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Dean almost doesn’t see the kid. It had been a long night after an even longer day, and he had just been starting to consider stopping for the night. It had been raining ever since they crossed the bridge, and it had only gotten thicker as the night deepened. He had been up long enough that the road had started getting slightly blurry before him, and he should have probably quit two hundred miles back. He could barely see at this point.

Dean just really didn’t want to have to stop anywhere near Gotham, though. Neither had Sam. They had only ever been in the city once, when they were both kids, and the case their dad had worked there had turned out worse than bad. The city was haunted, cursed. It was the kind of thing that didn’t need proof. One step inside city limits — or, as it was currently, rolling along the highway that was just within its bounds — and the weight of it, the wariness and the thread of danger and beware as if the city were sentient, settled into every hunter’s bones like a promise.

They had enough problems these days without entering a city that could hold a grudge.

That’s about when they pass the kid.

“Dean. Pull over. Stop the car.” Despite the late hour, the tone of Sam’s voice is serious, and more alert than he had been half an hour back when he commented half-heartedly that they should keep going.

“What? Why?” Even as he questions it, he slams his foot down on the breaks. Baby stops sharply as he pulls her off to the side of the road, and Dean’s just grateful that she doesn’t slide with the sudden movements.

“There was a– a– kid, I think. Someone, at least, right off the road.”

The click of a seatbelt being undone makes him groan, rolling his head back against his headrest to look up at the ceiling of the Impala. “Something, at least,” Dean grumbles, already unbuckling to follow.

But he had seen it too.

Dean double checks that his gun is safely nestled in his waistband, then hurries after Sam, instantly drenched as the loud, cascading downpour falls upon his head. The rain is cold, the kind that clings and burrows into one's bones, and Dean should probably just be grateful that it isn’t snow. Sam is already halfway back towards the figure that stands, barely visible, in the pouring rain. He can hardly tell if it's human from here, and Dean gets the feeling he won’t be getting his long-awaited sleep anytime soon.

“Hey,” Sam calls, voice barely audible over the roar of rain, “You okay? My name is Sam, this is my brother, Dean. We’re not here to hurt you.”

Dean just barely refrains from scoffing. Dean will absolutely hurt whatever it is if he has to. Sam shoots him a look as if heard his thoughts, hand raised halfway in their universal ‘stand down, give me a minute’ gesture. He relents, nodding pointedly where the figure hasn’t moved or responded.

“Hey,” Sam starts again, gently. “Can you tell us your name? Are you hurt?”

And then they’re close enough, or the rain lightens just enough, or something, and Dean swears. The only thing — and Dean does mean the only thing — that stops him from shooting the figure and yelling “Ghost!” is that Dean can’t see through the dirty, tattered body, and the faint rise and fall of the boy’s chest. His gun is in his hand, though, eyes quick to catalog the dark blood shining between the mud and torn clothes, gleaming darkly off the figure’s fingers, off his mouth.

They get all the way to within five feet of the boy, and he still doesn’t move.

It’s with a kind of sinking feeling in his chest that Dean makes up his mind that the kid is human. There is every chance he’s not, and if this goes the way Dean thinks it will, they’ll do all the tests, but his gut is telling him the kid is human. And Dean trusts his gut more than just about anything.

The boy is staring blankly off into nothing, and now that they’re closer, Dean becomes more and more sure that the blood they see is the boy’s own. Dean swears again, softer, and tucks his gun away. Sam watches him carefully, easily able to read the shift in his demeanour, and lets Dean step forwards.

Dean crouches down in front of the boy, takes him in. He can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen years old, baby fat still soft on his features even if Dean can easily see the musculature hidden underneath his ruined suit. His mouth is bleeding, even cuts along his lips like something was torn from them. Blood runs down his jaw like an afterthought. Almost every one of his fingers are broken, if not all of them, and the fingernails are worse than cracked next to fingertips that are torn raw. Mud lines him head to toe, caked in his hair all the way down to his missing shoe.

There is a terrible sense of dread building up from his stomach, choking him in his throat like thorns.

