Dean didn't call Cas that evening. Instead, he sat and watched TV, while Sam and Gabriel debated about whether they wanted to go out for a drink, and if one of them should go feed Gabriel's dog or if they were going to be busy the next morning and how that effected that evening's plans in that annoying way couples have of suddenly becoming seemingly incapable of making a decision because they suddenly have to make up two minds instead of one, which is only ever really annoying to people who long to be in a couple and have someone to dither about and argue with and Dean swore to God if they didn't leave soon he was going to punch…

They left, happily calling goodbye to Dean and not waiting around much for an answer.

Dean continued to stare at the TV and tried to distract himself from the thoughts that were playing on a loop in his brain.

I can't let Cas down.

I don't think I can do it.

Why does this scare me so much?

I can't let Cas down,

I don't think I can do it,

Why does this scare me so much?

Over and over, faster and faster. He didn't call Cas. He sat there, on the couch, and later on, when Sam didn't come back, he relocated to his bed, and sat there. He let himself stagnate, caught in this tangled vine of thoughts, until, eyes heavy with sleep and mind tipping sideways into that strange dimension between asleep and awake, a memory fell into Dean's skull and promptly slapped him around the back of the face.

It had been a couple of months after the hearing, when he and Sam had just gotten settled in with Bobby and Ellen… He could see it clear as day in his head, as if someone had hit play on DeanTube.

He'd woken up one morning, gone downstairs to the kitchen, brighter, back then, or maybe he only thought that after living with his Dad who never bothered changing the lightbulbs and covered everything in a blanket of nicotine stains. Dean had eaten his breakfast of a green stripy-patterned bowl of oatmeal with a chopped up banana in it, Sam wouldn't eat his without some of Ellen's am on the top. They'd hiked on their jackets (denim for Dean, plaid fleece for Sam) by the front door and pulled on their bookbags, and Ellen had asked if they wanted walking to the bus stop and Dean had said no, he was big enough thanks, and what they didn't need on the first day of school was everyone thinking their mom still walked them to the bus, and Bobby had told him not to get smart and he'd said yes, sir.

Then Bobby and Ellen had given each other that look, that look Dean would never let them know he saw. The look that they gave each other when they remembered why they were having to look after him and Sam in the first place.

So Bobby had cleared his throat and closed his newspaper and said he had to go open up the yard, so would they mind keeping him company just to the fence, and Sam had said Sure Bobby and elbowed Dean because Sam knew what the look meant too, and he wasn't dumb.

So Bobby had put on his boots, the ratty old brown ones with the cloth peeling away on the toe so a little bit of the steel toe cap peeked through, and the three of them had walked to the gate of the auto yard. And they waved goodbye and Dean and Sam headed off to the bus stop, but then they stopped. That was when they'd seen it. On the outside fence, sprayed onto the wall were six foot tall red paint letters, big bulbous circles thinning to a point that dripped blood red, the sign of a hasty spray job by an amateur. They hadn't wasted time on making it Look nice. They were ugly words.

"GO HOME FUCK-UPS"

Bobby stared at the letters, his face slowly turning as red as the paint. Dean had asked him if he was ok. Bobby had looked at them, told them to get or they'd be late on their first day. Had tried to smile. When they got home again, Bobby and Ellen were both scrubbing at the paint. Dean had asked if he could help, but Ellen had given him a tired smile and said no, sweetie, thank you, and when did they want dinner. Dean had asked Bobby why someone would paint a cuss word on the fence, and Bobby had said, stepping back to take a break from scrubbing,

"Kid, sometimes people hear a half a story and they decide the rest of it's about them."

Then Ellen had said they should all go inside and have a drink and they had, but Sam had asked him later why those words had been painted there. Dean had figured what Bobby meant was: "make sure you keep your business to yourself, 'cos if no one knows about it, no one can get pissed off".

(-*-)

Castiel awoke to a hammering on his door. He blinked, scrunching up his face against the assault on his senses that was known as Morning.

Slipping his feet into a pair of blue flannelly slippers, he dragged himself through the main room of his apartment and towards the front door. When he opened it, Dean was stood there, in faded jeans and a near unrecognisable band t-shirt (the logo almost washed off), grinning like the… like a… Castiel was too tired for similes, and even when fully awake he doubted he could find anything to match the sun-shining-out-of-his-flawless-skin, eyes-shining-like-glazed-pastries, clean-hair-clean-shaved joy that was on Dean Winchester's face right now, and was equal parts cheering, enamouring, and slightly scary.

Dean held up a familiar brown bag.

"I bought bagels."

Castiel was suddenly very aware that he was standing, in the middle of January, at his front door wearing nothing but pyjama pants and slippers.

"Come in."

Dean changed the smile to a smirk, grabbed Castiel by the shoulder and kissed him, before continuing into the house.

"You are gonna be so damn proud of me."

Cas closed the front door, and followed the sound of Dean's voice to the kitchen.

"Can I have coffee first? This feels like the sort of thing I'd need coffee for."