Chapter Text
Dean’s mother always told him that someone was watching over him and protecting him, but Dean never took her seriously. He was old enough to know better, to know that she was saying those things to comfort him when he was afraid at night or when life got scary. He’d smile and give his mom a hug, soaking in her warmth and comfort, thinking that he didn’t need anyone but her to keep him safe. He never told her that he didn’t believe her, and he especially never told Sammy that guardian angels weren’t real. It was like Santa; he couldn’t ruin it for younger kids just because he knew better. Good big brothers went along with it, and he could see how much better Sam felt when his mom told them about their guardian. Sam was a worrier, and thinking some invisible being was watching out for him and his brother made him feel better about things, so Dean wasn’t going to tell him otherwise.
~~~
Dean saw his guardian angel for the first time when he was seven years old. His whole family was in the car on the way to pick out a Christmas tree. It was sharply cold outside, but the sun was shining. The whole family was bundled in hats and scarves, and Mary had put a warm blanket over her sons’ laps after buckling them in. Dean remembered her smile and the way she smelled like cinnamon when she leaned over him to tuck the blanket around his legs. He remembered Sammy’s pink nose and cheeks, and he remembered his dad singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio. A storm rolled in quickly, the car hit some ice, and his dad lost control. As they flipped over and over down into the gulch, there was suddenly a man in the back seat. He was wearing a blue tie and a tan trench coat, and he wrapped his arms around Dean and Sam, somehow staying steady in the wild, terrifying spin of the vehicle. After what must’ve been only seconds but felt like hours of loud crunching noises, the sound of metal groaning, and wild careening, the car stopped. The man looked down at three year old Sammy, peacefully asleep in his car seat, before turning to Dean. Blue eyes locked on to Dean’s wide green ones, searching and intense. After a moment the man - the angel - said in a low, gravelly voice, “I’m so sorry, Dean.” And he was gone.
Mary, Dean’s mother, didn’t survive the car crash. Dean’s dad blamed himself, overwhelmed with guilt, and started drinking heavily. Since John was too deep into his grief and depression to take care of his kids, Dean stepped in to make sure Sammy was ok. He made sure he had dinner and clean clothes to wear, he held his little brother’s hand to walk around the corner to the library to check out another stack of books that Sam wanted Dean to read to him. John couldn’t settle down, and they all moved around a lot. He’d find a motel for them to stay in or a crappy apartment with a month-to-month lease and then disappear for days, finding odd jobs to do in the next town and more often, being too busy trying to drink away his guilt to be there for his boys. Dean did what he could to take care of Sammy, and he talked to his angel.
Dean didn’t know his name, but he knew that the blue eyed man in the tan coat was the guardian his mom had always told him about. He never told anyone that he had seen the man in the crash, not even Sam. But he did write to him, and draw him pictures. He had a shoebox under his bed full of drawings and letters; he wrote about his day at school, or that Sammy got over his cold, or that his dad was gone for nine days this time. He drew pictures of a rabbit he had seen in the woods, or pictures of him and Sam. Sometimes he drew his mom, and sometimes he drew a man in a tie and a trench coat, protecting him and his baby brother in the back of a car.
~~~
As they got older, Dean enforced bedtime and made sure Sammy finished his homework, even though the kid loved school and was pretty self-reliant as far as school work went. He watched his baby brother brush his teeth to make sure he cleaned them all, made his lunches, got him to school on time, and he put Sam in their closet with headphones playing loud music when John came home drunk and Dean had to deal with him. John was a mean drunk, sometimes violent, and Dean made sure that Sammy was never on the receiving end of it. Those were hard years, lonely and full of more responsibility than a kid should have, but there was no other choice. Dean had to take care of Sam; he couldn’t risk getting put in foster care and separated from his brother, so he kept up appearances and kept Sam safe.
Dean never really made friends; all of his energy was put into taking care of his brother, and he couldn’t exactly bring anyone home to meet the old man. Besides, he never knew how long they’d be in one place so to him, trying to make friends wasn’t worth the effort. They were just going to leave, move on, and he’d start over all alone again. For as much as he cared about Sam being in school, getting good attendance and good grades, he didn’t bother with his own education. He mostly showed up to school - it gave him a reason to stay out of the house (well, motel/apartment) and away from John - but he didn’t participate, didn’t pay attention, and never did homework. He did just enough work to advance, to not flunk out, and that was good enough for him. His plan for his future was get a job and take care of Sam, give Sam as many opportunities as he could. The sooner he could start working and earning, the sooner they could get away from John.
