Jody steals another fry before she drags the red basket of fries across the table in front of her. Dean just blinks. She's waiting for him to make a big stink about her messing with his food, but he doesn't have it in him.

"You know, you begged me to come back for you."

He nods.

"Let me guess. Now you want to go back?"

"No." It's a flat out lie. They both know it. At the same time, he never wants to go back there again. "I just don't understand why all this time-"

"I didn't know where to look, Dean. Okay?" She closes her eyes and scratches her eyebrow. "We didn't exactly … play Truth or Dare. All I had to go on was an ex-marine named John. The fact that we found him the way we did is -"

Dean shoves the plate of half-eaten burger at her. "Just forget it, okay? Let's drop it."

"Fine. Dropped. Now, you stop acting like a zombie."

"Fine." He flashes a huge, fake smile that fades as quickly as he put it on.

He has a single sip of flavorless soda, before he curls up his nose and pushes that away, too. His guts are rotten, and sugar just reminds him of Sam.

As soon as Sam reaches the foot of the marble staircase, he squints up at the imposing building, spins on his heels, and tries to walk away. Castiel blocks his path with a hand in the center of his chest. "No. You said if I made the date..."

"Cas. I can't. I need him here."

Dean wasn't supposed to go. He was supposed to be there the next day, so they could talk through whatever was troubling him. Sam was only giving him a night, some space and the next morning, Dean was just gone.

Sam's parents hadn't even realized that he'd left until Sam stopped by for breakfast. All of the clothes and gifts were lined up neatly on the bed: the suit, the coat, all of it. Jo and his parents didn't know the significance of that. Only Sam. And it was as loud a GoodBye as he had ever heard.

"He's gone, Sam. You need to get on with your life." Castiel tugs on his sleeve. "You swore. You owe this to me, Sam. You said yourself, you owe me."

Sam allows himself to be led through the metal detectors, as if to slaughter. Cas doesn't have to look the room number up on the board. He already knows the correct floor and hits the button in the elevator. Clinging to Sam's arm, he straightens Sam's tie and stands on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek. The other people in the elevator actively do not stare at them, except for a little boy who says, "Mommy…"

The child's mother shushes him and squeezes his hand until he yelps in pain. Sam looks down and meets the boy's eyes, unsure whether he feels worse for the kid or himself.

Mrs. Moseley stands when they enter the room. She has a bouquet of red carnations and an appropriately sad look on her face. The expression changes from pity to confusion when she sees Sam's hand in Castiel's.

Sam purses his lips. If he tried to explain, he would choke on the words and die. Her feedback and approval are unnecessary anyway. All he needs is her signature.

On the very short list of people of whom he could have made this request, Mrs. Mosely had been the one to come through for him.

His father was out, for obvious reasons. His mother hasn't spoken to him in a month.

While Sam was alone in his old bedroom with Dean, his mother had been booking a plane to Orlando. She and Jo had visited Ruby and Luna the very next day. Even Sam's father has met the little girl.

Sam hasn't gone down there because he can't. That's what his mother doesn't or won't accept, the reason she's so upset with him. Sam cannot allow his daughter's first impression to be that her father is going through a personal crisis. He will go to meet her, as soon as he gets himself together. When will that be? He has no idea. Not today.

He'd even asked Charlie.

She had been ecstatic at first, assuming that he was marrying Dean. Sam had been struck speechless long enough for her to start verbally making plans for their suits. Eventually, he managed to find his voice and derail that train of thought. Despite her obvious disappointment, she agreed to come to dinner and meet the groom to be.

Charlie and Val had been at the apartment a little under fifteen minutes before she stood up, looked Sam in the eye and said, "Marriage is not to be taken lightly. And certainly not by our people." Then she left.

Mrs. Mosely had not been on the original list at all, but being out of options, Sam had asked and she'd agreed. Granted, he'd embellished a bit (a lot) and told her that his family was unaccepting of the marriage. It was, technically, true and better than Sam's original idea, which had been to tell her they were all dead.

Castiel releases Sam's arm to accept the flowers with both hands, burying his simpering face in the scentless blossoms.

Sam hadn't noticed Richard Roman seated with one leg crossed over the other, watching the scene. He nods at Sam. She waves a hand at him. "You know Dick."

