A/N: Okay. Please don't kill me. I'm sorry this is so late, but undying gratitude to my beta for saving this chapter from its first draft and atrocious lack of commas. A little bit of backstory in this one (but not too much, because I am evil). Please R&R and Enjoy.

Somehow, Castiel manages to last the rest of the week. Of course, lasts seems almost too light a word as the experience is anything but pleasant. There are no more incidents like the first day. He keeps his head through the acclimation. But there are no more sit downs with Dean either. No laughing together or sharing shy new smiles. No comfort. No concern.

Well, that's untrue. On Wednesday (Tuesday passes like an empty breath and Castiel is not loathe to see it go), Castiel eats lunch by himself in the only empty table pressed close to the cafeteria's far wall. He understands that this is odd, the rest of the children have grouped together and stuck close, eating loudly and wildly with each other at whatever table is theirs to claim. It all seems very barbaric to him, so quietly chewing on the hot lunch (what appears to be a hot dog and fries but Castiel has his doubts) is almost welcome. The solitude is comfortable. However, he can't shake off the glances Dean is throwing his way from the table across the room as he eats with two other, loud, rambunctious boys.

That might not be concern. Castiel likes to think it is, but more likely than not it is pity.

Castiel shrugs his shoulders up and eats like he can't sense Dean's eyes, and there's not a bitter taste to the soggy potatoes. It's recognition at least. Dean hasn't gone back to ignoring him. There is no cold shoulder like the first day, but a distance that Castiel cannot comprehend nor push through. He doesn't know if he wants to.

It is incredibly frustrating.

Couple that with the behavior of his classmates (and, unsurprisingly a few members of the school's staff); Castiel does not have a very good week. He is used to the suspicious glares. He got them a lot at his foster home from the other children (always changing, run away or transferred) and their "parents" whenever they actually looked at him. He got them on the street on the rare errand when he was allowed to leave the house. It's not a new thing. He doesn't exactly understand them. From his perspective Castiel is made up of all the same stuff. Brain, bones, skin, muscles, tendons, etc...He's just never…fit in.

There's always been a tension between Castiel in the rest of the world. A waiting. A watching. To see who would explode first. He's been treated like a ticking time bomb for most of his life, and it's not exactly inaccurate. Castiel is aware that he is capable of dangerous acts, and even more so aware that he doesn't have much control of them.

The incident that brought Castiel into Bobby's care is a prime example, but there have been others.

Sally Adams, who lived across the street from his foster home, was the first sign. Castiel's "parents" used to force him on play dates with her—with her flippy dresses and hair bonnets and smile that was sweet until it turned cruel. She loved to push him down into the street, right before incoming traffic, and scream when he managed to throw himself out of the way. He'd asked her to stop (confused and unable to understand why someone would purposefully cause him pain and take pleasure in it) and she wouldn't. He'd tried to hide from her one time, but was reprimanded at later. The last time Sally Adams tried to throw him down onto the cement, the world got very bright and very loud. Like static in his ears and the sun in his eyes magnified to an unforgiving intensity. Anything and everything else had vanished, and when the white noise died down, Sally Adams was sitting on the grass, crying her eyes out and cradling the seared, angry red palms of her hands like evidence.

Then there was the strange, dirty man in the alley that tried to take the Castiel's groceries. This was after Sally Adams, and Castiel had begun to suspect (along with the chiding directive of Dean Winchester in his head) that there was something very, very wrong with him after all. Something dangerous. He was careful, cautious and unbearably confused.

But his caution wasn't enough when the man turned desperate and uncaring. All the distance and defenses set between Castiel and the world could not last that crawling, frantic assault. As grubby hands yanked him forward, and his knees scraped the ground, Castiel's vision went white again and the roar of an indecipherable chorus of voices took over. When reality crashed back in, the man had disappeared. No sign, no trace. Not even the filthy, rags remained.

Castiel had been scared and guilty, burdened with the fact that no, he was not the same. He had never been the same, and he had to be very, very careful to never do something like that again.

So the glares and avoidances from the students of his new school didn't bother him. If they didn't get close, he wouldn't hurt them. The distance was a safety measure, and one Castiel is not willing to give up. If only it didn't feel so lonely on his end.

But Castiel is used to that too.

"How was school, boy?" Bobby asks. It's Friday, and he's sitting at his seat at the kitchen table, mostly buried in a book (Unnatural Phenomena in the 1800s). It's a passive silence though, and that means his eyes are peaking over the top of the cover at Castiel.