When Dean was 14, John came home drunk from a hunting trip. Dean heard the door slam, heard the telltale heavy, staggering steps of an intoxicated John Winchester. “Hey Sammy,” he said quietly, grabbing his walkman off his nightstand, “I need you to take your homework into the closet for me. Stay there until I come get you, ok?”
Sam’s eyes widened, glancing toward the front room where they could hear slurred curses and things bumping around. “Let me come with you -” Sam started to say; he was getting old enough to realize what Dean was trying to do and thought he could help.
“No,” Dean cut him off firmly. “I’ve got this. You need to stay put, study for your test tomorrow, and I’ll be back later when the old man passes out.” He ruffled Sam’s hair for a moment before guiding him to the closet and closing him inside with his books, a flashlight, and the walkman. Dean straightened, squared his shoulders, and ventured out to the front room where his dad was waiting at the table cleaning his gun after his weekend hunt.
“What the hell have you been doing while I was gone, Dean? This place is a fuckin’ mess. Dishes in the sink, laundry on the couch, how can I leave you in charge of your brother if you can’t even do simple chores?”
Dean wanted to shrink in on himself, but he kept his chin up and his shoulders back, spine at rigid attention, “I’m sorry sir, I’ll take care of it.”
John looked at him for a moment, glassy eyed and full of rage, needing an outlet. He didn’t even see his son in front of him, just a target. “You’d better,” he growled, his voice low and menacing, “where’s your brother?”
“He’s doing his homework, he has a big test tomorrow that he’s studying for. He’s on track to make the honor roll. Sir.” Dean told him with a note of pride in his voice.
“Of course he is, he’s the smart one,” John sneered at Dean, “Sam has something going for him. He’s going to make something of himself. And what about you? You’re just a fuck-up who wanders in the woods and shirks his responsibilities.”
Dean knew he shouldn’t listen, knew that John probably wouldn’t even remember this tomorrow and it didn’t mean anything, but he felt like his ribcage was collapsing, a dark void of hurt and worthlessness squeezing his organs. His chin dropped, his shoulders rolled forward, and his eyes filled with moisture. His mind was scrambling for a way out of this, a way to get his dad to calm down and go to bed, but John was looking for a fight and Dean was the only available target. “We both know you’re not gonna finish school and you’ll be lucky to find anyone to hire your sorry ass. All I’m asking is that you learn to follow some goddamn orders, but half the time you’re out in the goddamn woods doing who knows what, chasing after fairies or some shit, and even when you’re here, you ain’t paying attention. You need to grow up. Do something for this family.”
Dean knew he shouldn’t engage. He knew this was only going to lead to trouble, but he couldn’t stop the swell of anger rising in his chest. It burst out suddenly, hot tears falling down his cheeks, face turning red as he pointed an accusing finger at his father, “I’m the one who is always here, who is doing everything for this family and for Sam! You are a worthless, piece of shit drunk and we’d be better off without you!” His voice broke at the end and his anger fizzled out as quickly as it had rolled in, quiet terror taking its place. He lowered his arm and stepped back, eyes dropping to the floor and breath hitching in his chest. His muscles twitched, his whole body screaming at him to run, but he couldn’t move. Even if he could get out of there, he couldn’t leave Sam. So he stood there frozen, feet planted, eyes down, shrinking in on himself and waited for the fallout.
John stood up, gun in hand, swelling with rage. “You ungrateful little shit” he growled, spittle flying from his mouth, and he brought his arm up to slam the gun down, hard, onto the table as Dean flinched instinctively and put his arms up to cover his head. The loud report of a gunshot sounded through the room, and Dean opened his eyes to find himself against the wall, staring at broad shoulders covered in tan fabric as his guardian angel stood facing John, shielding Dean. The drunk man looked shocked, staring at Dean and down to the gun on the table, wondering how it went off, how Dean made it across the room, who this strange person was, his brain not making thought connections. The “o” shape his mouth made would’ve been comical if Dean weren’t so afraid. The man in the tan coat crossed the room in two long strides, coming nose to nose with John with his jaw set and his blue eyes intense and menacing. “Mary would be ashamed and appalled,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. Dean noticed a muddy red glow around his head and shoulders with black specks shooting through it, pulsing in waves of tightly controlled anger. “This will not happen again.” The strange man touched the tips of his fingers to the side of John’s neck, below his jaw, and he instantly collapsed. Dean’s guardian lifted John without much effort and unceremoniously dumped him on the lumpy, ratty couch.
