FIC TITLE: The Home for Wayward Children

Author- PTBvisiongrrl

Part- 8/? (I promise nothing else, which is why its marked complete, but ideas are a–brewing.)

Date- 8/21/16

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- 2.968

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 8

Dean studied the card stock template he had made to trace around the midway mark on Jerry's walls. Rebel symbol next to Imperial symbol, chasing each other around the room, black alternating with red. The paint palette and brushes were on top of Jerry's dresser, out of reach of both Jerry and Petie, who were quietly stacking blocks up and knocking them down with Storm Trooper figurines. One wall was fully painted; Dean was a third of the way through the second one.

The bookshelf had some used books from the thrift store on the top, thin spines leaning a bit haphazardly without a solid end to hold them up. Dean had considered pulling out a statue or some such from the main library to use as a bookend, but ultimately decided against it like a good dad (he shuddered a little inside at the thought), just in case an object he thought was safely non-magic was not. Dean decided he'd keep an eye out for something that would work in the meantime.

The toys on the shelves themselves were organized in small wooden boxes pulled out of deep-storage room duty. Dean had painted a symbol on each box, again one Rebel and one Imperial, to help Jerry keep the toys neat and organized. The blocks had their own box, too, as well as a smaller box that held dollar store army men and another that held a few loose Legos. Dean wanted to fill out that toy shelf as soon as possible, but there was just so much to take care of first.

S & D/C… S & D/C… S & D/C… S & D/C… S & D/C…

After the last shopping trip, and the additional stop with Cas to the art supply store, the adults had sat down, at Dean's request, to discuss their financial situation. Dean deliberately included Colton, but also made it clear that Colton was there so he knew what was going on, not that he was expected to DO anything about it.

That had been a brief moment of stress, as Colton tried to hold in his anger about the exclusion. "So I can know how bad we're sinking, but I can't have a bucket to help bail? What the hell, Dean?"

But Dean reminded Colton of his promise. "You gave to deal with school first. Until you finish your education, you are not allowed to hunt—or work, including sharking. If you make money, it's your OWN money. You promised. I want you to know what is going on, because we may need your help around the bunker or with the kids, but that's all."

Colton had to bite back harsh words, thinking about the wad of money he still had in his room, money that he was not allowed to give to Dean for bills. It took a few minutes of Dean's even gaze, but Colton finally grudgingly agreed. "Okay." Because if he really could spend his money on what he wanted, it was going to be one hell of a Christmas around here.

Dean nodded, and Cas squeezed Colton's shoulder. "We appreciate the offer, really. But it's the adults' job to take care of you kids. That means that this is the time for some long term planning, not just cash infusions. Charlie is coming by tomorrow to help us set up legal identities, so we can work, and get the kids registered at school, with medical records, and for health insurance and stuff."

Sam nodded. "I figured we would have to do that soon. No one is hiring any of us with arrest warrants for murder and fraud out there."

Colton raised an eyebrow, and Sam shrugged. "Hunter's life. It happens." He deliberately did not fill in any details.

"Once that's in place, the kids go to school. Well, the oldest three," Dean looked at Colton again. "And that means someone has to be here at all times. Not necessarily the same person, but at least one adult. We are not pulling a John Winchester and leaving them alone if we can help it."

Sam quickly agreed. "I'm not ready to say no more hunting, though, Dean. I don't want to be on the road endlessly, but once in a while, the option to—"

Dean quickly agreed. "I told you, I'm not hunting, but you can. Question is, what jobs can we get in the area that we're qualified for? We can get fake certification, diplomas, whatever from Charlie. But first, what do we wanna do?"

Sam cracked a smile, a rare enough occurrence that Dean was a little worried. "Legal work, Sam."

"Absolutely legal," Sam agreed. "You see, I've actually been thinking about this, and I came up with a work-from-home plan."

Sitting back in his seat, shoulders still slightly tense and a crease tightening between his eyebrows, Dean spread his arms out wide. "Lay it on us, Einstein."

"We are sitting on a goldmine," Sam stated.

"Come again?" Dean asked, mirroring Cas's confused head tilt.

Sam gestured broadly to the library. "We are sitting on a mystic treasure trove, that no one has access to but us."

"Yes," Cas agreed. "And for good reason. The power in these books is astounding."

Nodding in agreement, Sam stated, "Yes. And that power should be available to the people who need it. But this is a super-secret bunker. We don't want to open our doors up to anyone. But we CAN open the books up to people without having them traipse in and out of here."

A moment of silence followed Sam's pronouncement, heavy with expectation. "How, Sam?" Dean finally asked, too impatient to let Sam milk the moment.

Colton interrupted. "On-line database?"