It's dinner time, and Castiel is exhausted. They're eating chili again, and while Bobby doesn't seem to mind it, it's been five days straight of ground beef and beans; Castiel is starting to get sick of it. Plus, after the day he's had, Castiel is ready to fall asleep right into the murky red liquid. But this is his trial week, and Bobby will pull him out if he deems it necessary—as he's been careful to remind Castiel of every day.

Today hasn't been a good day.

Castiel is going to have to lie.

He can brush over the silent treatment he's been getting from everyone (possibly Dean included). He can brush over the not so subtle shoves in the hallway. He can brush over the boy who walked over to his table at lunch and swiped his fruit cup without asking (He doesn't even like canned pineapple, and would have given it if asked anyway) but the…incident at the end of the school day needs to be buried and obliterated or Bobby is going to keep Castiel cooped up at home away from Dean and that just isn't good enough for him.

The boys involved (four—unfamiliar—taller than average—calluses on their hands) had cornered him outside of Mr. West's classroom as the last bell of the day rang. There were plenty of bodies in hallway to obscure the confrontation, and no one had really taken notice. Castiel is usually the last out of the classroom anyway. There hadn't been any touching. Not really. Just aggressive looming and the intuition of violence. They'd said a few things. Weird. Strange. Crybaby. Freak. But Castiel hadn't said a word back. Hadn't done anything. He smoothed his face into schooled blankness and waited them out. It only took a few minutes for them realized they wouldn't get a rise out of him before the biggest of the trio spat a gob of yellowish spit onto the floor by Castiel's feet and they took off.

It wasn't a big deal.

Castiel isn't even that shaken by it. He was…upset initially. Conflicted. Because Castiel had wanted, in that moment with the three of them leering over him like shadows, to push off the wall and break out of that blank, calm façade and make them all disappear. He'd controlled himself. But it was a very close thing.

Too close.

He can't let Bobby find out.

Castiel fears his reaction. Disappointment? Fear? He doesn't want to think of it.

"School was…interesting." Castiel flicks his eyes up from his chili to Bobby—no reaction—then back down. "We are focusing on literature." This last part is true. They are studying novels in class. Castiel has read them all, but he brought home the copies of the most recent book, anyway.

Bobby grunts, flips the page and goes on "reading." Castiel eats a few spoonfuls of the chili before Bobby asks off-handedly. "Make any friends?"

Castiel grits his teeth. Of course he hasn't. And at this rate, he never will. "No," he says and stuffs another spoonful in so when Bobby looks questioningly over the top of his book he has an excuse not to answer.

"Well…They treating you alright?"

A blaring no again, but this is the place Castiel can't mess up. He clears his throat then tries to say, as blasé as he can manage, "Yes, of course," then lowers his eyes to the table, because if he has to look Bobby in the eyes, he will surely see through Castiel's feeble web of deceptions.

Bobby's book is set down on the table. "You don't sound so sure about that."

Castiel tries not to let himself react. He lifts his eyes and stares evenly at Bobby's squinted ones. "Why wouldn't I be?"

They hold each other's gaze for a while longer. And Castiel's hand is shaking under the table with the struggle of keeping his face flat, not guilty—not anything at all. Just when Castiel is sure Bobby is going to call him on it, his guardian blinks, and the book is picked up off the table again.

"Sorry, sorry. Call me a paranoid old bast—man, but I'm just trying to look out for you."

Castiel doesn't doubt that. And that's why, as his lie is bought, a twisting nausea assaults his gut. He shoves up from the table. "I'm finished."

"You've barely touched it."

Castiel has taken six or so mouthfuls, and, yes, the bowl is still almost full. "Ate a large lunch," he lies again.

Bobby squints at him, but goes back to reading after a second of eye contact. "Don't come down here looking for a midnight snack. The kitchen'll be closed."

"I won't," Castiel says as clears his place at the table, then before heading back up to his room, "Will you be home tonight?" He hasn't been all this week. Bobby leaves before Castiel goes to bed, and comes home in time to take him to school in the morning, but when Castiel wakes up in the middle of night (habit—or maybe method) there is no one else in the house.

Bobby grunts from the behind the book, "No."

Castiel swallows thickly. He's beginning to walk away, when Bobby stops him with a word. "Sorry."

