After Castiel had calmed in the face of the immense gift he was given, he'd stood, packing everything except the white button down, black trousers, the (now his) pair of black socks, the shoes, the towel, the bar of soap, and, although he had only a patchy smattering of soft hair along his jaw, the razor. "Do you mind if I clean up before I eat?"

"By all means," Dean replied quickly, stepping away to sit beneath a nearby tree, awkwardly turning to grant Castiel his privacy. He hoped the other boy didn't mind his presence, and, face burning red, realized asking after he'd already sat in silence would be more uncomfortable than simply holding his place.

Castiel watched Dean for a few moments once he'd turned around, eyes lingering on the nape of his neck, mapping the flecks of freckles and small wisps of hair he had failed to notice before. Then, without another word, he turned and grabbed the items he needed, carrying them reverently to the small creek.

Disrobing out in the open felt strange at first, but once he'd stepped into the clean water, Castiel found his modesty gone. Splashing himself, he wasted no time in running the softly scented soap along the entirety of his body, reveling in the way dirty suds fell away from his body to reveal clean skin he hadn't seen in ages. After carefully shaving his face and neck, Castiel dunked his head under the water, washing his hair twice before stepping out.

He dried himself slowly, amazed at the softness of the small towel. All the towels he'd ever used, even before It happened, had never been as soft as the one he was using. Dean must have been astonishingly rich. Ignoring the embarrassment he still felt at the poor state he had been in when the other boy first saw him, Castiel finally rubbed his hair dry and dressed himself. The clothes were incredibly well made, and obviously specifically tailored to fit Dean, for in the wrists and ankles they were slightly too long. However, the shoes fit perfectly, and to finally step into a pair that supported his feet felt amazing.

Smiling down at himself, Castiel looked to Dean, who was fiddling with a small bunch of lilac flowers. "I'm finished."

Dean stood at Castiel's words, turning to face him. "How did everything fi-" he began, the words dying on his lips at the vision before him. Gone were the tattered rags, and gone was the layer of filth upon Castiel's skin, replaced by clean new clothes and fresh skin that seemed to glow under the soft morning sun. Instead of hair weighed down by dirt and grease, shiny black locks now covered the boy's head, bringing out his bright, happy looking blue eyes. Stunned, all Dean could do was stare, taking in every small detail with a level of interest he'd never felt for another person.

Castiel shifted under the weight of Dean's gaze, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "Everything is aces, Dean," he said quietly, licking his lips subconsciously as the Winchester met his eyes. "Just perfect."

"Swell," Dean replied softly, breaking the moment by looking to Castiel's bag of food. "So, um, you gonna eat that or should I?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Castiel stuttered after a moment, the blush moving to his cheeks as he grabbed the bag, sitting on the grass quickly. "Thanks."

"It's no problem," Dean replied, letting out a breath he felt he'd been holding in for too long as he sat across from the other boy. "So where're you headed, anyway?"

Castiel paused at the question, a piece of buttered toast held carefully between his thumb and forefinger. "I don't really know," he answered truthfully, knowing Dean had already seen through his lie the day previous. "I don't have many options."

Dean nodded silently, unsure how he could possibly respond. "Well, you know, if you need to, you could hang around here 'til you figured out what to do. I come down here a lot, bringing extra food when I do wouldn't make much of a difference."

"I couldn't do that," Castiel said quickly, looking down to his lap. "I do appreciate what you've done for me, but you've done more than enough, more than what I deserve. I don't mind moving on, I'll find my way somewhere."

Dean was silent then, disappointment coloring his features as a new (yet old) feeling of loneliness swept over him. "At least stay 'til the end of the week. You look tired."

Castiel glanced around thoughtfully at the peaceful, protected place he'd been offered, and at the suddenly new feeling of being full despite having some food left, his decision was made. "I guess resting here wouldn't be a bad idea. Just until the end of the week."

Dean beamed at the other boy's response, resting easy against the grass in satisfaction. "Then it's set. I don't know if I can get down here everyday, but I'll do my damnedest. My father's been working in the city lately, so he might be gone more than usual."

"Your father doesn't like you going outside?"

"He says now and again spending leisure time outside is fine, but that I should be spending it doing something worthwhile like learning horseback riding or car driving. All the other time he wants me studying or helping him with the company."

Nodding, Castiel finished off his food and crumpled the small bag in his fist, looking to Dean with such studious intensity it almost made Dean squirm. "You don't want to follow your father in his endeavors, do you?"

Dean did shift at that, a strange sensation crawling up the back of his spine. Nobody had ever really asked him before, and to have Castiel, a boy he barely knew, see he hated the way his life was being dictated for him felt exposing. Was it really that obvious? "No, I don't want to," he admitted, feeling his heart sink deep within him at the admission he'd held in his entire life. "I hate it."

"Hate is certainly a strong feeling," Castiel replied, voice filled with an underlying tone that seemed to say: 'I know hate. I've felt it before, and I know you're feeling it now.'

"Yeah, I know. But I do. Money has turned my old man into a brooding, greedy bastard. Sometimes I think he only cares about me because I'll be the one carrying on his precious company."

"Fathers are almost always selfish."

Dean looked to Castiel then, surprised at the small tidbit of information that made him seem like that much less of a stranger. "You've got problems with your father, too?"

Castiel's jaw clenched at the question, his fingers twitching in a nearly automatic response to close his hands into fists. "Yeah," he replied, immense sadness coloring the undertone of his angered words. "He was awful."

Dean, seeing he'd hit a major sore spot, panicked ever so slightly and reached forward, letting his hand rest upon Castiel's. "Hey, don't let me be a wet blanket. We don't have to talk about it. Here, let's can that subject," he said quickly, searching for anything to say. "When's your birthday?"

Castiel calmed at Dean's touch, his fear-induced trembling abated by the warmth of the hand suddenly over his. "The tenth of July. I'll be seventeen this year."

"Hey, only a month away," Dean replied, hiding his surprise at how young Castiel was to be out on his own already. Perhaps it had to do with something the boy's father did; it was obviously a bothersome topic. Brushing off the uncomfortable considerations of the many issues it might've been, Dean shifted his fingers to a more comfortable position subconsciously, not fully realizing he was still in contact with Castiel.

Castiel didn't take much notice the contact either, and instead nodded, a soft smile coming to his lips. "Yeah. How about you?"

"January twenty-fourth, I'll be eighteen."

"Gonna do anything special?"

Dean thought back to previous birthdays, all empty and ceremonial just for the sake of tradition, often put on by Ellen or Bobby due to his father's 'forgetfulness'. "I don't think so. Not this time."

The two boys spent the next few hours talking, their conversation ranging from childhood memories (which were vastly different in some aspects and eerily similar in others) to dreams, hopes, and aspirations despite their current binding circumstances. And, through it all, their hands had slowly shifted until they were clasped together. The contact felt natural, and although they were nearly strangers that morning, by the end of their day they both felt closer to acquaintances. Their fingers had eventually broken apart when Dean had stood to leave, but no awkwardness stemmed from it. They simply said their goodbyes, and that was that.

At its core, their tentative hand holding was an innocent act of a slowly growing friendship, a pure gesture of companionship the two boys needed more than they knew.