SO CHEESY GUYS I AM SO SORRY.

Castiel wakes up feeling like he's been hit over the head with a two-by-four. He is sore, more sore than he has felt in a long time, or at least, since he moved into the Winchester household – feels like forever and a day, and isn't that just the strangest thing?

The blinds are drawn closed in his room, sunlight peeking through underneath, and Castiel blinks, frowning, when he hears the soft, slow patter of rainfall as well. Sun and rain. Naturally. He shoves himself upward, wincing as his tired muscles protest – he knows he hasn't done anything to strain himself but, admittedly, last night is a little hazy to him.

He remembers Dean coming in, giving him food, water and painkillers which are undoubtedly the reason for his lack of hangover, considering how much he remembers drinking. He remembers Dean talking to him, though about what he can't for the life of him recall. Remembers Dean's warmth, the feeling of his hand on Castiel's face.

Remembers wanting with all his being to kiss Dean, to have Dean, right in that moment.

Castiel blinks again, looking down at his feet. No. Nothing had happened – he knows what sex smells and feels like by now. There is no way in Hell anything happened with Dean. No way in Hell Dean would let him…

He pushes himself to his feet, shoving a hand through his hair and sighing heavily. Never again. It's terrifying, not being able to remember with perfect clarity what went on…he checks the clock on his bed-side table…what went on not even twelve hours ago.

"Fuckin' hypocrite," he tells himself, rubbing his hands over his face. He can feel sleep in his eyes and his mouth feels dry and full of cotton, and he grimaces. He can't hear a thing going on, can't hear movement downstairs but knows enough about the sound of the Winchester house by now to realize he should. No one is home.

Or no one is awake, but it is almost ten in the morning so he has a hard time fathoming that.

He shoves himself out of his room and into the bathroom across the hall, stripping once he has the door closed behind him, and steps into the water before it fully warms up, shivering before relaxing into the heat of the shower. He closes his eyes, letting the warm water wash away his cotton-mouth and the grease from his hair and the soreness from his muscles. The steam seems to clear his head, too, and he finds he can remember a little more from last night.

At least, remember how he himself felt. He remembers pushing Dean away but wishing with everything that he is, was, has, that Dean would refuse to go. But Dean isn't like that – Dean, of course, self-sacrificing, good, wholesome Dean – would respect the wishes of an abused kid he hardly even knows. Would probably do anything Castiel, or anyone, asked of him. Because that is who he is.

"You can have this for a few months." Castiel's mouth twists down in anger, remembering the words as he grabs at a random bottle of shampoo – maybe Dean's, maybe Sam's, he doesn't really care – and lathers it into his hair. God, to have Dean. To know and keep him in every way possible. To be able to call Dean his own, to just…

Castiel swallows. No. He shouldn't like this. Not just because Dean isn't his – no, it's thoughts like this that get people into trouble. Turn people into Michael and his father and every other possessive and abusive bastard in the world. Dean isn't a thing, to have and claim and keep like a toy or a trophy. Dean is not something to be bought or traded or owned or stolen.

He closes his eyes, tilting his head back to let the water wash the shampoo out of his hair. His body still aches, but not nearly as bad as before – looking at himself, he sees that with a better diet with the Winchesters, and with time, most of the bruises have completely faded away. His face probably looks a helluva lot better too, and soon…soon, Castiel will bear no physical marks anymore. Nothing to say that any of the past eight years have ever happened.

Weird.

He shoves the shower off again once everything is rinsed and he's washed himself, toweling dry and slipping back into the clothes he had worn to bed, since he hadn't brought anything else with him. At that moment his stomach rumbles, loudly, reminding him that is it breakfast time. He goes downstairs, hesitating a little on the threshold to the kitchen.

Mary is there, humming that same song she had been humming the first time she met Castiel, and had made him soup. She's standing in front of a microwave, heating up what Castiel assumes is leftovers from the night before, and turns when she notices him standing there.

"Morning," she says brightly. "You hungry?"

Castiel smiles a little, ducking his head down. "If it's not too much trouble," he says, fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.

"Absolutely no problem, Jimmy, what are ya in the mood for?"

Castiel pauses for a moment. He had almost forgotten that he was still a lie to some people. "Castiel," he says.

"Hmm?"

"Castiel," he repeats, looking up into Mary's bright and puzzled eyes. "That's my real name. Jimmy – James – was my father and…" He looks down once more, shifting his weight uneasily. Somehow, in some way he can't explain, this woman's opinion of him actually means something to him. Just like this entire family.

