Archive of Our Own

PROLOGUE

In the early morning, before the sun has fully risen, the lake is calm and secluded. The sky is dimly lit in shades of pale blues and purples, dotted with high flying birds. A thin layer of fog is settled over the placid surface of the lake, where not a single boat can be seen in the distance, only the faraway tree line shrouded in thick white fog. The sand is still cool from the night; grainy, dry, and chill beneath bare feet. Waves lap up against the shore calmly, steadily, licking at the toes of a young boy.

The scene evokes a sense of awe and mystery in those whose minds are still moldable and ever changing. That’s part of what makes it so beautiful; that sense of mystery that comes with being young and impressionable, uncertain of why exactly the waves move or where the fog comes from. It’s so simple, so pure, yet still so complex. As a child, nature simply is.

But then the first boat breaks the steady waves and the fog begins to dissipate, the sun rising and tinting the sky orange and pink. Though it is still beautiful it is no longer pure, it has been touched, and it loses some of that beauty. It loses some of its mystery. It has now been discovered and changed, morphed from a natural haven to a place for man to play. It seems that only the birds are unaffected by the change, and they keep on flying, uninhibited and free.

Life, like nature, can be so easily disrupted. For so many years of your life you are alone, untouched, pure. You are innocent, a mystery to all, sometimes even to yourself. But then, in an instant, your life can be turned upside down by the hand of a single person. And as is the way with man -as the lake will never be quite the same since that first boat broke it's placid surface- you will never, ever be the same.

CHAPTER 1: JUNE

It all began on a sweltering hot day in June. It wasn’t exactly normal for the temperatures to be nearing the hundreds so early in the northern Minnesota summer, but with the sun beating down with all it’s strength and no breeze to cool the air, it felt a bit like a desert. That heat, as welcome as it was after an icy six months of winter and a chill spring, had left one Dean Winchester feeling sticky with sweat and wishing he could go inside where the air conditioning and fans awaited him.

He was stuck waiting for his grandfather, Henry, to arrive with the key to the cabin. As usual, he was running a little late.

Dean peered in through the window with a deep furrow in his brow and a frown on his lips, finding that the fan a few feet away seemed to be taunting him. He groaned and let his forehead thunk against the window, skin slipping slightly on the glass. Dean’s younger brother Sam, however, seemed to be enjoying the heat. He turned to watch the boy while he hopped around on rocks and downed logs, scowling in a playful way while he swatted at the air with a stick as if it were a sword.

“Come on, Dean! It’s not as fun on my own!” Sam exclaimed, pausing in his fake sword-fight to turn and stare at his brother with wide, puppy-like eyes. No matter how tall he got, Dean was sure those eyes would be just as debilitating.

“Dude, no. Playing pirates is for kids, and I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You’re never too old to have fun,” Sam grumbled, jumping down from where he had perched himself upon a large rock. He flung himself at Dean, pushing his lip out in an exaggerated pout, and pulled on the sleeve of his tee-shirt. “Please?”

If Dean had one weakness, it would be that pout. Sam, it seemed, was a master of persuasion (and, it may be worth mentioning, inducing guilt was a talent of his as well.) And with no more than a look, he had managed to coerce the older boy into playing his game. And it was then, as Dean’s stick-sword collided with Sam’s own, that a stranger approached.

The stranger said nothing, only stood and watched them with a quiet curiosity, head cocked to one side as he followed the brother’s actions with bright eyes. Dean whirled around, catching sight of a blur of dark hair and a white shirt, and stopped abruptly as his stick collided with Sam’s. He turned slowly, wide eyed, to face the stranger standing there. Bright blue eyes stared back at him, a soft smile turning up the edges of his mouth, and the strange boy raised one hand in a hesitant greeting. Dean raised a hand back to him, and as he did Sam assaulted his side, jabbing him in the ribs. He yelped and turned to glare at his foolish brother, who only laughed and ran away.

“Uh,” Dean began dumbly, rubbing his side in an attempt to soothe the slight pain. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Were you not having a stick fight?” The stranger asked, eyes narrowing to thin blue slits.

“Well, um…” Dean trailed off awkwardly, shrugging. “I guess it is what it looks like then.”

Dean would say that he was entirely shameless in this situation, but his cheeks were colored deep red with embarrassment. The strange boy only smiled, though, and quietly agreed that it was, indeed, exactly what it looked like. In a nervous way, Dean stepped forward and offered his hand for the boy to shake.

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he greeted, his normally charming self resurfacing. The boy looked at him strangely for a moment before he extended his hand and shook Dean’s firmly.

“Castiel.”

Unable to stand the awkward silence that befell them almost immediately, Dean began to blurt, all the while wondering if a handshake was too formal for two teenage boys; “you're new around here, right? Maybe I could show you around, the place can be a little confusing at first and you wouldn't want to end up on the docks without a clue where to go-"

"Yes, that would be very helpful," Castiel replied as Dean took in a breath and bit his lips closed to shut himself up. "If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble," Dean affirmed, smiling warmly. Castiel smiled back.    

  ………............

“Does your family have a boat?” Castiel asked, tipping his head to one side in a manner so much like a kitten that Dean couldn’t help but to smile at the sight of it. He shoved his hands into his pockets, nodded, and took a moment to admire the way the sunset lit the side of Castiel’s face with a golden glow.

“We do. Belongs to my grandpa, really.”

“Could I see it?”

Dean shrugged and turned his gaze out to the boats lining the marina. The Winchester family boat was never a hard one to pick out of a crowd, and Dean found it tied up not far from where they stood. His hesitation, however, stemmed from a small moral dilemma; could he trust this stranger enough to let them onto his grandfather’s boat? The answer, evident in the way his feet carried him forward, was yes.

Their boat was by no means a show-stealer. It was well cared for, clean, and the color-scheme was nice, even Dean would admit that, but compared to many of the other boats in the marina theirs was but a pathetic dinghy amongst dozens of small yachts. The deep red accents stood out nicely against a cream base, though, and with the name Winchester spelled out in fanciful text across the side it was perfect in it’s own way. And, if the glimmer in his eyes and the small smile curling his lips upward were anything to go by, Castiel thought it was as magnificent as Dean’s impressionable younger self had always thought it was.

“This one?” Castiel asked, fingers trailing lightly across the side of the boat. He was so gentle, reverent in a way Dean had not seen from anyone in a long time.

“Yeah. It’s pretty plain, but it’s ours so…” Dean smiled, watching Castiel admire the boat. He wondered if Castiel would react in the same way if he set eyes on the shining beauty that was the Impala. But that could wait.

Without a word, Castiel hooked a leg over the side of the boat and hopped on board. For a moment Dean thought to panic, but as he followed the boy’s lead he remembered that the keys weren’t in the boat either way. Dean was slightly ashamed by his lack of trust, though he knew it was foolish to trust a stranger so soon after meeting.

“My brother has a boat,” Castiel stated abruptly, smoothing his fingertips across the creme faux-leather of the seats. “It’s unreasonably large. He got it from some rich politician he befriended for the publicity. We never get to use it.”

“Maybe you should come with next time we go out on the water.” Dean looked to Castiel, pressing his lips together in a flat line. He realized it may be a little soon for that. But Castiel smiled softly and nodded.

“I’d like that.”

Dean shrugged and leaned against the back of the seat, wondering how Henry would react. That was something to deal with later, when there wasn’t a pair of blue eyes staring him down with a strange kind of intensity that pricked at his skin. It was almost like Castiel was crackling with energy, and little bolts of lightning kept reaching out to lick at Dean whenever they were too close. It was terrifying.

“We should be friends.”

Dean blinked a few times, surprised by Castiel’s blunt statement. He chuckled and nodded, “yeah, why not.”

Castiel’s answering smile was small but bright, like the twinkling of a distant star so small and so far away that it’s nothing but a freckle on the face of the universe, nearly imperceptible to the human eye, but you still just know it’s real and genuine. It was something that Dean was surprised to find he wanted to see more of, and even more so, something he wanted to be the cause of.

………

Castiel’s hair whipped across his forehead in the wind as he squinted out at the horizon and leaned back in a seat on Henry’s boat. Dean watched him, concerned. Castiel had stated his apprehension to boating due to seasickness mere moments before they clipped their life jackets into place. He seemed fine, but Dean wanted to be sure. And he wouldn’t deny that the fact that Castiel had an appealing profile was part of the reason he just kept watching.

Dean jerked when Sam’s hand collided with his arm, turning to glare at his little brother. He would’ve slapped Sam’s shoulder in return, but he could feel Castiel watching and somehow his burning gaze made it feel wrong. So instead Dean just huffed a sigh and looked out towards the horizon where the sun made the surface of the lake glimmer.

“Do you like it here?” Sam shouted over the roar of the boat engine and the hiss and slap of water as they sliced through the lake effortlessly. Effortlessly, that is, besides the way the boat jerked as they cut across waves.

“I suppose,” Castiel replied, just loud enough to be heard. “Though I have to wonder why they call it Leech Lake?”

“Leeches,” Dean supplied flatly. Castiel’s features shifted to hint at his embarrassment and Dean almost felt bad. “They’re picky about when they come out so you probably won’t see them much, but when they do they kind’a swarm.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

“Yeah, it is. Just don’t let them between your toes or up in your swimsuit.” Dean wiggled his toes teasingly, chuckling at the look of horror that briefly crossed Castiel’s face.

…….

"I told you-"

"Don't," Castiel ground out between clenched teeth, his eyes screwed shut. Dean lifted his hands up in defense, holding back a smirk. "Don't you dare say it."

"Okay, fine. Just sit still, you dork." Dean shook his head and took hold of the leech between Castiel's toes, slipping the nail of his thumb between his skin and the mouth of the blood sucker to break the seal. He pulled it away with ease, held it pinched between finger and thumb. Castiel opened his eyes to glare at the slimy little creature, as if he thought it had a problem with him as an individual and not just a need for sustenance.

“Can I kill it now?” Castiel asked, eyeing the leech with distaste.

“You don’t strike me as the murderous type, baby-blue.” Dean bit his lip, unsure of where the nickname came from and terrified that it would garner a bad reaction. Castiel’s eyes narrowed further, gaze shifting to Dean’s face. The intensity of his stare made Dean nervous, and he offered the leech to Castiel as he muttered, “You’re gonna’ want to stop the bleeding though, it won’t scab on it’s own for a while.”

“Not until that abomination is dead and gone.” Castiel plucked the leech up from between Dean’s fingers and leveled it with a glare that Dean could imagine capable of burning a hole straight through his head were he so inclined. For a moment he merely stared at the little worm, and then with a swift movement he tossed it into the water.

“Aww, I knew you weren’t a killer.” Dean teased with a cheeky grin. Castiel shook his head and frowned.

“You say that as if it is a bad thing.” Castiel peered up at Dean, gaze softened now that the leech was out of sight.

“No, no not at all. Man, honestly, it’s kind’a admirable.” Dean shrugged helplessly, eyes drawn to the steady trickle of blood from between Castiel’s toes. He bent over to examine the little wound more closely, pressing a finger against the minuscule bite marks in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Castiel hissed quietly at the sensation, jutting his hand out to grasp at Dean’s wrist. Their eyes met, a long, tense moment passing without a word, before Castiel retracted his hand and folded his hands in his lap.

“You, uh… You can’t fit a bandage here, but you’ll want to do something about it.” Dean added, averting his gaze to a little speck of blood on the top of Castiel’s foot. He swiped it away, frowning at the little smear of red it left behind. “Maybe stick a cotton ball between your toes or something.”

“Thank you.” Castiel said, but there was a kind of quiet mischief behind his words that caused Dean to look up.

“What?” Dean asked warily.

“If I walk in the sand, it will get in my wound.”

Dean narrowed his eyes skeptically and folded his arms across his chest. “And?”

“How strong are you?”

…….

“You know, you’re heavy for such a scrawny looking guy,” Dean grunted, readjusting the grip of his hands hooked under Castiel's knees, hoping that no one was watching him carry the other boy up the hill. Not that it’s abnormal for a friend to carry a friend up a hill when they’re injured, but Castiel’s injury was small and Dean may have liked the proximity more than he’d be willing to admit.

Dean wondered when, exactly, he began thinking of Castiel as a friend rather than a stranger.

“It’s muscle,” Castiel replied, and Dean must have been imagining the apparent shame underlying his words. “I run.”

“For sport? Dude, that’s crazy. I only run when somethin’s chasing me.”

“Well, I suppose that’s your choice.” Castiel half-shrugged, his arms rubbing against Dean’s shoulders with the subtle movement. “Some day something might catch you because you didn’t run enough.”

“I think you’re underestimating my strength.” Dean furrowed his brow and hefted Castiel up, jostling him. Castiel yelped quietly, muttering in annoyance.

“It’s not all about strength, Dean. Stamina is also important.”

“I’ve got stamina,” Dean argued, huffing. Even as he spoke, he began to feel the ache in the muscles of his arms and legs, his breathing shorter with the strain he’d been putting on himself. Half way up the hill Dean grumbled, “I’ll show you stamina.”

Castiel made a quiet sound of surprise and chuckled, resting his chin against Dean’s shoulder. The gesture was not at all unwelcome, but certainly surprising. They didn’t speak until Dean was standing at the door to Castiel’s cabin; until Castiel had gotten down off of Dean’s back and was standing with his right foot raised and a hand on the door frame for support.

“Thank you,” Castiel said, eyes shimmering with amusement, lips playing at a small smile. Something about the way his lips moved when he spoke drew Dean’s attention, making him wonder what they might feel like pressed against his own lips. The thought caught Dean off guard, sent him physically reeling back a few unsteady steps.

“I’ll uh,” Dean muttered nervously. He looked up, focusing on a spot slightly to the left of Castiel’s head, and raised a hand in a half-assed farewell gesture. “See ya’ later, Cas.”

“Cas?” Castiel asked, incredulous but clearly not upset. Dean shrugged and forced a smile.

“It’s easier to pronounce,” he claimed, though he had just let it roll off of his tongue without thought. “It’s got a ring to it.”

“Better, certainly, than ’Baby-blue’.” Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean, staring pointedly. Dean let out a surprised chuckle, shaking his head.

“It really kinda’ suits you.”

“Then I might as well call you Freckles.” Castiel smirked at the scowl that fit onto Dean’s face at the clear taunt.

“Don’t make fun of my freckles.” Dean grumbled moodily, pushing his bottom lip out in a slight pout. Castiel’s expression fell slightly and he tipped his head to the side, examining Dean.

“You don’t like your freckles?”

“Dude, no, they’re horrible.” Dean huffed and scrunched his nose in distaste. Every summer those little specks became more and more visible. He could handle them when they were just faint little splatters on the bridge of his nose, but then they became darker, more prevalent, more obvious.

“Oh.” Castiel made a face, like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the right words, then looked down to his still bleeding foot. "Well, I like them."

Dean smiled, tried to hide it behind his hand, stomach churning with his mixed emotions. "Thanks," he muttered through his fingers, "but I still hate them."

"Then I will definitely call you Freckles."