Cas snickers like a 6th grader. The staples have come out of his cheek, and the wound has healed as inconspicuously as could be hoped for. It's barely visible, except for when he grins like this. "I don't know dick."

That's as far into the rabbit hole as they descend before the clerk calls their names, "Samuel Winchester, Castile Novak," pronouncing Cas' name like the Spanish province.

No one corrects him. Castiel stands there bouncing on his toes and grinning like a child with a shiny new toy. He hands Mrs. Mosely the flowers when it's time for him to sign.

The day Sam met Dean, the kid had come bounding out of his parents' house with his right hand extended and this cocky smile on his impossibly perfect face. His eyes had reflected the sunlight like gems. It was alarming, really, how beautiful he was. Sam had taken one look at him and known; this is the kind of boy who makes a wreck out of people.

The judge and Cas stare at him. Mrs. Mosely and Richard Roman, too. They're all waiting for something, but he's not sure what. The clerk taps on the page where the X marks the spot. Sam blinks down at the pen in his hand.

"Mr. Winchester? Right here, please."

Castiel is not breathing at all. There was, literally, no one he could ask. His list of potential witnesses had no entries at all. Castiel is alone if not for Sam. In the end, that is the reason he signs his name.

Every time he gets on a computer, Dean checks Castiel's page. He checks Mary Winchester's, too and Jo's. He's not FB Friends with them or anything. In fact, the only person he's friended is his mother. It's pathetic. All the other kids are on Instagram and Snapchat, but it's too easy to be careless with that crap. Plus, there's no point when you don't have any actual friends.

Is it embarrassing to be trolling for pictures of Sam? Yes, it is. But nobody knows that's what he's doing except for Dean, so, it's only internal humiliation.

When he doesn't find any new ones, he returns to the one on his own page. He'd taken it without Sam's permission. Just a heat of the moment thing, too exquisite not to capture. Dean had put it on his page right before his mother made him burn the phone. And Sam'll never know. He doesn't even have a profile.

Dean spends the remaining half hour on the library computer just staring at Sam's sleeping face.

Sam is sprawled out with a looseness borrowed from his memory of Dean.

Castiel shakes the two bottles as if he's playing maracas in a Mariachi band. "Orange or yellow, my dear?" He pours one of each into his palm and sets the containers on the bedside table.

He holds his pills to Sam's mouth. Sam swats the hand away, and they scatter to the floor. He scratches at his itchy, unshaven face. There's no relief, though, so he helps himself to another fistful of Doritos, ignoring the crumbs that fall into his beard. He wipes the orange residue from his fingers onto his t-shirt and uses the remote to turn up the TV.

Castiel picks up Sam's soda and scrutinizes it like he's never seen an aluminum can. His eyes flicker over the candy wrappers on the bed. "Sammy."

Sam turns the volume up so loud that the onscreen sirens and gunfire rattle his eardrums. He has no idea what he's watching, but anything is better than listening to Castiel's voice.

Sam hasn't even gotten around to calling in to quit work. He's only left the bed to go to the bathroom and get more of this crap to abuse himself with.

It's not a problem. He has enough money saved to survive for years doing nothing other than what he's doing right now. Then, he can live on the street.

Dean Jones steps through the double doors and takes a deep breath. It's too late in the season to join the team. Still, he has survived his first two weeks at Roosevelt High and a Friday afternoon detention. Even the sharp stink of cigarette smoke can't ruin the crisp autumn air.

The girl has dark, shoulder-length hair and tight jean skirt. She's leaned against the wall, smoking like she thinks it makes her hotter. Dean nods more out of habit than intention. The corner of her brick red lip curls up in invitation. He has nowhere to be, so he turns up the collar on his too-thin jacket and swaggers over, real slow.

Dean watches her honey-brown eyes sweeping over his body with every step. The rush he gets when someone wants him is not adrenaline, but it's powerful. Makes him feel invincible. Alive. Real. And talking to some random girl is a welcome distraction from thinking about Sam every waking minute of every goddamn day.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

She smiles and looks down at the grass as if there's any chance that she won't give him her name and anything else he wants. "Lisa."

"Hello, Lisa."

She snickers and takes out her pack of cigarettes. "You smoke?"

He considers the options for about two seconds before he holds out his hand and says, "Sure."

