June 3, 1995

Castiel stood and offered a hand to Dean, helping him to his feet. He guided the dazed human toward the kitchen door, steering him clear of the vomit on the cement. Once inside the house, Dean found his way to the phone on the wall of the kitchen and made his call to 911.

While Dean was occupied, Castiel took a slow, deep breath. From the instant he'd first felt Dean's shock and horror, Castiel had been struggling to distance himself from it. Dean's emotions were so strong, so raw, and they surged relentlessly against him, buffeting him like a rowboat in a hurricane. He bit down on the side of his tongue, letting the pain of it distract him from the morass of feelings trying to drown him.

Dean hung up the phone. "They're on the way."

He stared at the phone on the wall silently for a minute, then picked it up again, flipping open a small, ringed book on the counter below it and sifting through the pages. "I need to call Uncle Bobby."

Castiel chewed on his tongue and listened to Dean as he told the person on the other end of the line what had happened. Other than a catch in his voice, he sounded calm and under control, and Castiel had to wonder how he managed it when there was so much turmoil inside.

But when Dean put the phone down again, the facade began to crack. His face contorted with the effort he was making to keep it all in, but it wasn't enough. His shoulders slumped and tears slipped down his cheeks as he leaned back against the kitchen wall and slid down to land on his butt.

"Bobby's coming," he said as he wiped his face on his sleeve.

Castiel knelt in front of him. "That's good, Dean." He didn't know who Bobby was, but he was clearly someone Dean needed.

The stormy emotions radiating from Dean calmed somewhat the longer they sat in silence. Pain and grief still swamped Castiel, but without the turbulence.

The faint sound of sirens came from down the street. Dean turned his head toward the sound, though there was nothing to see from inside the house. A pulse of intense emotion struck Castiel as Dean said calmly, "You should go."

Before Castiel could wonder about the feeling, it was gone. "Yes. I'll bring Sam."

Dean turned his puffy, red eyes to Castiel then. "You'll come back after everyone's gone?"

"If you want me to."

Dean nodded, but then he blurted out, "Cas, why'd you leave us for so long?"

The question caught Castiel off guard. When he didn't answer right away, Dean shook his head.

"Never mind, Cas. Please get Sam?" The sirens were close now.

Castiel flew, instinctively honing in on Sam. The younger Winchester sat at a bus stop in front of the Lebanon Public Library with his nose in a book, waiting for what should have been his ride home.

Castiel lit in an alley as close as he could get without being seen by nearby drivers or pedestrians. He peered between a stack of empty pallets and a dumpster and waited for the street to clear before stepping out and hissing, "Sam!"

Sam's head popped up from the book he was reading. He looked around, searching for the source of the call, and when he saw Castiel, his mouth dropped open in surprise. Stuffing his book in his bag and quickly glancing around, Sam trotted across the street and into the alley.

"Castiel!" Sam kept his voice soft, though he was clearly pleased. "It's so good to see you! It's been so long – what're you doing here?"

Despite the distance between them, Dean's stormy feelings still pushed at Castiel, almost overpowering the delight he felt from Sam.

"Something has happened. Dean asked me to bring you home."

Instantly, worry and fear replaced Sam's happiness. "What happened? Is Dean okay?"

"He wasn't hurt. He'll be all right."

"Then what? What is it? Castiel, what happened?" Sam's volume increased as his fear intensified.

Castiel put his hand on Sam's shoulder. "Let me take you to Dean."

Sam pulled back, yanking free of Castiel's grip. "Not until you tell me what happened!" His face went pale. "It's Dad, isn't it? Did something happen to Dad?"

He didn't want to have to tell Sam, but Castiel couldn't lie to him, either. He nodded slightly.

"Is he dead?" Sam's voice had dropped to a hollow whisper.

Sam must have read the answer in Castiel's face, because tears filled his eyes. He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut, sending the tears spilling down his cheeks. "Please take me home."

Castiel returned his hand to the boy's shoulder, and this time he didn't pull away. He spread his wings and flew, landing them as gently as he could, though Sam still staggered a bit on the landing, looking pale and shaky. They ended up in a sheltered gap between a wooden fence and a hedge two houses down the country road from where Dean and Sam lived. There were still vehicles parked at the house, and two men were taking their time loading a gurney into the medical examiner's van.

"This is as close as I can take you without being seen," he told Sam.

Sam nodded, staring at the men by the van and their burden on the gurney. Hitching his backpack higher on his shoulder, he whispered, "Thank you," then ran down the road toward his home.

Castiel watched him go, shaking in the aftermath of the double dose of second-hand grief.

He decided to stay where he was, hidden from view but able to watch for the vehicles to leave. He sat cross-legged in the dirt, and though it was warm out, he wrapped his wings tightly around himself. His dark feathers camouflaged him more thoroughly in his hiding place, but they couldn't protect him from the emotions battering at him.

At least another hour passed before the last of the emergency vehicles drove away. Once they were far down the road, Castiel stood and dusted himself off before flying to the back door of Dean and Sam's house. He peeked in a couple of windows to be certain they were alone before flitting into the small living room where the boys were huddled together on the couch, Sam's body wrapped into a tight ball while Dean rubbed circles on his brother's back.

"Cas," Dean said. He looked worse than when Castiel had left him earlier, his face drawn and strained. "You came back."

"I stayed close," Castiel replied. "I waited until everyone was gone."

The corner of Dean's mouth twisted in a failed smile.

Sam suddenly sat bolt upright. "Dean, how come they left? Shouldn't someone have stayed? Or...did somebody call child services?" He spoke the last as if it were something terrible to be feared.