Dean’s seen this before. In the mirror. Or, rather, it’s what he thinks he would’ve seen, if he had had a coffin, if Cas’s grace hadn’t still been lingering in his veins, healing and putting him back together even after he raised him up.

He takes a moment. Just one, to close his eyes, breathe deeply, and think into the ether, Cas, buddy, hey, we’re having a Lazarus rising part two moment over here. Could really use your help.

It doesn’t feel like they’re having a zombie moment. Death doesn’t like playing with the dead, and the kid in front of him is very much breathing and seemingly alive, even if he’s pale and bleeding and unresponsive.

Right. Okay. He’s got this. Otherwise he’s just crouching in the rain like an idiot, likely catching a cold and a chill he won’t be able to shake for hours.

“Hey,” Dean says, voice low and soft and careful, as if the boy hasn’t already been unreactive. “Like Sammy said, my name’s Dean. That giant over there is my younger brother. We don’t mean no harm, just passing by and happened to see you. What’s your name?”

No response.

“That’s alright. You don’t have to tell us. Why don’t you come with us, huh? We’ll get you nice and warmed up, fix up those fingers of yours. How’s that sound?”

He gives it a minute, but the kid doesn’t respond. Dean hadn’t truly been expecting him to. His gaze doesn’t even move, locked into the middle distance, somewhere far, far away.

“Okay,” Dean mutters under his breath. He stands, fishing in his pockets for his keys, which he tosses to Sam who catches them easily. “Bring the car ‘round, Sammy.”

Sam looks between him and the kid, something incalculable in his eyes as he nods.

As Sam leaves back towards the car, it’s just him and the kid left alone in the loud silence of the rain falling around them. Barely perceptible, the kid starts shivering. There’s no telling how long he’s been out in this weather, how far he’s walked from wherever— from wherever.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, very, very quietly, to himself. This is going to be a shitshow, he can feel it. Slipping off his jacket, he’s immediately soaked all the way through. Softly, he says, “I’m going to put this over your shoulders, ‘kay? You’re shivering.”

The kid doesn’t so much as look at him, but as Dean gets closer— he twitches. It’s barely perceptible. Dean just knows what to look for. It makes him hesitate before he covers the boy with his jacket, but. Well. It’s pouring down rain, and there’s no telling how long the kid’s been outside. He puts it on him.

The flinch is hard, immediate. Dean only barely dodges the fist that gets swung his way, and the second lands. It smarts, a solid hit right in his gut, but by the way the kid cries out, it’s worse on him by far. It’s gotta be, with the way his hands are mangled.

Dean grabs both his forearms, tight, and holds them against his body when it's clear that the kid isn't about to back down. He struggles a bit, almost perfunctory, before he slumps into Dean with all his weight.

“Easy, easy.” Dean shifts his hold, moving his grip around the kid’s back to better support him.

His throat prickles with something he can’t quite name, and he stares out over the kid’s head into the invisible treeline, unable to make anything out in the dark. The body is much too small in his grasp, but—

Something tells him deep in his gut that the kid could have made that a much more hell of a fight if he wanted to. If he was aware enough to.

And, then— “B?” he asks, in a tone that sounds a lot like ’Dad’?

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. “Sorry, kid, just plain ole Dean here.”

The boy doesn’t talk further. Dean’s pretty sure he’s still not all there.

Sam rolls up besides them mere moments after, the warmth of the headlights cutting through the rain. The slam of the door cuts through the night, and in his arms, the kid startles, face shoved into the fabric of Dean’s flannel. There’s definitely blood on it at this point, but if got mad at that simple fact he’d have had an aneurism a long time ago.

His brother comes around the car, taking in the two of them with something knowing in his eyes. Dean ignores the look he sends them, and nods to the back door. Sam opens it obligingly.

Dean takes a breath and shifts, moving one of his arms to tap the kid softly on his shoulder.

“Hey. Sammy’s here with the car. I’m gonna set you up in the back, alright? Can’t leave you out here like this.”

