((**Trigger warning** This chapter features child abuse. Although Dean is nearly eighteen, he is still underage, and therefore it still qualifies as such. Read with caution, lovelies!))

Dean returned home later that same afternoon, a smile on his face and a lightness to his step. Having something to himself felt good, almost as if by helping Castiel he was silently giving his father a piece of his mind.

Whistling happily, Dean grabbed an apple from the kitchen, taking a large bite as he wandered into the parlor where Ellen sat shining silver.

"Have a good walk?"

Dean sat on a nearby chair, swallowing his food before responding. "Yeah, it was really nice today."

"See anything special?"

"Boy did I ever," Dean said, secretively finding the game of half-truths thrilling as his mind's eye filled with the image of Castiel's clean, shining face.

Ellen smiled. "Well it's good to see you happy. Haven't seen that in a while."

"Yeah, well, ya know."

Ellen nodded solemnly, letting the room grow silent for a few minutes before she spoke once more. "Your father called. He said he wouldn't be home until the day of the party, something about negotiations going wrong."

Dean felt his heart jump in his chest at her words, but kept his face a stoic mask, shrugging. "Alright," he said softly, something in the back of his mind telling him his father was staying away for different reasons. Every six months or so he'd disappear for a week, and when he finally arrived home would stink of expensive perfume and whiskey, his appearance wild and unkempt. When Dean was younger, he didn't understand why his father came back looking so sallow, but now he was older and knew of unspoken deeds, he comprehended.

However, instead of disappointment or bitterness filling him, Dean instead felt excitement and joy, for this timing was perfect- he could spend as long as he wanted outside with Castiel, and with just a murmured request of disclosure to the servant staff, not a breath of it would reach his father.

"Sorry kiddo," Ellen said softly, breaking his thoughts as she patted him on the shoulder with one hand, the other full of perfectly cleaned cutlery. "But hey, look at it as a break from studying. I won't tell him if you won't."

Dean gave Ellen a weak smile, keeping up the ruse. "Thanks"

"Anytime."

Over the course of the next few days, Dean and Castiel met everyday, their hands never straying far from one another. On the first day the grasping habit began, both had been a bit hesitant, as both were unsure if the previous instance was just a one off. However, once their fingers twined together over lunch, the practice was sealed into comforting normalcy.

On the first day John was gone, Dean brought Castiel a proper blanket and pillow. As always, Castiel had been immensely grateful, revealing a memory about a childhood blanket he'd carried around until the age of six when he'd been forced to get rid of the few tattered strings it had become.

On the second day, Dean showed Castiel how to make a necklace out of daisies, commenting briefly on how it had been his favorite thing to do as a child, as it always reminded him of time spent with his mother. He didn't mention her passing.

The third day brought boredom with it, and as a solution, Dean suggested a walk. Fifteen minutes in, the two boys had arrived at a pond that the creek ran into, prompting them to strip down to their underclothes for a swim. Both ended up burned by the harsh sun, and both couldn't bring themselves to care.

The fourth day was spent talking over a meal of expensive cheeses, fruits, and crackers. It was simple, allowing them each to forget their individual struggles.

On the fifth day, Dean helped Castiel wash his laundry. Somehow they both ended up with soap suds in their hair and smiles on their faces.

The sixth day, Dean didn't come to see Castiel.

The sixth day, John arrived home early, just as beaten down as Dean expected him to be. Angry and ill when Dean greeted him, he simply rubbed his eyes and ordered him up to his room for the day. Fearful of consequence, Dean had followed the instruction, worry consuming him: what if Castiel decided to leave?

Castiel stayed. However, feelings of confusion and anxiety nagged at him. Dean had hinted briefly about problems with his father: what if something had gone wrong? Dean didn't deserve to walk the path he did; Dean didn't deserve anything even remotely close to the Incident.

Keeping a careful eye on the barely worn path of flattened grass the other boy walked down each time he visited, Castiel waited the entire day, vigilant for his friend's approach until nightfall.

He headed to bed not long after, hunger gnawing at him for the first time in days.