The man heaved a sigh and turned to face Dean. “Hello Dean,” he said flatly, studying the young teen, “your father is sleeping. In the morning he’ll get a call about a job on an oil rig; he will make a good salary and send home adequate money for you and Sam to get by, but he won’t be around. It will be better for all of you. Call Bobby Singer. He can help. Goodbye, Dean,” and he started to turn away.
Dean launched himself forward, finally animated after being frozen against the wall while the whole strange, scary mess went down. He grabbed the man’s lapel and half-shouted, “Wait! Who are you? What are you?”
Blue eyes gazed down at him, face serene. “My name is Castiel,” he said in that too-deep-to-be-comfortable voice of his. “I am... your guardian. You should not even know I exist, but this was an emergency,” he holds one side of his coat out and looks down, revealing a bullet hole that went through the tan fabric and must have just missed hitting the flesh underneath. “I’ve done all I can tonight. Goodbye.” And just like that, he was gone.
Dean stood in the middle of the room for a moment, mind reeling, before his thoughts landed on his brother. “Sam!” he gasped, sprinting towards their room. He opened the closet to find Sam pale and shaking, his face wet with tears. “Dean? Are you ok? I heard a gunshot and I didn’t know what was going on and I didn’t want to come out. Where’s Dad? Is he ok?”
Dean just gathered his little brother into his arms, “Shhh, Sammy, it’s ok. I’m fine, Dad’s fine, there was just an accidental discharge when he was cleaning his gun. No big deal, ok? We’re gonna go see Uncle Bobby this week, stay with him and Aunt Ellen and Jo for a while. We’ll be fine. Dad’s asleep, let’s get to bed. Can’t be late for school tomorrow.”
~~~
John didn’t remember anything about the night before, as predicted, and the boys were gone at school by the time he finally woke up. Just as Castiel had told Dean, he got a phone call about a great job on an oil rig, and he was supposed to leave immediately. When Sam and Dean got home from school that afternoon, John was putting the last of his things into a duffel bag. “Uh… hey boys,” he said, grabbing his sheathed hunting knife and putting it in the duffel, “I got a job, I need to leave tonight. Uh… I’ll leave you money and stuff and you should… uh…” he looked around the apartment like an answer would magically appear about what to do with his boys while he was gone.
“Actually, Dad,” Dean interrupted, “I talked to Uncle Bobby today. He invited me and Sam to come stay with him for a while, says Aunt Ellen misses us. So that works out pretty good. I can tell him to come pick us up after school tomorrow.”
John just nodded, moving around the room, not looking at the boys. “Yeah, that’s good then,” he mumbled.
Half an hour later, John emerged from his room with his jacket on and his duffle over his shoulder. Dean and Sam were at the small table eating spaghettios that Dean had heated up for them. “Ok, I’m heading out. I’ll call when I get there and I’ll send money when I get paid. Stay out of trouble. Dean, take care of your brother. See you around, Sammy,” he finished, ruffling a hand through Sam’s floppy hair. And he was out the door.
That night, Dean got everything he could packed and ready to go. By the time they went to bed the closets were empty and there was a pile of backpacks, beaten up suitcases, and trash bags by the front door. The plan was for the boys to go to school, then head back to the apartment and finish up packing. Bobby would come by in the afternoon to pick them up, and they’d be at his place by dinner.
The next morning was a Friday, and Dean woke up extra early to head down to the office to let them know they were leaving. He told them he’d be back in the afternoon to turn in their keys, and then he went to get Sammy up so they could go to school. Walking back to their apartment in the quiet of the early morning, Dean felt calm and peaceful. He could almost imagine a hand on his shoulder, letting him know things were going to work out. “Castiel?” he whispered, feeling silly about talking to the open air. “Hey, I think you’re there. I think you can hear me. I just want to say… thanks. Bobby and Ellen are great people, and we’re lucky to be staying with them, even for a little while. I don’t know how much you did to make this happen or how, but thank you.” There wasn’t a response, but Dean knew that Castiel had heard him.