On Friday night, after only a single conference with one of Dean's teachers, his dad had taken off after letting his sons into the house. Dean watched as the black Chevy drove down the street, disappearing down the next block. He knew where his father was headed. The bar was a good ten minutes away. He was a frequent patron, wasting his paychecks on liquor and hops.

"I'm hungry," Sam whined. He sunk into the couch, turning on the television to some cartoon that Dean couldn't place a name too. It had a talking dog. Don't they all have talking dogs? After watching a few minutes of the show he concluded that it wasn't very funny and went into the kitchen to find something for dinner. In the fridge he found only eggs, milk, lunchmeat and beer. The freezer held a bit more promise as Dean didn't want to cook. Microwavable meals would have to do. He threw in some kind of chicken and vegetable dinner that he found. While it nuked, Dean searched desperately to find something for himself. There was little else besides popsicles, ice cube trays and French fries. "Fuck," he said.

"What is it?" Sam called from the living room. Dean didn't think he had heard him swear.

"Nothing," Dean replied. The microwave beeped. He placed the black plastic tray on a plate, grabbed a clean fork and hand delivered it to his brother. "If you want something to drink, get it yourself. I'll be in my room."

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I'm fine," Dean said. He wasn't, but his brother didn't need to know.

Dean threw himself onto his bed. It was unmade, and the sheets hadn't been changed in at least three weeks. He couldn't gather up the strength to change them. It seemed like a daunting task. He rolled over. The pile of laundry was mounding on his carpet. Another thing he couldn't seem to accomplish. It was always a good day when he could pull himself to clean his room, do his laundry and put new sheets on his bed. This weekend didn't call for one of those days.

Dean closed his eyes. He tried to recall a time when it didn't seem so difficult to do simple chores for himself. It wasn't easy. All he could remember was taking care of Sammy, picking up after his father, and being the brunt of his dad's drunken nights. Dean did everything for his family. It was hard for him to imagine a day that he could dedicate to himself.

It was one of the reasons why Dean chose to sit alone in the library during lunch. He could tuck in a chair while immersing himself into a story of characters whose lives were either better off or worse than his own. Dean didn't care either way. All he needed was an outlet. One that didn't consist of reeling through his life on a daily basis. Books aided in forgetting his worries.

Dean reached over to his bedside table. He opened his drawer and pulled out a framed photograph. In it, a four year old was clinging to a woman. Her blonde hair was pulled back while a few strands framed her smiling face. She was squeezing the little boy, his face beaming at the embrace. He didn't know why he chose to look at the picture. Every time he saw it, it only made him more depressed. Dean put the picture back in its drawer. He curled up into a ball beneath his sheets, holding back the tears that were welling up in his eyes, as he drifted off to sleep.

In the morning Dean woke up to a loud thud coming from the kitchen. He pulled on some pajama pants over his boxers to investigate. It was his father. Standing at the counter, John was attempting to wash the dishes. In his state of drunkenness he had knocked over a dirty pan. Shit, Dean thought. Sam must have made a mess last night in his quest to keep eating. That boy was sprouting up faster than a weed.

John turned around. His eldest was standing on the living room carpet at the cusp of the linoleum. "What good are you if you can't even wash the fucking dishes?" John threw the blue and green sponge into the sink. Bubbles shot up from the impact. He stalked his way towards his son. Grabbing his son's jaw, he drew Dean's face up to look him in the eye. "You aren't good for anything, are you?" It was a rhetorical question. "Do you really expect me to come home after a long fucking week at work, to clean up the goddamn kitchen? This is the kind of shit that you need to do before I come home." John then vigorously let go of his son. In a split second, John backhanded his cheek. Dean held in his emotions, holding his breath as his father took off down the hall to his bedroom. The door slammed shut. Dean then exhaled. His face stung like little needles pricking at his skin. At least it wasn't another fist to an eye. Dean slowly went to the sink. He held back tears as he let the cold soapy water run down the drain.

When Dean finished putting away the dishes, he found his father passed out in bed. He could hear the man snoring in the dark, the blinds drawn shut to block out the light to lessen his hang over. Dean then gently creaked opened the door to his brother's room. Sam looked like a sleeping giant in his twin bed. He was outgrowing it quickly. Soon he'd need a bigger bed frame. A mattress fit for a moose. Dean figured they wouldn't be up until the afternoon.

Dean went into his own room. He navigated around the piles of clothes on his floor, moving around old school assignments. He found the tan canvas bag near his end table. He carefully took out his camera. It was a Nikon that he found for cheap at the Salvation Army. It came with the carrying case and was loaded with film that the previous owner had probably forgotten about. Dean had processed the film shortly after he found that it had been used. The photos weren't professional in the least, but they had made Dean interested in the family that appeared in the negatives. He never did develop the photos. The film sat in a shoe box under his bed. Dean loaded a new roll of film into the camera before slipping out of the house.