"Oh, that's just cruel." Dean huffed, but seeing Castiel's little smile brought his own smile back full force.

………

Dean was always more at peace when he was alone with his guitar. He liked being around people, of course, but some days he just needed to be by himself. When summer struck and restlessness overcame him, he had a secret place he liked to go. He stumbled upon it when he was only six, wandering through the woods with no place in mind, and had claimed it as his own.

In the middle of the woods, surrounded by towering oaks and thin-trunked birch trees, three lilac trees had grown into a beautiful fort. The branches bent low, curling over to create a canopy of flowers and leaves. Dean had crawled inside, in awe of its dome, and marveled at the colors. As the years went by he realized someone must have planted them there and coaxed the trees to grow in such a way, which took away a bit of it's mythical appeal. It was still a safe haven, though.

On those days, needing solitude, Dean would sling his old acoustic guitar over his shoulder and make his way through the woods to the lilac trees he called his own. He would sit on the moss carpet under those flowering branches and strum a slow tune. Sometimes he thought he heard the birds sing along. He sang with the birds some days, so maybe they wouldn't be embarrassed to be singing alone. Truthfully, he sang with them because he hated to sing alone.

Dean never let anyone hear him sing. The songs he strummed, sure, anyone could hear and think it sounded fine; but Dean's own voice was a more personal instrument, easier for people to be judgmental about. He used to sing often, when he was younger. He used to sing along with his mother while they baked, while she pulled weeds from the little garden in their backyard, while he helped her clean, and while she guided his fingers to teach him chords on an old piano. Song was a sacred thing between them, something even John never interrupted.

But then Mary passed, and with her went Dean's voice. For years after her death, Dean hardly spoke a word, never sung a single note. His fingers wouldn't work when he tried to press the piano keys. It wasn't until he turned eight that Dean found his voice again, truly. He started learning how to play guitar, then, but never sang along unless he was singing to the forest and the birds within.

But one day he unwittingly sang to a much more human audience. An audience of one blue-eyed boy whose curiosity brought him closer and closer.

"Dean?" Castiel's voice had come from beyond the lilacs. Dean froze, fingers slipping from the chords with a distasteful twang. His heart had nestled up in his throat, mind racing. Had Castiel heard him sing? He must have.

Dean had known it would be inevitable; someone would find his secret place some day. He had hoped, however, that it could be his secret forever.

Thin fingers pulled a small branch to the side to peer within, blue eyes wide with confusion. Dean forced a smile and raised a hand in greeting. Castiel crawled through a gap in the shelter, settling in beside Dean with his legs crossed. Their eyes met, and maybe Castiel could see the nervousness within Dean's eyes, or maybe he had some sixth sense, because he didn't speak of the fact that he had heard Dean, though he knew he had. Instead he only observed the pale purple and green canopy over their heads with a kind of wonder that reminded Dean of when he was younger, more innocent, more curious.

"It's beautiful," Castiel said, voice soft and low, as if he thought the flowers were so fragile they might crumble and fall at the sound of his voice. Dean thought that his expression appeared more delicate than the flowers ever had. Though he hadn't known Castiel very long, he could see in his eyes that he was not fine.

"Why are you out here?" Dean asked, because he knew to be subtle. If Castiel didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't have to, Dean wouldn't force him.

"I needed to get away." Castiel answered, smoothing a hand down the leg of his dark slacks. He was dressed nicely -crisp white button up and a deep blue tie- but somehow he made it look as casual as a t-shirt and shorts. He tipped his head and stared at Dean, melancholy showing in his eyes, seeping from his pores. "Is that not why you are here, as well?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, readjusting his guitar so it lay resting flat against his thighs. "Sometimes I just need a little quiet."

"Silence frustrates me," Castiel stated, clasping his hands in the space between his bent legs. "I need sounds to focus on."

"Like music?" Dean asks, fingers instinctively reaching to press against the strings of his guitar.

"Yes, music is helpful." Castiel's gaze was drawn to the strings, followed up to the head where the tail end of a recently replaced string stuck up at an awkward angle. "You play very well, by the way."

Dean shrugged, mindlessly plucking at the strings. He wouldn't deny it if someone told him he was good, but his mind always told him it was no more than a lie meant to placate him. He had eventually figured out that his mind was simply pulling tricks and should not be trusted.

"I hate to ask," Castiel began, shifting to sit with his knees pulled in close to his chest. "What songs do you know?"

Dean pondered this for a moment. He'd never counted how many he knew, nor memorized the names and lyrics. "A lot of Led Zeppelin and the Beatles, stuff like that." Castiel nodded, though appeared solemn. "Did you have something specific in mind?"

"You don't have to learn anything on my behalf."

Dean shook his head and smiled softly, "I know I don't have to. But I should know more songs, might as well learn one you like."

Castiel stared, open and pouring out a strange melancholy joy, like his little smile couldn't decide if it wanted to be a frown or not. In a tentative whisper, he simply said “okay."

………

Dean had been skeptical of the song until he heard it. Castiel said "Of Monsters and Men" and Dean was immediately a bit wary of it. But after an internet search and a few hours of fumbling with chords, learning by ear, he realized he was rather fond of their music.

Dean had sat in the room he and Sam shared and practiced the chords for "Dirty Paws" until his fingers began to ache. He even learned the lyrics, though he promised himself he would never sing them aloud. But a week went by, and whenever he saw Castiel he felt at ease. Maybe, he thought, comfortable enough to sing to him. Some day.

………

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Castiel asked, laying by Dean's side in the tall grass outside Henry's cabin. The sun had just risen, the sky alight with soft shades of orange and pink. Neither of them had been able to sleep, and after Dean awkwardly attempted to toss pebbles at Castiel's window only to find him walking barefoot through the sand moments later, they spent their sleepless hours of early morning together just talking. Dean's eyes had grown heavy, and truthfully he had been half asleep when Castiel spoke up.

“Ghosts? Like, oOooOoh..?” Dean mumbled, wiggling his fingers in a mocking manner. Castiel stared at him, eyes narrowed in a way that made Dean squirm, but nodded anyway. “Yeah, of course.”

“Really?” Castiel asked, seeming genuinely surprised. Dean chuckled without knowing why, simply too tired to function as he should.

“Yeah, really.” He rolled over in the grass to look at the boy beside him, smiling. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Most people I’ve met don’t,” Castiel said, shrugging. He lolled his head to the side, meeting Dean’s eye, lips pursed. “May I ask why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“I suppose not." Castiel looked back to the sky, frowning at the places where the stars had been winking what felt like mere minutes before.

“Do you have a reason?” Dean asked, stalling. Of course he has a reason, but he’d never told anyone before and he wasn’t sure he could tell Castiel yet. Not even Sam knew, why should Cas?

“Rebellion, mostly.” Castiel moved his hands, resting them on his stomach, and pulled in a deep breath. “My brother despises superstitions, so I decided when I was little that I would believe in the supernatural. I never really meant to, but I made myself believe.”

Castiel paused, sighing, and looked at Dean with narrowed eyes. “You won’t call me crazy, right?”

“Depends on what for.”

“I still see my sister,” Castiel said, grasping at his own shoulders. “She follows me, I think.”

“That's not crazy." Dean didn't need to ask, he knew what Cas meant. He wouldn't ask about this sister, though he wanted so desperately to know what happened to her. He would wait. If Castiel ever wanted to tell him, he could do it when he was ready.

"Thank you."

Castiel's hand found Dean's wrist in the dull light of dawn, slipped down to his hand and curled thin fingers over his own. Dean told himself it was exhaustion that made Castiel do it, that it was a thoughtless action meant only to comfort. And even if it wasn't, he couldn't know. They did not speak of it. They did not, in fact, speak at all. Dean drifted, eyes falling closed. It was not until Castiel shook him awake an hour later that their hands were apart.

It meant nothing, Dean told himself as they trudged up the hill side by side, arms bumping every few steps. Nothing.

………

“I learned that song,” Dean said, smiling softly when Cas looked to him in surprise.

“Okay.” Castiel turned, all of his attention focused on Dean. Such an intense stare made Dean itch. "Can I hear it?"

Dean nodded, licked his lips, and adjusted his guitar strap so it wasn't digging into his shoulder like a hawk's talon. He hesitated a moment, fingers hovering over the strings. A deep breath in, out, and he began to pluck with his bottom lip stuck between his teeth. The first few chords we're played with an underlying nervousness, an audible twinge of stress. He closed his eyes and tried to get lost in the motions and sounds, and as he continued to pluck the strings the sounds became softer, more fluid, more emotional.

Dean didn't notice at first, because he was too quiet, but after a moment he heard the quiet whisper of lyrics as they escaped past Castiel's lips. He felt his heartbeat pick up as his fingers slipped and struck a sour note. He looked up, and Castiel did the same. Their eyes met and Dean wondered if his cheeks were as pink as Castiel's at that moment.

"Sorry," Castiel muttered, curling around himself tightly, arms wrapped around his bent knees. "I didn't mean to distract you."

"It's fine, I just... Didn't expect it." Dean mindlessly plucked at the guitar strings, working out how to word his next sentence. "You can sing, if you want to."

Castiel nodded bashfully, arranging himself so he sat with his hands clasped in the space between his crossed legs. Dean smiled, soft and unseen, and began to strum from the beginning of the song once more. This time, when Castiel sang it was with more confidence, though still quiet. He drowned his voice beneath the sea of Dean's guitar, but as they continued on he rose above, voice surfacing. Dean was caught off guard by the beauty of that voice, and he peered up at the other boy through long lashes to watch him, to see the melancholy of the lyrics creep into his features and settle there like heartbreak. Dean could feel it, all of it, each word reverberating through his chest, and his fingers carried out the tune though he was completely enraptured.

He had a way about singing that gave the song a new feeling, a personality that complimented the words as well as it did Castiel. Dean smiled as he played and listened, and let the feeling spill from Castiel's lungs and into his chest. He hadn't felt a song in such a way for so long, he nearly forgot it was possible. Really, he thought it was ridiculous that he felt anything about the song -he was not even sure what the words meant- but he decided then that he liked it; being able to feel so much for something so simple.

CHAPTER 2: JULY

Dean was sitting on the beach, toes buried in the sand, watching Sam search for little shells. It was a nice day; calm, quiet, not too hot. Dean hadn’t seen Castiel yet, though, and there was a little voice nagging at him in the back of his mind, telling him he should be worried. Castiel came out every day, admittedly sometimes a little distracted by his camera or a book but still there, keeping Dean company.

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asked, in tune with that nagging whisper. Dean shrugged.

“Maybe he’s actually getting some sleep for once.”

“Right,” Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “A robot sleeping, good joke.”

“He’s not a robot-” right on queue, Castiel came running from the trees on the other end of a long stretch of sand. Dean called out to him and raised a hand, but Castiel didn't seem to hear him, and kept running towards the lake. Dean watched, in shock, as Cas slowed and walked into the lake fully clothed.

"What the hell?" Sam asked, staring with his brow furrowed. Dean would've agreed, but he was too busy panicking about the fact that Cas wasn't stopping. He kept trudging forward through the water until it was up to his chin, and then still kept going. Dean choked on a shout and sprinted into the water, running to where he saw Cas's head go under. He fumbled through the water and, unable to catch Cas with his fingers, dove under to find him.

Sam watched on in abject terror, waiting for the moment he would see them both surface. It felt like too long, though it might have been no more than thirty seconds before Dean's head broke the surface of the water and his spluttering gasp could be heard. Sam ran to him, up to his knees in the lake, wanting to help as Dean drug Castiel to shore but too stunned to do anything but stare.

Dean's fingers were clenched tightly in the fabric of Cas's shirt, grasping and pulling him to dry land. His blue eyes were wide open, staring blankly at Dean's face. He looked broken, sick, empty. Dean prompted him to turn his head and spit out what water had made it into his mouth.

"You're not gonna need mouth to mouth, are you?" Dean asked shakily, uncertain hands working to get Cas's soaked shirt off. Castiel chuckled, closing his eyes.

"Only if you want to kiss me." He muttered halfheartedly. He looked completely exhausted. Dean realized that he did, in fact, want to kiss his friend, but was certain it wasn’t a good time. Not to mention Cas was joking.

"What were you thinking?" Dean grumbled, mood shifting as his heart calmed from the panic he had been in. "You could'a killed yourself."

"But I didn’t. You saved me.” Castiel stared at him openly, melancholy seeping from his ocean eyes. Dean could see it in there, the desire to be done with it all, but he didn’t know why it was there or how to make it go away.

Dean mulled over what he could possibly say, anything that might be helpful, but every combination of words that ran through his mind sounded harsh or cheesy, so he kept his mouth shut and took the red hoodie Sam handed his way. He helped Castiel’s hands through the sleeves and smoothed the fabric over his shoulders as he explained, “it’s a little cold today.”

Castiel only nodded in ascent, stoic as ever, though Dean could see his fingers trembling minutely. Dean could feel the chill, too, biting at his bare arms and chest, but he didn’t care. His top priority was making sure Cas was okay.

“Let’s get you inside.” Dean said, coaxing Castiel up off the ground. Castiel’s eyes widened and he shook his head, but leaned against Dean for support regardless.

“I can’t...” Cas muttered, and when Dean looked to him he saw the pure dread in his expression, maybe even fear. Dean knew that look, had felt it’s pull on his own features more than once, and he knew not to ask about what put it there.

“Okay, it’s okay. You can hang out in our cabin.” Dean thought his heart might have broken at the sound of Castiel’s relieved sigh. He wanted to know, wanted to be able to fix it, but he promised himself then and there that he wouldn’t push Cas. He didn’t want to make things worse.

Time passed slowly that afternoon. Dean bundled Cas up in a blanket, made him food, assured him that he wasn't a burden though he seemed convinced. Dean had methods for ignoring the times he felt that way, but he didn’t know what would work for Cas, so he tried everything. He tried movies and junk food, loud music, even ushered him into the bathroom to take a hot shower when he started to look even more miserable than before. When Cas had come back out, wrapped up in a towel, dark hair still damp and curled over his forehead, he looked like he had something to say. Dean stood still, dry clothes held out in offering, and waited for Castiel to speak.

“I don’t think I like being coddled.” he finally said, frowning. Dean almost laughed at his stiff tone, but only nodded instead. He thought he should have known better, truly. He never cared for it, either, when he was in a bad mood.

“Sorry,” Dean said, licking his lips. “I’m just worried. I wanted to help.”

“I know, Dean. And thank you for trying, but…” Cas pressed his lips together, as if in thought, and averted his eyes towards the weathered wood floor. “I need something different.”

“What do you need?” Dean asked, too quickly probably. He cringed, aware of his continued -and unwanted- nursing. Don’t be a mother hen, he scolded, though simultaneously pushed the clothing in his hands further out to Castiel, practically begging him to take them. Finally he did, clutching the clothes to his chest while he kept his other hand tightly gripping the towel around his waist.

“I need to do something… reckless.”

