It takes several minutes to realize that that beeping sound is not Uriel forgetting how to talk, but his alarm clock.

Several more to process that, yeah, it's six-thirty, and he should probably get up.

Another moment to remember—

Dean.

He scrambles out of bed, fast enough that all the blood rushes to his head, his eyes blur and he bumps into his dresser, his bookshelf, and his door frame in quick succession. Because he can parley with gangsters no problem, but getting out of bed, that's the tricky part. When he finally reaches the living room— all of twelve steps away— it takes him a moment to realize that it's empty. As is the rest of the house. The wing blanket is neatly folded on the sofa, first aid cleaned up in the bathroom. The massive pile of dishes has transmogrified into neatly stacked things in cupboards that Cas barely recognizes.

A bubbling sound makes him jump, and he spins, half expecting to find Dean sitting behind him at the table. Like maybe he just missed him the first time he looked. But it's just the coffee maker that the Novak family rarely uses, bubbling like it's happy to finally be recognized.

Castiel doesn't drink coffee. But then, he thinks, he's sore— really fucking sore, becoming more noticeable every moment, so fuck the police. Dean made him coffee.

He pulls out his phone, Googles 'first time drinking coffee,' and then applies the suggested ingredients. (Namely, milk. And sugar. And more sugar.)

It's disgusting, so he adds more milk, and then his phone is Hark!ing the Harold again.

It's another blast of noise when he answers it, but this time it's not a party.

"Heeeeey, little bro," Gabriel says. There's an unhealthy amount of cheer in his voice, which is how Castiel knows something is wrong. "Any chance— sorry, it's so late, but—"

"I'll be there in twenty," Cas says. Hopes the coffee really will wake him up, because he only slept about three hours.

"Thanks."

A door slams in the background just before Gabe hangs up.

Gabriel's older brothers have been at each other's throats for as long as Castiel can remember. Shoves and chore wars turned into full-fledged drunken fights somewhere around high school, and even constant separation— Michael is in grad school in Eugene, Lucifer is in college in Wyoming— hasn't made it any better. Their dad had suggested more than once that they alternate breaks, not coming home at the same time, but Lucifer had pitched a fit and accused everyone of trying to throw him out and that had been the end of that.

Castiel's sofa is used a lot during the summer.

The gun is still sitting by the passenger seat, he realizes when he gets in the car, and after a moment of panic he takes out the bullets—justincasejustincase— and then shoves it in the glove compartment. Because nobody uses glove compartments anymore, right? People just wear their gloves in the car. Only if he got arrested, when they'd ask to see his registration, the registration is in there, what if he opens it and they see the gun and shoot him, what if they— he opens it up again, takes out the registration, and puts it in with the cassette tapes in that box between the seats.

Breathe.

He's fine. He's fine. He was in a fight and he didn't even have to punch anyone. It was fine. Easy. He turns the car on. It starts. It's fine if he drives it, because they'll be looking for one with Colorado plates, and he's had his license for two years, he can drive just fine. Everything is fine, and if he keeps freaking out, someone is going to notice.

Hand shaking, he turns on the radio. Tries to find the news, but they're just talking about Snoqualmie pass being closed for avalanche blasting. But of course they wouldn't be talking about the kids that shot at each other last night. Nobody knows.

Gabe is waiting outside when Castiel shows up. It takes him all of two seconds to get in, and then they're peeling out of there like a getaway car.

The beaten down Subaru seems to have found a calling.

"So, where were you last night?" Gabriel asks. "Thought you were gonna study for calc."

Shitfucktittyshit.

Cas had been a little distracted, what with the gun and all, and his wrist still hurts from the kick and he wonders if he's even going to be able to write legibly. He drinks more coffee.

"I was—" he has to bite his tongue to keep the entire story from slipping out. Before that party, there had never been anything he hadn't told the others. And he'd certainly never lied to them.

His skin crawls.

Lying to Gabe is— wrong. Goes against everything.

"Jo called me," he says. "Roadhouse crisis."

There's that trademark smirk. "You've got it bad, bro."

"What?"

"Just taking off without telling anyone, ditching everything because Joanna called?"

Impossible is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. "I don't— me and Jo are friends. We're not— I don't want it to be like that. It was just an emergency, she needed someone to be there."

"Like what?"

"Personal."

It's seven-thirty when he pulls up in front of Garrison, leaving Gabriel forty five minutes to pursue this line of questioning. Castiel isn't lying when he says he has to go and study calculus, or when he steals Gabe's Red Bull because he seriously needs it more, shut up, and he attributes the caffeine to the fact that he's even conscious right now.

