and to his room to finish his homework.

It was all his fault.

Castiel had wrapped up his arms, today. He didn't want a repeat of yesterday in case Alastair decided to shove him around some more. After his cuts reopened he had to spend most of lunch trying to stop the bleeding. He'd have to stop cutting for a couple of days to let them heal.

When Castiel walked into homeroom he saw Dean already chatting up Gordon, laughing cheerily at something they were talking about. He made his way to his seat and sank in it, trying to ignore two girls who pointed at him and whispered. Thankfully, no one else seemed to take note of the bruise on his cheek. It was probably because the homeroom was too busy paying attention to Mr. Dawson's announcement.

"Track-and-field tryouts will be after school today at the football field for anybody who's interested," he drawled on as he pulled out his attendance board. Castiel felt a pang of sadness in his gut. Before the accident, Castiel used to go running all the time. He'd always beg his mother to let him go to public school so he could try out for the team.

He never got to do that, in the end.

Castiel swallowed back the sob he felt form in his throat and waited in his seat after the bell rang again, taking his time to gather up his things before heading out into the halls.

He wasn't so lucky, this time.

Alastair caught him in the halls and pushed him into a locker, making Castiel drop all his books he held in his arms. Castiel immediately went on his knees to gather all of his things before he could lose them in the bustle of the halls, ignoring Alastair and his gang's boisterous laughter as they began to walk away.

"Geez, Castiel, you're such a clutz!" he called out, making a few people that walked by look over at the dark-haired teen and snicker, some purposefully kicking a few of his things out of reach.

Keeping his gaze to the floor, Castiel picked up the last of his things and walked off to class, unable to hold back a few tears that gathered in his eyes and the burning in his cheeks.

When he made it to class almost ten minutes late, Castiel tried to ignore Mrs. Madison's worried gaze when she caught sight of his face. But he couldn't ignore the whispering and laughing of his classmates. Those always seemed to fill his hearing. He glanced at Dean and noticed the green-eyed boy was looking at him with wide eyes.

Castiel sat down in his desk, and pulled out his book, trying to focus on reading and ignore the bright green eyes that gazed at him.

"I'm going to pass out a packet that I want you all to work on with your partners from yesterday," Castiel heard Mrs. Madison say. "I want you all to have it turned in by Friday this week," she instructed, making Castiel's heart stop.

No. No, no, no, no-

Dean's desk scooted over to Castiel's as he gave him a small smile, lifting up his packet. "Hey, partner," he greeted. Castiel ignored him and grabbed his packet from the floor when the girl sitting in front of him tossed it there. When he looked back at Dean he was shocked to see him giving the back of the girl's head a dirty glare.

Shaking his head and pulling out a pencil from his bag, Castiel began working. "If we work on this fast we can finish it early and then you won't have to spend the week working with me," Castiel spoke quickly, refusing to look at what expression Dean would have on his face.

"I don't mind working with you," Dean replied, making Castiel pause with shock and look over at him, involuntarily.

Their eyes met, and they stared at each other for what seemed like ten seconds, just gazing into each other's eyes, blue meeting green. Tearing his eyes away and clearing his throat, Castiel looked back at his packet. "Uhm, the answer for question number one is choice letter B," he spoke, circling the choice option.

Dean was silent for a few minutes.

A few minutes is the key phrase, here.

"So, uhm, Castiel," Dean began, making the dark-haired teen suppress the urge to sigh in his irritated mood. "Did... did that bruise on your cheek- was it Alastair?" he asked hesitantly, his shy tone obviously completely foreign and new to him. "I- uhm, he told me what he did... with the stairs-"

"No, it was not him. May we please just work?" Castiel interrupted, turning to look sternly into Dean's eyes.

Dean's eyes widened and he nodded, looking back down at his packet. It was only silent for a few seconds before he spoke up, again. "Then who did it?" he asked, looking back up at Castiel. "Was it Gordon? I can tell them to lay off-"

"It was not any of them," Castiel hissed. Obviously, Dean wasn't going to give up until he got some kind of answer. "I ran myself into a pole, alright? Now could you please focus?"

Closing his lips into a tight line, Dean went back to work.

They didn't speak again.

At the end of class, just as Castiel was about to walk out the door, Mrs. Madison called him over. He obliged, feeling his muscles tighten with anxiety. Why did she have to care? Why can't she just leave me be? he couldn't help but think as he walked over to her.