Winchesters really had a way of getting under your skin.

"My real name is Castiel."

For a second, Mary is silent, and then she smiles. "Alright, Castiel, what are you in the mood for?" And again, Castiel finds himself wondering is anything phases this family. He shrugs. "Alright, no problem, if you want to get dressed then I'll whip something up and call you back down when it's ready."

He nods. "Thank you…Mary," he says, still stumbling over calling her by her first name – he doesn't think he actually has since she insisted on it, but her bright smile is encouraging, and Castiel feels better, heading back upstairs into his room. He shrugs off the sleep shirt and sleep pants and throws a t-shirt and hoodie on, and a pair of jeans. If he listens very carefully he can hear Mary singing downstairs.

Music runs in this family.

He looks around the guest room again – he hasn't unpacked, has only been here two nights. At a stretch if he counts the Thursday, where he hardly slept at all. So much has changed and it feels like forever ago since he met Dean, since he confessed his true nature to the boy, since…since his father had passed away. Since Michael had gone from mildly worrying to a downright threat.

Everything was happening so fast and Castiel blinks when he realizes his religiously-marked calendar was still in his father's house. He stands, putting on socks and shoes, and heads back downstairs, telling Mary where he is going. And hesitates on the threshold of the door.

May 20th. The day he is going to be free. The day he had to look forward to. But the thought of leaving settles like lead in his gut.

His fingers curl into the doorframe, gripping tight, and he clenches his jaw. Strange as it is – everything seems to be strange right now – all he can think about is how much it would hurt Dean, to see Castiel marking that calendar, ticking away the days until he leaves. Dean doesn't want him to leave – he's starting to think no one does except Michael, and to be honest he's tempted to stay just to spite the son of a bitch.

But he has to go. He will leave, come graduation. He'll be eighteen, he'll sell the house if it is still in his possession, he'll fly to New York or LA. He. Will. Leave.

But…Castiel takes a step back, uncurling his fingers from the wood and closing the door behind him…but he doesn't need to think about it. He doesn't need to keep watching – doesn't need to tell himself just a few more months. No, already, in his head, it's turning into only a few months left. A few short months, Cas, what are you going to do about it?

He needs to…to talk to someone. Needs Bal, wished Bal were here with him to give him guidance. It would probably be shitty guidance, but at least Castiel was good at figuring out what was morally alright and compare it to what Bal suggested. At least this way he kept on someone's version of the straight and narrow.

He needs to think. Turning around, he runs back upstairs and grabs the CD he had burned from YouTube of karaoke versions of the songs for Wicked, should he ever feel like practicing them. Music helps him think – helps him get lost in other people's emotions so he doesn't have to deal with his own.

The first song on there is Defying Gravity, because he hadn't burned them in order. Even with the karaoke version, Glinda and Elfaba's exchange are already on the beginning of the track.

"I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy now…" He clenches his jaw, shutting the door to the attic behind him and letting the fact that he is now in a soundproof room relax him. "I hope you're happy how you've hurt your cause forever. I hope you think you're clever."

Glinda and Fiyero's parts had been merged, in this new script, so that half of Glinda's roles were now filled in by Nessa and the other half by Dean's part. Castiel would be singing this directly to Dean. He supposes it's kind of fitting.

"I hope you're happy," he bites out, singing along with the song, his part. "I hope you're happy too. I hope you're proud how you would grovel in submission to feed your own ambition."

He sighs. Feels like he's talking to himself, there – he hates that part of himself. The part that he knows will do anything and everything to get to where he wants to be. The part that will let his father push him around just so that he can make it a few more days without having to pay for his own food and living expenses, so that he has just that little bit more for when he is free. The part that lets itself starve for food in the future. The part that denies everything that could ever hold him back, for the sake of that future Castiel – the one who stayed on the path, didn't stray. Never let himself feel a Goddamn thing.

He clenches his hands tightly, closing his eyes, and sits down facing the door, back against the wall. "Listen to me. Just say you're sorry. You can still…"

Still what? Yes – he can do everything he ever wanted. Have everything he had never let himself want and still leave, break a boy he had never even known before this year – can ruin a relationship, tear apart a family, make people give a shit about him, though for what reason he cannot fathom…He can do all of it and still leave. He can make himself not feel anything.