The boy is motionless in his arms, and Dean refrains from sighing. It won’t do any good. “Alright. I’m going to move you now, okay? Put you in the backseat.”

It takes Dean a second to decide between just picking him up or seeing if he’ll walk to the Impala on his own two feet. He’s already supporting most of the boy’s weight, but the kid has a hell of a startle response. Deciding he’ll try out the slow route, Dean carefully shifts, moving one arm under the kid’s shoulder and around his waist to better take his weight from the side. The boy adjusts naturally, redistributing some of his weight back into his feet and standing more solidly against him.

This will work, then.

Gently, Dean leads the boy back to the car, and he shuffles along willingly. When they get to the door, there’s a pause, but when Dean puts light weight on his back to nudge him forwards he slides into the car without protest.

Dean shares an unsettled look with Sam. No teenage boy should be that compliant.

He sticks his head back in the car to make sure the kid is buckled in — he isn’t, so Dean clicks the seatbelt closed across his lap — and shuts the car door softly.

Despite the rain, neither he or his brother make a move to get into the Impala just yet.

“What’re we going to do with him?” Sam’s voice is barely audible in the rain, as if he doesn’t want to risk the boy inside the car hearing him.

“I’m— thinking of calling Cas.” Again. “Doesn’t something seem— I don’t know— off to you?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know, Dean. He might just be a kid in a bad spot. We should take him to a— a hospital or the police station.”

“In Gotham?” He asks, incredulous. “You know the cops here are more likely to shuffle him off into some human trafficking ring than do something good. Besides, when has our luck ever been that this is some normal human case?”

Sam makes a face, like he knows Dean has a point and he doesn’t want to admit it. “Call Cas, then. He’ll make sure, and then we can move from there.”

“Great. Now let’s get in the damn car before I stop being able to feel my fingers.”

Sam rolls his eyes at him, quickly slipping into the car as Dean rounds it to get to his side. He gets into his seat quickly, cranking the heat up as far as it can go as he gets settled. A quick glance to the rearview mirror shows the kid sitting placidly in the back, staring at nothing in particular.

As he pulls back out onto the road, he says, “I’m stopping at the next place I see regardless of what Cas says. We gotta look at those fingers immediately.”

Sam nods distractedly. His phone is already in his hands, tapping away at something he’s sure to share soon.

It’s only a few minutes later when Sam nudges him, voice low and wary when he says, “Dean. We picked him up right outside Gotham Cemetery."

Dean closes his eyes, just briefly, feeling the weight of that information settle over his shoulders like lead. A memory of dirt, of compression tight around his lungs flashes against the backs of them before he can think the better of it. Dean snaps them open, glancing at the kid in the back. His own eyes are closed, but his breathing is too even and light for him to be asleep. Dean doubts he’s paying any more attention now than he has at any other point in the night.

“I’ll call Cas,” he replies gruffly. And, despite the part of himself that wants to believe in the best on behalf of the kid, start, “Do you think—”

“There’s no way to tell what’s happened yet. We’ll do the tests, ask Cas, see what comes of it. It’s best not to make any assumptions before then.” The way Sam crafts his words, lays them out, is telling.

Dean scowls. Sam takes his silence for the answer that it is, and that’s that.

Baby continues along steadily. The rain doesn’t let up, and it allows his thoughts to wander.

Hey, Castiel, he who doesn’t know personal space and doesn’t understand Star Wars. Dean blinks at the road, feeling as he always does when he does this, a bit like a twat, a bit too far on the wrong side of desperate. We got a bit of a situation down here. There’s, uh, this kid. He’s hurt, and— And maybe a bit of a zombie the same way I am. I know I’ve already asked, but we could really use your help.

There’s a beat, the silence pure against the sound of Baby’s wheels against the road and the rain against the windshield and roof.

“Hello, Dean.”

Like always, Cas’s entrance is utterly without noise, the faint beat of feathered wings either imagined or lost under the soft drone of sounds against the car. The only reason he doesn’t jump is because he had been expecting it, but it still catches him somewhere in his chest, the sudden appearance of the angel.