"Castiel," she whispered once the room was empty. She reached out a hand to his cheek, but stopped herself, putting her hand over her heart. "Darling, who did it?" She asked. "I know you don't like to tell, but I could have whoever did it suspended and you wouldn't have to-"

"It was not a student," Castiel mumbled, looking at the ground, trying to ignore the burning in his eyes.

The young teacher understood immediately. "Raphael," she breathed out. It was more of a statement than a question.

Castiel licked his lips, then drew them into a tight line as he looked off to the side, tears blurring his vision. He let out a breathy laugh, a bitter smile stretching his lips. "I do not mean to offend you, Mrs. Madison, but I am not in need of a counselor," Castiel informed her, locking eyes with her as he tried (and failed) to keep a stony expression. A few tears ran down his face, giving him away. Castiel resisted the urge to wipe them away.

Mrs. Madison stepped towards him, her dainty eyebrows drawn together and her large eyes sad. "Castiel, if someone is hurting you, you need to get some help. If not from me, then from someone," the teacher pleaded. "You are worth more than this. Don't let anybody make you feel otherwise!"

Looking down, Castiel took a deep, shaky breath as he tried to control himself. It was silent for a moment. "I will be late for chemistry," Castiel whispered.

His teacher crossed her arms and let out a huff. "Of course. I'm sorry. I'll see you tomorrow, Castiel," she spoke, dismissing him.

The blue-eyed boy walked out of the room, letting a few more tears shed before he wiped them away.

"I'm sorry, Castiel, but I cannot assign extra credit," Mrs. Bates spoke. "If I were to grant you extra credit, then I'd have to give it to every other student, as well," the trigonometry teacher explained. At the hopeless look in Castiel's eyes, she leaned forward on her desk. "Just do well on the test. It's two weeks away, so you'll have plenty of time to prepare yourself. You already do all your homework and classwork, and you do fine on your quizzes, so those averages don't need to be pushed up all that much. You were scoring B's on your tests, which was what made your average an eighty-two. It was just that last test... If you need testing help, then just see me after school on Wednesdays and Thursdays."

"Mrs. Bates, you do not understand," Castiel spoke urgently, suppressing the tears in his throat and the burning gnawing of his stomach. "I need my grade up. I need it up as soon as possible."

The gray-haired teacher just sighed. "Just do well on the next few tests, Castiel. I'm sure you can raise your average back up to a B before the semester is over," she assured.

"I cannot end this semester with a B," Castiel replied, feeling panic climb its way up his throat. "I must have an A... please," Castiel begged. He wished he could explain it to her. He wished he could tell her that if he doesn't get his grade up to an A, he will most likely starve and become homeless.

The math teacher raised her head and gazed at Castiel sternly. "I'm sorry, Castiel," she apologized, again. "Just do your best."

Biting his lower lip, Castiel nodded. "Yes. Alright, I will. I am sorry to have wasted your time," Castiel apologized, walking out of the room quickly. Two weeks... he could do that. He could try.

Hopefully he'd starve to death before the semester was over.

Gym class was hard enough for Castiel before, but now it was nearly impossible. First off, Dean was in that class, so that added to the giant group of people who enjoyed to harass Castiel for changing in the security of the showers instead of the open with the other guys. Well... Dean didn't really harass Castiel as much as go along with it and throw in a few laughs. Second, Castiel was only on his first day of his punishment and he was starving. The peanut butter sandwich and apple he packed for himself yesterday seemed like heaven, now. Honestly, he'd eat anything.

It's been a good amount of time since he'd had the no food punishment, Castiel realized as he jogged on the track, listening to the sound of Coach Durley yelling at the girls to keep up the pace and stop whining. The punishment normally went along the lines of Mr. Novak ignoring Castiel more than usual, and cutting off Castiel from anything he could without being impractical. This included food. The last time Castiel had been starved was when he had made a B in U.S. History. That time only lasted for about a week and a half, though, and once it was done Castiel hungrily indulged himself in the half-assed meals his father made that he had never been so grateful for, before.

It was cold now that it was the beginning of November. Leaves were starting to fall from their trees and the sky was turning gray. This made gym easier for Castiel now that he could wear his thin long sleeve shirt in comfort. He used to end up overheated and sick after gym class was over, but now he didn't have to worry about that. He could cover up his scars in peace.

A few of his classmates already aimed wrist-cutting jokes at him back in freshman year, but that trend died off in a couple of months, mostly because Castiel didn't fit their "emo-kid" physical description. He was quite thankful for that, because those jokes would often make him feel like such pure rot. Nobody ever saw his cuts. They only suggested that he performed such activities. It was quite scary how accurate they all truly were. Castiel did not know how much longer he'd be able to take just living as he walked back into the locker room, grabbing his clothes to change in the showers.