The elementary school was a few blocks down the main road. A good chunk of his photos for his class had come from his walks to the playground. Dean enjoyed sitting on the swing set, gently pushing off the ground with his feet. He would move slowly back and forth, the methodic rhythm relaxing his body. The fall was clearly making itself known. A chill wind was picking up. Dean pulled his hoodie tighter around himself. He didn't plan on staying out for very long.

On the way to the school he had found the perfect piece for his next project. A dead raccoon sat on the side of the road. Rigor mortis had set in quickly. One little leg stretched out to the sky. A morbid scene. Dean quickly looked for any passing cars or people. No one was around. He knelt, placed the camera's view finder to his right eye, and snapped a few pictures of the death scene at different angles. Dean crossed his fingers that his teacher wouldn't think he was mental for choosing this as his subject matter.

The playground ended up being empty. A chilly Saturday morning without a soul around. It was like the apocalypse had found its way to this small city. No, Dean was just letting his mind get the best of him. He placed his camera on a bench before sitting down on a swing. He shifted back and forth, his toes trailing through the woodchips.

"What are you doing here?" a male voice broke Dean's train of thought. He looked up to see someone he really didn't want to come across today. Someone he didn't want to come across ever. Oddly enough, he wasn't with his normal crew. He was alone. Alone and dressed in his usual uniform of black and grey.

"Photography class," Dean said, pointing towards his camera. Crowley didn't respond. He sat down on the seat next to Dean, mimicking his slow swinging movements. Dean couldn't bear to ask him why he was here. He just sat there wondering why the other teen would even want to join him in the first place.

"My dad wants me to work at the dealership with him after we graduate," Crowley said, breaking the silence. "I don't want to, but it seems inevitable. I really don't want to be a salesman. My father became one because of his father, and I'm next in line. It just fucking blows." He looked down right depressed. Dean was confused. Something had brought Crowley, his bully for most of his school career, to talk to him of all people. Why would Crowley confide in Dean to begin with? He looked at Dean and quickly registered the other teens' look of shock. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laying this on you."

"No," Dean coughed out. "It's fine."

"And I want to apologize for shitting on you about your father. Mine isn't any better, and I shouldn't have fucking said anything. It's just," Crowley continued, "I can't talk to my friends, you know? Al and Lilith would laugh me off the face of the earth if they heard me bitch and moan about my life. They see me as a tough guy. A guy that can take anything given to him. A guy that can easily shove shit onto other people."

"Crowley," Dean said.

"Is it too much to ask to be able to have a normal conversation with an old friend? I mean, do I have to talk to them like home life doesn't exist? Seriously. Is getting shit faced and high all there is?"

"Crowley," Dean said again.

"What?" He stopped swinging to look directly at Dean.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"'Cause you're here," Crowley answered.

Dean looked at him questioningly. "We don't actually talk."

"What? I can't start now?" Crowley started to push off the ground again. Both boys kept quiet. Dean joined him, using his legs to propel himself higher. Once they slowed down again, Crowley spoke up. "So, I saw you walking to school the other day with Castiel."

Dean drove his boots into the woodchips and dirt, abruptly stopping at the name. "You know him?"

"Yeah, I do," Crowley replied.

Dean's mind raced. What did he know about Castiel? How did he know him to beginning with? Friends? Family? No, that seemed rather farfetched. They looked nothing like family.

"Cassie is friends with my little sister, Meg," Crowley said. "Well, half-sister. Same dad, different mom. That's a whole 'nother story," Crowley said. "She's got some crazy crush on him. Constantly talking the kid up whenever she can. Sad for her, though."

"Why is that?" Dean quickly asked.

"I guess he came out a few years ago," he said. Dean's eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his skull at that remark. Crowley laughed. "You didn't know?"

"I just met him," Dean said.

"It is rather obvious."

"I wouldn't know," Dean said.

"You wouldn't, would you?" Crowley said.

Dean looked at the boy next to him. "What does that mean?"

Crowley chuckled. "Never mind."

Dean wasn't about to press the issue. It was strange being near each other without Dean getting persecuted. Perhaps Crowley was more human than Dean gave him credit for. He looked at his watch. It was going on noon. "I should probably head home," Dean said.

"I'll walk with you," Crowley offered.

It was Monday afternoon and Castiel knew that he had a tutoring session after school. He would meet this kid later that day, but he couldn't help but wonder who it was. It could be anyone. Many times he had to teach kids older than himself in classes that he didn't even have yet. They did well, he found, as long as they decided to put in the effort themselves. So this was how teachers felt, Castiel thought after his second tutoring student failed her Spanish exam after hours of studying. It was very frustrating.

During his second hour Castiel was handed a note from his councilor. It read, "Meeting with new student for after school tutoring, 2:30pm, room 254." He pocketed the note. Castiel hadn't had to tutor anyone this year. It was almost the end of October, halfway through the fall semester, and Castiel thought it was about time for someone to need extra help. Especially since parent teacher night concluded Friday.

