FIC TITLE: The Home for Wayward Children

Author- PTBvisiongrrl

Part- 3/? (I promise nothing else, which is why its marked complete, but ideas are a–brewing.)

Date- 7/11/16

Rating – PG-13/T (at least for now…I will clearly warn if it changes)

Pairings/Characters- Sam/Dean brother bond; Dean/Castiel romantic relationship

Word Count- 3424

Genre- Angst, Family, Romance

Warnings- Spoilers- AU for Season 11. I had already written this before the finale.

Disclaimers- Unfortunately, I don't own any of these characters, and make absolutely no profit from taking them out to play…so please don't sue me. If I did own them, there would be a lot more shirtless Winchesters and Angels of the Lord getting some on the show!

Summary-

At 39, Dean has taken more hits than a NFL quarterback, and his body has begun to feel it. His bones practically grate against each other when he gets up in the morning, and the rain makes him want to ball up into the fetal position until the Tylenol and Jack kick in. But if there isn't hunting, what is there? All there has ever been is hunting things and helping people, the family business. Well, maybe it's time to help other people hunt things and expand the family.

Chapter 3

By the time the caravan had finally made it to the Bunker that night (tiny, tiny bladders and bottomless little bellies, thank you), the three youngest kids were out cold and had to be carried to a bed—in the sole guest bedroom Charlie had made Sam and Dean clean out for her, that Claire used also on her infrequent visits, and where Jody slept instead of Sam's bed if Chrissy or Claire visited with her. There were no other rooms clean or even vaguely child-safe areas in the Bunker right now, something that would have to be remedied soon. For now, Dean left Cas on baby-sitting duty with Sam as back-up.

But first, they needed a supply run, which is why Dean and Morgan were pulling into Walmart at midnight on a Tuesday.

"Don't let the camera get a good shot of your face, Morgan," Dean directed as they approached the front door. "Look at the ground, pull up your hood, and slouch."

Morgan shot Dean a supremely teenage look—not one of 'you are not my parent and how dare you tell me what to do' (which Dean feared he might get) but rather a dismissive 'I'm a teenager, not an idiot.' But she did it without a testy word, which already made her easier to deal with than Sam as a teenager. Once past the doors, Dean gestured to the carts. "We'll both need to take one. We need a lot of shit."

Morgan laughed. "No kidding. What is on the list?"

Dean considered a moment. He would really like to be able to hunker down and get the kids settled for a couple days before having to make another run. That would mean more than just food. "Baby section first. Need diapers, wipes, Pull Ups, and formula."

"Are you independently wealthy or something?" Morgan asked. "I mean, seriously. Five kids, that's a big expense."

Rubbing at the back of his neck nervously, Dean chuckled. "Don't I wish. I'm just awesome at pool."

"Just pool? What about poker?" Morgan asked, a light flicking on in her eyes.

"Mostly pool, but sometimes poker," Dean smiled at her. "We'll have to evaluate your skills sometime."

"Yes!" Morgan pumped her fist in the air. "Daddy said it was a good skill to fall back on, but he never let me play for real much."

"Well, we'll do that soon," Dean was troubled that Morgan seemed to express no sorrow over her father's absence, but each hunter processed grief their own way.

"Right now—supply run, baby crap first." Dean turned his cart and led the way. He didn't remember diapers coming in such big (or expensive) boxes for Sam, or such little (and expensive) cans of formula. Dean had obviously taken too long deciding, because Morgan spoke up.

"Do you really know how to take care of a baby?" she asked. Dean was a little freaked out by the lack of attitude in her question, as if she was really worried about his answer.

"I raised Sam," Dean answered. "It's just…been a while."

"You raised Sam? How the hell old are you?" Morgan snorted.

Dean stared daggers at her for a minute, muttering not that fucking old to himself before reaching for the biggest box of diapers and sliding in onto the rack beneath the cart.

"Is that the right size?" Morgan asked, no attitude or judgement in her tone, but Dean was already a little irked.

"Yes." He had already checked the size—as well as the type of formula—because he had done this before, thank you very much. He also slid a case of wipes beneath his cart, and then a huge box of Pull-ups under Morgan's. Straightening up, Dean met Morgan's eyes. "I know what I'm doing, honestly. Kids are way easier than ghosts and demons."