You deserve it, you deserve it, you deserve it.

It's your fault, it's your fault, it's your fault.

Dean had given up on trying to get friendly with Castiel, and it had only been his second day at trying. The kid was just so stubborn and so unwilling to let anybody in. It irritated Dean to the end of the earth!

But what bothered him most was the question that constantly nagged at his brain:

Why do I care?

Dean had never felt the need to help someone. He never needed to, because he told himself what happened to other people didn't matter- that it wasn't his business. The only people in his life that mattered were Sammy, his dad, and Uncle Bobby. Three people. That was easy. He could take care of three people. He didn't need more than that.

So why was he trying so hard to add more to his list? Why did he feel like Castiel was different. What made him so unique? What on Earth made that strange blue-eyed-boy the exception?

"Are you okay, Dean?" Sam asked from the passenger seat of the Impala as the two drove back to their condo. "You're... quiet," he noted.

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I'm just thinking," Dean responded as he accelerated the car slightly, feeling the nagging need to go home and drink until he didn't care again. It had been a while since he had last gotten drunk, and now was the perfect time to pick it up again. There was John's bottle of whiskey in the cupboard that Dean hid behind cereal boxes...

"Well don't think too hard. You might hurt yourself," Sam joked, earning a slap on the back of the head from Dean.

But it did the trick, and Dean was smiling again. The need to drink slowly withered away as Dean put his eyes back on the road and turned on the radio. Things were normal right now. He had Sam next to him and he was driving his Baby. Everything was alright.

All he had to do was stay away from Castiel.

Castiel's day had been awful. Last night he couldn't find The Giver book in his backpack, and assumed he had lost it when Alastair had knocked over his things that morning. Now it was gone forever, and that had been enough to add three more cuts to his collection. To add onto that, Castiel had an intense panic attack that eventually led to no sleep and involved a whole lot of self-therapy to prevent himself from passing out from sheer exhaustion. His breathing pace had been incredibly rapid throughout the panic attack, and his heart felt as if it were going to burst. Once he started to feel dizzy, he knelt forward and put his head between his knees, trying to focus on calming his breathing until his vision stopped swimming. Then he resumed his regular curled up position on the floor in a corner of his room and sobbed relentlessly, muttering apologies to God knows what. That was about the time he retrieved his razor blade.

And now he was walking into his literature class (on time for the first time this week, although the consequence involved being tripped in the hallways and shoved into a locker), wishing to God that he could be anywhere else but here. Mrs. Madison smiled at him and he gave her a nod as he went to his seat. He didn't bother glancing at Dean, who he could feel staring "subtly" at him.

Just as Castiel was about to take his seat, something caught his eye.

His book, undamaged and perfectly intact, sitting right on his desk.

Castiel couldn't help but let out a breath of relief as he sat down in his desk and picked up the book, feeling the paperback material with his fingertips and flipping through the pages to make sure none were missing. A small smile found its way to his face when he found everything in perfect condition, the happy gesture feeling foreign to his facial muscles. Looking up from his book, Castiel glanced to his left to see Dean looking at him. Their eyes met, and Dean turned away, looking down at his desk. No. It couldn't have been Dean. No, he was like the others.

Right?

It had to be Mrs. Madison. She had found it on the floor and returned it to Castiel. That was what happened.

Right?

At the end of class, after a long and awkwardly silent period of working with Dean on their packets, Castiel went to Mrs. Madison's desk to thank her for returning his book.

"Hello, Castiel," the teacher greeted him with a smile as she glanced at him from a stack of papers. "Do you need something?"

Castiel gave a small smile. "I'd just like to thank you for returning my book," he replied, pulling out the book from his backpack.

Mrs. Madison's eyebrows furrowed with confusion as she pushed aside the papers that she was looking through to give Castiel her full attention. "I didn't return your book to you," she answered.

Now it was Castiel's turn to look confused. "But it was on my desk... I don't know of anyone who would return it to me besides you," he protested, although he could think of someone who would. His brain was harshly denying that theory, though.

His teacher folded her hands into a steeple and leaned forward as she gazed into Castiel's eyes. "I seem to recall Mr. Winchester visiting your desk right before you came in... do you think he could have returned it to you?"