Sam is clean-shaven, properly dressed, and dutifully scooping spoonfuls of unsweetened oatmeal into his mouth. The body is a machine. A machine requires proper fuel.

After two weeks of binging on junk food and worse television, Sam has experienced everything from flu-like symptoms to astral projections. He has finally reached the conclusion that he has to get himself together. He had arrived at said conclusion immediately after waking in a cold sweat to discover a vigorous GummiBears orgy taking place on his mattress. Sam promptly vomited on them, and they dissolved like tiny, multicolored wicked witches of the west.

In that same moment, he dragged himself to the bathroom, regurgitated more of the poison from his system and took an hour long shower.

He doesn't feel any better today than he did yesterday or the day before, but he is resolved to function, regardless.

Castiel enters the kitchen wearing his Chinese robe. He tilts his head, almost sheepishly. "I have another meeting today."

Sam nods.

Castiel helps himself to a spoonful of Sam's breakfast. "They say we can bring someone, if…"

"I can't."

Sam's sanity is tenuous at best. The last thing he needs is to walk into a den of self-proclaimed lunatics.

Back behind his desk, Sam fires up his computer and sees he's received a link from Mrs. Mosely.

The dirty-faced girl on the charity's website holds out a candle. Sam clicks the button to complete his transaction.

All right, God. If you're out there. I do this; you bring him back to me.

Please.

Amen.

When there's too much time and quiet like this, Dean lays in his cot and thinks of Jo and how she used to wait for him beside his locker. And Mrs. Winchester teaching him how to slice onions without crying all over them. He thinks of all the stupid lectures Coach Winchester gave him personally, not just the team. He thinks of Coach Winchester as his coach, not as his father. Dean doesn't go anywhere near that thought, except when he can't help it. That's when he finds something to do with his hands, legal or otherwise.

He thinks of Mildred's tea. Garth's cokes. He hopes Ash is leaving him the hell alone and wonders how the team is doing.

Mostly, though, Dean lays with an arm over his eyes, and his face pinched tight, thinking about Sam's goofy grin during that stupid hot air balloon ride and his hair whipping around his face when the afternoon was warm enough to ride with the windows open. The thought of that fucking kiss on that fucking bridge makes his whole body buzz. Sam rooting around between his legs to get rid of that tick. And Sam, after the fight, looking at Dean like he was made out of spun glass and saying that... Saying what he had said. And how whenever Dean would glance over in the car, Sam would have this placid smile on his face like nothing could ever get to them or get between them, as long as they just kept rolling.

The worst of it is when Dean wonders how it would have been if they had never come back. If they had just kept driving through Missouri, headed east, south, north or gone all the way west. Anywhere but back to Castiel and Jody and Jo and the coach and everything that went haywire.

What would Mildred say? 'Yeah. It sucks. Now, suck it up.'

Dean chuckles through the hurt. He heaves his ass off the cot with a heavy groan and makes his way into the common room. At least there's no school.

He lounges on the couch between toothless Aggie and Ethel who always smells like pee. They make the best commentary about the soaps, though, and they love him to death. Right now, he has his feet up on the rickety coffee table and eats stale chocolate courtesy of Aggie's linty pocket.

Somebody behind the sofa claps his shoulder. "Come on. We need your help with this."

"Can't it wait?" Without turning around, he knows it's Rod, who runs the kitchen and is one of those sweater-wearing Christians Dean loves to hate for all their do-goodery.

"Not really. Come on." He pats Dean's back again.

"Pardon me, ladies."

The second he steps out into the blistering wind, Dean wishes he hadn't left every single gift he got from Sam in the Winchester's house. He could certainly put that winter coat to good use right about now.

He spends the rest of the afternoon lugging 20 lbs. frozen turkeys into the kitchen, thanks to some magnanimous asshole who has totally ruined Days of our Lives and Dean's entire snow day.

FROM: IGetFabulous

TO:

Hey Sam,

Took forever, I know. Finally got them up.

Thanks again!

You two are crazy hawwwt. We should totally do an XXXmas shoot. (JK)

Or at very least, spring. Okay?

Say yes. Dean, make him say yes.

Here's a link to the whole batch: /share/folders/1463

PS: Did you take any of the beautiful boy in the batsuit?