"I know," he whispers, rubbing a hand through his hair, following the song – or, at least, he tells himself that. "But I don't want it – no, I can't want it – anymore."

He sighs again, pushing himself onto his feet as the music builds up a little, piano, bells, piano again. "Something has changed within me," he begins, realizing just how true it is, and God damn it he hadn't meant to slip this far – slipping and falling without every trying, without doing anything. Falling while staying upright. "Something is not the same. I'm through with playing by the rules -."

His voice cracks on that high note and he stops, wincing, and swallows. He needs some water, but he can't stop now. He just…he needs to sing. Never found such freedom in song before but it feels so much like this is his song and that's just ridiculous because it's for a stupid musical that isn't even the real musical anymore, but that doesn't matter because maybe…maybe Elfabio is the character that he is meant to play. The witch. The barbarian who's fallen in love with the perfect, wholesome man.

"Too late for second guessing. Too late to go back to sleep. It's time to trust my instincts…" Castiel smirks at that. Instinct. Instinct hasn't helped him any, and yet he used to pride himself on how good his were. "Close my eyes…and leap."

Leap, Cas, come on.

The chorus is soft, the first time around – quiet. Castiel has to take a step back, withdraw, let himself think about the mechanics of the song and not just sing it like he wants to – sing it like it's breaking him inside. Later, yes, when his head is clearer, but he can't right now. Because if he does he just might break for real and that is not what he does. He can't.

"Can't I make you understand -." Fiyero's part, the part telling him to calm down. Stay focused. Doesn't fit with Dean. Doesn't seem right. One part in which the characters are so different. "You're having delusions of grandeur -?"

"I'm through accepting limits," Castiel bites, flinging his arm out, as if to punch someone. He wants to. There is no one here, no one to hurt, to yell at, but he wants to – how dare you, he wants to say, how dare you make me want you, and love you, and want to stay. I hate you. I hate you so much. "'Cause someone says they're so. Some things I cannot change but 'til I try I'll never know…

Too long I've been afraid of losing love…I guess I've lost…" Castiel trails off a little, then, opening his eyes. He will lose Dean. Will lose him if he keeps pushing him away. He doesn't want to. Please, God, don't let him. "Well if that's love, it comes at much too high a cost."

His future. His mind. Everything. Everything he could ever hope to gain could be lost if he isn't strong enough, now, to keep away. To stay away.

"I don't want to," he whispers to himself, eyes wide at the realization, when he should be singing the chorus. "Fuck. I don't want to."

He looks up, towards the closed attic door, and bolts. Hurries out of the attic without even bothering to stop the song where it is. He doesn't grab a jacket – it's too warm outside and he intends to hurry anyway – and finds Mary still in the kitchen.

"I might be gone for a while," he says apologetically, knowing she was making food for him, and she just shrugs.

"Send him my love," is all she says, and Castiel blinks at her.

She knows. Of course she does.

He smiles widely at her, suddenly wanting more than anything to hug her, to thank her for bringing her family into his life – but he can't. He has no idea how to act around a mother, so all he does is nod and smile when she smiles back, and turns and runs down the half-remembered route, as fast as he possibly can.

Dean had arrived at the church at seven in the morning, and he is still there three hours later. It isn't a rehearsal, there is no reason for him to be there at that moment. He just feels…feels so lost and the church has always made him feel safe. Feel like someone is watching over him.

He is sitting at the piano – not his instrument of choice, but he knows enough about it to know which notes are which and which notes generally fit together. He reaches out, plays out a C chord, and sighs. Rising from the bench, he leaves the Chapel proper, and heads through the Annex to the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. He hasn't been in here since his last night with Michael – his shoulders tense as he steps inside, looking up to see the statues of Mary and Joseph, and the cross behind the altar.

Without a word he goes to the backmost pew, on the left-hand side, and kneels on the faded and old cushion hanging on the pew in front. He leans forward and braces his elbows on the little platform that arcs behind the pew in front, lacing his hands together loosely in a relaxed version of the prayer position his mother taught him when he was younger.

Strange though it sounds, and stupid beyond that, he feels like Michael is in here with him, but that feeling doesn't bring him peace as it used to. Closing his eyes, he sees images of Angels fighting, their wings blocking out the sun with how big they are, their swords flashing as they fight. Dean has had this story in his head before – the Fall of Lucifer, the destruction of the demon kind and their banishment to Hell. But there are no demons this time. Only Angels, fighting amongst themselves.