Although his looming test-related doom doesn't keep him from pulling out his phone.

Did Dean make it to RH okay?

Jo Harvelle
I'm at school, dumbass.
RH isn't open.
And he doesn't come every day.
Oh, fine, I'll text Mom, ask her to let me know. He disappear this morn?
texting her?"

"What's she sa-aying?" Gabriel asks, words going up and down like a bouncing ball.

"Gabe." Castiel turns. "Who gave you a ride to school this morning, lets you throw parties at their house, helped you glue Lucifer's underpants to—"

"Alriiiight. Wait, who gave you Red Bull?"

But Cas is on a roll. "Covered for you when Mike asked about your new girlfriend, didn't tell Samantha you'd slept with—"

"I get it," Gabriel sighs. "M&Ms to make it better?"

Cas takes the M&Ms. "I'm only friends with you for your food," he says.

"I know."

"Jo is just a friend. I don't want it to be anything more. Neither does she."

"Fair enough."

"Don't you have first period?"

Gabriel sits himself down on the table, paying no heed to the silence in the library sign. "Religion. We're second semester seniors, bitch. It's the Genesis of our lives, Don't got time for no Epistles."

Cas is so tired. And, fucking Hell. "I place this test in the hands of God," he says, slamming his textbook.

"Atta boy." Gabe thumps him on the back.

Dad
-Think it's fair if Angels have to ask you permission before they possess you?"

-Who would agree to that?

-It's an angel.

-It's still losing all your choice. What's even the difference between an angel and a demon?

-….
-…Whoa. I think you just gave me an entire series full of plot.
-…Whoa.

Mom
-Your dad is supposed to do a reading in ten minutes and you've given him an existential crisis. Good job.

-Do the readers even know about angels yet?

-No

"I hope I'm not interrupting a matter of national security, Castiel," Ms. Naomi says.

Cas looks up. Blood half frozen, stomach folding in on itself. "Sorry."

"Want to share your drama with the class?"

Naomi is always, always a Red Alert. It's a general consensus among students that she's impossible to lie to, and even though his brain is screaming no, the words are coming out. "My father is having an existential crisis."

Her face puckers, and she holds out one ringless hand. It was also a general assumption that the reason she wasn't married was that she'd never met a man who could tell a truth that she liked. "Phone."

Cas gives her the phone.

He should have just said 'sorry' and put it in his pocket. Cursing himself, he bends over his worksheet and tries to take notes on the Great Schism movie. It's a little hard, since he left his religions notebook at the Roadhouse a few days ago.

He takes them on the back of a math worksheet.

She calls him over after class.

"Sit, Castiel."

"Um…" he glances at the clock. "I have European—"

"Sit, Castiel."

Castiel sits.

"Good." She places his iPhone on the table between them, but Cas knows better than to pick it up.

"I was investigating it, and I noticed some disturbing things, Castiel."

He freezes. "You went through my messages? That's— You have no right to do that." He glares. "And— it's password—"

"B-C-G-U?" She smiles. "You keep your friends to close. But that's not why I'm concerned." He can't express all the rage that's building up. He imagines lunging forward, punching her in the head. He imagines tearing off her stupid smirk. His limbs all burn from the effort of holding them still, but he can't say anything to her, he can't. "I noticed the recent messages with Joanna Harvelle."

What, is he not allowed to talk to girls? "She—"

"Works at the Roadhouse. I gathered. I am the head of the religions department." She's still got that stupid, stupid half smile. Like she's reasoning with a small child. I'm sorry, you simply can't have your pudding if you don't eat your meat. Cas has to look away from her. Stares at the poster over her head— a list of the commandments. Thou shalt not kill. Right. "I did review the Plunge schedule and contacts. What is your relationship with Dean Winchester?"

He has to look back at her face now, because his mouth is falling open. "What?"

"Dean. That's Dean Winchester, am I correct?"

"We're friends," Cas says. How do you know him? But she understands the question, because she's a fucking mind-reader. Or something.

Castiel hates her.

"Mr. Zachariah told me that you saw him, that you two— uh— 'hit it off.' Furthermore, I am a Garrison graduate," she says. Folds her hands. "Did you ever wonder how two upstanding Garrison alums left their children homeless? I'm trying to protect you, Castiel."

Stop saying my name at the end of every sentence. He manages to move his arm, snatches his phone off the table. "None of that is any of your business."

"I'm trying to help you."

"You can't go through my phone like that."

She raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "By all means. Have your parents write a letter."

Castiel hates her. Hates her hates her hates her hates her hates her hates her hates her. He has to bite down on the fuck you that's trying to come out, and when he leaves, there's a thing on the door to keep it from even slamming.

Fuck that.

He wants to storm out of the building and get high and scream and rage, but he doesn't, because he's late to European history and he doesn't have a note and Mr. Ness glares at him when he comes in, but doesn't say anything. Because he's probably got one of those cartoon thunder clouds above his head, and she has no right, no right to go rooting through his life like that.

Fuck it.

Fuck it fuck it fuck it.

He can't do anything but tell the story to the others. They're on the lawn, away from the school— it's the only place Cas feels secure right now. The school might be Big Brothered or something.

Uriel is incredulous. "She went through your phone?"

"And then Sherlocked it together." Balthazar frowns. "That's got to be against some rule, right?"

Cas sighs. "What am I gonna do? I'll just… get revenge at some point. At the end of the year. She can't bust me then."

"I'm on it," Gabe says. He rolls onto his stomach and flips his notebook open onto the grass. "Revenge— on— Angela— Beth— Naomi," he says, and then underlines it. "Let's brainstorm."

"Shut up." Cas goes from sighing to scowling. "It's just— God." He hears a rustling of paper. Uriel is opening a Tupperware box full of brownies, and, yes please.

"No," he says, when he sees Cas looking. "You have the calc test after lunch."

"So what, you're my sober companion now?"

Another scowl. "You go to calc high, and Lilith will notice. And if you get caught high—"

"The rest of us get molested," says Gabriel, "and they take away my itching powder."

"To be fair, it did look like coke."

Gabe tackles Castiel then, knocking his yogurt over, and Cas will never admit how proud he is of his next move— using the downward slope to his advantage, he rolls back. Shoves Gabriel over him, then rolls himself, flipping so that he lands straddling his friend's back.

He presses a hand to the back of an exposed neck.

A couple moments of struggle, then— "Mr. Rolston's nipple. Let me up."

"We really need a new safe word," Uriel says. And Bathazar's snort is an impressive one.

"You kidding? It's the best. All hail Castiel."

"Shut up." Normally Cas would be reveling in his brief moment of triumph— he has no doubt that Gabriel will take him down again later— but all he can do seems to be staring sadly at the blob of yogurt in the grass.

Dean visits the Impala again.

It had first showed up at the salvage lot two weeks ago, and Dean had come by to visit it almost every day since.

They're restoring it. Cleaning, replacing parts, making it eBay worthy— but the fixing jobs (the real jobs, he'd been told,) come first, so the Impala is often neglected. Even though Dean's fingers are itching to open her up. Rebuild and remake her until she purrs.

He knows exactly what he'd do. He'd clean and fix the trunk, so that he could put their clothes in it. Fix the seats so that they'd recline almost all the way, so that they could sleep on them. He could make him and Sammy a home in that car. All he'd have to do would be spread his legs for a few thousand strangers, or convince someone to hire him.

And he'd have to become an oil exec or something to pay for the gas, the insurance, the tags, and the money should be put towards Sam. Towards his school. Towards an apartment for them. An apartment with showers and a permanent address where they could leave their stuff, where they could have more than would fit in a backpack and a Roadhouse locker. The car is entirely impractical, and Dean knows a fantasy when he sees one.

That hadn't stopped him from asking the owner of the lot, Rufus, for a job. But apparently people go to school for years to become a mechanic. Go figure.

Rufus is alright, though. He's a friend-enemy-long-lost-relative-or-something of Bobby's, although that doesn't keep him from glaring at Dean. And frisking him whenever he gets too close, as though he's going to put a Mustang in his pocket.

It's a side effect of being Dean. But he shouldn't complain. He knows that Victor and Gordon get it worse— although in all fairness, at least Gordon deserves it.

The rest of the lot is so pretty, too, although it's entirely lost on the people that live in the surrounding apartments. Rufus has been fighting for years to keep from losing the space, from having it turned into another high-rise. The yard is full of all kinds of cars— plastic new Toyotas and crumbling Bugs, the history of America in metal and rubber— and Rufus is the only mechanic in the area who doesn't have a habit of inventing problems. And everyone knows it.

He sits down on the curb. Looking at it like it's an art installation, because it is.

Bela would probably steal the car for him, if he asked, but the idea of being in Bela's debt is scarier than the idea of being caught with a stolen car.

