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Dean huddles in his second-hand robes and stares at the old stone floor. He knows his mom went to school here before she moved to America and met his dad, always knew it was possible he'd get a letter, but whenever the topic came up, John promised that Dean wouldn't have to go, that he could stay home and keep looking after his brother, magic or no magic.
But then there was the Fort Douglas job, and Dean messed everything up; he nearly got Sammy killed, the shtriga got away, and now John won't even look at him, can barely say his name any more, and when the letter came two weeks later –
Dean ducks his head further, clenches his fists, and wills himself not to cry. John already wanted to send him away, put him somewhere out of sight where he couldn't let his family down, and the letter was the perfect excuse. Sammy doesn't need a brother who can't keep him safe, and John doesn't need a son who can't follow orders, so now Dean's here, in the Great Hall of this stupid school with its stupid rules and stupid English everything, poor and alone and, even worse, American, which somehow feels like a crime over here, and waiting his turn for some sentient hat to tell him how worthless he is.
'Tran, Kevin!' the teacher calls out, and a tiny kid goes scampering up to sit up in front of everyone, which – does this really have to be public? The Sorting Hat barely touches the boy before rasping out 'RAVENCLAW!', and everyone at the blue tables cheers like they've won a prize, and Dean just wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole, because he isn't smart or brave or kind or ambitious, and isn't going to fit in anywhere.
'Hey,' says a soft voice beside him. 'Don't worry. I'm sure you'll be fine.'
Dean looks up, surprised. The speaker is a boy his own age, with messy black hair and eyes that are Ravenclaw-blue. His robes look new and expensive, but there's a small smile on his face, and he blushes a little under Dean's scrutiny.
'I don't want to be here,' Dean blurts, and is instantly embarrassed by the admission. But the other boy doesn't tease him at all; not even for his accent, which is something of a first today.
Instead, he leans in close – they're just the same height – and confides, 'Me, neither.'
Dean blinks, surprised. 'You don't?'
'God, no.' The boy grimaces. 'It's my brothers, you see. I have no objection to Hogwarts as an institution, but having to live with them all again – I'd sooner sleep in the lake.'
Anger flashes through Dean at that. He'd give anything to have Sammy here, too – or better yet, be back with him – and this kid is complaining about being with his brothers? He opens his mouth to tell him off, but stalls, open-mouthed, when a small green pellet hits the other boy square in the cheek, exploding softly on impact. It leaves him spattered with bright green ink, the liquid trickling down his jaw, and as it hits just as the Sorting Hat bellows 'GRYFFINDOR!' for Tamara-somebody, Dean is the only person who seems to notice.
Well, almost the only person. There's laughter from the Slytherin tables that's audible through the cheering, and the boy jerks to hear it, shoulders going stiff. Angrily, he stares at a pair of older students, both of whom are staring unrepentantly back. One is blonde and grinning, the other dark-haired and frowning, but there's no mistaking the family resemblance: they all have the same blue eyes.
The anger goes out of Dean like air from a popped balloon.
'That's them?' he asks.
'For my sins,' the boy mutters, scrubbing at the ink with his sleeve. 'Two of them, anyway. That's Michael and Lucifer. They're the eldest. Twins.' He sighs. 'Gabriel's in Hufflepuff, and Balthazar's in Gryffindor. Which means I've got a one in four chance of avoiding them all, and a three in four chance of not.' And then, like he's only just remembered that they're strangers, 'I'm Castiel, by the way.'
'Dean,' says Dean, and holds out a hand. Castiel shakes it gravely, a smear of green ink transferring itself from his sleeve to Dean's thumb. 'You, uh. You got a nickname at all?'
Castiel pulls a face. 'My brothers call me Cassie,' he admits. 'I hate it.'
Five minutes ago, Dean would've laughed his ass off at that, but Castiel hasn't said shit about his accent, and so Dean swallows it down and says, a little awkwardly, 'I could call you Cas, if you like.'