He opens his eyes again and looks to the cross, and it is then that he realizes that it has been a long, long time since he actually prayed. Since his faith was shaken enough to warrant anything more than the background peace and joy that he feels towards God every day, for blessing him with such a good life, for Michael and Ruby and Sam and his parents. For Castiel. A long time since it's been anything more than a Thank You at the dinner table.

"So, it's been a while," he starts off, rubbing the back of his head and smiling a little at the statue of Jesus. From this angle, it looks like the figurine is staring right back at him, and he casts his eyes down – makes it feel more real, like this, but a helluva lot more open and personal too. He wonders how many times Michael had him, in here, and he had never noticed before – thought that because he didn't see them, they couldn't see him. "But I guess that's my fault. Hell, I know it is. I guess I've just been…preoccupied."

Nothing happens. He doesn't expect anything to happen, but that doesn't change the slight twinge of disappointment he feels – no breeze stirs the curtains, no whisper or cool chill trickles in. God is a very silent conversationalist.

He slouches down from the kneeling position, letting his thighs rest on the seat behind him, and sighs again. "A lot of stuff's been happening down here," he says, feels like he needs to update the All-Knowing. Silly. Makes him feel better, though. "I don't know why now. Why you sent him now. It seems kind of like the worst timing in the world, and he'll only be here for…"

Dean shakes his head, heaving in a deep breath. Even though he knows, knows it as surely as he knew anything else, it still hurts like a knife to the heart to think of Castiel leaving. Of never seeing him again after Castiel has done so much – helped him in ways Dean doesn't even understand right now. Shown him things about people that he never would have seen anywhere else.

How strong someone can be. Even with what he knows about Ruby, with Castiel he has seen it, first hand. To think that Castiel would have kept going on like that, without showing a single recognizable sign, without complaining, faking a lack of hunger, skipping out on meals so he could have money in the future, working with Dean on his music from afar – and Dean wouldn't have known about any of it.

It's amazing, what happens right under your nose, behind a neighbor's closed door.

"He's…" Dean snorts, shaking his head, rubbing the heel of his hand against one of his eyes as he feels that tight feeling in his throat, finds it's getting harder to talk, a lump of something stuck in there. "He's really amazing, God, he is. But…it seems really screwed up, you know, to kind of drop him in and pull him out again just like that."

He pauses, again, looking up to the cross.

"Why?" he whispers. "Why did you send him?" To help him see how messed up Michael really was? To be a strength to Ruby? To save Dean? "I just…I know you're meant to be unfathomable and all that but a freakin' bone would be nice."

Dean sighs again, rubbing at his face and swallowing once more – he won't get emotional, damn it. How does Cas make it look so easy? Dean has never been that great at keeping secrets, or hiding his emotions – even when he tries, the people he is trying to lie to always seem to see right through him. How did they ever make it look so easy?

"I guess I…" He pauses, rubbing a hand through his hair, and gets to his feet. "I guess I just want a sign, man. Whenever you get the chance. To let me know what I'm supposed to do."

When he gets back into the Church proper, it feels bigger, somehow – it's small and he knows it is, designed only to hold a small congregation since there's a really big one in the next city, but it feels too hot and cavernous when he reenters, and goes back to the piano. Singing will help – helps to calm him down when prayer can't, when he feels like there is nothing left to do but just say what's on his mind.

When Castiel finally makes it to the church, he stops. Inside, he hears music, and Dean's voice, just faintly, through the cracked stained glass doors.

Are they at a music practice? His stomach suddenly feels like it's twisted up, thinking of Michael and Dean being in the same room together, of singing together. Somehow, even though he has no idea how, that seems like something he would be more upset about than if they were fucking. Dean's voice – that is something about him that makes him even more exceptional, even more brilliant and beautiful than he already is.

Sex is…well, sex is sex, but thousands of people every day have meaningless sex. Dean's voice feels like his soul, feels like a part of him that will never be taken away, coming out, and the idea that Michael gets to share in that while Castiel can't…

No.

He has to know. Won't jump to conclusions.

His hands shake – what is it about Dean that always makes him tremble? – when he pushes against the glass doors, into the small foyer that turns a corner to lead into the church. Inside, the doors are glass again, but completely see through and, dreading what he will see, he peeks inside.