- Charlie

Sam scrolls through all of the photos, his breath shallow, lashes failing to beat back tears. He pauses the slideshow on one where he's leaning down, kissing Dean's cheek. The kid has this mischievous, devil-may-care smirk on his face.

Someone approaches from behind, and Sam shuts the browser in a rush, as if he's looking at something unsuitable for work.

Lisa's hair is almost right. It's more of a solid brown with none of the gold and bronze that shone in Sam's, especially out under the sun. But in dim or artificially light, the color is almost the same.

Everything else about her is a writhing, whimpering mistake.

Her sighs are pitched too high. Her perfume is too flower-sweet, lips taste like watermelons and Lucky Strikes instead of that bitter tea crap that was always on Sam's tongue. Her tits and just her whole body is too soft. That's usually nice, but no it just makes him want to scream.

The girl on the other side of Lisa in the back seat sulks. "Would you two get a fucking room?"

Dean closes his eyes and tries to get lost in Lisa's vice-tight grip. He arches his hips up into the punishment of her touch. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes in a sharp breath through his nose, chokes back Sam's name and dribbles come over her too-small palm.

Cas stands with one hand on each side of the door frame. He's wearing a white lace teddy, elbow-length gloves, thigh-high stockings, garter straps and white heels. He waits for Sam's reaction.

"Did I buy that?"

Cas nods. "Wedding present. I was waiting until I thought you could appreciate it."

"You're welcome."

"You like it?"

Sam looks again. The outfit suits Castiel. It fits well. He seems comfortable in it. It's obviously of a high-quality material, not made in China or bought off the rack and definitely fashioned by hand, with care. It's quite possibly one of Charlie's masterpieces. Sam nods. "You look nice."

"Nice." Cas repeats thoughtfully, as if he's collecting for a word bank.

He stands at the foot of the bed. Sam has always appreciated fine art, so he watches Castiel dance.

And he considers himself fortunate to have a private show provided by such a gifted performer. The movements appear to be eastern inspired, perhaps a blend of Indian classical and belly dance. It's really amazing the way Cas can twist his wrists and curl his spine and sway his hips. He raises both arms above his head. Such a supple man. He must really have been something in his Broadway days. Sam hasn't been to a show in ages. Always did enjoy a musical.

Cas crawls onto the bed. He cups his hand over Sam's indifferent crotch. Undeterred, he continues to stalk up Sam's supine body until he can kiss him long and languid. Sam doesn't push him away or return the kiss. He accepts the affection as if it were part of the dance recital.

Castiel straddles his hips, plants himself squarely on Sam's cock. He rubs a gloved hand down his face and sighs. "Were you ever actually attracted to me?"

"Absolutely."

"And now?"

"You already know."

"You're a one at a time kind of boy." Castiel drops himself onto the bed beside Sam. "You know what? I'm not in any fucking mood for it anyway. These stupid pills."

Sam keeps his relief to himself. "But you feel better, otherwise, right?"

"I don't feel anything."

Sam searches Cas' face. "Is that good?"

"Sometimes. Like right now? Yeah, probably. I think I miss you or I know I should. But I..." He shrugs.

That sounds so good, Sam is tempted to ask what Cas is taking. Maybe he could get a prescription for himself.

"Tell me something, Sam. What is it about him, besides the obvious?"

'The obvious' - Sam assumes are Dean's looks or his youth, but Cas got to know him. How could anyone not adore his brashness and his sense of humor, his confidence or his kindness, his endearing fear of vulnerability or his earnestness, or his keen appetites for food and sex and entertainment? Dean was far from perfect, but he had pursued Sam before he knew about all of the man's many flaws and he had still wanted him, even after they were all out in the open.

Goodness knows they'd had odds stacked against them, but there was some undeniable connection. They should have been able to weather anything, and yet, Dean is God knows where and Sam isn't even sure which straw had broken the camel's back.

"Well?" Cas asks.

"Everything."

Castiel doesn't rage or punch or scream, like he would have done before the prescriptions. He just sighs. "What are you watching?"

Sam shrugs at the screen. They watch in silence for a while until Sam hands over the remote. He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. At the very least, he's not alone.

