As soon as Mom gets him back home from the airport on Saturday night, Dean can smell the whiskey and tequila — he doesn't even need to venture into the kitchen, and he knows: Dad's been drinking again. He takes his suitcase and his backpack up to his room, doesn't stay there long; as far as he knows, the combination of Jim, Jack, Johnnie, and Jose — or whatever else is running through his old man's system — might bubble up while he's reminiscing, looking at the shelf full of his old track tea trophies and the ceramic angel Mom gave him for his first birthday… and if Dean's up here, then Mom or Sammy will be the ones downstairs to deal with it. Dean sighs, glancing at his senior year team photo. They went to States that year. Dean took first in the 5k run — and Dad still bitched to all his friends at the shop about how much he wished that his boy played baseball or football.

Heading back down the steps, Dean looks at all the pictures, at their unnaturally clean plastic covers — Mom and Dad's wedding day (with Mom already showing the pregnancy that gave them Dean); Dad and his Marine buddies, the squad he served with in Desert Storm, an endless plateau of American settlements on Iraqi land stretching out behind them; selections of Sam's and Dean's history of school photos… Dean pauses at his own, from third grade, and runs his fingers down the surface, stares at the half-dead looking smile (with two teeth out at once; "the Tooth Fairy" gave him two dollars that time), the brightly colored Goodwill sweater vest, the towheaded kid who could've told somebody, anybody, about what had started happening when he went home, who could've put a stop to it and saved Sam and Mom as well… and who didn't do it. With a grimace, Dean lets his hand fall back to his side; he briefly looks into the kitchen, but seeing that Dad's on glass number God-only-knows, he tromps to the living room instead, where Sam's already sitting on the sofa, with a book out and cartoons on.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean says by way of announcing his arrival; Sam mutters a greeting back, but doesn't break himself away from whatever page he's on. Without waiting for permission, he flops next to his kid brother (who's going to be eighteen in May, and, really, isn't much of a kid anymore since he sprouted up to be taller than everybody else, not like Dean will ever admit this aloud). Turning his head, he looks down at the paperback that's got Sam so engrossed. "The Stars My Destination?" he asks. "Man, you're the second person I've found reading that in about as many days — does it have a recipe for vodka in it or what?"

"The escapism probably makes it appealing," Sam suggests, dog-earing his place and going off into one of his rants about the plot, the characters, where the author probably got his inspiration, and then some — "…and, really, I think a large part of what makes it so interesting is that you've got this total loser, like… borderline physically dead loser, and he's just trying to get revenge for himself, but then it changes to this concern for keeping people from being taken advantage of…" Sam pauses, shrugs. "I guess it's just fun to get out of your head and pretend to be a hero for a while…" Trailing off, he tilts his head, as something finally hits him. "Wait. Who do you know who's reading it? Your friends at school are more like… male-posturing meatheads."

Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, because he knows that Sam has a more-than-valid point, but acknowledging that makes his lungs writhe a bit too much after what happened to Cas yesterday. "Just this guy," he lies. "We work at the library together—"

"Since when do you work at the library?"

"Since the jackass I was TA-ing for decided he didn't like my attitude, smart-ass, now can I finish telling you about Castiel?"

"His name is Castiel?"

"Yeah, his dad's a preacher or something—"

"Like Reverend Roy?"

"No, like…" Dean sighs, and takes a pause to think of the best analogy: "Like John Lithgow in Footloose. He's the spiritual aid guy on campus, advisor for the Christian Union, teaches some of the religion courses, and as far as his son's said, he's anti-everything fun."

Frowning and arching an eyebrow down at Dean, Sam asks, "…Dean, have you even bothered looking up what Castiel means?" As soon as Dean shakes his head no, he gets another rant: "Castiel is an angel from medieval occult lore — he's supposedly one of the angels who presides over Thursday, and some writers conflate him with Cassiel, one of the rulers of the planet Saturn. I mean… that's some seriously obscure literature, too—"

"So how do you know about it?" Dean points out.

"I had to do a project on angelology for this course I took at LCC." At Sam's entirely matter-of-fact expression, Dean has to stop and wonder when his little brother started taking classes at Lawrence Community College — it makes sense, of course it does… Sammy's always been a freaking genius, and since Stevenson High won't let him just graduate already, he has to get intellectual stimulation somehow (especially since no one Dean knows would ever touch the kid). …But as he looks Sam over, scrutinizing every detail of his appearance, Dean isn't sure this is best for Sam — aside from getting taller, it looks like Sam's lost weight since August, and his eyes have the appearance of someone who hasn't slept in a week. Ignoring the thumping sound that comes from the kitchen — which could be Dad's glass or the bottle that he's drinking from — Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Sam cuts him off instead—

"All I'm saying is that it sounds like Pastor Castiel's-father—" Dean interrupts to give their last name. "…Okay, fine. All I'm saying is that it sounds like Pastor Novak is more than just your average preacher man."

