Once, when Dean had just turned ten years old, John Winchester took both of his sons fishing. Sam was a real runt at five - he remained a runt until he was fifteen when he finally shot up a whole foot over summer - and he used to waddle around on his stumpy little legs, tripping over every few steps.
They'd gone fishing out in the country, which wasn't so far to go considering the little town they came from. There was this big lake a short drive away, surrounded by little wood cabins and great oak trees, so ancient that the roots were giant and gnarled and expanded far enough that there was barely anywhere smooth for Sammy to walk without tripping up.
Their dad carried Sam on his hip, finally planted him back on his feet once they were on the pier. Dean remembers every word of the lessons John gave him; how to prepare your bait, how to know where the best spot to fish is, how to reel it in when you catch it. Sam, with his limited five-year-old attention span, only really listened to the part about impaling a worm on your hook, which sent him into a fit of tears, of course.
John had to give Sam one of the worms, which Sam named Wormy, using his limited five-year-old imagination to do so. He kept that worm for the entire weekend as a pet, which their dad was clearly regretting by dinner time when Sam plonked Wormy down next to his fork and tried to feed it mashed potatoes.
At the end of the trip, Wormy had gone missing. Sammy scribbled up a missing poster, handed them out to anyone he came into contact with, such as the old couple staying in the cabin next to theirs. To Dean it was clear what had happened to Wormy. Their dad denied being any part of the worm's disappearance, but Dean knew better.
Sam, being only five years old, had moved on from Wormy within a few days, and totally forgotten about him within a month.
The thing is, despite Wormy, and burned fish for dinner, and Dean actually falling in the lake at some point, this was one of the best times of Dean's life. Just him, his dad and Sammy. Simple.
It would be nice to one day go back to that lake. Just him and Sam. And their dad, he'd be there, somehow.
Dean smooths peanut butter over bread, dollops on the jelly, then fold the slices together and wraps them in plastic. He places the least wrinkled apple in their fruit bowl next to it, then fishes out a packet of chips from the back of the corner cupboard in the kitchen.
The whole time he does this, he watches Sam.
Sam is actually eating the cereal Dean put in front of him earlier that morning, rather than poking it with his spoon like he usually does. He's hunched over one of his school books, and every few seconds his phone pings with a message that makes him break out into a grin. Dean can't help grinning too, Sam is acting more like himself lately.
He thinks, maybe that fishing trip isn't so far off.
Dean glances at the clock above the fridge, he'll have to leave for work in fifteen minutes. "I'm picking you up after your book thing tonight," he reminds Sam. Sam makes an affirmative grunt. His phone buzzes again and his attention is pulled away from his cereal, thumbs darting expertly across the screen.
"Who're you talking to?" Dean asks. It's been a long time since Sam has shown any sign of having any real friends. He hasn't heard any mention of Andy or Charlie in a long time.
Sam's smile drops and he positions his hands so they cover the phone's screen. "Uh. No one."
"You seem to be getting a lot of texts."
Sam shrugs. "It's just Ruby."
Dean waggles his eyebrows. "Ruby, huh? How long have you guys been, uh, friends?"
Sam shrugs again. "Dunno. A while."
Dean straightens his face, tries to think back to how their dad first handled the girlfriend thing with him. "Are you and Ruby… you know?"
Sam's expression hardens. "Dean, even if we were, it wouldn't be any of your fucking business," he snaps, pushing away his half-empty bowl of soggy cornflakes. "So much for privacy."
And with that, he grabs his book and school bag and is out of the door in a flash, one arm through his jacket sleeve as he goes, not so much as another glance in Dean's direction. The lunch Dean made for him is left sitting on the counter.
"Small steps," Dean tells himself, feeling a little like he's been slapped across the face. "It's progress."
Hunkered over a rusted old 63' Corvette, Dean dismantles the engine. This one's a lost cause, something the owner can't afford to fix, but the pieces of her that are left might keep other cars going on the road. It's a shame. She was a beautiful car.
Garth, who is dawdling more than working, pats the roof. "Old cars like these are real works of art, huh?"