"Yes," Sam jumped up. "But not just on-line for people to look through for free, oh no. We charge a monthly subscription service for access. We can do the research for them, find the books they need and scan them. While we take requests, we can work on the rest of the books we think people would want. We can also offer translation services if they need them. For an extra fee, of course."

"I do not know if I am comfortable with letting this information out, Sam," Cas looked trouble. "There are many bad things in this library."

"I know, Cas," Sam agreed. "But we can control what gets out and what doesn't. No one knows what we have. They ask, we look, if we don't want to provide it we can just say we don't have what they want."

Cas continued to look perturbed, but Dean seemed to brighten. "Do you really think that could make money, Sam?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. We don't need to limit ourselves to hunters. There are plenty of people who just like reading old books, who like the ideas in them but could never afford to buy them. There are also writers who could use us as a research service. Paranormal writing is really popular these days. It's all about how we advertise. Translation services could be a whole separate entity, if you want. I mean, when it comes to translation, you would probably be able to handle it best, Cas. Even modern languages. You could do that from here for book and web publishers, too."

Looking less upset, Cas agreed. "Languages are an angel's gift. I could do that."

"I'm glad you agreed, Cas. I already found a few jobs for you. Some graduate students at American University want someone to look over and discuss their translations of a Sumerian poem in ancient Persian. They don't want you to translate it FOR them, but work with them. It's some Honor Society thing." Sam pulled his laptop to him and flipped it open. "I set up an email for you already, and forwarded their stuff to you."

Cas took the laptop, studying the image and words Sam had pulled up. Lost for a bit to the larger group, Dean could tell, so Dean tapped Cas on the shoulder. "Give me ten more minutes before you go wandering around that millenniums-old brain, okay?"

Looking up, Cas agreed. "Ten minutes."

"Well, looks like we found some things for Cas to do, then. But how much is this really going to make us, Sam? Do we need to find regular jobs in the meantime?" Dean asked.

"Maybe. Maybe not." Sam shrugged. "At any rate, if we are going to do this, I'll need Charlie's help setting it up. But I can start marketing right away, it's just some social media posting and emailing. See if we get any interest before doing too much work."

"Go ahead and start that," Dean said. "And in the meantime, we'll just find some stuff to sell. Nothing evil or magical," Dean quickly anticipated Cas's objections before Cas could actually say anything. "We got some pretty fine old cars in that garage. I'm sure I can tune and shine up one, find a buyer. Near pristine condition, get the motor purring like a kitten…just one or two could pull in as much as or more than some minimum wage job. Just'll need a fake title."

Colton perked up. "There are some awesome bikes in there, too, Dean."

Dean smiled. "And this is something I don't mind you helping with."

Just like that, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. Although nothing could really be done yet without Charlie's magic touch, the plan was set. And Dean could spend time doing one of his favorite things in the world—work on old cars.

S & D/C… S & D/C… S & D/C… S & D/C… S & D/C…

Morgan and Dean were making a couple of lasagnas to freeze, working side by side at the kitchen table, when Cas wandering in looking for some coffee. "Really, Cas? Its almost 5 PM. Are you sure you can handle that caffeine? I mean, I know, all wave of celestial intent and such…"

The confused look on Morgan's face was priceless; Cas's bitch-face was adorable. "I need to concentrate to finish checking this translation…Helena had a really interesting question about the use of future subjunctive tense in a Latin version of the poem and—"

Dean held up his hand. "Forget I asked. Languages are not my forte, and we all know it. You'll just have to make a new pot or nuke the left overs."

"What are you translating, Cas?" Morgan asked, curious as she spread another layer of spinach and ricotta in her aluminum pan. "And who is Helena?"

Cas decided to nuke the coffee. "Sam set up a job for me to do some translating with graduate students. Helena is the faculty sponsor for the group…"

Dean's eyebrow raised. "…at a university several hundred miles away, Dean," Cas sighed. "Seriously, was that a jealous look?"

"No," Dean disagreed quickly. "Not at all. You just seem to have really taken to Sam's translation idea."

Morgan continued her work, listening in but not interrupting, having learned a long time ago that adults tended to talk more freely when they forgot a child was in the room.

"It is a good idea," Cas agreed. "Better than a Gas n' Sip, that's for sure. And, given the rates for my time that Sam negotiated, pays much, much better."

Feeling her chest tighten, Morgan perked her ears even more—being low on money was pretty much a fact of life for hunters, especially those with families. Morgan had learned that lesson early on in life, and was grateful that Dean, Cas, and Sam had taken them in because she knew how hard life would be if the men hadn't. "I can get a part-time job."

Dean's eyes met Morgan's with a laser focus. "Not necessary. We got this figured out."