In the rearview mirror, it’s easy to see Cas sat next to the kid. His gaze flickers between Sam and Dean, then settles on the boy, head cocked like an inquiring bird.

“How interesting. Dean, Sam, what have you gotten yourselves into this time?”

“Hey,” Dean defends, “It’s not like we sought this one out. He was literally on the side of the road.”

“Hn.”

“What do you mean by ‘interesting?’” Sam asks, turning in his seat to get a better look at the passengers in the back. Dean can tell by tone alone that he’s already suspicious of Cas’s reaction.

“The boy. His soul used to reside in heaven. And it is—” Cas makes low humming noise as he figures out how to word it. “Think of it like a bird with a broken wing trapped in a cage. It’s all there, but damaged. Something is trapping it. It rather reminds me of yours, Dean.”

Dean’s chest clenches tight, his heartbeat just a tick faster than the moment before.

“Are you saying he was resurrected?” Sam’s voice is rushed, and he sends Dean a glare, eyebrows raised accusingly. When were you going to tell me this?

“Yes,” Cas replies, “Although not by any angel. No demon, either. I suspect the timelines have been tampered with. Reality has been fluctuating oddly. But if that is the case, then there’s nothing to do about it. This boy’s resurrection is just a side effect of whatever actual change occurred.”

“Fuckin’ hate time travel, man,” Dean grumbles. “Fuckin’ hell. Are you this isn’t something in our wheelhouse?”

Dean feels the pause where a human might shrug, where Cas instead just stares with a startling intensity. “I believe it has to do with one of your Earth heroes. Nothing supernatural. It is not anything you can undo. If you hadn’t picked up the boy, I doubt you would have known reality had changed at all. As far as I can tell, it hasn’t affected either of your individual timelines at all.”

Sam lets out a sigh Dean feels in his bones. “Alright, fine. If you say leave it alone, we’ll leave it alone. Right, Dean?”

“Sure.” It’s not a lie, exactly. It’s not like Dean can solve time travel on his own, and he can already tell Cas isn’t going to volunteer his angel mojo. That isn’t going to stop him from looking into it, though.

The look on Sam’s face tells Dean that he doesn’t entirely believe him, but is willing to let it drop. “So, who is he?”

It’s a good question.

“The boy’s name is Jason Todd.”

“Jason Todd, Jason Todd,” Sam repeats to himself. “Why do I know that name?”

Dean shrugs. It pings, faintly familiar, as if it’s something he heard in passing, but he can’t place it off the top of his head either.

“Cas, buddy,” Dean starts, "Think you can heal up our friend, Jason, back there?”

He sees Cas comply in the rearview mirror. The blood clears off of the kid’s — Jason’s — hands and face, and Dean can visibly see his fingerbones straighten and his nails repair. Cas’s ability to heal others will never stop being something just short of miraculous. The kid doesn’t so much as twitch as Cas’s fingers leave his forehead, but his expression does soften out as the pain clears.

“Hm.” And, that’s Cas’s puzzled grunt.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“The physical wounds are easy enough to heal. His soul, however…”

“What?” Sam probes. “You can’t heal him?”

“No,” he denies, “I can. Just— It’s going to take some time. It’s delicate work. And he’ll have to do some of it on his own.”

“How d’you mean?”

“I can’t just heal trauma, Sam.” Cas states bluntly, like it’s obvious. “Trauma is something that forms part of who someone is. To get rid of it so crassly would be more damaging than if I had never touched it.”

“Huh,” Sam replies, an interested note in his tone even as if he seems to leave it at that.

Dean continues driving, and he finds a sign that indicates a motel about ten minutes later. He pulls off, a tiredness sinking underneath his skin that he’s long grown familiar with, pressing into his eyes and brain with a surety that guarantees he’ll wake up with a headache tomorrow. Thankfully, the motel is easy to spot when they pull off the highway, and he brings Baby to a stop before what is clearly the place’s office.