There isn't anything that Castiel can put to words to describe the lightening in his chest, so he just nods (even if Bobby isn't looking at him) and keeps on walking.

The weekend comes, and the weekend goes without any real problems. Sam is putting up his usual sulk when Dad comes home at a decent hour on Saturday and takes them out to practice shooting. Dean doesn't say much. It's the same argument played out with different lines and the same faces that will inevitably come to the same end. Sam will sit in sulky silence in the backseat, while Dad grips the steering wheel just a little too hard and glares through the windshield like the sky has wronged him terribly. Dean will sit in the passenger seat, his seat, and stare at his hands like he doesn't see it. Like he doesn't notice. Like he doesn't understand. Like it doesn't bother him at all.

Things return to normal on Sunday, and Sam is all too eager in the morning to try and make pancakes with whatever scattered supplies they have in the kitchen. They don't have milk, Dad forgot again, and they end up eating a stale package of cookies from back when they first moved in.

It's all so utterly routine and normal, so that when Monday takes a turn, Dean isn't even surprised. There's only so much easy going you can have until it all takes a dive into screwedtohell.

Dean takes it like a champ.

The problem arises during the break, after lunch, when the teachers release the kids onto the blacktop. It's all very chaotic. Dean remembers his first recess at this school, only weeks after Mom's death. The kids had sprinted out then, rushing off to their designated slides and swings or hopscotches drawn in shaky chalk over the concrete. He'd stood stock still frozen in the entrance, utterly out of his depth. He realized then he wasn't...like them anymore. He didn't have intense urges to play tag around the colorful plastic play sets. He didn't feel like giggling mindlessly, sprinting around for no discernible reason. He wasn't inclined to throw a ball around or dig for worms or any of the mindless, uselessness the rest of the kids were amusing themselves with. If he ever had, Mom's death had killed the urge.

Now, he has Ash and Benny to lug him off to the baseball diamond, because Dean's got killer aim and never misses a ball.

His two idiots are arguing (again—as always) while they walk through the masses of students. The baseball diamond is fenced off, back by the playground and past the blacktop. It's the farthest point from the school's doors.

"I'm just sayin' if you wanted to, you should've just asked. It's rude if you just rub your grubby hands all over someone's experiment—"

"What experiment? It was a bunch of crap shoved together. How was I supposed ta know it was important?"

"That's what I just said! You should've asked me."

"Asked you what the hell you were doing diggin' through the garbage again?"

"It was one time, Benny. One time."

"And I never want you to touch me again."

"I washed my hands!"

Dean's about to tell them to shut up because obviously it was another one of Ash's crazy experiments. Besides, Benny really can't talk about people digging through the trash, because he used to stick his fingers in other people's noses and only stopped when one of them stuck their fingers back. He doesn't interrupt though, because as he's lazily scanning the blacktop, he latches onto something that doesn't exactly compute.

There's plenty of people out here, moving and jumping and just acting like normal kids, but this stands out to him like a spotlight. Like everything else is washed out in gray, and this is playing out in vibrant color.

There's Castiel, leaning against the brick of the school's outer wall, in one of the nooks and crannies, and there's four boys standing around him. Dean thinks, for one quick second, that maybe Castiel managed to make some friends after all and won't be sitting alone at that table at lunch so Dean can maybe stop staring at him all the time. Except that the kids are obviously older, middle school at least, and the expressions on their faces are anything but friendly.

They're only a few yards away, but with the girls playing double dutch and screaming out rhymes at the top of their lungs, Dean can't hear a thing. He also can't hear Ash and Benny bickering in the background anymore, but maybe that's because the world has narrowed down to the twist in Castiel's mouth and the wrinkle shoved right between his eyebrows.

Dean doesn't know what they're saying. He can imagine though, with the way Castiel always eats alone, or the ice between him and every other student. He can imagine that with his big, strange, bright eyes and impassive "I-know-all-your-secrets" gaze, they've got a lot of shit to say to Castiel. And all he can think about, playing like a loop in the back of his head, is the way Castiel cowered in that hallway, tears on his face and desperately afraid.

So it doesn't really matter what they're saying. Really, Dean couldn't care less. When he stalks forward, already sizing up each of the four boys and picking a first target (the smug one with the cocky leer on his face and enough swagger that he must be the leader of their group), it doesn't matter if he shouldn't, or he'll get in trouble, or he hasn't spoken to Castiel in a week. In his head, it's clear as day what he has to (what he's going to) do.