"Even with suddenly five more mouths to fill?" Morgan snorted. "I went shopping with you, Dean. I can tell the numbers crunching you were doing in your head each time. I've lived with hunters all my life. Ain't none of them rich. I know you said you got this, but do you really?"

"Yes, we do." Dean started assembling his lasagna layers with a bit more force.

"Well, I'm not a little kid. You can let me know if I need to help out more. I don't mind," Morgan stated lowly. She hadn't meant to upset Dean, really, she just wanted to help.

Sam entered the room at that point, heading right to the empty coffee maker and frowning. "We got this, Morgan," Sam stated, having heard enough to know what was going on, before he set up a new pot of coffee to brew. He made a distasteful face at Cas's mug.

Morgan finished another noodle layer and ladled out some more sauce on top. "Can you please tell me how? I'm just going to worry, otherwise. It's just something I do, I can't help it—" her voice was getting higher as she spoke, her breathing faster.

Sam recognized the true anxiety in her voice. "C'mere," Sam motioned to the chair across from where he himself sat down. Ignoring Dean's murderous look, Sam made Morgan look him in the eye and calm down. "Breathe with me. In, out. In, out." Sam continued until Morgan could talk.

The first words out of her mouth were an apology, which was quickly shut down by Sam. Dean, he didn't realize how bad Sam had suffered with anxiety as a kid, because Sam had hidden it. There really wasn't anything Dean could do to help it other than what he had done back then—taken care of Sam and reassured him that Dad would be home soon and be okay. "You do not need to apologize, Morgan. We really do have it taken care of. Will it help you to calm down if we explain how to you?"

At her nod, Dean turned back to finishing both lasagnas and sliding them, covered, into the oven. They would freeze the pans when cool, and have a couple of emergency meals ready. Sam took Dean's return to cooking as permission to explain. "First, the Bunker, and its utilities, are free and clear. They were all up and running when we moved in, and will continue to. It's how the Bunker was built. We are going to run a couple of web businesses out of the Bunker to help cover the extra bills. Cas is amazing at languages, so he's doing some translation work. Just a job or two a week is enough to cover a day's food for us all."

Morgan swallowed, and nodded. "What about the other six days?"

Sam could see Dean's shoulders tighten, and knew that it was taking a lot of effort for Dean not to just reassure the girl. Sam knew that explaining details was key to removing some of that anxiety building up. "We are also going to be running a research data base, a monthly subscription service, scanning the resources needed from our library. That will take a little bit to get up and running, but I think it will eventually generate several hundred a month. That's another two days per week, at least."

"That leaves four more days," Morgan said, but she managed to keep her voice rather level.

"Dean is fixing up one of the old cars from the garage to sell. There's ten of them out there, and some motorcycles. They are all in great condition, and haven't really been driven in 60 years. Collectors go crazy for those types of cars. Like, $40,000 per car crazy." Sam spared a look at Dean, because he hadn't revealed that researched tidbit yet. "Even just one a year, that's like 3 more days per week."

Morgan's eyes were wide at that. "There's one more day," she almost whispered. Sam could tell relief was bleeding through her, tension falling away, and a little moisture gathering in her eyes but not falling.

"Leftovers," Dean answered succinctly, pulling the chair next to Morgan closer and wrapping a heavy arm around her shoulders with a squeeze of reassurance.

"Things really will be okay," Morgan said. "Really. It's not just you saying so to keep the kids calm. We really will be alright." The moisture formed into tears and tracked down her cheeks, which Dean could tell was against her will.

Cas finally chimed in. "Yes. We adults are going to take care of you."

Morgan licked her lips and sniffled. "Well, if an angel tells me so," her humor finding it's way through emotions.

"Angels are a bag of dicks, except Cas, so don't go listening to ANY of them!" Dean spat out, unable to play along with that.

"Okay," Morgan laughed. "Only Cas is angel enough to listen to."

"Damn straight," Sam agreed, having had enough of angels in his lifetime, and rising from his chair to circle the table and wrap his own arms around Morgan for reassurance. "Better now?"

"Yes," Morgan agreed. "Much better. Things will be a little tight until it's all in place, but just until then. And those are great ideas to make money."

Dean brushed a kiss to the top of her head, as if she were as little as Jerry. "And until then, there's always poker, pool, and fake credit cards."

Morgan smiled. She had a content feeling, a safe feeling that settled over her. It was unfamiliar, and warm, and ultimately reassuring in a way that she had never felt before, even with her own parents. She had known, even as a toddler, how capricious hunting was, even before it had been proven as such to her. And now that it had, now that hunting had taken her family, it had at least given her a damn good new one.