Dean can't disagree with him there. He stands up straight and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"You got a '69 Impala, right?" Garth says, pointlessly, because he's seen Dean's car every day since he's been working here. Garth is the runt in the garage, popped fresh out of high school only a year after Dean. Dean's been going to this garage his whole life, spent a lot of time growing up perched on the counter watching his dad do what Dean's doing right now.
"Sure is," Dean says. "She's still in her prime, thanks to me."
Garth is fiddling with a wrench, his lanky fingers barely keeping a grip on it. Bobby strides over from the office and grabs Garth's wrist, causing him to yelp as the wrench clatters to the ground.
"I ain't paying you to mess around," Bobby barks. He takes a hold of Garth's collar and turns him in the direction of the office. "I've got a lot of paperwork in there that need sorting," he says, giving Garth a firm shove.
He turns to Dean once Garth is out of earshot and says, "I'm not sure why I keep that damn idjit around."
"I think you've got a soft spot for the kid," Dean admits.
Bobby scoffs. "Nothin' soft about me," he says. "And who are you calling kid, kid? You're only a year older than him."
Dean smiles and continues his work. Bobby lingers quietly for a moment.
"How are things, Dean?" he finally asks, as if he's been wanting to say it for a while. "Is Sam doing okay? Are you doing okay?"
Dean stands up straight and chews his lip. "I think things are getting better," he says hesitantly. "Sammy's doing better in school, been going in every day since the suspension. He's still moody, but he's teenager so it's kind of expected. I dunno, Bobby, but things might be looking up."
Bobby's brows are pinched. "That's good to hear," he says, "but, Dean, just keep an eye on him, okay?"
"Yeah, Bobby. I always do."
"I just mean," Bobby sighs, "that maybe… sometimes, things seem better."
"Right…" Dean says, confused.
"I worry that this is more than grief or rebellion," Bobby admits. "I just think that maybe you're hoping a little too hard that things are alright."
"Look, Bobby. I know my brother. We both lost the same thing, we're both handling it in different ways, but Sam is doing better, alright?"
Bobby nods. "I know, son. I'm just worried is all."
"Well. Don't worry. We'll be fine," Dean says with a smile. "Promise."
"The kid's been through a lot, Dean. You don't just get over something like that. Just keep an eye on him, okay?"
6.37pm, December 15th. Unknown number.
"Dean Winchester? This is Samuel Colt Hospital, there's been an accident."
Breaking the speed limit.
"I'm very sorry, Mr Winchester. It was over very quickly for him, he didn't suffer."
Weak knees.
"Dean. Dean! I know it hurts, boy, but your brother needs you. Sam needs you."
Goddamn clowns painted on the walls of the children's ward.
"Sam? Sammy, please say something. You need to breathe. Look at me, Sam!"
The lump of a broken bone straining under bruised skin.
"We'll need to perform surgery on his arm. Don't worry, it's a minor procedure. He'll be in and out in no time."
Hazel eyes, glazed over and struggling to stay open.
"You rest now, Sam. You'll be good as new soon. Things'll be alright, won't they, Dean?"
A baseball cap clutched in Sam's hand, Bobby's thumb brushing the kid's hair from his eyes.
"Bobby, Dean. Please, I want to go home now."
Paperwork, the morgue, throwing up all over Bobby's feet.
"There you go, kid. It's gonna be okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You boys still got me, you hear?"
Button up shirts and clipboards. Social services.
"Please, no. Don't take him. You can't take him from me. Sammy's all I've got left now. I'm all he has. I'll be his guardian, I can do it, you'll see. I can do this, just don't take him."
The silent emptiness of the drive home.
"We'll be okay, Sammy. You'll see. We'll be alright."
Sam – Dean should have known – is not waiting at the school after his goddamn book club meeting at 4pm. In fact, Dean waits for a solid thirty minutes before heading into the school to look for his flaky little brother. The janitor, who is mopping the floors in the deserted cafeteria with rock music playing on his IPod loud enough for Dean to hear, actually knows Sam, but he hasn't seen him since school ended an hour ago. Even worse, the janitor is the only person still wandering the hallways, as far as Dean can tell, and there's no one else to ask. Dean rings Sam a few times, the first couple ringing through to voicemail, the last three cutting out as soon as he dials his number.
