AN: Just a few quick notes! First, I would like to apologize for not having this up days ago. Second, now that real life is back to being a pain, the three-chapters-in-one-day business that started this story has to stop. I will continue to aim for a chapter every few days, and more than one may go up on a weekend, depending on how busy my week has been. I'm a little more nervous about this chapter than the last three, so I hope you enjoy it!

Around six PM Dean realized he was starving.

"Hey Sam," he said, "You hungry?"

Sam knew what that meant. Whenever Dean was hungry he always asked if Sam was hungry, and Sam always said yes, even though sometimes he wasn't. It was their routine. Sam had realized at a young age that Dean often felt guilty about getting food if Sam didn't want it. It didn't make any sense to the younger Winchester, but he always made sure to give Dean the answer he needed to hear. Even if he was pretty sure Dean could tell when he was lying.

Tonight, Sam was telling the truth, however, when he nodded in his brother's direction.

Dean exhaled slowly. Going out to buy food sounded exhausting.

"How does pizza sound?" he asked.

"Great," Sam replied, not looking up from his homework.

Dean ordered their usual—large—delivered to the room. The pizza place was crappy but fast and cheap. Ten minutes and eight bucks later Sam and Dean would have dinner.

Castiel hadn't been lying when he said his house was in the neighborhood. Well, not exactly. The sprawling Milton compound was slightly removed from the surrounding houses by its uncommonly large, professionally-landscaped grounds.

The landscapers were the only staff Michael hired for his home. It had been the same at their old house. No cooks, no housekeeping, but Michael had to have his gardens. The Milton family was isolated from most other people, and it had been that way nearly as long as Castiel could remember. There had been a time when Rachel was only a baby, when Castiel's parents were still in his life, that they hadn't been quite so cut off. But none of the Miltons had seen their parents in a very long time.

The leash the judge had slapped on Lucifer only served to accentuate the separation from the outside world. Lucifer couldn't leave their house—not for another six months, and that was if he managed to behave—and the others found it easier to spend as much time as possible within his radius as well.

At least, Rachel and Castiel did. Michael was also home nearly all of the time, shut away into his office where Castiel never spoke to him. Anna and Gabriel found other ways of coping, by being away from home as often as possible. Castiel found that he missed them, but he wouldn't ask them to spend more time with him. If they had friends outside the dysfunctional family that threatened to smother anyone who dared venture near, good for them.

Sometimes Castiel wondered if he wanted friends, too.

When he thought about it that night after returning home—he spent a lot of time thinking—his mind kept returning to Dean Winchester. Maybe he should talk to him at school tomorrow. At the very least, he wanted to make sure Alastair and his cohorts didn't come looking for revenge. He figured he owed Dean that much.

Dean was biting into a slice of sausage and pepperoni—the more meat the better—and mushroom—his concession to Sam in the Great Compromise—when he heard a loud, short knock on the door.

"Dude," he mumbled through a mouthful of mozzarella, "did you forget the tip?"

"No," Sam said firmly.

Dean groaned and hopped off his bed—the closest to the door always answers, it was a rule—and yanked open the door.

He was too stunned to let go of the handle, instead keeping his arm half-raised as he held the door open.

John Winchester was standing on the other side of the doorway.

Dean cleared his throat of the remaining melted cheese.

"Hi… Dad," he said slowly.

"Dean," his father responded.

"You, uh, want some pizza?" Dean asked.

He wasn't sure what else to say. His father spent so little time in the motel rooms he left them in that Dean had insisted the second room key go to Sam rather than John.

The Winchester boys hadn't seen their father in over a month.

"Sure, thanks," John answered, walking into the room and reaching for the pizza box. He removed a slice. "Hey, Sam."

Same did nothing to acknowledge that his father had finally greeted him, but relented at the pleading look from his brother.

"Hi, Dad."

"So, uh," John Winchester swallowed some pizza and reached for a second slice. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance—Dean had used his pocket money for that pizza—but neither said a word. "How have you boys been? How's school?"

"Fine," Sam said, at the same time as Dean said "Good."

Of the two of them, Dean was more likely to lie, to make their father think they were doing better than they really were.

"So you here to tell us it's time to go?" Dean asked, exactly as harshly as he intended.