"Um, I might have told them I was seventeen," Dean replied reluctantly. "And that Uncle Bobby was on his way over, which is true – I just didn't mention he's coming from South Dakota. Or that he's not really our uncle. He said he'd get here some time tonight."

Sam sighed and some of the tension in his shoulders eased. "Good."

Castiel perched himself on the opposite arm of the couch from where Dean sat with Sam. The atmosphere was tense and uncomfortable, but Castiel didn't know how to relieve it, or if that were even possible. The afternoon seemed to last forever, but it had finally waned toward evening when the harsh ring of the telephone broke the silence.

Castiel startled at the noise, but Dean just got up from the couch and went to answer it.

"Hello?" As he listened to the caller, dismay crossed Dean's face. "Oh, crap, Robin, I'm sorry. I- I can't go out tonight. There's a, uh, family emergency. No, no, I'm fine. Yeah, there's people here." He glanced up at Castiel over the countertop that separated the two rooms. "Some other time. Yeah, sorry. Bye."

He hung up and stared at the phone for a second. Then he turned and, with crisp movements, began putting away several items that had been left on the kitchen counter and scattered across the floor. He threw away a lot of it, put the rest in the sink and the refrigerator, then worked on wiping up something yellow from the linoleum, scrubbing at it much harder than necessary.

After that, he emptied a can of something into a bowl and heated it in the microwave. After the beep, he delivered it to the coffee table in front of Sam. "Eat, Sammy."

Sam had been watching Dean's busywork worriedly, much as Castiel had been doing. He frowned down at the bowl. "I'm not hungry."

Dean picked up the spoon and thrust it in front of Sam's face. "You didn't have lunch, and you like SpaghettiOs. Eat at least a little."

Reluctantly, Sam took the spoon and scooted forward on the couch, unfolding his legs and leaning over the bowl. He ate a few bites, but mostly he just stirred the contents with the spoon. Castiel could feel how close Sam was to crying, and how badly he didn't want to let either Dean or Castiel know it.

After about ten minutes of Sam playing with his food, Dean sighed. "Fine, Sam. You don't have to eat it if you don't want it."

Sam immediately left the living room, running up the stairs. His relief must have been obvious even to Dean.

Sitting in the spot Sam had vacated, Dean stirred the spoon through the glop in the bowl, but couldn't seem to make himself eat any of it, either. He picked up the bowl and took it to the kitchen, disposing of the contents and rinsing it out.

Then he stopped, his back to Castiel, and stared out the kitchen window toward the garage where his father's blood still soaked into the concrete.

"I guess I didn't say thank you yet for saving my life," he said softly.

Dean turned around, leaning back against the counter, his eyes boring into Castiel. The emotions he broadcast were less intense now, but far more complex. The thread of anger underlying the more dominant feelings made Castiel pause, though.

Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Thank you. I mean it. I know I'd be dead, too, if you hadn't come."

Castiel frowned uncertainly. "You're welcome."

"But it's been three years, Cas!" Dean's face grew pinched. "Where have you been? Broken bones and demon attacks aren't the only reasons to show up, you know!" He stopped abruptly, then snatched up a sponge and scrubbed at the interior of the sink.

As the anger grew stronger, Castiel realized it wasn't really anger at all. It was pain.

"Dean..." He struggled to find words. "You and Sam helped me when I needed it the most, and all you ever got for your trouble was injury. In the brief time I was with you, you were hurt multiple times – each time because of me."

Dean's movements slowed, but he didn't turn back around.

"When you and your family left that night, I didn't know why. I could have followed you, but... I wasn't sure you would want me to. You were so angry after I healed you."

"I wasn't mad at you," Dean mumbled. "I didn't mean for you to stay away."

The hurt and loneliness that had plagued Castiel after the Winchesters had left him at the trailer house were echoed in what he felt from Dean.

Hesitantly, Castiel confessed, "That week with you and Sam meant so much to me. Before you took me in, I had never known anything but a life of solitude. And afterward, I found I didn't want to be alone anymore. But I couldn't see you hurt again because of me, so I thought it better to stay away."

Dean blinked at him, his eyes shining wet. "Well, it's not better. I... We – me and Sam, I mean – we've missed you. A lot."

"I missed you, too." Castiel paused, then looked away uncomfortably. "Dean. I'm so sorry I couldn't save your father."

"It wasn't your fault." Dean's voice was tight in his throat.

"I've never been able to sense him as clearly as I can you and Sam. If I had, maybe I would have been able to..."

"Cas," Dean interrupted. "It wasn't your fault."

Castiel fell silent and eventually nodded his acceptance.

Dean turned back to the sink and rinsed out the sponge he'd been using. After drying his hands on the towel hanging from the door handle of the refrigerator, he went back to the living room with Castiel trailing behind him. They sat on the couch, and Dean clicked on the television, though he left the sound turned down low as he flipped through channels.

Castiel watched him and absently preened the feathers of one wing. As before, Dean masked his turbulent emotions remarkably well, but the pain and grief beneath the surface were suffocating.

After Castiel had finished with one wing and moved on to the other, Dean spoke without looking away from the television. "I'm sorry if I made you think I didn't want you around. I didn't mean to. And I didn't want to leave that night. He made us go."

"I know, Dean."

Another hour or so later, the sound of an engine drew their attention. As the vehicle pulled into the driveway, the beam of its headlights swung across the window, briefly brightening the room beyond the twilight dimness and the flickering light of the TV.

With a cough and a sputter, the engine shut down, and Dean turned to Castiel. "That's Bobby. You have to go." He reached out to catch his wrist. "But Cas, please don't stay away this time, okay?"

Castiel nodded. "Okay." And as a knock sounded from the front door, he took wing and flew to safety.