“Alright,” he begins before he gets out, turning to look at the occupants of the car. Sam has his focus on him, and Cas is still in the back, unbuckled, attention locked onto Dean. The kid appears to be asleep. “Before I go get us rooms, what’re we going to do with him?” He nods at Jason.

“Dean, the kid is dead. Legally, anyway. Nobody’s looking for him.” Sam’s voice is sympathetic, but unhelpful.

“What, you’re saying whoever his parents are won’t be happy if we drop their kid, alive and well, off on their doorstep?”

Sam grimaces. “I mean… I’m sure we can. But do you want to be the one to explain how we have him?”

Dean matches his brother’s expression. “Not particularly. But, man, if he has a family, they deserve to know that the kid’s alive.”

“If I may,” Cas interjects. “While this is all well and good, I recommend not doing anything of the sort until I have helped Jason with what is going on with his soul.”

“Right. Okay. Fine. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go in there; I’m going to go get us a room; and I’m going to get some damn sleep while Cas fixes up the kid. In the morning, if he’s not better, we’ll reassess, go from there. How’s that sound? Good?” He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. “Great, I’ll get on that then.”

Dean gets out of the car without further comment and winces when the door shuts a little too hard. Hopefully he didn’t wake the kid.

It’s easy enough to get a room and request to have one with either a pull-out couch or a futon they can borrow. The desk clerk gives him two keys to a room with a couch and two beds with a bored expression, and Dean mutters a thanks as he leaves out the door.

He slides back in the car and brings it around in front of their room number quietly and parks.

“Alright, this is our room here. You two head on inside, let me get the kid.”

Sam shoots him a glance. “Are you sure? Cas has super strength, and is, you know, the one who just healed him.”

Dean nods. “I’m sure. I think— I think he might trust me, somewhere in there. And besides, I’m no slouch, I can haul him inside if I have to.”

“If you say so,” Sam acquiesces, leaving the car with only one backwards glance before heading towards the trunk.

“Sam has a point.”

Dean shifts so he’s facing Cas. The angel is staring at him steadily, brows furrowed as if puzzled as to why Dean’s taking on this task himself. The kid is resting next to him, leaned against the back of the seat and head against the windshield. For a moment, Dean sees a superimposed image of a younger Sam in the exact same position before quickly blinking it away.

“Just let me do this, yeah? Go help Sam with the bags. Maybe one of y’all can fish out something Jason here can change into when he wakes up.” He steadfastly ignores any disturbances or exhaustion in his voice.

Cas squints at him before something seems to click and his expression clears. “I understand. I shall help Sam with the bags, then.” He’s gone between one blink and the next.

Dean sighs. Damn angels. “Hey, kid,” he says, voice raised.

The boy doesn’t stir. Dean can’t quite tell whether he’s actually asleep or pretending to be, but given the state he was in, Dean doubts he has the wherewithal to fake it.

“Jason!” he tries, a little louder, to no response.

Fuck, fine. Dean reaches out, gently shaking the boy’s knee.

That gets a reaction. Immediately, Jason’s eyes snap open as he jolts, and his hand is kicked away before he has the chance to process. The kid is slamming the car door shut as Dean is left blinking after him.

“Fuck!” Damn, that kid has some nasty reflexes. Dean scrambles out of the car. At least the rain has finally let up.

Jason is already twenty feet away, running as fast as he possibly can towards who-knows-where. It irks, just a bit, a hot little ball of annoyance somewhere in his chest. But, hell, if Dean had to crawl his own way out of grave and was picked up by two-odd strangers as a teenager, he’d make a run for it too.

Unfortunately for Jason, he’s a newly revived teenager who seems to be permanently checked out, and Dean is a grown-ass adult who can plan ahead. Also, Cas seems to be aware of what’s happening, and appears before the boy quick enough that he can’t stop himself from crashing into him.

Dean skids to a stop next to them half a moment later. Cas has his hands firmly gripped around Jason’s shoulders, the boy struggling rather heatedly in his grasp.