The following morning, Dean was greeted downstairs by news he'd learned never to hope for: a letter had arrived from his younger brother. Excitedly retrieving it from Ellen, the rest of the mail ignored, he tore the envelope open, fingers nearly shaking as he revealed the words within.

Dean,

I have to begin this letter with an apology; I know I haven't contacted you in a while. I just didn't want him to get angry if our conversations became too frequent. Anyway, I've been missing you. Everything's still swell with Jessica and I, boy am I stuck on her. Her family has been so kind taking me in, I'm attending an actual school and even found a job at a library in town. How have you been? Is he still training you for the business? I wouldn't be surprised if he was. I'm telling you, you should come join me. It would be great to have the two of us together again, it really would. Oh, and before I forget to tell you, we've all recently moved to a new house, so please note the new address below-

"What've you got there?"

Snapped out of his reading, Dean's stomach dropped, his timid eyes meeting John's dark gaze. "Nothing," he answered quickly, forgetting the respectful suffix of 'sir' in his panic.

"Oh?" John asked calmly, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward, grabbing both the letter and envelope in one fell motion. "Because this doesn't look like nothing, Dean."

Dean tried to respond, but found only a helpless hint at protest escaped his lips as his father quickly read the entire letter, his eyes privy to the rest of Sam's words Dean hadn't gotten to due to the disruption.

Fingers clenching hard at the paper, John's frown deepened as he finished reading, the insult to his person within the words only adding to the injury of Dean's blatant disobedience. "What did I tell you last time?"

"That I wasn't supposed to read any more of Sam's mail. That our last correspondence was the final one."

"And even with that knowledge, you've blatantly crossed me by reading this."

Dean swallowed around a growing lump of fear in his throat, eyes fixed steadily on the half-crumpled paper in John's fist. "Yes," he replied quietly, quickly adding, "sir," when his father's fingers tightened in silent threat.

John didn't respond for a long moment, tense silence filling the large entrance hall. Then, footsteps echoing hauntingly upon the cold marble floors, John grabbed Dean by his bicep hard enough to bruise, dragging the boy through the house until they'd reached the backyard. "This rebellion act you've put on recently must stop," he said harshly, digging in his pocket to retrieve his match book.

Dean's eyes widened, the pain in his arm momentarily forgotten as he watched flame rise from the phosphorus tip of a single match. "No, don-"

His protest did nothing. In an instant the flame began consuming both paper and envelope, Sam's precious words curling under the heat before they fell to the ground below. It was horrifyingly beautiful, Dean thought absently as his tearful eyes followed the tiny pieces of ash fluttering to the ground.

"Fuck you," he whispered after a long moment, gaze trained on what was left of the paper once John threw it to the ground.

The slap against his cheek didn't register fully, his mind too consumed by panicked thoughts of Sam. He didn't know his new address, he would never be able to contact him. Hand raising to rest against the hot feeling of a welt upon his face, Dean wavered but refused to fall, his father's scolding a distant echo to his ringing ears.

"-you know what happened, you know your brother ran off with that poor flapper bitch against my say. We don't associate with people like her, he knew it and he still defied me. There's a reason I didn't go after him when he left to live with her, and for that reason you won't either."

Dean, a surge of anger rising in him, lifted his stinging eyes to confront his father. "He was only sixteen!"

"If he was old enough to dig his grave, he was old enough to lie in it!"

"Mom would've loved him no matter what-"

"Enough!" John roared, eyes flashing as he took a threatening step towards Dean, who instinctively cowered away. "This conversation is done, Dean," he continued, voice steely and cold. "Go up to your room, I don't want to see you until the party."

Dean clenched his then sore jaw, closing his eyes against a fresh surge of tears as he turned to walk back into the house.

"If you don't come down presentable and ready to make a good impression, so help me, Dean, you'll be sorry."

Dean paused, his every muscle clenched in fear and self control as he gave a quick, obedient nod. "Yes sir," he replied shakily, not turning to face his father.

A few minutes later, Dean sat numbly at the edge of his bed, a cool washcloth held to his stinging face. He could still detect the stench of burnt paper.