Dean’s mind wandered despite his pleading that it wouldn’t, and a thousand scenarios began to play out behind his eyes. Reckless. It could mean taking a dive off of a cliff into cold water, stealing a car and taking a road trip, robbing a bank; or it could mean regrettable moments of intimacy, kisses fueled by hard liquor, marks sucked into the bottom of jaws and in the hollows of necks. Reckless could mean any number of things, many of which left Dean feeling a little breathless.

“Reckless?” He asked, because he needed to know what it meant coming from Castiel’s lips. His heart thumped off rhythm as Castiel pondered the question.

“Do you know where we can get hair dye?” Castiel finally asked, and Dean huffed a laugh equal parts relief and self-pity. He wanted to punch himself for thinking that Castiel, so innocent and pure as he was, would want to rebel in any other way.

“Yeah. I can take you now, if you want.” Dean offered, but looked Castiel up and down and as an afterthought, added, “as soon as you’re dressed.”

………

Dean felt awkward surrounded by women’s beauty products, out of place and judged. There was a woman beside him who couldn’t seem to decide if she wanted to focus her gaze on the hair dryers or him, and her relentless judgement made him itch under the collar. He hoped Cas would hurry and pick a damn color so they could leave, but he seemed insistent on reading the labels on every box. The woman had come and gone with her fancy new hair dryer long before Castiel made a decision. He stood up from where he had settled in front of the rows of boxes, held his final choice up for Dean to see, possibly seeking approval.

“Why purple?” Dean asked, eyeing the box warily. He looked at Castiel, trying and failing to imagine him with purple hair.

“Why not purple?” Castiel countered, raising one brow slightly. Dean shrugged in defeat, adjusting the bag strap on his shoulder.

“Remember what I told you?” He asked, side eyeing the end of the aisle. There was no one around, but caution was a priority at such a time. Castiel nodded, glancing quite obviously towards the other end of the aisle. He shuffled closer, closing in on Dean. Their eyes were locked, staring, losing focus as the distance between them lessened. Dean’s heart was hammering away, palms sweaty, and he thought Castiel looked surprisingly calm as he slipped the box into the open pocket of Dean’s bag. He lingered, breathing out as Dean breathed in, lashes fluttering over his cheeks.

Dean closed his eyes, unable to continue staring into the depths of Castiel’s eyes, and unwilling to let himself look at his lips. Behind his eyes he imagined taking hold of Castiel’s face, letting himself fall forward, pressing lips to lips in a fervent kiss. He opened his eyes again and Cas had moved, three feet of empty air hanging between them, and Dean found himself just as relieved as he was disappointed.

When did I start thinking like a chick flick?

“See anything you want?” Dean asked, voice thick. He swallowed, hoping Cas hadn’t taken notice of his nervousness or the terrible attempt at flirtation, and turned his gaze to a shelf lined with makeup. Castiel hummed in thought, staring intently at a cardboard display filled with sticks of eyeliner. He reached out to pluck one from the box, examining it with an odd kind of concentration.

“Wouldn’t it hurt to use that?” Dean asked, scrunching his nose in distaste. Castiel shrugged and pulled the cap off of the tip, drawing a line on the pad of his finger.

“I can see how it may be painful.” he muttered, replacing the stick. He chose a different brand, snapping the cap off to examine the tip, this time felt. He glanced up at Dean questioningly, and Dean shrugged, though he was surprised that Castiel would want eyeliner in the first place. He stepped closer and slipped it into Dean’s pocket slyly. Dean tried not to think about it too much.

They had agreed, while sitting in the parking lot, that Dean would be the one to carry everything. Or, really, Dean had insisted that he should be the one to blame if they got caught. Castiel had stared at him, lips pressed into a thin line, but nodded in ascent despite the argument that was surely resting on the tip of his tongue.

………

Dean had his glove-clad fingers shoved into Castiel’s hair, plastic crinkling as he pulled through over and over to spread the dye to every strand of his bleached locks. The bleaching had been unpleasant. Dean’s eyes burned from the fumes and Castiel hummed in irritation at the way it tingled and stung his scalp. Washing it out was like salvation for both of them, and though Dean had actually liked Cas as a blond, he was insistent that he wanted the purple, and Dean obliged because he’d rather do it than let Castiel make a mess of his whole head trying to do it himself.

“Have you done this before?” Castiel asked, shifting slightly on the chair Dean had drug into the bathroom. He stared at Dean through the mirror, and Dean met his reflection’s eye.

“Once.” He huffed in irritation and pulled his fingers through a small tangle in Castiel’s hair. “A family friend went through a rebellious phase and asked me to help her dye her hair black after she totally failed at dying it red. A while later she chopped it all off so it would grow out blonde again.”

Castiel hummed in response, tipping his head to one side when Dean finally retracted his hands and announced that they had to wait for it to set.

"What constitutes a phase?" Cas asked, and Dean was tempted to be a smartass, because he knew Castiel would know the dictionary definition even though he'd asked. But instead he paused to think.

"Temporary behavior," he said, plucking at the rolled edge of one plastic glove. "Like, a kid whose 'emo' for a few weeks, or a midlife crisis."

Castiel nodded thoughtfully, lips pressed into a thin line. "And if it's something different... Sexuality, for example."

"Then it's not a phase," Dean answered simply. "I don't think sexuality is ever a phase."

"Neither do I." Castiel said, wringing his hands in his lap. Dean thought, then, that he understood what had happened that morning. Castiel looked like he wanted to say it aloud, to let the floodgates open and pour his secrets into Dean, to trust him.

Dean wanted it, selfishly. He wanted to be Castiel's rock, to be a set of willing ears, to be the open-minded friend who could be trusted with his deepest secrets. But he sat, silent, staring into his own face in the mirror. Dean could see the hate in his gaze, and he wished he could make it disappear

"I'm bi," Dean whispered, without thinking about it first. He was tempted to clap a hand over his mouth before he managed to blurt out any other terrible, horrible secrets. Cas looked up at him, and Dean feared that hatred would now be aimed at him, but all he saw when he looked back was surprise. "I... I don't know why I said that. No one knows."

"I'm not bothered," Cas said, voice softened and low. A hint of a smile flickered across his face. "Thank you for trusting me, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean croaked, mortified. He could feel the blood in his face; could easily imagine the blotchy pinkness of his cheeks. "No problem."

Castiel observed Dean for a moment, then shook his head. "You're embarrassed."

"A little, yeah," Dean chuckled, scrubbing at the back of his neck. "But it's fine. I mean, if I was gonna tell anyone I would've picked you."

"Me?" Cas asked, disbelieving. Dean shrugged helplessly.

"Yeah, I mean... You're not a judgmental prick-" like my dad, he doesn't say. But he wants to. Oh, does he want to. "-and I dunno... I just. Yeah."

"Well, thank you." Castiel smiles softly, clearly amused by Dean's rambling. "I'm honored."

Dean did not open his mouth, fearing that he might lose control and spill every little -or large- secret that sat filed away in his mind. Most of all he bit his lips closed to keep himself from telling Castiel about the number of times he had imagined kissing him in the past twelve hours alone; the way he kept finding himself thinking about how chemistry works and if it could be a word that applied to the way the air felt thicker the closer they stood.

“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?” Castiel asked, and maybe it was just that he didn’t know what was coming next, but Dean felt his heartbeat falter in his chest. He forced a little smile and nodded, praying to no one in particular that Cas couldn’t see through him to his thoughts. Castiel hesitated, mouth half open like the words were already there, pushing to escape. “I do not know what I am, but I know I’m not… ‘straight’.”

Castiel’s use of air quotes forced a little chuckle from Dean, and he contorted his mouth to keep himself from smiling. He knew it wasn’t really funny, but he found it cute. Dean cleared his throat and thoughtlessly reached out to examine Castiel’s hair with the intention of checking if he missed any roots, but he only stared, mesmerized, lost in thought. If Cas was not straight, he thought, then maybe he had a chance. Maybe, if he could just stop being such a baby.

“Have you done any research?” Dean asked, perhaps too quietly. Castiel peered up at him through his lashes in the mirror, and Dean wondered if he meant it to look as shyly flirtatious as it did.

“No, not exactly.” Castiel sighed softly and folded his hands in his lap, as if they were having a diplomatic discussion rather than a friendly conversation. Dean knew the signs well enough, having displayed them himself too many times to count; Cas was closing off. He nodded, understanding, and told himself he wouldn’t push. As per usual, Dean couldn’t keep a promise to himself to save his life.

“So, what kind of people do you like, then? Maybe we can figure this out.” Dean regretted the moment the words left his mouth, suspended in the molasses that filled the space between the two of them. Castiel gave him a look, unreadable and absolutely terrifying, and Dean rushed to amend, “if you’re comfortable telling me. You don’t have to, I’d understand.”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel said, frustration poisoning his tone. He slumped lower in the chair, drawing his brows together in a petulant glare aimed at the mirror. “It’s not that I am uncomfortable telling you, rather that I am irritated by my own uncertainty. I should know my own preferences.”

“It’s okay to not know,” Dean replied gingerly, speaking slow and quiet. The last thing he wanted was to aggravate the boy more. “Labels can be restricting, ya know? You’re just you.”

“But I want to know, and I do not. I can’t understand my own mind.” Castiel huffed, cheeks red.

“You’ll figure it out,” Dean promised, attempting a smile in the hopes that it might alleviate some of the tension. The air still crackled with negative energy and he felt his smile falter. Their eyes met, very briefly in the mirror, and behind the teenage angst and irritation there was something soft and warm, something Dean couldn’t quite grasp. The air shifted, the tension morphing into something different, thicker and more ruddy. He knew, truthfully, what it was, but he was too scared to admit to himself that it was really there and aimed at him. Instead, he pulled his fingers through Castiel’s hair and quietly said, “we should wash this out, now.”

Castiel nodded without a word, lips set into a firm line, and stood, wrapping the towel around his shoulders tighter. He knelt down before the bathtub, back to the cold white ceramic basin, and stared at the wall. Dean somewhat awkwardly knelt beside him, placing one gloved hand at the base of his skull, and gently led him so that his head was over the lip of the tub. He turned the knobs, letting the water run warm before pulling the extendable shower head down, rinsing Castiel's hair. He worked his fingers through those purple locks until the water ran clear, then reached for the little plastic packet of color-safe conditioner that came with the dye. When he looked back, Castiel was staring up at him, deep blue gaze focused and intense.

Dean’s heartbeat tripped, his own eyes traitorously falling to the other boy’s lips. Something about the moment struck him still, keeping him from being able to look away, though he knew he should. His gaze flickered up, a cautious glance to see if he had been caught staring, and he found Castiel’s eyes locked to the approximate location of his own lips. He swallowed thickly, unable to believe that it meant anything. But Castiel’s hand, somehow fitting into place on Dean’s elbow, made him rethink every one of the last dozen times he had chanced a look down at those plush pink lips and had not moved in to feel the press of them against his own. Maybe, he thought, he should take a risk. Maybe it would be worth it in the end.

Dean found himself leaning in, hesitant, slow. He thought, surely, if Cas didn’t want that he would have the time to stop him, then. Dean’s heavy eyelids fell slowly, vision narrowing until he couldn’t see Castiel’s features through his lashes. He could feel Castiel exhale, smell the flowery sweetness of the conditioner in his hair, and became lightheaded with his desire. He thought, in that moment, that he had never wanted to be so close to anyone as he did with Castiel. He wanted the heat he felt radiating from the boy’s intoxicating mouth, to feel it soak into the flesh of his lips the way skin takes in the sun’s warmth.

There was just the barest brush of lips, not even truly a touch by any sane person’s definition, before the bathroom door creaked offensively and Dean pulled away as if burned. He could not look at Castiel, heart stuck too far in his throat, pounding too hard. He looked to the open door, instead, to find his brother standing there with his hair a mess and one sock missing.

“What’re you doing up?” Dean asked, keeping his hand supporting Castiel’s head.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Sam said, scratching at the top of his head with a frown. “It’s past one.”

Dean hummed in surprise. He hadn’t realized how late it was. Time flies, he thought, unsure of what time it had been the last time he even bothered to check. He felt lost.

“What happened to your hair?” Sam asked, now directing his attention to Castiel. Dean held back a smile, turned to raise a brow at Cas. He looked flustered, but Dean couldn’t decide if it was because of their interrupted moment or because of Sam’s question. Either way, the rosy tint to his cheeks was a pleasant sight to see.

“I wanted to make a change.” Castiel replied, voice low and rough. Dean told himself that the sound wasn’t the cause of the goose-bumps that dotted his arms and back, but he knew it was a lie.

“He rebelled,” Dean added jokingly, winking at Castiel as he carefully guided him back to rinse the conditioner from his hair.

Dean could feel Sam staring, figured he must have known. Sam was a smart kid, and he had eyes. Dean felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, stand up on end, fearful of his brother's judgement. He hardly cared what anyone thought of him -at least outwardly- but Sam's opinion of him was different, impactful. If Sam thought badly of Dean, it would be immeasurably painful, the feeling of letting him down in some way.

……… 

“Do you think we will still be friends after the summer ends?” Dean asked, turning his head to look at Cas, cheek resting against his bicep. Castiel had decided not to go back to his cabin after his brother saw what he did with his hair and lectured him for an hour, so they were hiding away in that secret place they now shared. Dean chewed his lip and tried to focus more on the fact that Cas’s hair matched the flowers surrounding them, or on the thick black lines around his eyes and the way it made his blue eyes even more piercing, rather than the silence that hung between them.

“I hope so.” Cas finally replied, returning Dean’s stare with a soft smile. He seemed sad.

“Let’s be friends forever.” Dean said, only half joking. He scoffed inwardly at his words, the childish way they sounded coming out of his mouth. He remembered saying the same thing to a girl with deep brown eyes when he was six, and he couldn’t even remember her name anymore. It might have been a hollow promise, but the idea of forever was incredibly appealing. It always had been. Forever seemed to be the only thing that he could convince himself of anymore without proof, oddly enough.

And when Cas replied with a sweetly whispered “okay”, forever sounded like heaven. Unachievable but perfect; even if it was only those lazy afternoons lying in the tall grass, sun beating down on their faces, hiding away from the world. Even if they were just friends. Forever.

………

Dean heard about a bonfire on the beach and thought maybe, as much as it pained him, it might be good for him and Cas if they talked to other people. After all, Cas must have been growing tired of him after almost two full months spent together, nearly inseparable. Dean knew he wasn’t the most interesting person, and surely Cas hated those moments spent in silence or listening to him spout off about the stupid things he loved. So Dean convinced Cas to come with him to this bonfire party, thinking maybe if he couldn’t be interesting someone else could. But Cas didn’t seem to want to leave his side.

Two drinks in, Dean was surprised the other boy hadn’t just latched onto his arm and clung like a leech. He wouldn’t dream of complaining, though, because there was a part of him that wanted that, deep down. He wanted that night to be proof that Cas had not grown tired of him, wanted the chick-flick moments and the proximity, but he'd never say as much.

By one in the morning Cas had enough alcohol in his system to start acting a little out of character; leaning in close enough to Dean that when he spoke his lips brushed against his cheek. And he was smiling, boundless, overtly flirtatious. He said he was thinking in shades of yellow.