"Yeah, well, his son's not exactly the average preacher's kid, either—"

Sam cuts Dean off with a scoff that tries its best, and fails, to be a laugh. "What standard are you judging him by — Tessa? …In case you haven't noticed, Dean, she's not exactly the average preacher's kid, either — between the tarot cards, the tea-leaf reading, what she does with Anna—"

"Cram a sock in it, Poindexter," Dean snaps, a nervous chuckle getting out of his throat. "…Anyway, I don't know. Cas is… I guess I don't really have words for it, but he's special, okay?" An awkward silence falls between them as Sam considers this, looks down at the sofa between his legs, and gnaws on his lower lip in that way he does when he's thinking too hard — and when he looks back to Dean, there's a recognition in his eyes. He knows — he has to — that expression only comes up when he knows something… Dean swallows thickly and starts to say, "Go get your coat and the car keys. We'll get dinner at Rufus's—" but the sound of a plate crashing in the kitchen cuts him off and he turns his head around fast enough to make his neck ache.

"Damn it, John!" Mom yelps. "You know not to just sneak up behind me like that!"

Dean looks to Sam and dashes to the kitchen, where Dad looms over Mom, practically pinning her to the counter; the shattered porcelain's scattered all around the hardwood floor, a mess around his work boots and her bare feet. She glares up at him, eyes burning and blonde hair an all asunder mess, tumbling out of the bun she had it in earlier; the handprint on her cheek is still bright red. Dad growls something that sounds like I love you, Mary and cups her jaw like a boxer in the ring, grabbing it so tight it might bruise come morning — "Dad!" Dean shouts at him. Dad stumbles as he turns around, and even though they're bloodshot and booze-soaked, Dean refuses to look away from them; his pulse pounds in his ears like vicious drums, and he can't hear whatever Dad says as he comes closer, but that doesn't stop Dean from snapping back: "Jesus Christ, go have a glass of water and lie down!"

John brandishes his finger — the same way he used to threaten when Dean was younger — he slurs his menacing remarks together, and when Dean refuses to back down — "Goddamn it, Dad; you're drunk. Go. lie. down! Or at least leave Mom alone, you know you two fight when you get like this…" — a fist comes flying at his nose.

"Oh my God, Dean!" Sam's heavy footfalls come toward the rest of them at a jerky sort of sprint — if Dean wanted to, he could pick apart exactly how Sam's technique is off… but the blood running down his nose provides a distraction, as do Sam's hands getting underneath Dean's arms to help him to his feet.

"Sammy!" John barks — there's a pause that follows, and the air crackles with an electric burn. Dean focuses on Dad only, as he rocks on his feet; Mom and Sam don't let their eyes leave him either. "Sammy…" he repeats. "Go… go, take the car, and get your brother cleaned up.

Sam nods. "Yes, sir."

The ride in the Impala passes without words — save the ones that come from Robert Plant belting "When the Levee Breaks." Dean has nothing to say, and he can practically hear the questions buzzing around Sam's skull, but the apprehension presses Sam's lips into a tense, white line — it's not until they're in the ER's parking lot that, in a low voice (as though Dad's lurking somewhere, waiting to go off on him as well), Sam asks, "…What're you gonna tell them this time?"

Dean sighs, wincing as he reaches to rub his nose and accidentally upsets it. "Bar fight? Snow football game gone bad? …Oh, how about that I walked into a door?"

"You told them the bar fight story last time," Sam reminds him. Nodding, Dean agrees — and concludes that the tried and true I walked into a door line gets to be the story of the night. "…Dean," Sam whispers. "You don't have to keep protecting him like this."

"Yeah, I do, Sammy," Dean informs him, getting out into the streetlight-illuminated night, catching snowflakes in his golden hair. "Dad doesn't mean it when he does this. He loves us — he loves Mom. It's just the booze, and the stress at work, and… Whatever, there's no making him take it back. You coming in?"

Sam shakes his head and forces a wobbly smile. "Just… get fixed up quick so we can still go to Rufus's for dinner."

Dean grins. "You bet your ass, little brother. I'll be out before you know it."