Still. Dean imagines pulling up to Castiel's house in the Impala. Imagines Cas coming outside, and the two of them just driving, driving anywhere. To the Space Needle. To the Gates mansion. To Alaska. It's such an easy image, and that fact disturbs him for some reason. He has to add Sammy to the car.

He isn't sure where Cas fits into his life. Because he trusts him (for some reason) and likes him, but he hasn't known him long enough for him to be family. Isn't sure why he pulled him closer last night, when he was asleep. Maybe because normally the only person falling asleep next to him like that is Sammy and brotherly instincts kicked in. Just that this time said instinct had come along with an urge to flip Cas over and fuck him stupid. But that's just a normal post-fight reaction, he's pretty sure. It's not a big deal. He's seen the guy three times, but it's still fine if he comes on Dean's fantasy escape.

But if he wasn't planning on coming back, he'd have to bring the others too. Jo and Ellen. Benny and Victor could cuddle up to Bobby in the trunk, maybe Ben would fit on someone's lap—

He shakes his head.

He has all these people here. Because it's not like he can't leave. He has enough money to put him and Sammy on a Bolt Bus to Portland— it's just that it's not any better being homeless in Portland. Worse. Because here, he has people.

And he's going to stay, because when one gets lost, they're supposed to stay put. So someone can find them.

If his dad comes back, he'd never look for them in Portland.

Dean is pathetic. Plain and simple.

It's gonna be a buck twenty-five to bus back to the Roadhouse in time for lunch, but it'd be a dollar more to go get some fast food. He can spare the money, he knows he can, but there's still the ever-present sense of guilt when he spends anything on himself. Gotta get Sam through school, gotta keep Sam's life as normal as possible, gotta gotta gotta. He turns away from the salvage yard and makes for the bus tunnel.

He makes it just in time to get a heaping scoop of beans from a woman in a church group t-shirt.

That should have been his first sign that this wasn't going to go well. Shoulda stuck with the burger.

But the rest of his people are at their usual table in the corner, and it's not like he did anything wrong last night, so he goes to join them. He's trying to think of a good spin on the story, but apparently his effort was wasted, because Gordon is doing that glare-y thing the moment he sits down. Before he's even gotten a good bite of gas-inducing beans.

"The Wendigos have a hit out on two white boys."

"Huh," Dean says.

Gordon glares. "Anything to say?"

"One of them was me?" Nobody expected the Spanish inquisition. He bites the inside of his mouth. Maybe if he eats enough he'll be able to fart all over Gordon's stuff.

"Who was the other?"

"A friend." He's slightly alarmed at how easily he says it. Maybe that was the word he'd been looking for, earlier. "So?"

They all stare at him for a moment. Pathetic, really, when people can't believe you have friends. Sure enough—

"You don't have friends," Victor says.

"Well, what the hell does that make you?"

Vic shrugs. "Besides us," he clarifies.

Benny hasn't said anything yet. Dean turns to him now, but only gets a calm sort of stare. At least he doesn't seem pissed.

Objective: consume food as fast as possible and get the hell out of there. Dean begins to shovel. He should have gotten another tortilla.

"I was with Castiel," he says finally. "Sort of." A pause for some more staring and chewing, then: "What? Guy was good."

"You just tellin' everyone now?" Gordon leans forward, and Dean tenses, bracing for a fight. "First your brother, now that Gilligan kid?"

"Garrison," Benny says.

Dean ignores him. "The fuck, 'first your brother'? You sayin' I shoulda lied to Sammy?" Gordon's mouth twitches. "You're shitting me."

"He's a kid. He's fourteen! He goes to school! How do you think he gets his girl a' the week club? You blind, man? He's gonna tell his friends, if he hasn't already, gonna try and impress people, and one of them will have a brother in the gang or something and then—"

Dean stands. "Watch it."

"I'm sorry, man. But I don't trust the kid. I don'. And now you tell me you told a—" his eyes flick to Benny— "Garrison kid? What, you bond in the kitchen, spill all your secrets?"

"That's the kid Jo's friends with, right?" Victor asks. "The new volunteer?"

A nod. "We fought," he says. "He beat me. He's good, man. At fighting."

"And you trusted him to come on and fight? 'Hey man, want to hang out, let's just—'"

I trust him more than you, Dean thinks. "You told Jo."

"Right, because Jo's useful."

"Because you wanted to use her as bait." Dean can't lean close enough over the table, can't get in Gordon's face the way he wants to, not without attracting Ellen or Bobby's attention.

Gordon moves farther forward himself now. They were sitting across from each other at a round table, but now— "She was okay with that!"