John shook his head.

"No, there's still plenty for me in this area. You probably won't see that much of me, but there's no point in taking you along. Actually, Dean I wanted to talk to you."

Dean raised an eyebrow as if to say go on.

"I was just thinking… it's your senior year. If you want I could try to keep us here until you're done, let you finish high school in one place."

Dean would have been touched if he could believe a word the man said. But it didn't matter anyway. Dean didn't think he was even going to be finishing high school. If he wasn't going to classes every day he could be working, earning money. Get some decent food, maybe even find an apartment. A home for him and Sam was worth a lot more than a diploma.

Still, the gesture from his father was unexpected. And Dean needed to react the right way for Sam's sake, so John would bother trying when it was his turn.

"I… uh…wow. Dad that's…" Dean sputtered.

John clapped a hand to his older son's shoulder.

"You can think about it. We're gonna be here a while anyway."

We are, Dean thought. Me and Sam. You'll be wherever the hell the you always are.

John Winchester spent an awkward night in the room with his children and was gone by the time they woke up.

"Did Dad mean it when he said we might stay here until you graduate?" Sam asked.

Something broke inside of Dean. The hardest part about his plan to leave school would be telling Sam.

"It's Dad. Sure, he means it for now. But something will come up just like the last time he promised to settle down for a while."

Sam sighed.

"Yeah, you're right."

Dean weighed the pros and cons of dropping out in his head. Pro: he could work fulltime. That meant money. Pro: He could buy some decent food, some new clothes, maybe even find an apartment. Pro: He could make sure Sam had a stable life until he graduated from high school.

Con: He didn't want to drop out.

"We should get going," he told his younger brother, who was shoving homework into his faded backpack.

Dean found himself wondering if he would see Castiel at school today, and what he would say to him if he did.

Dean discovered that Anna Milton was in his second period art class. She had unnaturally dark red hair and sat across the table from him. Everyone else was taking this class with chattering groups of friends that had managed to squeeze themselves into seats at the same table. Dean was taking this class because apparently in this state he needed another Fine Arts credit to graduate. Which he wasn't sure he was going to do anyway. He sat at the smallest, emptiest table, which also happened to be the only table with room to seat the new girl. Anna spent the entire class sketching trees in a sketchbook she had brought herself. She didn't say a word to Dean, and he didn't say a word to her.

The art teacher was an unshaven, migraine-suffering man known by everyone only as Chuck. He smelled vaguely of alcohol, and rumors ran rampant that he had secret caches of both booze and porn stashed all over his classroom. The stories were never substantiated but they earned Chuck the respect of the students anyway. Everyone in his class pretty much did their own thing, and unless they spoke to him first Chuck soundly ignored them.

Dean liked drawing cars. He covered page after page with sketches of his baby. He never allowed anyone to see them, and he tried not to think about the fact that Chuck obviously had.

"Hey," Anna Milton was standing behind him, clutching the eraser she'd gotten up to fetch. "You're Dean Winchester, aren't you?"

"Yeah," he said, surprised she recognized him. Wasn't this only her first day?

"Castiel said he spoke to you yesterday," she continued.

How much did Castiel tell her? He wondered.

Anna, it seemed, had resumed silence, until Dean realized she was still standing there, waiting for a response.

"Oh, yeah. Uh. I ran into him after school. He seemed… nice," Dean stuttered, realizing as he spoke that nice was a completely inadequate way to describe Castiel. He also realized that he didn't really know how to describe him. He could list attributes of Castiel—messy hair, blue eyes, one hell of a right hook—but his personality was a complete mystery.

"Really? Because a lot of people who meet him for the first time describe him as a complete dick. He's really not, he's actually the sweetest guy, but he's kind of… standoffish? Anyway, I'm glad you're his friend," Anna said, startling Dean again.

Was he Castiel's friend? No, not really. At least, he didn't think so. But in a way, Castiel was his friend, unless there was a better word for dude who saved you from getting the crap beaten out of you.

Anna sat down again. She shook her head at Dean in disbelief, but she was smiling.