The look that crosses Castiel's face is a mix of surprise and gratitude. 'I would like that,' he says, smiling, and Dean's about to reply when the teacher up front interrupts with, 'Novak, Castiel!'
Both of them jump, and with a final swipe at his green-inked face, Castiel – Cas – walks stiffly up to the Sorting Hat. There's a smattering of laughter at his messy appearance, and Dean feels instantly outraged on his behalf, and angry at Michael and Lucifer to boot, because pranks are part of being a big brother, sure, but he'd never embarrass Sammy on his first day at a new school – or leastaways, not on purpose.
The Sorting Hat is silent for a good five seconds, then bellows out 'RAVENCLAW!'
For the first time that evening, Dean finds himself cheering along with everyone else, heart lifting at the happy, incredulous smile on Cas's face. A glance back at the Slytherin table shows both Michael and Lucifer scowling, and Dean wonders briefly what Cas's other brothers think of him being sorted away from them, but ultimately, it doesn't matter: Cas is pleased, and so Dean is, too.
But now he's all alone again, and as the crowd of first years thins around him, his anxieties come back, and with them the painful realisation that he can't possibly end up sharing a house with Cas. Sammy's the one with the brains: even at seven, he's brighter than Dean ever was, good at school and good with people, and Dean's just, just –
Stupid! John hissed, the night he dropped Dean and Sammy off at Pastor Jim's; the night the shtriga got away. That thing's gonna kill again, Dean, you know that? And if you hadn't been so goddamn stupid –
'Winchester, Dean!'
He startles badly, ignoring the snickers this elicits. Shaking now, he walks to the stool and the Sorting Hat, and though he doesn't mean to, somehow he picks out Cas in the crowd before the brim drops over his eyes, inhibiting his view.
Well now, says the Hat in his head. Its voice is dry and raspy, like cat claws on autumn leaves, but not wholly unpleasant, for all that it's certainly strange. Dean squirms, obscurely glad that his face is hidden, and feels his stomach twist with the knowledge of everything he isn't.
Not ambitious, the Hat says, thoughtfully. Hard-working, yes, and very capable – kind, too - but you don't aspire to greatness.
Greatness is overrated, Dean thinks sullenly, kicking his heels against the stool, though deep down, he's a little warmed that the Hat thinks he's kind and capable. It's more of a compliment than John's ever paid him, certainly; but then again, his dad's never thought that kindness does much of anything.
Brave, very brave, the Hat continues, and Dean jumps a little at that, because what? He nearly pissed himself when the shtriga came! But the Hat ignores him, carrying on like it's talking to itself. And loyal, yes, fiercely so. But – ah, what's this? Brains, too! Not that you think of them that way – and Dean could swear he feels a ripple of disapproval at that, though weirdly, he knows it's not for him – but I see it all, Dean Winchester, and I sorted your mother. Mary was clever, too.
Dean's mouth goes utterly dry.
His mother.
All these years, he never asked his dad what house his mom was in, because it didn't matter – Dean would be a hunter, not a wizard, and even if he showed the gift, he wasn't going off to some weirdo boarding school in England. But in the end, his dad didn't want him, and Hogwarts did – and if he can't ever be like John, then maybe... maybe he could be like Mary instead.
You're sure? the Hat says, and Dean thinks, What have I got to lose?
It's hard to tell, but the Hat seems pleased with itself. Very well then, it says – and then, out loud, yells:
'RAVENCLAW!'
Dean stares at the sea of tables as the Hat is plucked from his head. Slack with shock, it takes him a moment to realise the implications, and then he's on his feet, wide-eyed and shaky as he stumbles over to the Ravenclaw table, where Castiel Novak is already standing, arms outstretched and smiling like sunrise.
'Dean!' he's yelling. 'Dean, we're together!', and it doesn't matter that they only just met, that the whole school is watching; Dean lets his new friend scoop him into a trembling hug and hangs on tight, his burning face pressed in Castiel's shoulder.
It's been seven long years since Dean Winchester had a home, but maybe – just maybe – he's found one again.