Castiel swallowed a lump in his throat. "No... no he wouldn't do that. He... he's friends with Alastair and-" Castiel cut himself off, gaze moving from Mrs. Madison down to the floor as he felt his heart beat move up to his throat. "Uhm, forget it," Castiel stammered. "I'll see you tomorrow," he told her with a forced smile as he made his way out the room.

Maybe there was more to Dean Winchester than Castiel thought.

It was Castiel's third day without food, now, and he could feel the effects on his body and mind. It was getting harder to study and focus in school, but he forced himself. He needed food. He needed it so badly. His stomach cried for it and his organs clenched in protest. But, of course, Castiel had to ignore it. As he walked into British literature, Castiel's eyes met with Dean's before he tore his gaze away, looking at the floor and stepping over the routine foot as he made his way to his desk. Castiel happened to notice that the usual water and other obstructions were not on his chair, and hadn't been for a while. He wondered if it had to do with Dean.

Dean Winchester. The strange boy was on his mind all night. Castiel had fallen asleep peacefully last night, put into a good mood with the knowledge that perhaps Dean had returned his book- that perhaps the green-eyed boy was not as bad as Castiel had predicted. All day yesterday Castiel had been thinking about Dean. He even realized that he was in a better mood, despite the pain in his hungry stomach.

It wasn't all comforting thoughts that ran through his mind, though. For most of last night Castiel had been thinking of ways to thank Dean for returning his book. He had pictured their conversation, imagining it over and over again in his mind until he began to panic and calmed himself to prevent an anxiety attack as negative thoughts tried to ruin his good mood.

Castiel had been working so hard to keep the "what if" questions at bay. He decided to just believe that Dean had indeed returned his book, and that maybe he wasn't that bad of a guy.

So when Dean moved his desk over to Castiel's so they could work on their packet (they were on the last page), Castiel cleared his throat before speaking up.

"Thank you for returning my book," Castiel muttered loud enough so Dean could hear. When the blond boy looked up at Castiel in surprise, he felt a blush creep onto his cheeks as he tried to quiet the voice in his head that told him it wasn't Dean. "Uhm, yesterday. The book on my desk. You returned it to me, am I correct?" Castiel asked, trying his hardest to keep eye contact with Dean instead of tearing it away and muttering broken apologies.

Dean smiled and laughed slightly, looking down at his desk, almost seeming embarrassed. "So you figured it out, huh?" he asked, looking back up into Castiel's eyes. "You're welcome," he replied with a smile that sent Castiel's heart fluttering for reasons he could not understand.

Castiel blinked, licking his lips before he looked down at his packet, writing down another answer. "May I ask where you found it?" he asked, glancing at Dean's desk, too afraid to look into his eyes.

"Alastair had it. He had nabbed it from the hallway or something, I don't know. He was, uh, reading something in it to the guys," Dean explained, seeming shy. "But he was... uhm, well, I guess there's a note or something written in the book, right?" Dean asked.

Castiel's blood went ice cold, and he looked up at Dean with horrified, wide eyes. "He read the note?" Castiel asked, his mouth going dry. "H-how many people saw it? Did he read it out loud?" Castiel asked, panic in his voice.

Dean's eyes went wide, his posture defensive as he studied Castiel. "Well, uhm, I don't know. There was only Gordon and Walter. I had gotten to lunch late when he was talking about it. I just heard him say something about a note," Dean reported. Castiel felt sick to his stomach, and automatically felt the need to vomit, although his stomach contents were empty. "Hey, are you okay?" Dean asked, leaning forward. "Geez, you look sick, dude," Dean observed.

Castiel swallowed down the bile he felt form in his throat. "I- it is nothing. Thank you for taking it from him," Castiel thanked, again.

That was the last conversation they'd have, for a while.

Yayyyy so next chapter Destiel will pick up. Dean will come to the rescue.

Just a sidenote, I deal with anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and suicidal thoughts/self harm. I have also been bullied, more of mentally rather than physically. So I am trying to make this as sensitive to the topic as I can. Please do not take any offense in any of this, because I do respect things like this and I want to one day help people struggling through these disorders, since I am about to begin studying psychology in college.

I just had a need to write that. So if you are offended by this story, don't read it! it's that simple. I will not tolerate rude comments, because i have a good feeling i will get a few since this story has such touchy topics.

Anyways, THANKYOU SO MUCH for the follows and reviews! They make me so happy, i didn't expect this story to get such positive feedback, especially not so soon into it!

Thanks again, and dont forget to review!

Goodbye, lovelies!~