Dean walked into history class prepared to ignore another of Mr. Guerre's dull lectures on the French Revolution. He suspected that even if he'd been awake for the last three weeks of class he wouldn't have had any clue why Mr. Guerre chose the French Revolution as his first unit. He was shocked—though he really shouldn't have been, the school wasn't that big—to see Castiel standing by Mr. Guerre's desk. Mr. Guerre introduced him to the class, handed him a textbook, and released him to choose a seat. Which he did. Right next to Dean.

He could only stare as Castiel slid into the chair, offering him a small smile.

"Hello, Dean," he whispered. He wouldn't want to be reprimanded for talking on his first day in World History.

"Castiel,"Dean answered, still staring.

Castiel flipped open his textbook, glanced up at the chalk board, and frowned.

"Seeing as it's only the third week of school, why are we studying chapter seven?" he asked quietly.

Dean shrugged.

"The current theory is that it's the bloodiest thing he could think of, but some smartass pointed out yesterday that World War II was worse," he said.

Castiel blinked and smiled.

"Is the teacher always this dull? History is my favorite subject and this lecture is one of the most boring things I've ever heard."

Dean couldn't help it. He grinned.

"I'm the same way. Not the loving history part, although I guess some of it's pretty cool. But this guy's voice can really out you to sleep, man. We should sell it as a cure for insomnia. We'd make millions."

Dean didn't mean anything by using we, that was how he'd always discussed hypothetical situations. But Castiel, who had spent considerably more time studying grammar than Dean had, couldn't help but note the implied connection. He knew he was over-analyzing, as he often did, but he could not stop himself.

For the first time since starting school, Dean was actually disappointed when the bell indicating the end of world history rang. He internally chastised himself for not thanking Castiel again for helping him out yesterday, or at least saying something. He reminded himself that Castiel hadn't mentioned it either, and thought maybe he just didn't want to talk about it. Dean flexed his shoulder muscle and felt the tiny bruise from Castiel's iron grip, the grip that had saved him. Whatever damage Alastair and his cronies would have done would certainly be worse than the small mark he wore now. He'd just had a friendly history class with Castiel, and it had definitely been fun. Dean hadn't really had fun in a long time, so he decided to ignore the elephant in the room, at least for now. If Castiel brought it up, then they could talk about it.

Next period introduced another Milton sibling, a blond-haired boy named Gabriel, who was apparently also a senior. Dean thought he remembered Chuck saying Anna was a senior, and began to wonder just what the hell was up with the Milton family. He remembered Castiel saying "my parents aren't in the picture, either."

Seventh period was the idiotic Introduction to Music! class Dean had been forced to take by his guidance counselor. In addition to art credit, he still needed a music class in order to graduate. Consequence of going through eight high schools in three years, not that it would necessarily matter, he thought bitterly.

Ms. Barnes was distributing harmonicas and lesson books meant for second-graders. She winked at Dean as she passed his desk, just as she'd done every day for the last three weeks. He barely even noticed anymore.

Dean lifted his harmonica gingerly, taking in the first page of the book with disgust. How the hell was he supposed to play this thing? He was distracted from his plight by a loud crunching sound from his left, and when he turned he discovered Gabriel Milton sitting beside him, instrument untouched, chewing on a king-sized candy bar.

That was weird. He could have sworn Gabriel was on the other side of the room.

"You're Dean Winchester," Gabriel said confidently through a mouthful of chocolate. "Imagine that, I have seventh period with Castiel's little buddy! It's a small world after all!"

Castiel's little buddy? Dean found himself wondering if Castiel had said much about him to his siblings.

"Does he have a photographic memory or something?" Dean snarked, "because you're the second Milton today to recognize me."

Gabriel laughed—obnoxiously, Dean thought—spewing bits of peanut onto the desk.

"Doesn't take that much to pick you out of the crowd, Dean-o. I've never seen anyone wearing so much flannel."

Dean knew he should be self-conscious about the worn-out, inexpensive clothing both he and Sam wore, and if anyone else had made the comment he'd probably have been on the defensive. But instinct told him that Gabriel Milton didn't give a crap about Dean's socio-economic status, so Dean decided he wouldn't either. Sometimes a crack about flannel was just a crack about flannel.

"Must have been Anna you were shooting the breeze with," Gabriel continued, "all of Rachel's classes are with her little freshie friends."