Sam is purposefully avoiding him, then. Smart, considering Dean is going to kick the little brat's ass as soon as he finds him.
He says as much in one of the voicemails he leaves for him.
"You better call me back, Sam. I'm serious. Seriously pissed, and kind of losing my mind here. At least text me to let me know you're okay?" he says before deciding to call it quits. Sam is sixteen years old, Dean was off galivanting on his own when he was younger than that. Still, Dean can't suppress the horrific scenes playing in his head.
He leaves Sam one final text to add to the 28 others he sent in the last five minutes. Call me back.
It's getting darker outside, almost pitch black before 5pm. Winters here are a bitch, cold and dark and miserable, leaving the trees bare and the roads slippery with ice. He should be heading home. He has laundry to do, he has to make dinner, he has to sort through their mail, he has to fix the leaky faucet in the kitchen, he has to make sure Sam gets his homework finished.
He's on his way towards the exit when he passes the trophy cabinet.
"No way," he says, breaking out into a grin. It's been three years since he graduated high school, but for some reason it feels so much longer. There, nestled between a gold cheerleading trophy and silver baseball cup, is a photo of his wrestling team. He doesn't look much younger than he is now, although his hair is a little younger and his smile is a little brighter. The kid in this photo doesn't look as old as Dean feels.
"I've never been much of a sports person myself."
Dean almost trips over his own feet, just managing to grab the top of the cabinet to steady himself. Mr Novak is standing there with a mug that says Accio Coffee in his hand. Coffee sloshes onto the polished floor as he rushes forward to help.
"I am so sorry," he says, a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Dean smiles. "I'm fine. No harm done."
Cas pulls his hand away once Dean is steady, and looks down at the mess on the floor, lips pressing together. "I should clean this up," he says, holding his still-dripping mug at arm's length. Dean crosses the hall to the nearest bathroom and grabs some paper from one of the stalls. When he gets back, Cas is frowning at a coffee stain on his sweater.
"So, Harry Potter, right?" Dean says, gesturing to the mug. He crouches down and spreads the toilet paper over the mess, watching the coffee soak into it.
"Oh," Cas looks at the mug like he'd forgotten he'd been holding it, "Yeah. Guess I'm a bit of a fan. I've read all the books… well, you don't need to know how many times I've read them."
Dean chuckles. "Same thing with my little brother. I remember standing outside of Barnes and Noble in the city at midnight when the last one came out. The little nerd read it in two days, didn't put it down for a second, not even when we were eating dinner. Fork kept missing his mouth."
Cas smiles, but doesn't say anything. He takes a wad of tissue and uses it to dry his mug before he sets it down on top of one of the lockers. He gets to his knees beside Dean and wipes up splashes of coffee.
"So, uh, you working late?" Dean asks. He's never done so well with silence, and he already knows Cas is a quiet person based on their not-date. He's quiet in an interesting sort of way, he's a listener more than a talker.
Cas nods. "Yeah. Just doing some little things here and there," he says. He turns to face Dean. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Sam. Haven't seen him, have you?" Dean says, not allowing himself to hope for a good answer. Usually, when Sam doesn't want to be found, he won't be.
"Not since school finished at three," Cas says. He collects the wet tissue and dumps it in a nearby trash can. "Have you tried calling any of his friends?"
Dean snorts. "It'd be helpful if I knew who his friends were. The kid is a total mystery to me these days. A year ago, I'd know who to call, but now… I don't know. I wouldn't even be in this mess a year ago."
Cas sighs. He's quiet for a moment before finally saying, "Have you considered taking him to a doctor?"
Dean blinks. "A doctor? Unless a doctor put a tracking device on Sammy, I don't know how that would help."
"I don't mean…" Cas shakes his head. "I mean, in the long term. Sam told me he hasn't been to see a doctor. I think it would really benefit him to talk about things."
"Isn't that what you're for?" Dean says, climbing to his feet. "Talking about feelings and crap."
"This isn't just feelings," Cas says, expression suddenly turned very serious. "This is about his mental health."