"Hey, Cas," he calls, (it rolls off his tongue like it is meant to be there) and Dean doesn't have enough time to shove it back down before all four of the wannabe bullies turn around (and they're all taller than him—definitely 8th graders and up). But Dean doesn't really take notice of them. He's watching Castiel.

"H—Hello, Dean."

Dean hates the tremor in Castiel's voice.

"Whoa! Look a' that. Robot here actually has a friend." It's the smug one, and the rest of his buddies cackle like it's the funniest joke they've ever heard.

Dean thinks about denying it. He thinks about snapping that no, he is not Castiel's friend. He just has to look out for the guy. And hasn't been able to think straight about anything else since the second he laid eyes on Castiel. There's always this need to be closer to him. When they're together, Dean actually smiles.

So, he does the only logical thing. He turns around, putting himself right in front of Castiel, (between him and the idiots chuckling to themselves), then he slugs the ringleader right in his smug ugly mouth.

Dean has no lack of confidence. Dad's drilled self-defense back from his Marine days into both his sons since they could walk. So when Dean strikes, he throws his punch with all the weight in his body from his feet to his fist, and hits the guy right in the neck. The sucker drops.

There's a pause. Maybe because Dean hasn't hit his growth spurt yet, and just decked someone with a full six inches on him with one punch. The other three, just stare at him, mouths still gaping, for about three seconds. Dean cracks a slick little smile, and they come rushing at him.

Dumbasses.

Or, maybe he's the dumbass, because that was just a lucky hit he got there. While the other three are idiots, they're bigger than him. However, Dean has learned, in situations like these, that you gotta stick to your guns.

This isn't a cheap movie, so they don't come at him one by one. It's a surge, and it's dirty. He gets kneed in the gut while simultaneously punched in the shoulder. Dean rolls with it though and comes right back with a swing to the shortest guys ribs, and he still manages to duck an attempt for his head. They're wild and unruly and have no method whatsoever. Dad would be ashamed to see him lose. Dean grits his teeth backing up again, but there's only so far he can go because Castiel is assumedly huddling behind him as close to the wall as possible.

Until, he isn't.

Dean hadn't thought when he met Castiel (all wiry limbs and skinnier than Sam) how hard he could throw a punch—it wasn't really a question at the time. But when Castiel rushes in, just a blue and black blur, and tackles the closest attacker, he can only think damn, I had no idea.

Odds are suddenly looking up.

The grin on Dean's face is no longer for show. He can hear Castiel slam punch after merciless punch into the guy's side and almost winces. But the guy deserves it, and Dean's not going to feel guilty. They're just a bunch of playground bullies that can't take what they're dishing out—well, Dean'll make them.

He slides past a thrown arm (aiming, in theory for his stomach), grabs it, wrenches it back and throws the body attached to it to the ground. Dean's a strong kid. He has to be. And he's just about to shove a palm up the last guy's nose, when the staff finally catches on that there's a brawl going down on the black top, and the teachers are swarming all over them.

A panting PE teacher (complete with sweat bands and shorts) grabs onto Dean from behind, yanking up his arms and screaming for him to STOP. He drags Dean back, away from the four upperclassmen and Castiel, who is struggling with his own restraints. The nameless middle school teacher grappling for a handhold on Castiel, and Dean is damn impressed to see that he can't find one.

Castiel thrashes around, still managing to drill the guy he'd taken down to the blacktop. His eyes are wild—on fire. Ice blue fire. And there's a hysterical urgency to every jerk and pull.

"Cas," he says, before he can really think about it, "I'm fine. It's fine. You can stop now."

Dean doesn't know why he says it. It's sounds so stupid and of course Castiel isn't doing this for him. No one does stuff like this for him. And they're not even friends. Dean has made that clear.

But as soon as the words come out of his mouth, Castiel stills. He stops trying to throw off the frazzled group of teachers (because one proved to be insufficient) and goes nearly limp. He's not looking at Dean, just letting himself be pulled off and away. They're in trouble for sure. Of the four guys, only one is standing, and the bastard unfortunate enough to be under Castiel doesn't even look conscious.

But Dean can't help it. Before they're separated entirely in the chaos, he yells, "You did good! Thanks for the help!"

And the incredulous joy on Cas' face really makes it worth it.