“Jason! Jason, hey, kid, chill out. It’s okay. This is Cas, he healed you in the car. He’s sort of an angel. I’m Dean, remember? I helped you get in the car?” Dean adjusts himself so that he’s within the boy’s line of sight.

It, somehow, seems to help. More clear than he’s seen them thus far, Jason’s eyes lock onto him. There’s no real comprehension on his face, but something in him seems to recognize Dean, and he relaxes in Cas’s grip. His body subtly tilts towards Dean, and so he waves Cas’s hands away and puts his own arm lightly around the kid’s shoulders.

“Bruce?”

It takes him a second to even realize the kid spoke. His voice is so small, so haggard, that it almost gets lost in the wind.

The name hits, a peculiar sort of ache blooming in his chest that comes from a deep, grieving understanding that Dean refuses to acknowledge. Bruce, B, the only thing that Jason’s said or appeared to want.

“Sorry, kid,” he disappoints around a rough voice, “Bruce ain’t here.”

They walk back to the room in a heavy silence, Cas trailing along behind them.

It’s easy enough from there to lead Jason to the bathroom. Sam had indeed picked out some clothes for the kid — Dean’s, a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants that he honestly forgot he had, both worn soft but unstained — and they’re sure to hang off his frame, but anything’s better than the bloody torn suit he crawled out of his grave in. Dean sets them on the counter of the sink, and turns the knob on the shower. He sticks his hand in the spray to gauge its temperature as he observes the kid.

Jason is standing idly in the doorway, looking in on the restroom without really processing. Or, well, that’s not exactly true — Dean had seen the careful way Jason’s eyes had flicked over the motel room as they entered, a quick cataloging sweep that Dean knows all too well. There’s no good reason a teenager knows how to count bodies and exits so instinctively he can do it nonresponsive.

Dean’s pretty sure he isn’t going to like the answer when he inevitably figures it out.

But, still, it’s easy to tell that while Jason is somewhat aware of his surroundings, he’s certainly not engaged with them. He hasn’t been since they picked him up. Whatever trauma the kid endured, it did more than fuck over his body.

Then again, dying is almost certainly a traumatic experience, no matter how it happens.

Dean certainly can’t imagine how horrible it must be as a teenager. At that age, your whole life is ahead of you, and to have it cut short, well. Dean knows how that goes.

The water warms up quickly. He pulls his hand out and dries it on his jeans. Considering they are already wet — and chafing, getting them off is going to be a bitch and a half — this is somewhat ineffective. Dean hardly cares.

“Alright,” he says, standing. He taps the clothes on the sink. “My brother pulled some things for you to change into, and there’s hotel shampoo and stuff already in the shower. Trust me, you'll feel like a whole new person after getting out.”

At the very least, Jason does shuffle inwards as Dean moves towards the door. His eyes slowly trail over the clothes, and hesitantly, he sticks his hand in the shower. It seems that it meets his standards because Jason climbs into the tub just like that, fully dressed and under the showerhead.

Dean refrains from sighing. It’s not the kid’s fault his head is busted.

“It’ll be more effective if you take the ruined clothes off, you know,” Dean states dryly.

Jason seems to respond better to things that are said out loud explicitly, so maybe Dean really does need to spell it out for him.

And, surely, just like that, the boy’s suit jacket is shrugged off and dropped on the floor. As Jason bends down to pull off his shoes, Dean decides the kid’s got it, and goes to leave.

Over his shoulder as he shuts the door, he adds, “And don’t forget to use the products and put the new clothes back on!”

Sam gives him a puzzled look as the door shuts behind him with a click.

Dean shrugs. “As long as we tell him straight-up what to do, he seems well enough to handle things on his own. I’m definitely not going to stay in there and wait on him.”

“No, that’s— I didn’t think you were. He responded to you?”

It occurs to Dean then that Sam had been there for neither of Jason’s moments of speech.

“I guess,” he replies before grimacing and lifting a shoulder. “Not really. He’s only asked for a ‘B’— Bruce, who I can only assume is the kid’s dad or older brother or something. Haven’t gotten much more out of him besides that.”