Dean – he sees him immediately, sitting behind the piano bench. On this side of the doors his voice is a little more audible, though the words aren't, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief for a moment when he finds that there is no one else there. Heart hammering, he pushes open those doors as well and steps inside, silent.

"Every single day I find it hard to say that I…" Dean pauses, brow furrowing, his eyes darting over the keys, before he sighs, smashing out a random discordant set of notes, shoulders slumping. He's really no fucking good at piano – Ruby should just play and he would try to keep up.

"Alright, from the beginning," he mutters, not hearing or noticing Castiel come in, or take a seat on the back pew.

He finds the chord again. "I'm stretching but you're just out of reach." Next one – "You should know that I'm ready when…you're ready for me and…" A pause, what came next? "And I'm waiting for the right time, for the day I catch your eye to let you know that I'm…yours to hold…"

Castiel's fingers clench tightly in the thin cushions on the pews. Dean's voice is just…so fucking beautiful. It's like sitting in that auditorium all over again, listening to him live for the first time. How he had ever thought to change the way Dean sings, he can't even imagine.

He gets to his feet – it's now or never. He's come too far for this now. Fallen without even tripping or stumbling.

Walking down the middle aisle, Dean finally senses he's there – dark eyes flash up to meet his and widen in surprise. "Cas?" he hazards, getting to his feet and coming around to the edge of the piano, just as Castiel takes the step up onto the raised platform where the altar is, and stops. For a long second neither of them say anything. Then; "When did you get here?"

"That song was beautiful," Castiel replies, at a loss of anything else to say, and Dean flushes, looking down.

"Doubt I'll be able to remember it."

"I will." He takes a step forward. "Dean."

The younger teen's eyes meet his, raw, full of some emotion Castiel can't quite place yet. "Yeah, Cas? What's up?"

"I…" Castiel swallows, suddenly frozen. He had had all these things to say, everything he wanted to get out, to tell Dean, and it's all gone. Every single word. "I…" He swallows, unable to look away from Dean, unable to step closer, unable to do a Goddamn thing. He just feels stuck.

Dean's brow furrows. "Are you okay?" he asks, taking a step forward. It puts him within reach – so close, and Castiel imagines he can feel his warmth, just like last night. He wants to touch and, for perhaps the first time ever, he doesn't fight it, doesn't deny himself what he wants – he reaches forward, slides his hands up to rest against Dean's shoulder, fingers digging in tight.

"It's selfish," he says, finally, meeting Dean's eyes again, stepping closer. "It's selfish, and unfair, and horrible in ways I have never tried to be."

"What are you talking about?" He's confused, and looks worried – looks like Castiel is about to tell him some very bad news. He's braced for it, shoulders tense under Castiel's hand, lips turned down, eyes concerned. "Cas, what do you mean?"

"I…" He's searching Dean's face, looking for something, anything, to tell him to back away – but no, Dean is still open, welcoming, warm in a way Castiel thinks humans never have been. No more time for words. His other hand moves up Dean's arm, flattens across the side of Dean's neck, and he pulls the younger teen down their small height difference and presses their mouths together.

The effect is immediate – Dean gasps against his mouth, but within a second he's answering the kiss, pressing closer, running a hand through Castiel's hair and pulling him in – keeping him in. Relief hits Castiel like a punch in the gut – it's all he can do to keep standing, keep kissing Dean.

Kissing Dean…it's like a broken dam, just pouring out. His heart feels like it's going to leap out of his throat, and already the soft drag of Dean's slightly-chapped lips against his own is the best damn thing he's felt in maybe his entire life.

"Dean," he whispers, gasps out as his own hand finds Dean's hair, fists lightly in the too-short, fine strands, fingers curling around the nape of the younger boy's neck. "I'm sorry."

"Don't," Dean replies, kissing him again, and again – the press of Dean's lips silences him, warm, soft, everything he had ever dreamt about, ever thought about them. "Don't be. It's okay." He's running a hand down Castiel's flank, stroking, soothing, fingers curling gently around Castiel's hip when they find it, pulling him close. "It's okay, Cas."

Castiel shakes his head, but says no more – no more time for that. Finally – finally – he's kissing Dean, and taking what he wants and Dean is letting him – Dean is giving back. Castiel has never felt so owned and so empowered at the same time, feeling Dean's racing heartbeat against his fingertips, hearing the gasping unevenness of his breath as they keep kissing, keep diving into each other like they're desperate for it.

And it's kind of absolutely fucking perfect.