"Are you guys like, triplets or something?" Dean countered Gabriel's musings with a question of his own. "I've met three Miltons who are all seniors."

Gabriel grinned wickedly.

"Oh, goodnesss, no," he said. "Castiel and I are technically only half-brothers."

Dean snorted.

"Well that must have been awkward."

"Our family situation is… complex, true. But it's not as bad you think, actually. Castiel is a year younger than I am. He started school early. Precocious little thing," Gabriel said. "Anna is technically Castiel's cousin. His parents took her in when she was very young. Until they exited stage left, that is," he explained.

"And I thought my family was messed up," Dean muttered.

It was at that moment that Pamela Barnes chose to saunter by, apparently to check her students' progress with the harmonica.

"How's it going boys?" she asked. The teacher was all smiles. "Dean, can you demonstrate a C for me?"

"Uh…" Dean fumbled with his harmonica, squinting at the tiny, etched-on letters, centering one marked C under his lips, and giving it a puff of air. The resulting cacophony was even something Dean's tone-deaf ears recognized as definitely not C.

Pamela Barnes clucked disapprovingly.

"I'm disappointed, Dean," she was practically pouting, for god's sake, "you'd better stop talking to Gabriel over here and get to work on that C. I expect it to be better by the end of the week."

She walked past Gabriel with nothing more than the usual wink, claiming the student on his other side as her next victim.

"Dude, that is so unfair," Dean complained. "How come you're off the hook?"

Gabriel smirked.

"Perk of being the new kid, I suppose."

It did not go unnoticed by the students of English Literature 12 that the day Mr. Mort handed out copies of Paradise Lost was the same day both Castiel and Anna Milton joined the class. With most teachers, it would be a creepy coincidence, but Mr. Mort was insane enough to spark rumors that he had somehow planned it ahead of time. Dean found that he didn't really care. He was much more interested in Castiel's presence in the class.

"Hi, Castiel," Dean called out before he thought about it too hard. He waved to the blue-eyed boy, who looked startled for a moment but soon smiled. His eyes darted to his sister, and Dean mentally chastised himself for being rude. "Hey, Anna."

Castiel looked up in surprise at the sound of Dean's greeting. He was clearly gesturing to the empty seats near him, suggesting them for Anna and Castiel. Dean was the last student in the back row, but the row was one short, leaving an open desk in the corner. Castiel smiled in Dean's direction, and made his way to the seat he had indicated. Anna nodded at Dean and sat in the seat directly behind him. It wasn't the end of a row, Castiel noted, but considering she was the only student in the otherwise empty back of the room Mr. Mort didn't seem to care. He was far too focused on extolling the many virtues of Paradise Lost.

Castiel had read the book before, and he didn't think it was all that good.

The buzz of excitement over Paradise Lost quickly vanished as everyone opened their books and realized just what this poem actually was. The students' attention quickly turned to more interesting gossip, mainly the fact that Dean Winchester, that new guy who wasn't really new, had voluntarily spoken to the even newer Miltons.

"So you've met Anna," Castiel said, turning to Dean.

"We have art together, second period," Anna cut in before Dean had a chance to answer.

Castiel's eyebrows shot up.

"You're taking art?" he asked. For reasons he didn't quite understand, he found this new piece of information… interesting.

"Required credit," Dean mumbled, and Castiel found himself feeling a little disappointed.

"Perhaps you'll find you like it," Castiel suggested. "We all have our hidden skills."

"Like that arm of yours," Dean said. "That was some punch you threw. And you've got an iron grip, man."

Castiel smirked lightly, and Dean realized he liked seeing the relaxation in Castiel's serious face.

"I wouldn't be complaining, if I were you. You would certainly be in a much less comfortable situation without it."

"I'm definitely not complaining," Dean hastily responded. "I meant to ask you. What were you doing hanging around after school, anyway? You don't seem like the kind of guy who has nothing better to do, not like Alastair."

No. There was no way Castiel could explain that to Dean, not right now. In order for any of it to make any sense, he'd have to start at the beginning. And he wasn't ready to start anywhere near there, not yet.

"It's a long story," he said instead, "Maybe someday you'll hear it."