Sam’s eyebrows furrow, and he gets that look on his face that tells Dean his brother is about to go down a research spiral. “I swear that sounds familiar.”

“The name Bruce sounds familiar to you?” Dean raises his eyebrows in what he hopes displays his clear disbelief.

Sam glares at him. “No, asshole, I’m saying that the name sounds familiar when put with Jason Todd. I think I must’ve read about him in an article or something. Here, hand me my computer.”

Dean rolls his eyes and does as he’s asked. Sam takes it from him with a muttered thanks and opens it right there in his lap, already typing away.

Cas is standing by the doorway.

“I’m surprised you haven’t flown off by now.”

Cas tilts his head to the side. It’s a small tell, barely noticeable, but Dean has been around Cas enough that he’s starting to get a good read on the angel. “You have asked me to help with the boy. I shall stay until my task is completed. I can hardly do that anywhere else.”

Dean nods slowly. “Right. Of course, my mistake.”

Whatever. Dean flops down on the bed Sam hasn’t claimed, the one closest to the bathroom this go-around, and turns on the tv.

It only takes Sam a few minutes to find what he’s looking for.

“I knew I read about them!” Sam’s shout is excited, and he sits up on the bed, making sure Dean has paused the television and has his attention before he continues, “So, get this. Jason Todd, adoptee of Bruce Wayne, died six months ago in a terrorist attack overseas. It was a huge deal; Wayne hasn’t been seen in public since the funeral, and his older ward, a Richie Grayson, didn't even attend.”

Dean winces. “That sucks, dude. I can’t imagine not going to your brother’s funeral.”

Sam twitches at that, and yeah, maybe Dean could have had more tact with that one.

“Anyways,” Sam starts haltingly, “at least we know who to return him to.”

“We’re just going to show up on the doorsteps of the richest man in Gotham?” Sarcasm lies thick on his tongue.

Sam gives him a little half shrug, why not? “It’s the easiest, cleanest route. It’s not like we can keep him.”

“I’m not saying we should keep him. God. All I’m saying is, dropping him off at a hospital or a police station is a much easier way of keeping our faces out of it.” Dean is being perfectly reasonable here.

“Weren’t you just saying that dropping him off at either of those places is as good as handing him a second death sentence?” Sam raises an eyebrow at him, the cocky bastard.

He’s right, too. Dean scowls. “Okay, fine, so we bring the kid to Wayne’s house. Cas, how much time do you need to patch him up?”

Cas squints at something in the general direction of the bathroom door. Presumably, he’s doing some angel soul-sight mojo and assessing the kid. “I shall help him overnight while he sleeps. But, as I said before, I cannot simply heal the mental trauma he has gone through.”

“But, you can get him speaking again?” Dean asks.

“As long as its cause is physical and not mental, yes.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Dean acquiesces. He turns the tv back on.

Dean half-hears, half-sees Sam try to start conversation again before dropping it and going back to his computer. He’s probably looking for Jason’s address so they can return him to Wayne promptly.

That will surely be a conversation. Maybe they can just drop the kid off and drive away before anyone actually answers the door.

He’s about halfway into his episode of Dr. Sexy when the bathroom door opens with a gust of steam. Jason stands in the doorway as the steam wafts out after him, and hell. Dean had thought it before but with him all cleaned up, it’s hard to ignore just how young Jason is. Dean’s clothes absolutely fucking drape off the boy’s skinny frame, the shirt hangs almost to his knees, and the sweatpants are pooling around his ankles.

It’s also easier with the suit off and the blood washed away to tell just how fucking scarred he is.

Without thinking, he blurts out, “Are you sure we should return him to Wayne? Hell, the kid’s got damn near as many scars as we do.”

The silence before Sam speaks is heavy. “I mean… I’m not sure what other choice we have, Dean. We don’t have any proof that his dad did any of this to him, and the article didn’t actually describe how he— you know. Besides, what else is there to do?”

Dean hates that his brother is right.

Jason blinks at them.