"The fuck is wrong with you, man?" Dean's going to punch him. He has to pull himself away. "Don't say a word about, or to, my brother." He lowers his voice. Then has to turn, grab his tray to put in the bin. He'll get that other tortilla on the way out because right now he has to get away from this table. Footsteps behind him, and he turns, raising a hand— but it's just Benny, bumping elbows with him as he sorts his recycling from his garbage.

"You didn't invite Cas, did you," his friend guesses.

Dean shakes his head. "Jo called him. When she figured out I was out alone."

"And he went?"

Nod. "Looked scary as all hell. He's good, Benny. He's really good. Showed up and—"

"Stole Roman's knife." Ah, there's Gordon again. Everywhere Dean turns. "He stole Roman's favorite knife."

Dean shrugs. "He shouldn't have left it— why would he leave it in an empty office? They weren't moving in, they don't 'move in' places. That wasn't anywhere near where Roman would be— he doesn't go to neutron zone."

"How the fuck would I know?" Gordon snaps, carefully sorting his compost out of his trash. "Just repeating what I heard. Because you know what? Now me and cracker are going to have to finish up ourselves."

"They surprised me," Dean snaps, because really there's no reason to shut him out. Even if he'd just tried to keep Gordon out. "Don't have to leave me behind."

The other boy's breath smells like beans. Dean farts, just to make a point, but Gordon probably doesn't even hear him over his own talking. "I'm not doing this for your brother. And I can't afford fuck-ups. I'm in this fight 'cause every time some dumbass gang spreads, and I go North or West, people look at me like I'm about to rape and pillage the whole hood. And I can't afford that."

"You do pillage," Benny points out. Moving slightly in front of Dean, and Dean does not need Benny to defend him, dammit, even though it's nice to know that someone's on his side.

Gordon shoves him. "Say that louder, could you?" he hisses. "I'm talking about injustice. Can this napkin go in recycle?"

"Nah." Apparently tired of being left out, Victor is limping forward to join their trash can party. "You're mad because it makes shoplifting harder. Don' worry— nobody expected any different."

The glaring contest goes on for another minute.

"I wonder if there's any more cranberry juice," Benny says. They all look at him, and he grins, revealing teeth that are stained slightly red. "That shit is the best."

He looks like a vampire, and Dean snorts. Shoots one glance around to make sure that nobody is about to throw them out for fighting, and retreats to the sofas. Where he remains, flipping through newspapers and a couple magazines— one of which has a blurb about Carver Edlund's book tour. He's halfway into it when the front door is flung open, and Jo and Cas himself come bursting through.

"—Perfectly good mascot," Cas is saying. "Warriors of God. Badasses, all around."

"What do you sing at games, then? Angels We Have Heard On High?" ,

"Angels We Have Heard While High."

They get a disapproving look from Ellen, and a "Hello, Castiel. You weren't on the schedule today."

"I'm just picking up a book I left here," he says. But Dean doesn't miss how his eyes flit from table to table until they finally meet. And then he's frozen, and Dean doesn't know if he's supposed to go over and say hello, or what. But then Gordon has noticed him. Dean can't see Gordon's face, but he can see Castiel's reaction: can see the way he's tensing up, even through khakis and his stupid required button-up shirt. The way his jaw clenches and his eyes narrow and apparently it's enough for Gordon's hand to drop to his pocket, where Dean knows he keeps his switchblade.

He doesn't know how much ugliness they were in danger of, but then Jo pops back out of the office, shoving the notebook into Cas's face. And Cas looks at Dean, with a face that says clearly, I have a question for you, you idiot.

Dean tosses the magazine. Leans up against the counter next to him.

"Do you know an Angela Naomi?"

"No. Why?'

Castiel just shakes his head, and it's then that Dean notices— "Are you stoned?"

"Generally, yes." A half-grin, then a sigh. "It's been a long day."

He isn't sure if he should apologize or something, but then Cas is saying something about Balthazar being in the car and how "he really doesn't want to come in, I'd better go before he hotwires my car and takes off," and Dean is saying that they're perfectly delightful company in the Roadhouse.

But Cas is already out the door, hurrying back towards his Subaru.

Dean wonders if he got blood on the seat.

His mood isn't improved when Sam calls to tell him that he's going to hang out with some girl called Ruby for a bit. At least he calls. Although that's probably because he knows that Dean would go on a potentially murderous investigation if he was even an hour late.

At the end of the day, though, it's Dean left on the sofa and bored out of his brain.

He wonders if there's someone around that he can beat up.