It wasn't his idea to tutor his fellow classmates. His father had signed him up for the afterschool program during his son's freshman year. He told his youngest that he was intelligent enough to teach even the average kids in this school. Castiel thought differently. He hardly considered himself as smart as his older brothers. Michael had tutored all through high school and still helps out those struggling in university. And Luke managed to sneak by with only aiding kids when he was a senior. Their father emphasized that it would look good on their college applications. Charles never failed to sign his son up for after school programs, much to Castiel's displeasure, to ensure that he would follow in Michael's footsteps.

The room that Castiel was to tutor in was in fact Mr. Wesson's classroom. Castiel had him for AP American history. It was a horrible subject, even though Castiel knew that Mr. Wesson was trying his hardest to make it interesting. The constitution can only be discussed so much before one would drift off to sleep. Castiel paused before the entrance of the classroom. He could hear the teacher talking to another man. Castiel easily placed a name to the voice. It was his chemistry teacher, Mr. Smith.

"Friday night."

"We'll see."

"Oh, come on," Mr. Wesson said. "You're mother doesn't fly in until Saturday afternoon, I think you can manage a night out."

"Alright, fine," Mr. Smith agreed.

Castiel slowly walked into the classroom. Mr. Smith was sitting on the desk, his feet dangling like a child who was too small for his seat. The history teacher was in a rather close proximity to him, standing in between the other man's legs. It was a rather intimate moment that Castiel had just walked in on. He paused at the sight. When Mr. Wesson noticed Castiel, he reacted quickly, backing away from the chemistry teacher with precision. It was like he had been caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing. Both hands stuck in the cookie jar.

"Castiel," Mr. Wesson said upon seeing the teen in the door way. "You're here to tutor." He said it like he had forgotten and was reminded of this fact by his presence. "It's not until two thirty."

"I know," Castiel replied. "I was just passing by, thought I'd drop my stuff here."

"Well, have at it," Mr. Wesson said. "We'll leave you to your session. If you need anything, I'll be in Mr. Smith's classroom." Mr. Smith jumped off the desk, chuckling at how flustered his partner was at being caught by a student.

"Okay," Castiel said. He placed his backpack on a desk top. He had a good fifteen minutes before he had to meet up with the kid he was to tutor. Castiel pulled out a couple dollars from his pocket. Cheetos were calling his name from the cafeteria's vending machine.

...

"Wait. You're who I'm tutoring?" Castiel exclaimed when he walked back into the classroom.

Dean was slumped in his desk. He tried to not look at Castiel directly. This was the last person Dean thought would have entered the classroom. "I really don't need help," Dean replied.

"Then why am I even bothering?" Castiel sat down at the desk next to Dean where he had placed his backpack. "Just my luck it's you."

Dean turned on him. "What do you mean by that?"

"It's nothing," Castiel said. He brought out his notebook from his backpack.

"It's not nothing," Dean said. He couldn't believe what he was saying. There was just something about Castiel that called for him to speak his mind. "If you're supposed to tutor me, then shouldn't we at least be a little bit cordial?"

Castiel sighed. "Fine. Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"What do you need help with, dumb ass?"

Dean turned towards the front of the class, and hunched in his seat. "My dad thinks I need it because I'm failing."

"What are you failing?" Castiel was becoming concerned. It didn't seem like a kid who reads classic novels could be doing terrible in his studies.

"Everything," Dean said, bringing his gaze towards the other teen.

"Alright," Castiel said. "What do you want to start with?"

"You're going to help me?" Dean didn't get it. First, Castiel was coming at him like he was a nuisance. And now he was being all concerned about Dean, whom he barely knew. For what exactly?

"Well, I guess I kinda have to," Castiel said. "If I don't, then…"

"Then what?" Dean asked.

"It's nothing," Castiel said. "Let's just get this over with."

The boys dived right into Dean's assignments. Quickly it became more of a study hour than a tutoring session. He soon found out that Dean was in fact very intelligent. He didn't need afterschool tutoring after all, Castiel thought as he watched Dean scribble down the correct equations for his algebra assignment with little difficulty.

"Dean, can I ask you something?" Castiel said after Dean put away his math textbook.

"What?" Dean said slowly, scared by the way he was approached.

"Why did you blow me off last week?"

"What?"

"You blew me off. When I asked you to join me at lunch," Castiel said.

"Oh," Dean said under his breath.

"So?"

"I didn't blow you off," Dean replied.

"Then why did I see you in the library?" Castiel asked.

Dean tried to look at Castiel. His blue eyes were staring right at him looking for an answer. "I couldn't do it."

"Do what? Make a new friend? Join me and my friends for lunch? Eat lunch? Or could you just not be seen with me?" Castiel was hoping that it wasn't the latter.

"It's not any of that,"

"Then what is it?"

"Fine," Dean said defensively. He sighed. "I walked into the cafeteria and couldn't handle being in there for longer than a few minutes." Castiel didn't say anything. He gave Dean an odd head tilt as his eyes squinted partially shut. Dean heavily sighed again, and looked down at the pen in his hand. "Can we just finish this?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, okay."