Morgan raised an eyebrow in question, but dutifully pushed her cart behind Dean's when he continued through the baby section, grabbing diaper cream, powder, baby wash, infant pain reliever, and a few bibs. Morgan said nothing, simply following, until they got the regular grocery section. Then it was a simple, "What do we need?"

Dean tore the list in half, and handed half to Morgan. "You are in charge of breakfast stuff. We need enough for 10-12 people, at least two meals. You can spend a hundred and twenty-five bucks. I don't care what kinds of cereal, but get one box of Cheerios for the little ones. Twenty pounds of potatoes, all the same kind, though the type doesn't matter. Four gallons of milk, and don't forget butter."

Morgan nodded and headed off, while Dean contemplated his half of the list. He had taken the more difficult half—meat, dinners, etc. Breakfast was easy; eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, cereal, and milk. Lunch was going to have to be peanut butter and jelly—he hoped none of the kids had a peanut allergy, but since no one had said anything yet, he assumed it would be okay. Having watched the kids put away diner food, Dean knew he was going to have to go with some tried and true Winchester cuisine.

Spaghetti. Cheap, filling—and easy as crap to make. Which means he also needed sauce, meatballs, and garlic bread. Dean would rather have made his own sauce and mixed his own meatballs, but for right now, until things settled down, frozen would have to do. Same for the garlic bread, even though he would again rather make it himself. Three boxes of spaghetti should be a meal, he estimated, and since the meatballs were small…

Huh, Dean mentally noted. Choosing what to buy, keep to the budget, trying to figure out what the kids would like/eat… This didn't feel like a chore. He expected to feel some aggravation, a little put-out-ness, to be uncomfortable about domestic duties…but he did not. He thought about the kids, not the cost or time or how tired he currently was after the long day of driving. He felt useful in a deeper way than killing monsters made him feel these days.

Dean quickly realized, in a calm, detached, accepting part of his brain, that he was already liking this taking care of people thing.

And this time, grown up, he had chosen it, not had it forced on him—not that he resented Sam for it, rather he resented his dad and his dad's poor parenting choices. Maybe that was the difference.

Shaking off his contemplations, Dean looked at the number of meatballs in the bag, quickly tabulated, and reached for three more bags. Four loaves of garlic bread quickly followed. Grabbing three more boxes of pasta would make enough supplies for two full meals, unless he miscalculated, and then he would be glad for the extra supplies.

Dean felt better if there was a cushion of food before he would have to shop again, just in case. He didn't know if Sammy remembered the hungry days they had sometimes had to endure, when Dad got back from a hunt later than planned, before Dean was old enough to hustle up money on his own to help stretch the budget. If he could help it, Dean certainly did not want these kids to have to go through that on his watch.

So Dean doubled each meal he was buying, including the hamburgers and buns. There should be enough potatoes to make his own fries in addition to breakfast hash browns. He could only get two cases of water on the bottom of the cart before it was full and hard to maneuver, though, so he compensated by grabbing big canisters of Tang, Kool Aid, and Country Time powder mixes.

Morgan had some room left in her cart when she returned a few minutes later, and Dean tossed (okay, okay, gently placed) the produce on top. Apples, bananas, and grapes would make okay snacks; salad fixings would placate Sam, who would no doubt bitch about the lack of green. And last?

A couple of boxes of cake mix and jars of icing. Pie would be Dean's preference, but cake would be easier and Jerry could help with making cake easier than pie.

Dean had calculated the cost of his items in his head as he had filled the cart; as long as Morgan had kept to her budget, they should be okay. Close, but okay. A lifetime of making lean stretch had made it automatic for him. "Kept to under a hundred?"

Morgan indicated negatively with a shake of her head. "Little over. Meat is expensive."

"How much?" Dean asked, wincing.

"$15. Sorry," Morgan looked a little worried.

"I think we can swing that. There's an emergency cash stash in the glove box." Dean handed her his keys. "Only twenty, but it's enough. Go get it."

Morgan took off, and Dean tried to figure out what he could put back, if he had to. This was a long way from buying enough Ramen and Mac n' Cheese for him and Sam to last for a week. It was going to be important to refine these skills, Dean thought as he shook his head.

An older woman, white hair pulled up into a bun and a long dress neatly ironed (and Dean looked askance at her, wondering why she was shopping at this time of night at her age and whether or not she was some creature he would have to kill) commented, "That's a lot of food, young man."