"But… he's been doing okay. He's doing better in school," Dean insists. "Besides, this isn't mental health, Sam isn't like that."
"Like that?" Cas asks curiously.
"He's not a crazy person," Dean clarifies. "Sam's smart, you know."
Cas' smile is kind. "Mental illness doesn't make a person crazy. It's actually a lot more common than you might think. On average, one sixth of people will experience depression in their lifetime. I've had many students suffering from depression come to me, but the most I can do is encourage them to visit a doctor. I had a session with Sam yesterday and suggested this to him, but he told me he wasn't interested."
"He never mentioned it," Dean says.
Cas nods. "I didn't think he would. He seemed quite against the idea." He sighs. "Dean, I don't want to overstep, but I think this is important and I need to at least suggest to you that Sam sees a doctor. Depression is treatable – "
"Hey," Dean cuts him off, feeling a sudden burst of irritation. Sam is his responsibility, not Cas'. "This… this isn't – this is just grief, okay? Sam's been through a whole ton of shit, but this is just grief. Hell, I'm grieving too, but we're getting though this."
"There is a difference between grief and depression," Cas says calmly. "Grief is a normal process in response to a loss, depression is an illness."
Dean bites the inside of his cheek and thinks of Sam. Sam, never once crying, always quiet, never laughing or smiling, always running away, so different to who he was before the accident. With a deep sigh, he bunches up the wet paper in his hands and drops it all into the trash can. He scratches the back of his head.
"I guess… maybe I suspected something like that. I don't know," he says quietly. "But maybe I just didn't want to think about it."
"That's understandable," Cas says, but Dean still feels guilty. He's supposed to know these things when it comes to Sam. Even Bobby noticed first, Dean just didn't want to hear it.
As soon as his phone buzzes in his pocket, Dean quickly grabs it. It's a message from Sam.
Chill, dude.
Dean takes a deep breath. A mirthless chuckle bubbles out from his gut and after a moment he's folded in half and laughing like he might never stop. He feels a hand on his upper back and Cas says his name gently, like he's worried Dean might snap if he speaks any louder. Well, too late for that.
"Are you alright?" Cas says for the third time, his hand is now on Dean's shoulder.
Dean holds up his phone so Cas can see the screen. "Apparently, I need to chill," he says, wiping tears from his eyes. He takes a deep breath, hoping he'll be calm after, but he just bursts into another fit of laughter. Cas takes his elbow gently and steers him into one of the nearest classrooms.
He gets Dean to sit at a desk, then he closes the door and begins to rummage around the teacher's desk drawers.
"A-ha," he mutters, pulling out a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He pours a little into the glass and places it in front of Dean, saying, "I'm not a drinker but I know when alcohol is needed."
Dean sips, face scrunching as it burns the back of his throat. "Whose classroom is this?"
"Rufus' – I mean, Mr Turner," Cas says with a conspiratorial smile. "He'll not be happy when he sees some of it missing, but he'll never know who it was. Not like he can complain about it without getting in trouble."
Dean's cheeks still ache and he's grinning like a maniac, but at least he isn't laughing anymore. "Never took you for someone so sneaky. It's kinda impressive."
Cas blushes and sits down at the desk next to Dean. They're quiet for a moment as Dean finishes of his drink.
"Are you okay now?" Cas finally asks.
"I'm fantastic, man," he says softly, staring at the empty glass. "My dad died so I had to drop my college plans to look after my little brother, now I'm working full time, elbow deep in grease nine hours a day, and I'm so exhausted that I want nothing more than to face plant into my pillow when I get home, but I can't."
He wishes he could stop talking but now that he's started there's not sign of stopping. "I have to make sure Sam does his homework, then I have to make his dinner. I have to do bills and taxes and I'm still sorting out all of my dad's things because the man never bothered with a will. On top of that, I haven't had sex in months. Months, Cas. I'm a fucking spinster and I'm only 20. Next thing, I'll be getting a cat."
Surprisingly, Cas smiles. "I have a cat," he says.
Maybe that's it, or maybe it's the fact that Dean has been thinking about Cas since first moment he saw him, or maybe it's the sudden burst of lunacy that has Dean leaning across the gap between the desks and catching Cas' lips. Cas freezes for a second, clearly taken off guard, but it doesn't take long for him to melt into it.