Lisa squeals, claps, jumps up and down like she just struck the lotto. She pulls on Dean, rubbing her tits against his arm and trying to get him to smile. He chuckles, but his pubes are all stuck together in coagulated come. The only thing that would make him almost happy would be to go home and take a shower.

But the shelter closes at 10:00 PM, so he's stuck with these guys. Lisa has promised him a place to crash tonight, which is cool. It'll be good to sleep in an actual bed. Just about anything will be better than the pissed-in children's cot, surrounded by sniffling, sneezing little kids. Not that Dean minds the kids. Some of them are actually pretty cute, which is why he hates to see them growing up like he did.

But in exchange for the luxury of a real bed and the break from his real life, he has to spend the rest of the night with this band of hooligans.

"Shhh," Dean whispers like an old man.

Apparently, he's outgrown his years of junior delinquency, because he finds no pleasure in breaking into this garage, trashing some stranger's baby blue Jaguar. It's a beautiful car, and it seems like an awful waste. "Do you know this guy?"

Lisa's brother, Carl, steps back from his handiwork. The hood glistens with egg. One of the other guys spray paints the passenger's door. The rattle and hiss of the can grate on Dean's nerves.

"It's Peterson. Fucking douche failed me last quarter."

Well, that settles it, then. Since Carl certainly seems like the type to have studied, prepared and participated in class, Peterson failing him can only be a result of the man being a douche.

Dean keeps looking over his shoulder at the open garage door. Five-o could show up any minute. He is not trying to get locked up for this stupidity. He sighs and skulks around to the other side of the car to check out what work of art is taking so long. This guy has drawn an oozing dick that takes up most of the side panel. Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Are we done here?"

Lisa tucks herself under his arm. Carl kicks the car once as they leave the garage. Dean glances back over his shoulder and catches sight of the rainbow sticker on the rear bumper.

Sam's knee bounces like he's had ten cups of coffee instead of just the one. That was already a bad idea. It had been a way to help him pass the interminable hour he's been waiting since he finished filling out the paperwork.

Detective Ramsey reminds him of Rufus from work, with his dark skin and jocular demeanor. It fails to put Sam at ease. The man still isn't back, and Sam's patience is rapidly dwindling. He hops out of his chair again and stares at the faces on the Most Wanted posters. He pores over them, unable to focus on a single one. Then, he slumps back down in the chair and runs his hand over his face.

"Mr. Winchester."

He leaps to his feet the moment the detective enters the office.

"I just spoke with your father. According to him, the boy is not missing. He's with his mother, who has full custody."

"No, that's not…" Sam's eyes search the room as if he'll find anything to explain the urgency of his situation.

"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."

Sam grips the back of the chair he had been sitting in. It rattles in his hands, making a loud racket against the tile floor. "She isn't fit. She's…"

"Sir. Why don't you go buy yourself a tree?" The detective's hand slides over to the holster on his hip.

Sam has no control over the forward tilt of his head as if he was some wild creature with horns. He does not intend to lower his voice into a growl. Caffeine is not his friend. "You don't understand."

"No, I don't, but there isn't anything more I can do for you. As far as we're concerned, your brother isn't missing. I'm sorry. Merry Christmas to you." Ramsey holds the door open.

Sam knocks the chair onto its back and charges the man, even as the detective reaches for his gun. Years of self-defense training kick in as Sam chops his forearm down against the rising wrist, causing the officer to drop his weapon. He knocks the man back against a wall.

Just as suddenly, he raises his hands, first in front of his chest and then, clear to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Oh, God."

Lo and behold, Dean has gotten what he was after. Sort of.

On Cas' FB page, there's a picture of Sam. With Castiel. They're both dressed up like somebody just died. Cas in a white suit and Sam dressed up in black. Castiel's smile is huge, and his eyes are closed. Something is different about his face, but Dean can't quite tell what it is in this shot. One thing hasn't changed: he is clinging to Sam for dear life. Sam looks as strong and stoic as ever. He's growing a beard. It looks good.

It's Cas' profile picture, and his marital status has changed.

A heatwave flashes through Dean like a lethal dose of radiation.

So, that's that.

Dean's is the first response to the picture. He types 'congrats.'

Then, he picks up his shit and leaves the library.

Sam lays on his stomach with his face buried in a smelly government-issue pillow that grates against his cheek. The cot is too short; the toes of his shoes hang off the end. The door to his holding cell beeps open with a loud, metallic click. He doesn't budge, even when he hears the footsteps slowly approach.