Dean smiled politely, agreeing. "Got a lot of kids to feed."

The woman smiled. "I remember shopping like that for my children. Well, my foster children. I never had children of my own. But fostered more than 50 children over the years. Can't even get them all into my house for a family reunion these days."

"That's a lot of kids, alright," Dean agreed, suddenly feeling a small bit of kinship for the woman but his hunter's training keeping him from exposing too much. "I just got five. Sister and her husband died suddenly a few days ago, kids are with me now."

"You really did just get them!" the woman agreed. "I'm sure they are lucky to have you to take care of them. God's grace, young man. You are commended for stepping in and up."

Dean felt the blush grow across his cheeks and the tips of his ears burned. "I have a feeling I need them just as much as they need me, right now, but thank you." The conversation was interrupted by Morgan's return from the car, twenty clutched in her hand. Dean nodded goodbye to the old lady, taking his cart and heading towards check out, Morgan in tow. "Have a nice night!" he called out over his shoulder. Once the heavy, full carts got rolling, it would take effort to slow or stop them, so Dean kept an eye out on the traffic in front of him.

Pulling into a checkout lane with fewer people than the others, Dean turned to talk to Morgan as they waited. She was fidgeting, biting her lip, and crossing her arms. Morgan had not looked nervous throughout the time Dean had known her, including when they faced down the Darkness. "What's the problem, kiddo?" he asked, trying for humor and warmth.

Morgan turned pink. "I, uh…I forgot something on the list. I gotta run back and get it."

"What did you forget? I'll go get it; stay here with the carts—"

Dean's statement was cut off with a loud and firm, though somewhat strangled, "No!"

"Okay?" Dean questioned.

"I would rather go, please," Morgan turned and heading towards the pharmacy. "I'll be right back."

Dean shrugged, picking up a People magazine to leaf through while he waited. The line might have had the fewest customers—three in in front of Dean—but also had the world's slowest cashier. Dean hadn't even started to load the belt yet when Morgan came back, something clutched to her side. He put People back and jerked his head toward the cart. "Put in on top. We got a few minutes."

Morgan looked him in the eye, then sighed and tossed the box of tampons on top of Dean's cart. Dean forced himself not to flinch. He had not grown up in a world with women. They were on the fringes, he talked to them (and did more with them if he could), but he didn't live in close quarters to them, except for Lisa. Lisa had an IUD and never got her period, so Dean had never had to deal with purchasing such products before. He tried not to stumble on words or blush, because this was completely normal, and he didn't want Morgan to feel embarrassed.

He had a parent voice going through his head telling him not to react the way he wanted to, like a ten-year old boy yelling "Gross!" So Dean simply nodded and treated the bright pink box of foreignness as if it was no big deal. Shit. He was an authority figure now for two teenage/preteen girls. This was just the beginning of uncomfortable for him. Dean carefully stated, voice as normal as possible, "We'll keep a grocery shopping list on the fridge. Make sure you add them to the list when you need them."

Morgan finally met his eyes and nodded, the pink not quite faded but no longer tomato red. "Okay."

"Shit," Dean suddenly slapped his hand against the cart. "Need laundry detergent and fabric softener, soap and such. Hope we have enough for now."

Morgan's eyebrows disappeared into the hair falling across her face. "Where would we put it? We have two carts full already!"

"I know, I know," Dean agreed, shaking his head. "This is going to take some getting used to and better planning." The line moved a bit, allowing Dean to begin loading the belt. Check out had never taken him so long ever before, and it wasn't just the slow cashier that made it take over a half-hour. The sheer number of items made putting it back into the cart once in bags impossible. It just didn't fit. They ended up needing a third cart, which caused another dilemma—Dean was not comfortable leaving a cart already paid for behind while they pushed the first two to the Impala. Dean mentally resolved that by deciding to take the extra one himself while Morgan watched the other two carts. He was so busy trying to play foodstuff Tetris and working out exit strategies that he missed what the cashier said at first.

"One hundred sixteen and fifty-three cents," the cashier stated again.

Even Morgan looked taken aback.

Dean repeated the total back to the cashier, adding, "Are you sure? That's less than just the baby stuff should be."

The cashier looked supremely annoyed. "Yes, I am sure. Someone arranged to pay part of your bill for you. What's left is one hundred sixteen and fifty-three cents."