At one thirty someone passed Cas a joint and he looked to Dean for acceptance before taking a drag. He pulled it in deep and held it in for a long moment, and Dean found himself mesmerized by the smoke that poured up from his lips as he exhaled. Cas passed it to him, coughing only once at the irritation in his throat and lungs. Dean wondered, as he accepted the offer, how many times Cas had smoked before then. Maybe it was common for him. He realized, then, that there was a lot he still didn't know about Cas, and he hated that. He wished he knew it all, but instead of asking any questions he occupied his mouth with the joint and thought about how many sets of lips had touched it before his own.

Around two, Cas sighed and yawned, announcing that he wanted to take a nap, and moved to lay with his head against Dean’s thigh. By then Dean was under enough influence that he didn't have it in him to feel weird about it or complain, and instead rested his hand on Cas's shoulder and watched the fire crackle in the pit.

"Isn't fire beautiful?" Cas quietly asked. Dean turned his gaze down to him as the other looked up to meet his eye. He sounded as inebriated as he was, and if Dean wasn't a little worried he might've laughed. "I mean, it's harsh and destructive, but it's so amazing. It's so bright and bold. Beautiful." He paused, licking his lips. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he returned his gaze to the fire. "Kinda like you."

Dean's cheeks turned red with warmth as he struggled to process Cas's words. Had he meant to imply he thought Dean was beautiful? Or was Dean simply assuming things? The thought had his heart pounding at an odd rhythm. He didn't reply, unwilling to make a fool of himself.

A quiet "aww" escaped the lips of a boy to Dean's left. He turned to look at the boy; at his deep set, glassy eyes and his curly brown hair. He had a tiny, wistful smile on his face. Dean didn't bother to respond, instead letting his eyes fall to Cas's fire-lit profile. He found himself yearning to touch; to reach that small distance to run his fingers through lilac-colored hair or along the sharp line of his jaw. His fingers twitched and he curled them tighter around the neck of his beer bottle instead, to keep them occupied.

At three in the morning Cas sat up, rubbed his eyes, and announced that he was ready to leave. Dean agreed easily, since everyone else had either left or simply stopped acknowledging them. Dean stood and held a hand out for Cas to take, helped him up to his feet. Cas did not let go of his hand, and Dean told himself he didn't mean anything by it, though inside he felt all twisted up and giddy. He couldn't decide if the gesture was only made because Cas was still a little drunk and tired or if it was something more, and wondering left his stomach turning.

"Can I stay with you tonight?" Cas asked when they were half way up the hill. Dean smiled through the haze in his mind, hand warm where Cas was clutching it in his own.

"Of course." He gently squeezed Cas's hand, still in awe of the fact that it was really there, curled around his own. They snuck inside quietly, careful not to step on any creaky floorboards, up into Sam and Deans' shared room. They laid together, and Cas clung to Dean, yawned into his bicep.

Dean smiled down at Cas, enamored with the curve of his nose and the cut of his cheekbones. He wanted to kiss the other boy, but refrained. This was enough, he thought. This, hand holding and near-cuddling was more than he could have expected, and it was enough.

CHAPTER 3: AUGUST

Twigs snapped under Dean's shoes as he walked by Castiel's side in silence. He typically felt comfortable in the silences they shared. He had never liked silence with people around. It almost felt wrong, like he always needed to have something to say. But Cas never seemed to care if he had nothing to say to fill the space. Sometimes, if the air was really thick, Cas would find something to say. It became clear early on that, even with Castiel's "rusty social skills", he was better at coming up with things to say on the spot than Dean, who seemed only to be good at embarrassing himself. And on days like that day, when there was a horrible tension between them, they needed a little something to break it.

Castiel wasn't always good at picking appropriate topics, though, and at times it was unclear if the tension would grow or be snapped.

"Do you remember when I said I could see my sister?" Castiel asked, out of the blue. Dean remembered it, though it was a little foggy. Mostly he remembered the feelings that went with the moment; the melancholy quiet, the warm press of their palms in sympathy and comfort, the chill of early morning air.

“I remember.” Dean replied. Castiel nodded, kicked a pebble towards a tree that was bent as if in agony. 

“She died when I was eight. It has been ten years, today, and I’m still not over it.” Castiel sighed shakily, and Dean couldn’t help but stare at him, concerned. “It was a car accident.”

“I’m sorry, Cas...” Dean whispered, heart aching. The silence returned, heavier than before. Dean shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and pondered what would be the appropriate way to break this tense lull. He empathized, having experienced his mother’s death at a young age as well, but he was terrible with putting his thoughts into words. He glanced up from where his eyes had fixed to the ground, expecting but not finding Castiel next to him. His heart skipped a beat as he turned, prepared for the worst, only to catch sight of the other boy kneeling at the side of the path with his hand outstretched toward the trees.

Castiel’s gaze was fixed and intense, staring at his finger, where Dean noticed a small green something clinging. He carefully lowered his hand and ushered the thing onto a blade of grass. When he stood and turned, Dean was already staring at him in confusion, one brow raised. Castiel shrugged.

“What was that about?”

“I saw a silkworm hanging... it was very high up. I was worried that it might fall.”

Dean chuckled softly, “you know that silk they make is like, super strong, right?”

“Even the strongest threads can snap,” Castiel retorted, voice soft and low. “I just wanted to be sure it was safe.”

Dean found himself staring again, in awe of his dorky, caring friend. He’d never met anyone before who would go out of their way to save something so small and insignificant, nor anyone who could say something so deep as if it meant nothing. Shaking himself from a slight daze, Dean smiled softly and, enamored, he whispered, “you’re so weird.”

A small, quiet smile slipped onto Castiel’s face.

………

"We should have a fire," Sam commented. He was laying on the floor with his feet up on the couch, staring at the ceiling with his shaggy hair fanned out around his head. "Like, a big one."

"We don't have any wood." Dean huffed. He was laying in a similar position to his brother, but with his head hanging over the edge of the couch and his feet in the air.

"Then go grab some," Sam replied, tone suggesting he thought Dean was an idiot for not thinking of it himself. "There's an axe somewhere..."

"You can't just get wood." Cas interjected from where he laid sprawled out on the floor like a lazy starfish. Dean raised a brow at him upside down and Cas met his eye, condescending.

"You just whack it," Dean said, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly. "Simple."

"There are laws, Dean."

"Oh come on, Baby-blue. Don't tell me you're afraid of breaking a few rules." Dean teased, leveling his friend with a challenging glare and a smirk.

"There's nothing little about them, Freckles."

"Fine," Dean grumped, ungracefully rolling off of the couch and onto his feet. He stretched to relieve his muscles of the strain from disuse. They had been lazing around all day, he needed to move. "I'll find the axe and get the wood myself."

"Dean," Cas groaned, rolling his eyes. "You can't."

"You wanna bet? I bet I can get a whole lot of wood. Big wood. Fuck you," he grumbled, shuffling to the front door to pull on his shoes. With his hand on the door knob, he turned and looked Cas in the eye, "now are you coming or not?"

Cas stared at him for a long moment, impassive and all squinty like he was thinking hard about it. Finally he got up on his feet with a grunt, tugged his shirt back down to cover his stomach, and grudgingly made his way to the door. Dean was not surprised when Cas decided to forego shoes and just stormed past him, through the door and towards the woods.

"Whoa, slow down, Buddy! I don't even have the axe yet," Dean called out, jogging to where Henry's axe was stuck in a stump around the corner. He pried the blade from the stump and turned, only to find Cas sitting cross-legged in the grass with a frown on his face. Without thinking first, Dean blurted, "someone's in a bad mood... When's the last time you got laid?"

He stopped in his tracks, readjusting his grip on the axe handle as he rethought what he'd just said. Maybe Cas would see it for what it was meant to be; an innocent jab, a friendly joke. Surely he wouldn't make any assumptions.

"Ah, never." Cas sighed, glaring at the ground from the corner of his eyes.

"Wait, really?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" Cas asked, one brow now raised, eyes trained on Dean's face. He hoped his blush was not as visible as it was warm.

Dean's filter, apparently, had taken a vacation to someplace far away, so he couldn't stop himself from saying, "are you kidding me? Dude, someone as good looking as you... I would'a guessed at least 3 people."

"Well, you would have been wrong." There is a hint of disappointment behind his words which Dean did not expect.

"Nobody back home you're pining for?" Dean asked, despising himself for letting the question escape his lips. 

"I’ve never found much interest in anyone before." Cas said flatly. There was a small waver in his voice and Dean wondered what caused it, but didn't ask, instead only shook his head and slung the axe over his shoulder. As Cas got up on his feet he explained, "I've been doing research... I was thinking I may be demisexual, but pansexual also seemed to fit.”

“Demi?”

“Basically it means I don't feel sexual attraction towards anyone until I have established a strong bond with someone, then only toward them."

"A bond?" Dean asked, brow raised skeptically. The phrasing raised some suspicion in the back of Dean's mind, but he avoided it. Surely, what ever kind of relationship they had, it was not a "strong bond".

He remembered the warmth of Castiel's palm fitted to his own, the way he curled into him like he felt the need to protect. He remembered the hot air passed between their lips over the edge of a claw-foot tub.

Maybe.

"Yes, a bond." Cas shrugged, like he wanted Dean to believe that this wasn't something interesting and huge. To Dean, though, it was. This new information was intriguing, and also terrifying. Terrifying because it meant possibility. It meant maybe.

"Alright," Dean said. He refrained from asking Cas what they were, what kind of bond they had. Was it strong? He couldn't let himself dwell on it, fearing that he may make a mistake. Instead he continued down the path until he found a fallen tree and raised a brow at Cas, "what about this wood?"

"You can take that. It's already downed." Cas nodded, and Dean smiled.

"So I can whack it?" He asked, voice tainted with childish amusement. Cas nodded, clueless. Dean shook his head and smiled a little wider, "you're so innocent, man."

Cas raised a brow and Dean laughed, raised the axe up and swung it into the fallen tree.

………

"You haven't been in your own cabin for more than two minutes in the last month and a half, dude." Dean said, knocking Cas's game-piece off of the board. "Sorry."

"I don't want to be there. We came here to have a vacation, which implies a temporary escape from the horror of our family. The environment in there is toxic." Cas sighed and rested his cheek against his fist. He stared at the board for a long moment before he made a move. "And I like it better here with you, anyway."

Dean looked up at Cas, through his lashes and over the line of his half-raised hand. "No shit?"

"None."

Dean frowned, "well I guess you're lucky I like having you around, then."

Cas nodded and smiled softly, "I suppose I am lucky.”

………

"Why isn't your father here with you?" Cas asked one day, after the color in his hair had begun to fade from purple to pink. They were staring up at the leaves and wilting lilacs above their heads. Dean shrugged though he knew the answer.

"Since I can drive now he sent me and Sammy up to be with Henry on our own this year. He wanted to stay back and work..." Dean sighed, long suffering and bitter. "But I know he's just drinking himself stupid."

"Oh..." Cas muttered, chewing his bottom lip. Dean stared at him, focusing on his chin where there was a fine layer of stubble. For a seventeen year old he had decent facial hair. Dean felt a strange urge to reach out and brush his knuckles against the cut of his jaw, just to feel if it was as scratchy as it looked. Maybe if he just asked, he'd have an excuse to touch.

Dean forced his gaze up, and Cas caught his eye, staring. Cas never just looked, it seemed, only stared. Every glance was lingering, searching.

"Is he... A good father?" He asked, and Dean had been so lost in those oceanic, black-lined eyes that he had forgotten they were, at some point, having a conversation.

"Not exactly. He tries, I guess, but..." Dean pursed his lips, catching himself before he said too much. But Cas raised his brow in a way that was intimidating as much as it was open, and Dean couldn't help himself. "He's not. He tried to make me sell myself a few times. Drinks until he knocks himself out, and when he's awake he... He's an ass."

Castiel fell silent, eyes fixed to the ground. He looked as faraway and misty-eye'd as Dean felt. Dean begged in his mind, pleading that Cas wouldn't ask him about any of it. "What about Henry?"

"He's around somewhere," Dean answered, making a vague, circular gesture with his hand. He felt his heart settle in his chest in a way one could only attribute to a feeling of relief. "He's mostly always reading or hanging out with all his old friends. Sometimes he goes fishing."

Castiel sighed and turned his nose to the sky, closing his eyes. "You and Sam are alone too often."

"But we're not," Dean said without thought. He hadn't ever thought about it, until then. They didn't need John or Henry, because they had each other. And then they had Cas, too, who was starting to feel more and more like family. "We've got you."

Cas made a quiet sound, like he couldn't quite believe what Dean had said. Or maybe like it meant too much for him to put into words, to hear that implication of family ties. But when he replied, despite the slight frown tugging at his lips, he sounded happy, though uncertain. "I suppose you do. And I have you."

"You do," Dean said, and chewed his lip. Cas didn't know, couldn't know, the extent to which Dean meant the words. Under his thumb, wrapped around his finger, stuck; Cas had him. But Cas didn't know, because Dean couldn't say it. "I'm glad you do."

"So am I.”

………

"Quit stalling."

Dean stared up into a tree, at the dangling form above him. Cas was grinning, kicking his feet back and forth where they hung down from the branch on which he had perched. He looked smug, like he thought Dean was afraid to climb. He wasn't. Much.

"I'm not stalling, I'm just... Worried you might fall." Dean replied, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He watched Castiel rock forward, balancing precariously on his branch, and pulled his hands out, prepared to catch Cas if he lost balance.

"I won't." Cas smiled, soft and innocent, deceiving. "Even if I were to fall, I know you would catch me."

"But I can't catch you if I'm up there, too."

Cas pursed his lips, thoughtful, and shrugged his shoulders, "we can keep each other up."

Dean sighed, defeated, and sent Cas a heat-less glare as he stepped up to the base of the tree and grabbed hold of a low branch. He heaved himself up, climbing carefully until he found himself stuck up on a branch next to Castiel. Without a word, Cas smiled, soft and warm, the kind of smile that showed his little dimples, and held out a hand in offer of stability. Dean took his hand, unwilling to face the intimacy of the way their fingers intertwined and fit together perfectly, and let his feet dangle, heavy and swinging, as his heart thumped in his chest like a sledge hammer.

"My mother used to tell me..." Cas started, interrupting a silence that had settled so easily. Dean peered at him, curious. "When I was younger she used to tell me that when you love someone, you should let them know."

Dean felt his heart leap up into his throat, equal parts terrified and hopeful. "And?" He croaked, and when Cas looked at him it was too much, he had to turn his head away. His cheeks were red, he could feel it.

"Sometimes I wonder if that philosophy is what got her heart broken." Castiel's voice was quiet, shaky. Dean felt sick and confused. He felt like Castiel's words were on the precipice of a confession, a lead in to something so much larger, something he wasn't sure he could handle.

"Maybe it was," he said, because even though a part of him longed to hear those words, he wasn't ready, wasn't sure he ever would be. It was too soon, too much. But he wanted it. Selfishly, he wanted Cas to say it first.