Cas slips out from behind the table and grips the back of Dean's neck, pulling himself closer. The plastic chair Dean is sitting on digs into his back as he presses into him. Their lips fit and slide together, tongues tasting tentatively and –
Dean quickly rears back, hands still gripping Cas' shoulders.
"I'm so sorry," he says, looking anywhere but at Cas. "Jesus. I'm a horrible person."
Cas straightens himself up, his tongue slides across his lips and he clears his throat. "No. It – it was unprofessional of me. And immoral. You're upset and I took advantage of that."
"You didn't take advantage, Cas. I pretty much pounced on you." Dean drops his head into his hands. "At least you didn't just make out with your little brother's therapist."
"I'm a school counsellor, not a therapist… besides, I made out with my student's guardian."
Dean shakes his head, feeling nauseous. "You want to talk to me about how to help my depressed little brother and I manage to turn it into a make out session. I'm going to hell."
Cas chuckles. "As someone who has read the Bible from cover to cover more than once, I can tell you that you're certainly not going to hell. You're a very good person Dean."
"You don't know me all that well," Dean says, fiddling with the rim of the glass. "I suck as a parent. This isn't what my parents wanted for Sammy, I'm totally screwing everything up."
He closes his eyes as Cas' hand brushes his cheek, his palm rests there, warm and comforting. "You're only 21 years old, Dean," he says, "and you aren't Sam's parent, you're his brother. You didn't have to be his guardian, but you are. You took on an immense responsibility because you love your brother that much, you love him enough to make sacrifices. You're doing just fine."
Dean opens his eyes. "I kissed you," he says. "I mean, we barely know each other. Sam would hate me even more if he knew."
"Sam doesn't hate you," Cas says surely. "And… maybe we are just acquaintances, but I have to say that I like you, Dean, and I - I'd like to be more than an acquaintance."
"Me too," Dean says. Cas is staring so intensely at him, Dean thinks he might start seeing everything in blue. He shakes his head clear and pulls away from Cas, getting to his feet. "But Sam… he wouldn't like it."
"I understand," Cas says. "I wouldn't want to upset him."
"Maybe - maybe if we waited," Dean suggests hesitantly.
"Waited?"
"To go on a date, I mean. Well, not that I assume you want to go on a date with me. I just mean we could wait until Sam's a little older and you're not his, uh, school counsellor anymore. Maybe then, he might be okay with it. He's not in such a good place right now and…" Dean pauses and his shoulders drop. "I'm beginning to feel extremely guilty."
"Don't feel guilty for the way you feel," Cas says gently and Dean automatically feels a little better. Everything about Cas is so… soft and gentle. He's the calm at the centre of Dean's storm. Cas continues, "But I agree, we should think of Sam first. If he would be upset by this, we should avoid it."
An awkward silence follows before Dean finally admits. "I don't want to."
Cas looks up with a puzzled frown.
"Avoid it, I mean. I don't want to avoid you," Dean says. "I just – I only met you a couple of weeks ago and you already make me feel the way no one else ever has. I haven't ever had a – well, been in a real relationship, and for the first time I think maybe I want one… this sounds really cheesy, doesn't it?"
Cas smiles. "I like cheese."
"Sam doesn't, he's lactose intolerant," Dean says with a laugh. "I mean it, though. I really do like you, I just don't want to hurt my brother."
Cas steps forward and cups Dean's face in his hands. He leans close and presses a long, soft kiss to his lips. When he pulls away he rests his forehead against Dean's and he says, "I don't mind waiting."
Dean grins the entire drive home, any stress he'd been feeling only earlier has been lifted. He feels so light, he could run a marathon.
"I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you," Dean sings along to one of his secret cassette tapes, belting out the lyrics off-tune at the top of his lungs. He touches his lips, can still taste coffee on them, and he breaks out into another grin. God, he's like a teenaged girl. He doesn't even care.
He pulls up in front of his apartment building and sees that their kitchen light is on. He turns off the music and suddenly the bright, cheery butterflies in his stomach drop. He'd almost managed to forget about the issue with Sam.