Shock made Dean blink a couple more times before answering. "Older lady, long dress, hair up…"

"In a bun, yes. That was Ms. Watson. She does this all the time, at least once a week." The cashier cracked her gum. "So?"

"Why does she do that?" Dean asked. "How does she do that?"

"She comes from money and has no family left," the store manager chimed in, coming up behind the cashier. "And she likes to do good. If you want to leave her a thank-you note, I can pass it on to her. But please don't approach her about it directly." A pointed glare at the cashier preceded her final words. "She doesn't like people to know she does it."

Dean's warning hackles flattened. If this wasn't just for them, there was little chance it was any form of attack or cultivation. "Yeah, I'd like that. I'll have to come back tomorrow to pick some more up, I'll bring it then," he peered at the manager's name tag, "Sally."

Sally smiled and helped bag the rest of their groceries up while Dean paid. "I'll be on tomorrow night again. Don is the day manager; he can pass it on as well."

"Thanks," Dean nodded, grabbing the last of the bags and studying the three cart issue.

"Let me help you take this out to your car, sir," Sally smiled widely at him, "unless you have someone else here to help you?"

Morgan grabbed one cart and just started off, leaving Dean to answer. "Uh, sure, that would be great, thanks." Dean had to grit his back teeth and swallow back the desire to state he could handle it himself, because he obviously couldn't, no matter how much he hated asking for help in anything.

Still smiling, Sally grabbed one of the remaining carts and indicated that Dean should lead the way. She followed in silence, but Dean was still feeling…odd. Again, the battle between ordinary niceness—something he and Sammy had run into very little of in the world they had grown up in—and wariness of ulterior, dark motives. He let niceness win.

Is this what it's like, to NOT be a hunter? He briefly wondered, carefully avoiding scratching Baby as he glided his overflowing cart to a stop next to her. Sally followed his lead before studying the car. "Nice!" she admired. "I love muscle cars."

"67 Chevy Impala," Dean added. "Got her from my Dad." He opened the back door, putting in bags and trying to get Sally to leave so that they could open the trunk without any worries. The false bottom was in place and should hide most of what he didn't want a civilian to see, but he hadn't had a chance to clean Baby out after this last disastrous hunt and he wasn't positive Sally wouldn't see something she shouldn't.

Luckily, someone called for Sally over the walkie-talkie at her waist and she had to excuse herself. Dean happily finished loading up Baby and sent Morgan back to the cart corral with the three carts. Dean had started the car up and was just waiting for Morgan to settle in so that he could pull out of his spot.

"Someone likes you," Morgan teased when she slid into her seat, clicking on the old-fashioned seatbelt that she wasn't sure would actually do much to protect her in a crash.

Dean frowned. "She was just doing her job."

"You really think that's what that was?" Morgan asked incredulously. "I mean, I guess not being into chicks might make it harder to tell—"

Dean cut her off right there. "I like chicks."

"I thought you liked guys. I mean, Castiel-" Morgan questioned, her voice rising at Cas's name.

"I love Cas," Dean stated flatly. It was the first time he had said that out loud to anyone but Cas or Sam. It felt right. It felt fluttery in his chest, his stomach squirmy, his heart beat just a touch faster.

Morgan waited for more explanation, but got impatient when Dean did not continue. "So you're into guys, and might not pick up on a chick—"

Dean threw his head back and let out a tremendous belly laugh. "I'm not into guys. Well, not really, not anymore. Just Cas. I spent years hitting on any female of appropriate age, and getting away with anything else with them I could."

It was Morgan's turn to laugh. "Well, I think Sally is a breed of woman you might not be familiar with. She's not the one-night stand kind most of you hunters specialize in. She's looking for a keeper. She's less into sex with you and more into how you would be as a partner. Like, domestic partner."

Dean shook his head. "You are only 14 years old. I shouldn't even be having this conversation with you. How do you know so much about chicks?"

Morgan met Dean's eyes. "I like guys but I also like girls, too, Dean. Prefer them actually. So I pay attention to things you might not."

Dean made a face, trying to process. Adult authority figure now, he repeated to himself. Be responsible and all that shit. "I still don't think you're right."

Morgan smiled to herself. "Whatever you think, Dean."

Dean shoved in an AC/DC tape and turned the volume up to deafening. He was too tired and overwhelmed to talk anymore about this right now. Plus, they had dairy that would spoil if it didn't get into the fridge soon.