Into silence, they fell.

………

"It's my birthday."

Dean looked up, surprised, mouth slightly agape. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't want you to spend money on me. It would be unnecessary." Castiel shrugged at Dean's dumbfounded stare.

"What if I wanted to, though?"

"I... You could. But I don't want you to." Cas frowned, petulant, and Dean knew he couldn't win that argument. Instead he huffed and chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought. Cas was the kind of person who cherished moments over material, which Dean was surprised to find made things harder. But he would think of something. He had to, because Castiel's family would not.

………

"I've never had whisky," Cas muttered as he warily eyed the bottle of amber liquid in Dean's hands. "Won't we get in trouble?"

"I thought you were a rebel," Dean teased, smiling as he unscrewed the cap. Cas huffed and shook his head. "You don't have to drink any, I'm only offering."

"I know," he said, side-eyeing the bottle. After a long moment of contemplating, he reached out a hand to take the bottle. Dean handed it over easily, watched as Cas uncapped it and raised it to smell. He hummed, eyes narrowed, "it will burn, won't it?"

Dean chuckled and nodded, "that's kinda what alcohol does, Baby-blue."

Cas grunted quietly in response and raised the bottle to his lips, taking a hearty sip. He spluttered slightly, swallowed, and visibly forced his expression to remain stoic. Dean had to give him credit, at least, for being able to keep a straight face through the burn of a first sip. Then he surprised Dean as he raised the glass lip of the bottle to his mouth once more. He couldn't help but get caught up in the bob of his throat as he swallowed, or to notice the little drop that slipped from the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

If he were drunk, he thought, he might have had less reservation about the idea of licking the alcohol from Castiel's chin. But Cas handed the bottle over, and their fingers brushed as it was passed between them. He took a long pull, savoring the burn as it slithered hot down his throat. Maybe he could forget how much he wanted Cas, if he focused on that sensation instead.

Passing the bottle back and forth, they drank until they could not think, because thinking meant feeling. They drank until their heads were swimming, and Dean could no longer quite decide what was right and wrong. Apparently Cas was not much better off, because he leaned over, head pressed to Dean's shoulder, and muttered, "we should go skinny dipping."

"What? No." Dean laughed, but Cas frowned up at him. He was not joking.

"I've never done it before."

"Oh," is all Dean could say, and Cas stood up, pulled Dean up with him. He began working at Dean's shirt buttons, pushing each through its respective hole. "Whoa, hey, Cas. What're you doin'?"

"You can't skinny dip unless you're naked," he said with utter seriousness. He looked up at Dean, so damn close. It was nearly infuriating.

Kiss him. Do it now.

"Yeah, I know, but I don't know if it's the best idea right now," Dean muttered, voice low. Cas's eyes had grown dark, fingers still working at the buttons on Dean's shirt. "You're a little drunk."

"So are you. And if I do this I'm not going to do it alone, Dean."

Dean sighed and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. How the hell was he supposed to think reasonably when Cas could say his name like that? Like he was made of sex and whiskey, but still so innocent, telling of his inexperience and sincerity.

"You're drunk, though," Dean said, desperate now, because Cas's fingers had found their way to the button on his pants. His elegant fingers worked their way between the waist of Dean’s jeans and his too-warm skin. He shuddered and took hold of Cas's hands to stop him.

"I can do that on my own," Dean breathed out, biting his lip to keep himself from making any embarrassing sounds as Cas's fingers brushed the sensitive spot on his stomach, moved up under his shirt, trailing along his sides.

What the hell?

"Okay, fine," Cas mumbled, crowding closer to Dean. His hands did not leave Dean's waist, though. Cas had not been known for his respect for personal space, but he was also never quite so hands-on as he was while drunk. Dean thought he would never get used to it.

"You should, uh... Maybe get undressed, too," Dean said, fumbling with his words, distracted by the little patterns Cas started tracing against his skin. And Cas nodded, stepping away slightly. He made quick work of his t-shirt and jeans, tossing them at Dean with an out of place wide smirk on his face. Dean did not move, stuck still with confusion and slight unease, and Cas moved in again, hands immediately reaching to slide the shirt off of his shoulders, letting it pool on the ground.

"You wear too much clothing," Cas said, and Dean couldn't stop himself from reaching up to cup his face. He could kiss Cas, he realized. He knew he could. And god knows he wanted to, but they were both a little drunk and Dean was scared that he might regret it later.

"You sure you want to do this?" Dean asked quietly, because they were too damn close to each other, and Cas was tugging on the hem of his t-shirt. "We could get in trouble."

"But you don't care about getting in trouble. We both know that."

Okay, so Dean was never the most responsible person, but there are a lot of reasons why that was a bad idea, and so many more reasons that he wanted to. So he nodded, despite the twisting feeling in his gut, and let Cas pull his shirt up over his head. Cas smiled and reached up to run his fingers through Dean's hair.

"Your hair is so messy," he said, a low laugh bubbling up from his chest. He'd never laughed so freely until drunk, freed from his introvert nature for a brief time. "It's really sexy."

Dean's breath hitched in his throat and he tipped his head up so he didn’t have to look at the pure temptation standing in front of him with fingers trailing feather-light down his stomach. Those fingers halted at the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button. Dean grabbed Cas's hands and swallowed thickly, refusing to look at him for fear it might make him do something stupid. More stupid, that is, than what they had already done; more stupid than stealing an old bottle of whiskey from where John had hid them in the cabin and drinking most of it.

"I've got it, Cas," he said, and Cas shuffled back with an indignant huff. Dean opened his eyes to see Cas standing with his thumbs hooked under the elastic of his boxers, watched, entranced as he started to tug on the fabric. And Cas must have known he was watching because he turned away and chuckled quietly as he pulled them down to his ankles. Dean knew Cas had a nice ass, but damn if it wasn't a thousand times better when completely bare.

Dean's eyes made their way up to meet blue, and Cas growled in a way that was somehow just as sexy as it was awkward, then sprinted towards the water faster than Dean could process it. He ran a few feet in, water splashing up around him, and dove in more gracefully than Dean thought he should be able to while drunk.

Dean would forever deny that he was in a hurry to get undressed and into that water.

He followed Castiel into the lake, falling in with a echoing splash despite his instincts telling him to be as quiet as possible. As he surfaced, he found Cas treading water a few short feet away, grinning like a fool. And dammit, he looked adorable in that moment, but somehow still like a god with the moonlight illuminating his wet face. Shit.

Dean swam closer, until their legs bumped together under the surface. He thought he should say something, anything at all so that they weren't just staring at each other. But his mind was not functioning like it should, and all he could think was touch him, touch him, kiss him, touch him, and that seemed like a bad idea even to his whisky soaked brain. Except that it didn't seem like all that bad of an idea. Dean was just scared. But Cas reached out and swiped his finger across Dean's cheek, and his heartbeat stuttered in his chest.

"You're wet," Cas said, as if it was a surprise to him. Dean laughed, caught off guard.

"So are you. We're in a lake."

"Oh, right." Cas looked around then, like he hadn't realized. "Yes, I knew that."

"What ever," Dean said, smiling, and brushed a stray hair from Cas's forehead.

"This isn't quite as exciting as I had thought it might be." Cas said sadly. There was something in the way he said it that made Dean feel like he should haul Cas into a kiss, like they did in all the cheesy romantic comedies. But they were not in a movie, and that would probably just result in unbearably awkward silence.

"It usually isn't." Dean answered lowly, and Cas looked so damn disappointed, but he blinked and suddenly had a determined glimmer in his eyes. He reached out to take Dean's face in his hands, and Dean had to close his eyes before he got his hopes up.

"How can we make it exciting?" Cas asked, but it didn't really sound like a question. He ran his thumb across Dean's lips, and Dean felt his heart jump up into his throat, swallowed it down. He swore Cas was moving closer, slowly, like he was giving him the option to back away if he didn't want it. But he wanted it. He wanted it more than he probably should have.

Something splashed in the water, less than a foot from them, and they both jerked away to look. Dean noticed someone standing at the edge of the water with rocks in their hand, but he couldn’t tell who it was. They threw another, and it plopped into the lake, just to Castiel's left.

"What do you think you're doing?" A stranger's voice called out, humored and stern at once. The two boys stood still in the water, struck by fear. "You better not be here when I come back!"

The man grumbled as he left them, and Dean felt Cas press his forehead against the spot between his shoulder blades, groaning in frustration.

“Talk about a mood-killer,” Dean joked half-heartedly, hoping to lighten the mood a little. Cas just groaned louder, pressing his face closer to Dean’s back.

“Is there any whiskey left?” Cas asked, snaked an arm around Dean’s torso, fingers resting just under his nipple.

“Not much,” Dean managed, trying to ignore the steady pressure of Cas’s hand on his chest, his hot breath against his back. “Maybe you don’t want to drink more, though.”

“Why not?” Cas’s other hand appeared, splayed across Dean’s stomach, dangerously low. He sucked in a sharp breath and screwed his eyes shut.

“Cause’ you’re doin’ things, and I don’t think you mean them.”

Cas sighed, frustrated, and slid his hand up above Dean’s navel. “Is that better?”

No.

“We should get out.” Dean said. He grabbed Castiel's hands and pulled him towards the shore, and he followed willingly. Once out in the open they hurried back to where Dean’s clothes were piled up on the ground. Cas stopped and stared at the sand, brows furrowed.

"My clothes disappeared?"

Dean shrugged, "we can look for them tomorrow," wrapped his shirt around Cas’s waist for him, sleeves tied against his hip. Dean had a hard time not staring at Cas, mind clouded, but managed to keep his eyes away from Cas’s dick. But damn was it tempting to sneak a quick glance. Instead he pulled his pants on and gathered the rest of his clothes up in his arms, looking up to find Cas staring at him with his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You should be naked more often...” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest to keep warm. Dean felt his cheeks heat up and scrubbed at the back of his neck nervously. He hadn’t noticed Cas was looking at him, but knowing made his insides squirm.

“You are definitely drunk,” Dean muttered under his breath, snatching the bottle up from the ground. He swatted Cas’s hand away when he reached for it, “I don’t think you should have any more.”

“Fine,” Cas grumbled, “but you don’t get any either.”

“Good idea,” Dean said, and pulled Cas by the arm, starting them up the hill. Cas leaned heavily against Dean as they walked, slinging an arm carelessly across his shoulders. When they made it to their row of cabins, Cas tensed and groaned.

“I can’t go back. Not yet.”

“You can sleep over again, and borrow clothes.” Dean said, despite the way his stomach was swarmed by butterflies. That offer felt different, odd. Or maybe his head was just too saturated with whisky.

“Hmm, in your bed?” Cas asked, chuckling and pressing his face against Dean’s shoulder. The implications of that statement made Dean’s stomach tighten and his face heat up. That, he knew, wasn't just the alcohol.

“Only if you promise to behave,” Dean whispered, and Cas groaned in a way that made Dean rethink his previous statement for a moment. “Seriously, Sam’s gonna be in there sleeping.”

“Right. Fine, I’ll be a good boy,” Cas said, grinning, as Dean lead him inside and up the stairs. They crept soundlessly into the bedroom, and Dean rummaged through his things to find something for Cas to wear. Once dressed, they slipped into Dean’s bed, careful to be quiet.

Cas curled close to Dean, face buried in the crook of his neck, clinging to him with limbs like tentacles. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas’s back and willed his overzealous heart to calm down.

“Summer is almost over,” Cas said eventually, with such sadness that Dean felt it like a knife to the heart. “Do you think we will see each other again?”

“Of course,” Dean answered without hesitation. He did not want to so much as entertain the idea that they might not. He frowned, then, wondering, “why wouldn’t we?”

“There are many things that could keep us apart. I just don’t want to leave and then-” he cut himself off with a sigh, curling impossibly closer to Dean. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Dean whispered into the hair on the top of his head. “It won’t happen.”

“You can’t possibly promise something like that, Dean. There are a thousand reasons why one of us might not come back next summer.” His voice had grown tight, and Dean rubbed soothing circles into his back to keep him from breaking down. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Dean pulled in a deep breath to force the tears pricking his eyes to retreat, and reached to pull the amulet from around his neck. He lifted Cas’s head up with a finger pressed lightly beneath his chin, slipped the cord over his head. The amulet settled against his chest like it always belonged there. Cas frowned up at Dean.

“So you won’t forget me, if we do leave each other,” Dean said, throat tightening around his words. “And a birthday present.”

Cas smiled with the corners of his mouth curled downward contradictorily, rubbing the amulet between finger and thumb. “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean pulled Cas closer, resting their foreheads together, hand settled on the back of Cas’s head. He took a deep breath, gathering courage, and quietly asked, “can I kiss you?”

Cas did not answer, and for a moment Dean’s heart felt like it was in his stomach, thumping an irregular beat. But Cas nodded and pushed forward. When their lips met it was like someone lit a firework in Dean’s chest. It was slow and sweet, and it made Dean’s heart beat too fast and spread a fuzzy warmth through his limbs. It was as if every wall that stood between them vanished, like every single thing that was holding Dean back from that moment for so long became completely obsolete.

Cas tasted like whiskey and lake water, and it was more than a little bit addicting. Dean wondered why it was that he didn’t allow himself to have this before. Confusion, maybe.

He felt lightheaded and dizzy when he pulled away, and Cas followed his movement, reaching out to hold Dean’s face close. His lips were so much softer than Dean could have imagined. He expected that they would be chapped and dry, but they were anything but. His lips were plush, pliant, and soft. It was better than Dean could ever wish for, and he thought that if he could never have it again he might lose his mind.

When they laid down, tangled up in each other with foreheads pressed together, Dean dragged his fingers through Cas’s hair and sighed contently, whispered, “happy birthday, Cas.”

Dean began to lose consciousness, eyes heavy, heart content. The last thing he heard was Cas’s hesitantly whispered statement of, “I think I love you.”

………

"We're leaving," Dean said, heart heavy. Cas was staring at him with the most heartbreaking frown. "Tonight."

"What happened?" Cas asked, though the way his voice shook slightly made Dean wonder if he already knew. Or maybe he was just upset to see him go.

"My dad..." Dean inhaled, but the air felt too thick. As if being forced to leave a week before he would've liked wasn't bad enough, the reason why was worse. And he promised himself he would not cry, not then, not in front of Cas. "He's in the hospital. Car accident."

"I'm sorry." Cas whispered, the tip of his nose aimed toward the dirt.

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

Cas sighed and peered up at Dean, lips set in a firm line, though his eyes were soft. They drooped like the petals on a wilting flower, slowly lowering to focus somewhere below Dean's chin, lids lowering until all Dean could see was the dark fringe of his lashes.

"I'm still sorry," he said, stubborn but quiet. "I wish circumstances were different."

Dean smiled, mirthless, eyes wet, and exhaled sharply as he shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was too thick, too low. "Me too.”