"Should I ask or just assume?"

He bristles at, but doesn't look up to see, his father's face. He can smell the alcohol from across the room.

Sam takes a moment to sift through potential answers, props up on his elbows and scrubs his face with both hands. There's a bass drum pounding behind his right eye. A few deep calming breaths are of no help at all. He whispers, "Do you know where he is?"

"The way you're acting, I wouldn't tell you even if I did." His father says. "What the hell is wrong with you? Attacked an officer? Are you on drugs or something? You're lucky I talked this Ramsey guy down. You could be looking at some pretty serious charges."

Sam sits up and tosses his feet onto the floor. He presses his chin to his chest, hands clasped between his knees. Wishes he was on drugs. Maybe that would help.

"Sam, the thing with you and Dean, it's all kinds of wrong. Even you've got to see that."

The logic is sound; there's no point arguing. "I just want to be sure he's okay. His mother's not... She's not mom, you know."

"He's survived this long, hasn't he?"

"You didn't see the way they live." Sam finally looks up and meets his father's bloodshot eyes.

Sam knows the look. John W. is about two beers way from being shit-faced. Sam wishes he could drink. Maybe he should try it and just see what happens. He rolls his lips together and drops his face again.

"It was his choice. There's nothing you can do about it."

Dean stamps out his cigarette and walks into the salon. His mother nods at him. "Why aren't you school?"

"Don't fucking feel like it."

"You skip, and you come here? Little idiot." She shakes her head and holds out a broom.

He sweeps without protest. The woman behind the counter never even looks up at him.

Castiel drops his laptop on Sam's desk, on top of his work, right in his face without saying a word. Sam is on the cusp of complaining until he actually takes a look at what Castiel is trying to show him. A hand flies to his mouth to contain the excited shriek behind his lips.

"Wait." Sam's eyes narrow. "Why are you showing me this?"

For a moment, Castiel's eyes trail between Sam and the computer. He finally sighs and says, "I want you to find him."

"You want me to find him?"

"Maybe…" Castiel takes a breath. "If I see you with him again, I'll wake up."

Sam takes his hand. "Maybe we need to have someone take a look at your prescription."

Cas nods, batting his lashes as if they weigh a ton apiece, and leaves the room.

An hour later, the computer bounces on Sam's knee. He can't keep still. He's created his own profile and watches the screen, waiting for D Wayne to accept his friend request.

It has to be Dean, although there aren't any pictures of him or anything that might indicate where he is. Of course, Dean wouldn't post any of that. The most recent shot is of a prodigious stack of waffles. On closer examination, Sam is fairly certain that photo was taken in his parents' house. That was posted 9 weeks ago, which would be before Dean left.

There hasn't been any activity since then. Still, he has to be checking in regularly. He had seen Cas' post and responded. That means, eventually, he'll see Sam's request.

Sam scrolls through Dean's photos. There is a lot of food, some blurry ones of driving past things, like a field of cows or a billboard. Scrolling back, he finds a photo of Larry, the mechanical bull, one of Carl, the farmer next to a huge pumpkin, and one of the Mark Twain impersonator.

Sam hadn't even noticed Dean taking these shots. He certainly doesn't recognize the one of himself laid out on a pillow with his hair splayed every which way. There's a soft smile on his face, like he's dreaming about something delightful. It's the first photo Sam has ever seen of himself in which he looks genuinely happy. The longer he looks, the closer he comes to finding what Dean had seen in him that first day. Sam huffs and tries to type a comment, but finds he can't because they're not yet friends.

While he's waiting, Sam decides to post the photos from Charlie to his page. The idea that Dean will be seeing them sends a warm thrill through him. Sam smiles as he uploads every single shot of the 103 pictures from the photoshoot. The profile pic is an obvious choice.

Dean cringes, crushing the flare that shoots through him at the picture of Sam nuzzling his cheek. One day it's Castiel's wedding announcement; the next day, it's this. A thousand miles away and they still manage to fuck with his head.

He grits his teeth in cold, hard determination. It only takes one more button to confirm account deletion. Dean clicks it, logs out of the computer, and leaves the library groaning at all the fake holly and stupid fucking lights.