The walk up the stairs to their floor feels long and tiring, like his boots suddenly weigh a lot more than they really do. As soon as he steps through their front door he'll be thrown into another weekly shouting match.
Sam is kneeling in front of the fridge and staring at the contents like he's making the most important decision of his life. He looks up a little belatedly when Dean lets the doors slam closed behind him. Surprisingly, Sam breaks out into a grin.
"Hey!" he says. "Do you know if we have any squirty cream?"
Dean frowns and steps forward, taking in all the opened packets of food on the kitchen table – instant noodles, ham, Oreos, chips, bread. "You can't eat cream, Sam. You're lactose intolerant, remember?" Dean says. "Why else would I spend four dollars on soy milk every week?"
"Oh," Sam says, then honest-to-God giggles. "Lactose intolerant," he manages between wheezes, "Oh my God!"
Dean's eyebrows must be sitting in his hairline at this point. He moves over to close the fridge, then leans down to pull Sam to his feet. He pauses and sniffs the air. Earthy, thick, pungent, bitter-sweet and lingering all over Sam. Dean yanks Sam roughly to his feet and plants him in the nearest chair.
Sure enough, Sam's eyes are bleary and red.
"You have to be kidding me," Dean seethes.
Sam snorts trying to hold in more laughter.
"Smoking weed, Sam? Are you that dumb?" Dean yells.
Sam rolls his eyes as best he can manage. "Not a big deal. As if you've never done it before."
"It's a school night, Sam," Dean growls. "And where the hell were you tonight? You knew I was picking you up, and you went off to get high?"
Sam sputters and falls into another round of giggles. "I'm sorry," he says, sounding anything but. "I dunno, I was waiting for aaages and Ruby called – "
"Ruby?" Dean decides he does not like this girl. And, Jesus, he's beginning to sound like his dad. Well, it's for Sam's own good. "I don't want you hanging out with her anymore. She isn't a good influence. You're supposed to be focusing on school, Sam. Have you done any of your homework?"
Sam frowns, a little slow on the uptake. "That's not fair. You can't tell me who I can and can't see."
"A legal document naming me your guardian begs to differ," Dean snaps. "Your homework, Sam. Have you done it?"
Sam slumps in the kitchen chair, sleepy-eyed. "Nope."
Dean refrains from clawing his hair out of his scalp. He takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says, forcing calm. "No chance you're finishing homework like this, huh? Are you hungry?"
Sam nods.
"Yeah. Thought you would be," Dean mutters. He clears up the table and throws away a rather alarming sandwich that Sam must have crafted himself. He also snatches Sam's phone out of his pocket without the kid noticing and puts it out of reach on top of one of the cabinets, no chance Sam is getting it back any time soon. Sam, meanwhile, manages to occupy himself just fine by staring into space.
Dean fries up an omelette with a healthy amount of toppings – ham, mushrooms, onions, peppers and tomatoes, no cheese - and plates it up for Sam, who pretty much inhales it before asking for another one. By the time Sam is done eating, his eyes are drooping lower and lower.
"Come on," Dean sighs, pulling Sam to his feet and helping him, stumbling through the apartment, to bed.
"Thanks," Sam mutters into his pillow, eyes closed.
"Don't think we're done with this. I owe you a serious ass-kicking once you're sober enough to appreciate it."
Sam smiles, apparently not having heard. "I feel nice," he says, followed by a soft snore.
Dean pats the kid's head and pulls up the covers over his back. "'course you'd be a total lightweight, dumb ass," he whispers, leaning over to switch off the bedside lamp. As an afterthought, he plants a quick kiss on Sam's forehead. Not like the kid will ever know.
He leaves the door open a crack before heading back to the kitchen to make his own dinner. He settles in front of the TV with cup of instant noodles, and slides through the contacts on his phone, smiling where Cas inserted his number in case Dean needed anything.
His smile drops as his thumb lingers over Cas' name and he thinks of their conversation from earlier.
Have you considered taking him to a doctor?
Dean scrolls down and finds Sammy near the bottom of the list. Then, he opens up google and types in depression symptoms in teenagers.