………

Dean caught Sam whispering to Castiel as he lugged one last bag into the back of the Impala. Cas seemed sad, and Dean wondered if he had the same heavy weight in his gut; the same pull at his heart that begged him not to leave, no matter how important the reason for going was. He couldn't stay, though. John could die the next day, and Dean had to be there in case it happened, not here. The guilt would be too much.

He didn't have the heart, or the strength, to tell Castiel how much he would miss him. Saying goodbye, even through saying "I'll miss you" felt too final. It felt permanent. He couldn't say it, but he had to leave.

Castiel pulled Sam into a hug, and Dean smiled as he watched the awkward moment. Cas wasn't one for showing physical signs of affection, and Sam certainly hadn't expected the gesture, so it took them a moment to adjust. Sam patted Castiel's back roughly, and Dean could tell by the way he pressed his lips together he was trying not to cry.

Dean had to turn away. He examined the Impala's tire tread with almost too much interest, ground his teeth to control his emotions. A pale blue cluster of flowers caught his attention. He remembered picking some when he was small, bringing them to Mary. She'd grinned and told him an old German legend she knew...

Dean smiled, heart constricting, and bent to pluck one of the baby blue flowers from the ground. He twisted it between finger and thumb, checking that each petal was unharmed and lively.

"Dean?" Came Castiel's voice from behind and above his head. Dean stood and turned, eyes stuck to the flower.

"Do you know the story behind forget-me-nots?" He asked, glancing up to catch Castiel's expression. His brows we're knotted, lips turned down in a frown. He shook his head no and watched Dean fiddle with the little flower in his hands.

"There was a knight, back in medieval times. He was courting this chick, and they were walking along a river together. He went to grab one of these flowers from the riverbank, but his armor was too heavy, and he fell in. He was sinking, but with his last breath he tossed the flower to his girl and yelled out 'forget me not'. And she wore it, to signify her undying love, or whatever..."

Dean sighed, turned the little posy over one last time before he extended his hand, offering the flower to Castiel.

"Forget me not." He said, though he felt ridiculous saying it. Castiel chuckled softly, accepting the flower. He stared at it, as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. He tucked the flower behind his ear, and without warning he reached forward to wrap an arm around Dean's neck, tugging him down to press their lips together. Dean's heart beat out of his chest at the softness of the kiss.

"I never will." Cas whispered against his lips. He pressed another kiss, this time to the corner of Dean's mouth, lips trembling. Dean held him as the rest of the world faded to black, if only for a moment. He didn't want to let go.

………

"Are you going to be okay?" Sam asked. Dean didn't know the answer. He was only glad Sam didn't feel the need to bring up the kiss he witnessed, or the tender way he held Castiel’s wrist as he scrawled his number across the length of his arm. It made it easier to pretend he hadn't seen anything; that it was just a secret between Dean and Castiel.

"I don't know." he answered after a long moment. He couldn't say how he really felt; like the world fell out from beneath his feet and he was suspended in a sea of dread. He couldn't tell his brother that he was head over heels in love with someone he met less than three months before then, or that he felt sick at the thought that he may never see them again. He couldn’t say that there was a row of ink numbers scrawled upon Castiel’s arm, or that he was terrified that number would never be dialed. He couldn't say that he would rather stay with Castiel than face their father in a hospital bed.

Dean spared Sam a glance, brief but enough to see the worry written on his face. He didn't want to hear what Sam had to say, as cruel as that may have been to think. He knew it would only make him feel worse. With a heavy heart, he reached out to turn the volume up on the radio.

Sam would understand. He had to.

And Cas would call him. He had to.

CHAPTER 4: HOLDIN’ ON

Castiel knelt in his room in that dingy cabin, fingers gingerly tracing the harsh red marks on his arm where there was once black ink. Those numbers, his temporary tattoo representing hope and love and a reason to go on, had been scrubbed from his flesh. He would have thrown soap into Michael’s eyes or scratched his arm, but he knew the retaliation would only be worse...

He had a copy of Slaughterhouse Five in his hands when Michael found him. He had just pressed that little blue posy between two pages, pinned beneath an illustration which stated “everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.” His heart had been pounding and his lips were pulled into a small smile, because even though Dean had just left him, he felt like nothing could go wrong. Naturally, that moment was when everything took a turn for the worse.

“There you are,” Michael’s voice came from the door, harsh and strong. “We were worried about you.”

“Oh?” Castiel replied flatly, unable to even imagine his family actually showing concern for his wellbeing.

“I thought you might have decided to run off with your new friends,” Michael asserted, his tone condescending. “Then I remembered you don’t have friends.”

Castiel tried to ignore his brother, to block out his words. He was always cruel without reason. But Michael approached Castiel from behind, snatched up his wrist and pulled him, examining the ink on his forearm with scrutiny.

“What’s this?”

“Exactly what it looks like,” Castiel replied dryly, trying to remain calm. “A phone number. From a friend.”

“Right,” Michael chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sure all friend’s say their farewells in the form of a kiss.”

Castiel felt his stomach twist. He’d seen it. His whole family, perhaps, had seen it happen. They’d certainly wreck him if that were the case. He feared what tortures awaited him outside the door to that room. Attic, really. He had claimed it as his own for no reason but to avoid being stuck with any of his siblings, but now it made him feel cornered and without a method of escape.

Michael tugged on Castiel’s arm, pulled him down to the bathroom, dragging him as he stumbled. Castiel wanted to fight back, but he knew better. Instead he took the moments between the attic and being thrown against the ceramic edge of the sink to commit the numbers on his arm to memory. Michael scrubbed the ink away roughly, hard enough to make Castiel cringe and screw his eyes shut to keep from whimpering or shouting. He wanted to retaliate the moment Michael released his tight grip on his wrist, but he felt too weak, too wrecked. He couldn’t handle the backlash it would earn him.

Instead he escaped back to the attic, collapsed to his knees on the floor beside his barely used bed, and repeated the number in his mind. His thoughts were a mess, though, clouded by the pain. He began to scribble the numbers out on a piece of paper from the table beside him, but as he looked them over he began to doubt their order and accuracy.

………

"You miss him too much! You're too lovesick to see what's important right now!"

Dean didn't know how they got to that topic of discussion. It showed up completely out of the blue, and the moment Sam mentioned Cas, Dean felt like his brother had stabbed him straight through the heart. Maybe he should have expected an ambush.

Sam was just angry about John, and Dean knew this, but that didn't make it hurt any less. When Sam was angry, he made accusations and he shouted, and he lost all sense of what lines should and should not be crossed. For instance, bringing up the fact that Dean had been moping about not being at the cabin while their father was stuck in a hospital room and they had no idea if he was okay.

“Yeah, we're friends,” Dean grumbled, turned away from his brother, took a large gulp of cooled coffee from a styrofoam cup. “Of course I miss him.”

Sam huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, as if he had more to say, but he seemed to have realized he would get no where. He was getting taller and more broad in the shoulders. He was growing up. Somehow that made Dean sad.

Sam must have known, there was no way around that. Not after all he had seen. Dean almost had the mind to tell him outright, just for the sake of keeping him from prying any further.

“Winchester?” A kind nurse asked. Her soft voice was followed by a rumbling crack of thunder, which felt too fitting for the moment. A punctuation no one asked for.

Dean stood, and Sam stood with him. Together they followed the nurse to John’s room, where the blinds in the window were drawn closed but the door was wide open. It was dark inside, only a harsh yellow light from a side table which cast sharp lines across John’s scab riddled face. He probably asked for the lights to be turned off, because Dean had never seen a hospital room so eerie in his life, and it couldn’t be normal.

The nurse gestured for them to go in, and Dean went first, stopping at the edge of the bed where his father lie. He had multiple stitches on his brow and chin, a bandage covering his forearm, and cords stuck in his arms. His eyes were closed, but Dean could tell that he was not sleeping.

“Hey, dad.” he said, his voice softer and weaker than he intended. His heart sank when John kept his eyes closed, turning his head away. He wanted to be angry, but all he felt was hurt.

“I’ll leave you alone.” The nurse said, backing slowly out of the room. Dean didn’t want her to leave.

The door closed with a quiet click, and then there was only the sound of the machines whirring and beeping. No one spoke, no one moved, not even a breath could be heard.

Then Sam came forward, stepping up to the other side of the bed, and knelt down on the floor beside their father, taking John’s hand between two of his own huge hands. John didn't pull away. His stony expression fell, and he looked as if he might cry, but his eyes remained closed as he turned his face towards where Dean stood, unmoving.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a hoarse whisper, cracking his eyes just enough that Dean knew he was being addressed. There were tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Dean didn't answer, because if he did he worried that it might turn into broken sobs or defiant shouts. So he kept his mouth shut and plopped down in the little green chair beside the hospital bed. John’s teary gaze followed him.

“I really am, Dean. I didn’t mean to…” he trailed off, turning his face towards Sam. It was always easier to talk to Sam, it seemed. “You know I didn’t mean to hurt you. I never did.” He sighed and it was a broken sound, a sound of defeat, “I fucked up. I wish I could fix it, but-”

“I know,” Dean said, surprised by the stability of his voice. “I know, dad. I know.”

John’s face crumpled, then, collapsing under the weight of his guilt.

While Dean may have known, he wasn’t sure that he could forgive. He had already forgiven his father for so many things - some of which he knew most people would say were unforgivable - and he felt as if he was finally running out of patience. He loved his father, of course, but the man had caused him so much pain…

“You look so much like her,” John whispered in Dean’s direction, his eyes glittering with tears. Dean choked on his tongue, gripped the worn fabric on the knee of his jeans between his fingers tight enough to turn his knuckles white, and tried to keep breathing. “She would have done better, raising you two. She would have done so much better than I ever could.”

Dean shook his head. He couldn't hear it, he couldn't sit and take it. He’d lose his cool. But he couldn't just get up and walk out, either.

“Dad?” Sam’s voice called out, smaller and so much younger than Dean was used to. He sounded like the little boy who clung to Dean’s sleeve and asked him to get rid of the monster in the closet because he could hear it growling - but it was always only John’s drunken snores from the next room over.

“She’d never... She would’a treated you boys better. She would’a supported you, Dean. She would’a- I’m sorry I couldn’t be that. I can’t.”

“Dad,” Sam repeated, and Dean could see his hand tighten around John’s through his teary eyes. They were only blobs, vaguely shaped like the brother and father he knew.

“I should be honest with you both,” John said, once more ignoring Sam’s pleading little voice. He let a long silence hang, building tension. Dean hated him a little bit for it, the dramatic bastard. “I don’t like admitting it, but I… that accident… I should have died. I wanted to. I’m no good, you’d be better off without me-”

“But you’re not dying,” Dean ground out, cutting his father off mid-sentence. “So you might as well start trying.”

John was silent, staring at his oldest son as if those words had short-circuited his brain. Or maybe, Dean thought in a moment of pity, the accident had knocked something loose and he would be eternally confused. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh, but he was angry and hurt.

“I can’t-” John started, but Dean cut him off once more, this time with the harsh squeal of his chair against the laminate floor as he stood and left the dark little room. He slumped back against the wall outside the door, slowly sliding down to the floor where he sat with his head in his hands. His jaw was stiff from clenching his teeth, and his fingers ached with the need to just hit something. Dozens of people passed him by, sparing nothing more than a brief glance of confusion before they continued on their way. Maybe it was because they understood that he was upset and needed his space, or maybe it was because they just didn't care. He found that he didn't like either of those options very much.

He couldn’t stand hearing his father’s excuses any longer. If he wouldn’t try to change his ways and be a good father with that last chance he’d been given, Dean didn’t want to endure his bullshit for another second. He felt guilty for turning his back on John while he was stuck in a hospital bed, but he’d sat back and listened to his excuses and his abusive words for far too long. Dean nearly turned and threw his fist into the bricks at his back, just barely able to hold himself back. There were people watching him, after all. Instead he tried to just breathe, to clear his mind.

He thought of Cas. He longed to be near him, to be in the presence of someone who would not judge him or lie to him. He thought of nights that he sat in the uncut grass by Cas’s side, taking comfort in the silence between them, the sound of calm waves lapping against the rocks, of crickets all around playing their songs. He thought of taking shelter beneath a canopy of lilacs with a messy haired boy by his side, and of strumming songs in the forest with a boy who insisted on keeping the butts of cigarettes and candy wrappers so they could throw them away properly. He thought of the last moments before they parted ways, the softness and the tremble of Castiel's lips.

He should have been wishing his mother were alive, kneeling in front of him and rubbing his arm soothingly, humming to him to calm him. Or wishing that his father were better, that he wasn’t laying in that bed asking to be forgiven for all the shit he had put Sam and Dean through in the last fourteen years without the intention of making a change. Or wishing that Sam weren’t sitting in that room listening to their father’s endless stream of self loathing and misguided apologies, and instead were by Dean’s side talking to him about some trivial shit to keep Dean’s mind occupied.

But instead he sat with his head in his hands, fists curled around clumps of his short brown hair, and wished that a boy with blue eyes, and whose heart he surely broke, could be sitting by his side; not speaking, just sitting and staring with his shoulder pressed against Dean’s. He wished for companionable silences and brief, hesitant touches, because Cas was the first person who really made him happy in years.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cut through, at first muffled by Dean’s thoughts, as if he were calling out to him through a few feet of water, then clearer the more times he repeated the name. Dean looked up at him and realized he was crying when Sam’s face appeared blurred and unintelligible. “Are you alright?”

Dean shook his head, because he could not speak or he would surely break. For fucks sake, he was already crying, he couldn't break down completely in the middle of a damn hospital.

Sam knelt down before Dean and placed one large hand gently on his arm, trying to comfort him. It made Dean laugh a little through his tears, because that was what Mary would be doing, and when did Sam become his mother?

“What? Why are you laughing?” Sam asked. Dean didn't want to talk about their mother, and instead the first thing that came out of his mouth were the words “you’re right.”

“About what?” Sam’s brows drew together and he waited patiently for an answer. Dean swiped at the tears on his cheeks and dragged in a slow, deep breath.

“About Cas…” He shook his head, sighing in frustration. He didn't want to say it, didn't know if he could. But he knew it was true, and he felt like a damn idiot about it. “It’s not like it matters now,” he muttered, voice thick and rough, “but you’re right.”

“You can go back.” Sam said slowly, and Dean laughed again because he was tired and he knew that going back wouldn’t be so simple.

“And leave you here with dad? No, man, that’d be cruel.” He sighed and let his head thunk softly against the brick wall. As a whispered afterthought, he added, “but I want to go. Is that selfish?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, and shrugged when Dean turned his eyes to look at him glaringly. “But you do so much for me and dad, you should be allowed to be happy for once.”

Dean stared at his floppy-haired brother for a long moment, lips pressed together firmly. He knew Sam was being genuine, but he wasn’t sure it was a suggestion he could ever accept. If he left, Sam would be stuck dealing with John until he came back. But Sam was a tough kid, and if John were to be stuck in the hospital for a few days at least...

“Are you sure?” Dean asked, voice cracking embarrassingly. Sam nodded, smiling warmly. After a moment, Dean found a small smile fitting to his own lips. “I’ll think about it.”

………

Castiel got no warning before being dragged from their cabin. Even less warning before he was told that it was being put up on the market.

“We just got it!” Gabriel whined, throwing his arms out to emphasize his frustration.

“And Castiel just ruined it.” Michael replied coldly. Castiel’s heart sank low, past his feet and into the molten center of the wretched world. Michael met his eye in the rear view mirror, gaze cold and hard. “I thought you had changed, brother. I should have known better. You must know we can never return here.”

“Dude,” Gabriel complained under his breath. He shoved his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Even if he did anything wrong, you don’t have to punish me, too.”

Castiel sighed, shrinking back into the seat. He knew his brother didn’t mean to hurt him, but he felt as if he was being attacked. He turned to stare out the window, losing himself in the seemingly endless fields, and tried his best to shut everything else out.

………

John promised while in the hospital, just before being released, that he would try to change and be better for the boys, but he was still stuck in his old ways. Hopeful that John really could turn a new leaf, Dean told him that he only had a week left of summer and tried to explain desperate nature of his desire to leave and return to the cabin.

 John didn’t get it, and Dean explained to him with his heart in his throat, exactly who he wanted to go back for. John growled out curses and slurs, shoved Dean against the wall and left him with more than a few bruises. Dean apologized to Sam as he made his escape later that night while John was sleeping. He was too angry to care anymore.

 Dean drove without stopping, even though he was exhausted both mentally and physically. When he finally made it there he noticed right away that Castiel’s cabin looked empty. He tried knocking on the door and no one answered. He asked around and heard some rumors that Michael had upended the family and took them away without warning. Dean had been gone less than a week, and in that time everything had gone to shit.

He saw that a window had been left open, and out of courtesy went to close it, but as he reached up to grip the chipped-paint window sill he couldn’t help but look inside. So many things were left behind. Michael really must have made the move suddenly. With a quick scan of the area to be sure he wouldn’t get caught, Dean pushed the window open wider and pulled himself up, into the abandoned cabin. He was in a room, but it couldn’t have been anyone’s besides Michael. It was immaculate and base; plain, almost business-like in appearance. Everything seemed to be a shade of grey or a muted blue. He pushed out of that room and made his way through the cabin. Besides the subtle mess of things left scattered here and there in a hasty retreat, the place looked nearly untouched. Almost as if it hadn’t been lived in and was merely a model for showings.

Somehow, after idly treading through each room, Dean found himself staring up at the pull-down staircase to the attic, which had been left slightly ajar. He hadn’t found a room that he could pinpoint as Castiel’s, and he’d wondered if that was simply because he spent so little time there, or if maybe he didn’t know as much about the other boy as he thought he did. Maybe the room with three beds and a mess of posters was one he shared. Maybe the bed with a busty woman pasted to the headboard was his. But out of sheer curiosity, Dean pulled the steps down and made his way up into the attic. The moment he saw it, he knew this was Castiel’s room. His first thought was to be angry at Michael, certain he’d forced Castiel to stay up there. His second, a sad smile as he took in his surroundings. This place was exactly what he expected. Books scattered across every surface; a few polaroids strewn about, tucked into books, a little stack peeking out from under the mattress on the floor a makeshift bed. Some of his clothes had been left behind, his bed left unmade, and without thought Dean began to pick up the slight mess left behind. He carefully folded each shirt, except for the one grey t-shirt that felt so soft to the touch that he never wanted to put it down.

Stupidly, Dean felt tears prick at his eyes. He shouldn’t be crying over this. Surely this wasn’t the end. Everything would be fine. But the whole situation felt surreal and horrible, gut-wrenching. He shuffled over to Castiel’s bed and allowed himself the comfort of curling up upon those rumpled sheets. He was disappointed, though unsurprised, to find that it didn’t smell like the other boy. Castiel hadn’t spent much time there, after all. Instead it smelled clean, floral, like lavender and expensive soap. The shirt, however, was one Castiel wore often, and without thinking Dean pressed the fabric to his nose and inhaled. He felt pathetic, but the smell made his heart swell. It was perfect, Castiel’s exact scent. Something sweet, like honey or the juice of a fresh apple straight off a tree; an earthy smell, the way it smells after it rains, like lightning and wet grass; something inherently Cas, something that had no name, and Dean wanted to say that it was the way love smelled, but that felt too cheesy. 

Dean passed out on Castiel’s bed, that stupid grey shirt pressed against his cheek, sun beating down on him through the single window, cast a warm spotlight on the place where he lay. He felt like a cat who’d lost it’s owner, curled up in the sun, mourning. If he were a cat, he thought he’d be purring to thin air in the hopes that it might call his love back to him some how. He felt stupid, but he couldn’t care. In sleep he dreamt that Cas was with him, pressed close behind him, arms wrapped around him protectively. He dreamt of soft whispers in his ear and kisses to the top of his head, of warm arms surrounding him and keeping him safe from harm. When he finally woke up it was dark, his stomach ached almost as much as his heart, and the only thing he could think about was the fact that Cas was gone and all he had now was this mess he left behind and the memories in his head

………

Castiel pressed the numbers of a payphone with faintly trembling fingers. He hoped he had remembered Dean’s phone number correctly, but he couldn’t be certain until he tried. It rang for an eternity while he waited, shoulder pressed to the edge of the metal phone-box frame. His thoughts were a tangled, fast paced mess of I can’t believe this payphone still works... what if Dean doesn’t answer? Maybe the number is wrong... Do I smell fry grease?

Castiel was staring blankly at the fast food restaurant to his left when a low voice sounded in his ear, “Hello?”

“H-um Hi...” Castiel mumbled, heart beating too hard and fast. It wasn’t Dean. Maybe it was still the right house. “I’m looking for Dean Winchester. I need to-”

“How do you know Dean?” The voice asked, harsh and demanding.

“W-we met this summer... at Leech Lake.” He answers, voice wavering with his nervousness. For a terrifyingly long moment there was no reply, and he was met with a crackling silence. He thought he might have heard quiet whispers, but the voices were too faint for him to make anything out.

“Don’t call here again.” That voice came through, sudden and harsh. Castiel choked on his tongue, struggling to find a response in time before the receiver clicked and an offensive beeping began to pour from the phone. He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in shock. His body moved slowly as he raised the phone to replace it on the hook, his limbs weighed by shock and disappointment. His eyes welled up with tears, which he could not stop from falling no matter how hard he tried.

That call was his last hope.

He returned home that night to find his family all sitting at the dinner table without him. They all looked up at him, some with disgust and others with tempered worry, when he stepped inside the front door. There was no chair at the table for him to sit, no extra plate of food. He felt unwelcome in his own home.

Without a word, Castiel slipped into the kitchen to find something for himself, only to be shoved against the sink by his older brother, who towered over him with his face twisted in disgust.

“No one said that you could leave, Castiel.” Michael ground out through his teeth, eyes narrowed and glimmering with malice. “This time I’ll go easy on you, but next time it happens I’ll do more than take away a meal.”

“I’m sorry-”

“No,” Michael hissed, shoving Castiel again. He stepped away, wiped at his clothes as if being near Castiel had made them dirty. His heart sank, heavy with rejection. He was a disappointment, and he always would be. “Go to your room.”

Castiel did as he was told, quietly latching the door behind himself. He wondered if Michael would make use of the lock on the door again. He hated being locked inside, but he had come to expect it after a while. When he heard a click at the door he was sure it was the lock, except when he turned to look it was Samandriel standing there. He was doe-eyed and clutching a small tupperware-bowl to his chest, one hand still on the doorknob.

“I brought you food,” he quietly announced, staring at the floor as he extended his hand in Castiel’s direction. “I thought... you must be hungry.”

Castiel accepted the bowl, and as he did Samandriel stepped away, out of the room. Castiel always knew he could trust the younger boy, that he wasn’t like Michael. They had a lot in common, he thought, but they never talked much anymore because of Michael’s strict rule.

“Um,” Samandriel muttered, playing with his fingers. “I know Michael wants you to think we all hate you and all that... But, I don’t. I just thought you should know that. I’m on your side.”

With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts and a bowl of still-warm leftovers. 

………

Dean woke up the next morning with a headache and a stuffy nose. He wouldn’t admit, even to himself in this lonely state, that his affliction was due to the crying fits that kept him waking up every other hour of the night. He rubbed his eyes and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. His hands felt heavy on his chest, his eyes stung, his throat was sore. A thought, however brief, crossed his mind that he would rather be dead than feel this way. He felt lost. Alone in an ocean of grief and sinking fast. No matter how much he knew, deep down, this was not the end, he couldn’t help that he could feel such an ache in the pit of his stomach.

After an hour of unintentional self-reflection and unblinking stares aimed at the ceiling, Dean managed to pry himself up off of Castiel’s mattress and actually move his limbs. He didn’t go far, and as the sun began to rise, casting pale beams of light on the floor through a single slatted window, he found himself filing through the stacks of photographs he found the previous day. Most of the pictures he found were of himself, and more than half of which he never remembered being taken. It was creepy, in a way, but he didn’t mind it so much because the photos were... Artistic. He could feel the moments as if returning to them in time, only dulled, as if a fine layer of fog had settled before his eyes.

He never knew Castiel had been taking pictures all that time. He had assumed that the other boy simply carried it around because he thought it looked cool. To be fair, it did look cool. But the thing that surprised him most -more than the candid smiles on his own face or the fact that the photos existed- was that Castiel had a serious talent. Something about the pictures was so profound, like shouting to the stars of his love; something Dean couldn’t explain, only feel.

One picture in particular caught his eye. It wasn’t as focused and sharp as the rest. It wasn’t framed as well, the lighting was too bright, and Castiel’s finger was a blur in the corner. It wasn’t the picture itself that made Dean’s heart thump away in his chest like a rabbit; it was the fact that Castiel kept this failed picture, while all the others were so perfect. And it was the fact that he remembered the moment it was taken.

That morning was one where neither of them could sleep. They took a walk out in the woods, in the chill early morning air, to the lilac fort. Castiel had raised his camera and sleepily told a cheesy joke. It would not have been as funny had they both been well rested, but Dean’s sleep-deprived brain thought it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. He’d thrown his head back, mouth open, laughing freely with his hands clutching his stomach. That was the moment Castiel snapped the picture. Dean was half a blur, mouth gaping, eyes glimmering and half open.

Dean had half a mind to despise the picture, for no reason but that he looked like an idiot. But he knew why Cas kept it, and that was the same reason half of him adored the picture. Because Cas adored him.

………

Castiel stared at his reflection in the mirror. His roots were showing, dark and harshly contrasting the purple Michael so despised. He pulled his fingers through the faded locks, and thought for a moment if he should just cut it all away and start over, but that felt too much like defeat.  And it was all he had left to remind him of Dean… He couldn’t let go of that so easily.

Castiel caught Samandriel peeking around the corner in the reflection of the mirror. Their eyes met and Samandriel frowned, turning away to flee.

“Wait-“ Castiel called out, spinning around to grasp at the door frame as he peered around the corner to see his brother had stopped in his tracks. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Samandriel said, but the look in his eyes betrayed him. A wordless stare passed between them before he sighed and shook his head, “Yes. But it’s not important.”

“You are important, though.”

“Thanks…” Samandriel said, eyes downcast. He didn’t sound like he believed the words and it broke Castiel’s heart. Without another word his brother took off down the hallway, disappearing into his room. Castiel wondered if he should follow, but he didn’t know what to say. So he stayed standing in the doorway, heart heavy and limbs heavier.

How could he help his brother if he couldn’t even help himself?

………

There’s a sketchbook shoved under the mattress, like Cas had wanted to hide it. Dean held it for a while, tracing his fingers across the surface of the hard cover where the other boy had painted a bluebird with a renaissance style halo behind it’s head. He wasn’t sure he should look inside... it was never meant for him to see, surely. He set it aside for a while, occupied himself with finding food. His mind remained stuck on that book, though, and eventually he gave in to his curiosity.

 Dean carefully lifted the cover, just to peek at the first page. He was immediately taken aback by what he found. He hadn’t known Cas could draw. He wished Cas were around, if for no reason but to pester him for never telling him he was so damn talented. There were pages full of sketches of birds and flowers, some of people quickly sketched -probably while watching from a park bench, he thought. There were a handful of pages dedicated to the darker parts of Cas’s mind. Demons and twisted figures, monsters, blood. As he flipped through, Dean was equal parts concerned, disturbed, and awed. 

Then he found a page with a pencil sketch that caught him off guard. It was his face, staring back at him. It was all graphite lines; thin crosshatching and thick outlines, but almost surreally realistic. His eyes seemed so alive, shining, and each of his freckles stood out against the bridge of his nose proudly. He touched his fingers to the page gently, impressed and heartbroken at once.

When did Cas even have the time to draw this?

In the afternoon Dean decided to leave. There was no use hanging around just to wallow in memories. He felt sick to his stomach as he drove back home but he wasn’t sure why. His heart ached. He had come back for closure but only left with a broken heart.  The drive back home was long and tiring, and he’d needed to stop at one point because his emotions had gotten the better of him. He could hardly see for the tears in his eyes.

When he returned home he parked the Impala in the driveway, pulled the keys, and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a long, eerily silent moment. A knock on the window caused him to jerk his head, smashing his hand against the dashboard. Sam was staring at him apprehensively through the glass. The moment Dean was out of the car, Sam was wrapping him up in his arms, holding him almost too tightly.

“What-?”

“Dad’s pissed...” Sam muttered, voice muffled by Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t know what he’s gonna’ do but-”

“Dean!” As if on queue, John’s voice rang clear from the front door. Dean looked up to find his father scowling at him, hand braced on the door frame, his other arm in a sling. The scabs and scars above his eyes made his glare slightly more intimidating than usual. Dean gently peeled Sam off of himself and stepped forward, uttering a quiet but sturdy “sir?”

“I want you gone,” he answered firmly, voice venomous and low. “I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here.”

“But-” Sam began in protest. John silenced him with a raised hand and a sturdy glare. Sam wilted at Dean’s side.

“Why?” Dean asked, demanding and defensive. So he took the car and left without warning, but it’s technically his car now and he’s 18 so he could do what he wanted--

“Because I didn’t raise you to be some rebellious little princess drooling over men. I don’t want that shit in my house, or in Sammy’s life. Get out of here before you ruin him, too.” John ground out each word with finality, punctuating his statement with a thick finger jabbed in the direction of some place far off. After a long silence, which John must have mistaken as obedience, he grumbled that he would have Sam pack up his things, “but you stay the hell out of the house, you hear me?”

Dean nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. He wanted to shout in defiance, shove past his father and reclaim his dignity. But he was too tired. Instead he let himself fall back against the door of his car, sinking slowly to the gravel beneath his boots. His mind was blank, white noise, disbelief, and he stared into the middle distance for some time before Sam came back and broke him from his daze. He dropped two bags on the ground and awkwardly handed Dean a third, his eyes red, and whispered an apology.

“It’s not your fault,” Dean replied thickly, sighing as he fisted his hands in the fabric of the duffel bag. “I’m not even mad, you know? I kinda’ deserved it...”

“No, Dean,” Sam pleaded, his voice drenched in sadness. “You don’t deserve any of this.”

“Doesn’t matter,” He shrugged, forcing himself up onto his feet. He turned to throw the duffel bag into the back seat of the car, and his whole body felt heavy. His eyes were half closed and his chest felt hollow, coated in lead. “Just... I’ve gotta’ go.”

“I wish you didn’t have to.”

Dean met his brother’s wet gaze, and he wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, that he would find a way to stay. He couldn’t lie to Sam. Instead he pulled Sam close, wrapping him up in an embrace. Dean allowed his brother to crush him, reveled in the strength of the hug. He would come back, some day, and everything would be okay.

………

Castiel stared at his wrists, dazed and empty inside. Thick red beads gathered in a smooth line across the inside of his left arm. He got better at keeping the cuts clean and straight, shallow enough to heal without much evidence. He traced slightly shaking fingers across a thick pink scar from his first cut weeks ago, the one he cut too deep, the one he picked the scabs from out of frustration and boredom.

He wasn’t allowed to leave the house anymore. He felt trapped. Lonely.

Some days Samandriel or Gabriel would come check on him, maybe try to start a real conversation, but Castiel was always closed off. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk, but rather that he didn’t know what to say besides an endless stream of complaints. He let them talk to him about their day, or about that cute girl they met at a coffee shop, or about that one thing their friend said that made them laugh uncontrollably. But he didn’t always really listen. Their voices helped him tune out of the voices in his own head, calmed him, but mostly it was a distraction. He felt guilty at times, but it was what he needed. Distraction.

Castiel wanted to leave. He wanted to run away and never come back. But he didn’t know where he would go, how he would survive. At least there, at home, he had food and a place to stay, where he could continue living. But he hated it. He hated living with no purpose, alone in a house full of family members, stuck in a constant state of just let me die. 

Truthfully, he did not want to die. Some days, however, the idea of death seemed appealing. It seemed like the perfect escape. A permanent vacation.

The permanence of it was always what stopped Castiel from trying. 

Maybe some day -he thought once more as he watched the sticky red gore gather into a single drop and slide down the length of his arm, to his elbow- he could find a way out, to where he could be happy again. For now he was tethered, stuck in his cage of sorrow, a bluebird with clipped wings. Maybe some day.

………

Dean left for the cabin on a gloomy September day, arrived a day later feeling like death. The door was locked, but he knew where a spare key was hidden in the base of the light at the door. He pushed the door open with an offensive creak and stepped inside. It felt different being there after August, and for an undetermined period of time. He didn’t like the feeling much.

By the time the sun set, Dean had all of his bags set out in the living room. He wondered what the hell he was supposed to do with his life up there, alone in a cabin in the woods. He thought it sounded like the plot to a bad horror movie.

After a few weeks of procrastination and wallowing in self-pity, Dean finally  left the cabin to do something. He found himself in Nick’s Book Store, and within 15 minutes he had a job. Nick insisted.

One day Dean woke to look out the window and find a group of strangers sifting through Cas’s cabin and pulling things out, tossing them into a big dumpster. He filled with rage immediately, confronted them, but they said they were only doing what they were told. When they left for a break, Dean upended one of his bags of yet-unpacked things onto the bed and snuck into the other cabin, up into the attic.

He filled the bag with some of Cas’s things. The sketch book and pictures went first, then some of the books that were clearly well loved, and he filled the rest of the space with the clothes he could find laying around. He slunk out the window, back to his own cabin with the bag in his arms, and set it aside in his room.

After a few days, seeing the bag made him feel too much and he had to hide it in the closet to keep from driving himself up the walls. 

Dean worked with Nick almost every day. He was the only employee, though, so it only made sense. He thought his position was the kind usually given to relatives, but he didn’t dare to question Nick about it. 

Dean even made some friends. Eventually he began to realize that they felt more like family than friends, but that was neither here nor there. Ellen and Jo were nice to him, but they teased him a lot, too. Their unique little place was a coffee shop by day, bar by night. Sometimes they gave Dean drinks at night even though he was not old enough to drink. Mostly Jo did, because she had a crush on Dean. Dean liked her, too, but not more than in the way a brother loves his annoying little sister. This clearly was disappointing to her, but she only teased Dean more to compensate. Dean took it, if only because he felt bad that he could never return her feelings.

He told Jo, eventually, that he was still in love with Cas. He was holding out that Cas would come back eventually; that some days, just the knowledge that his things are tucked away in the closet drive him mad, and other days he contemplates tracking Cas down just so he can see him one last time even if the boy tells him his feelings have changed. She laughed at him, but it was a sad laugh that told him she understood more than words could say.

………

Cas was miserable. He stopped trying to be careful with the cuts he made, hiding the jagged lines under his sleeves. He wanted nothing more than to leave, but he knew he had nowhere to go. He had no money, no friends, and he couldn’t just abandon his family... Samandriel, mostly. The younger boy needed him around just as much as Castiel needed the sound of his voice to pull him back from the edge.

After months of suffering, he finally took a step for himself and applied to a college. It was Samandriel’s idea, naturally. He signed up for classes to get a degree in game art. It had always been a fascination of his, but he kept that locked up for the sake of his family. But he was done living in their shadow. 

When Michael got wind of his sudden yearning for independence, he kicked Cas out onto the street. With nowhere to go, Cas wandered aimlessly, wondering how he might be able to get the money for a plane ticket to the school he’d applied to. He could live on campus... if he could get there. Florida was far away, though.

He spent a few nights out on the streets, scared and alone, before a kind woman named April offered to take him in. She offered him a shower and clean clothes, food and drink, and once he was full he realized his head was swimming. She’d drugged him. 

“What did you do?” Castiel confronted her sluggishly. She grinned like a wolf, explained that she used a mild sedative that would leave him unable to move, but completely awake and aware of the situation. 

His heart began to pound in his chest, the rhythm of a desperate prisoner against the bars of his cell. Unable to move, he was forced to submit himself as she undressed him and laid him out on her bed. He can’t move or stop it, his mind racing, his heart beating out of his chest. Castiel sobbed silently, tears streaming down his face. She moved his hands to caress her, and his thoughts burned red with hatred. He was repulsed and angry, and he wished he had never trusted this woman.

He furiously labels himself an idiot, a fool, a fucking moron. He wished he could even block it out, but he’s forced to look at her or the ceiling, He wished he was dead. He wished he could block out the sounds she was making. He wished he could, at the very least, be unconscious. 

Eventually he did black out, and when he woke up the first thing he did was move his fingers to be sure he could. He felt his skin pull oddly, stinging in a horrible and familiar way. It hurt like hell. 

He opened his eyes, looked to his wrist in a panic to find a jagged cut across his wrist where there were previously only scars. He was bleeding profusely. He reached with his other hand to staunch the bleeding, breath coming uneven and ragged from his lungs, heart pounding in his ears. There was blood on his torso, too, and he wondered for a moment if there’s a wound there, too, but quickly decided he must have had his arm resting on his side at some point.

 Castiel felt unsteady, like he was spinning. He looked around, head swimming, and found himself alone. He couldn’t decide if he was thankful or terrified by the notion of being stuck like this all alone. He staggered from the bed he’d been left in and searched frantically for a phone. There was a landline in the kitchen, an ugly green plastic thing that slipped from his ruddy, slick fingers. He dialed the police and sluggishly asked for an ambulance, tongue thick in his mouth. 

He passed out while the woman on the other end of the line was in the middle of asking him to remain calm.

Castiel woke in a hospital bed, bandages on his wrist and a tube in his arm. He felt disgusting and empty. The nurse arrived soon after, immediately asking him questions about what happened. When he told her he was drugged and raped she offered him a sympathetic frown as she wrote it all down. When he told the police the same thing, however, they acted as if he was lying. 

He shouted at them with a hoarse voice, eyes filled with tears, and they told him to calm down but ignored his attempts to tell them what happened. He resigned himself to the fact that he would not get help from them as they wrote down a report saying he was emotionally compromised and attempted suicide.

The nurse asked  if there was anyone he wanted to call, but only one name came to mind and he didn’t even know how to reach them. Instead of answer he began to sob. The nurse shushed him, tried to calm him down. As a last ditch effort, Cas told her the number as he remembered it, hoped like hell that time had not warped it into a random string of numbers. She allowed him this phone call, but he asks that she do it, and with a frown she complies. He told her to ask for Dean, and as an afterthought for Sam, too. She nods and dials the number, her short nails clicking against the buttons.

………

Sam jumped, startled by the harsh trill of the phone. He rushed to pick it up before John could get to it himself. His dad had a knack for pissing off everyone who ever called. He slid across the floor in his socks, faltering for a moment as he regained his balance, and picked up the phone from it’s charging base.

“Dean?” He greeted, hopeful.

“Hey, Sammy.” Dean’s voice came through. Sam couldn’t have possibly missed the joy in his brother’s tone. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. Dad has been sleeping a lot, so...” He trailed off, almost ashamed to say what he was thinking. Dean must have known, though, that it was easier to be in the house when John wasn’t bothering him with his constant state of irritation. It was worse when he decides to drink.

“Yeah,” Dean concurred, sighing into the receiver. Sam felt the guilt pouring from his older brother, knew what was coming next. He opened his mouth to tell Dean he was fine, but they were both interrupted by a beeping from the phone in Sam’s hand.

“Another call?” He asked, mostly to himself as he pulled the phone away from his ear to glance at the little screen. He didn’t recognize the number but something in his gut told him that it wasn’t something he could ignore. “Just a second, I’m gonna check this-”

“Is it a girl?” Dean teased, and Sam huffed in annoyance.

“No- Just... I’ll be right back.” He switched the call before Dean could say anything else, returning the speaker to his ear as he asked who was calling. His face fell when the woman explained that she was a nurse and asked for Dean. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh... Is this Sam Winchester?” She asked, and Sam felt his stomach twist at her tone. She sounded like she had horrible news.

“Yeah,” he answered hesitantly, placing his palm flat against the counter. “Is something wrong?”

“I have a patient, Castiel, looking for you.” She paused, and past the haze that had settled upon Sam’s mind he thought he heard a hoarse whisper in the background. “He would like to request a visit.”

“What happened?” Sam asked. Those two words were all he can manage, his throat tightened and tongue thick in his mouth. His mind was racing. Castiel could be dying, possibly hanging on by a thread, and-

“It’s... Maybe better if he tells you himself.”

Sam frowned, gut churning. “Okay,” he cleared his throat, licked his lips, “I’ll tell Dean and we’ll get there as soon as possible.”

“Alright.” the nurse says, her voice soft and sad. She made a few quiet sounds before bidding him farewell, awkwardly. Sam thought she must not have to do that very often. Once the call was ended he returned to the call with Dean, and as he blurt out the new information to his brother he realized his hands were shaking slightly.

“What the fuck-” Dean hissed, and Sam heard the clatter and thump of Dean tripping over something. “Dude, I’m on my way to get you-”

“Dean!” Sam started, but in his ear there was already the horrid sound of a dropped call. He sighed and whispered to himself, “be careful.”

………

Dean wrestled his shoes on and hurriedly grabbed his keys, not bothering to worry about anything else before dashing out the front door. He sped off, dirt and sand clouding up behind him as he rushed down the dirt path to the main roads. He may have run a stop sign or two in his panicked haste to get back home. He made it there in record time, his heart beating like a hummingbird all the way there. Sam rushed out the moment Dean pulled up, and they wasted no time getting back on the road towards the hospital.

Dean was jittery, restless, fingers constantly tapping to the beat of the music that poured from his speakers as an ineffective distraction. Half way there, Sam slapped the volume dial down to one and glared back when Dean shot him a frustrated look.

“I’m sorry but you’re freaking me out,” Sam nearly shouted. Dean glanced his way, only then noticing the way his brother gripped at the door tensely. He was speeding, and maybe driving a little more reckless than usual. But he was worried, and he finally knew where to find Cas but it was in the worst circumstances he could’ve imagined. “You can’t see him if you get us in an accident.”

“I know,” Dean replied, easing off the gas pedal slightly. They were so close, yet so far. “I just... I need to know he’s okay.”

“I understand.” Dean could feel, in the softness of his voice, that Sam meant it.

………

Castiel stirred awake at the sound of the door clicking open. He had spent all of his time in that hospital bed unable to sleep for more than ten minutes for the restless squirming of his stomach and the itch of his skin beneath the bandages on his wrists. He wondered if it was Sam and Gabe back from lunch. The lights remained off, but he could see from the harsh light of the hallway, three dark silhouettes stood looking in on him.

“Castiel?” The nurse asked, her voice soft and soothing as always. He replied with a soft grunt of affirmation, too exhausted to speak. “I have some visitors for you. I’m going to turn the lights on, alright?”

Castiel hummed in acceptance, weakly raising one hand to block his eyes as the lights came up. He blinked a few times, lowered his arm, and was hit by the realization that those visitors were not who he expected to see standing over him.

“Dean?” He asked, startled. His voice was weak and rough, and it hurt to speak at times, but he didn’t care. Dean was there, standing by his bedside. He had tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment, and Castiel felt his own eyes swell up.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean whispered the greeting like he was broken, like his voice didn’t want to work. 

The nurse told them all that Castiel was scheduled for release that afternoon, then left them alone. Dean stood still for a long moment, staring. Sam stepped forward, though. He didn’t ask what happened or how he was feeling, which Castiel was glad for. Instead he only grabbed Castiel’s hand and held on. It was comforting.

“Are you okay?” Dean asked, clearly hesitant. Castiel nodded and smiled softly, too glad to see Dean after so long to care much about his own condition. He was tired of feeling the ache of his wounds.

“I missed you,” Cas replied, his voice raw. He hadn’t said much in the last two days. Dean returned the sentiment, and he looked as though he might cry. Cas reached out with his bandaged hand and curled his fingers around Dean’s own hand. “I’m glad you came to see me...”

“Me too, Cas.” Dean smiled despite the tears on his cheeks. Their eyes locked and it seemed that neither of them could look away, trapped by the raw emotions that begged to be put into words. Dean dropped to his knees beside the bed, seeming overwhelmed, and Castiel could hear the shaky, uneven breaths from his lungs as he cried, his face pressed against Castiel’s hand. He turned his hand, fitting his palm against Dean’s damp cheek, and closed his stinging eyes.

“I love you,” Dean whimpered, turning his face to press a desperate kiss to the palm of Castiel’s hand. “I don’t ever want to leave you again. I won’t. You can come live with me, I’ll- I’ll keep you safe I swear.”

Castiel bit his lip, keeping the pathetic sounds of his sobs inside. He felt Sam’s grip tighten slightly, encouraging and sturdy. Castiel could tell them about the last few months later, but in that moment he was stuck on how much the two brothers felt like family to him. For the first time in a very long time, Castiel felt the warmth of hope blooming in his chest. Nothing was okay, things were not perfect, but for once he felt like things could get better.

“I love you, too, Dean.”