Right. The kid needs a place to sleep, and Dean’s pretty sure Jason’s just going to stand there until told otherwise Dean rolls off the bed, ignoring the damp spot he left on the comforter from his rain soaked clothes, and makes his way over to the couch shoved against the window. It’s a faded yellow color with some garish floral print on it, and it seems lumpy but adequate.

Dean digs around between the cushions before the couch springs forth, and he pulls it out, rearranging the cushions into something Jason could reasonably sleep on. He waves the kid forwards as Sam decides to help and pulls the extra blanket and pillow from the motel’s little closet.

Jason ambles forwards, and good. That’s good. He doesn’t need verbal cues to cooperate.

Sam hands him the supplies, and then makes a beeline for the bathroom. That’s— whatever. Dean will just change then shower in the morning. There won’t be any hot water after his brother gets out anyways.

Den finishes making up the pull-out and pats it. Jason has stopped right next to it, but his eyes are focused on Dean. Somewhat. Enough.

“This is where you’ll sleep. You got a pillow for your head, a blanket to bundle under. Cas here is going to watch over you, finish fixing you up before we return you to your old man tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

Jason tilts his head at him, then climbs on top of the couch, pulling the blanket over himself and up to his chin. His eyes close quickly, although Dean can tell he is far from asleep yet.

Dean blinks at him. “Right. Well. Good night, then.” He looks up to the angel who has moved closer, still a hovering presence by his shoulder. “Cas.”

“I will look after him, Dean. You need not worry.”

Dean’s not entirely sure that’s true, but he’s willing to not think about it until it becomes a problem. He shakes his head, takes his place back on his bed, and turns back on the tv until his brother gets out. They can deal with it all tomorrow.

— — —

Dean is awoken to the sound of a child yelling.

He’s out of the bed, gun in hand, before he can even blink the sleep from his eyes. Sam is already up, hands out placatingly, and Cas is—

Oh.

Jason is awake. And, he is not very happy about it.

Writhing in Cas’s immovable grip is one very angry, very aggressive Jason Todd, doing absolutely everything he can to wrench himself out of the angel’s grasp. He’s pretty good at it too, if the way Cas is struggling to keep his hold on the kid is real.

“Let go of me, you perv! Let me go! Hey! HEY! These guys in here got a—” Cas wraps his hand over Jason’s mouth.

Dean’s pretty sure the kid tries to bite him.

Fucking hell.

Dean sighs, scrubs his hand down his face, and sets down his gun on the bedside table. It’s too early in the morning for this.

Unfortunately, Dean’s pretty sure he’d be doing the exact same shit if he were in Jason’s position.

“Kid, Jason, I promise we’re not trying to kidnap you or try anything skeevy,” Dean says, motioning for Sam to sit back down then leaving his hands open out at his sides. Nonaggressive. There’s no sense in riling him up any further. “I don’t know what you remember, but my brother and I, the oaf here on the bed, found you out in the rain last night, injured and wandering just outside Gotham. We got you a shower and some new clothes, and Cas, the guy holding you, fixed you up.”

Jason glares at him over Cas’s hand, but quits struggling. Dean doubts it’s because he’s given up. He looks pointedly down at the hand over his mouth, then back up to Dean, and lifts an eyebrow.

“Cas, let him talk.”

Cas squints at him. “If he is going to continue yelling, I cannot see how that would be a good idea.”

Dean looks at Jason. “Kid, are you going to scream again?”

Something tightens on Jason’s face. Anger, fear, something frantic and intent. His gaze flickers between Sam and Dean and slowly shakes his head no.

“Cas.”

The angel looks thoughtfully down at the kid. “I could just knock him out.”

The panic in the kid’s eyes — and that is what it is, panic — sharpens, and Dean grits his teeth. “Sure, but that isn’t going to help anyone. Let him speak.”

Cas removes his hand, securing it around the boy’s torso, the kid’s wrists held in place and against his body by Cas’s other hand.

“Thanks, asshole,” Jason spits. It’s unclear who he’s talking to. It doesn’t really matter. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I am an Angel of the Lord,” Cas replies dutifully before Dean can stop him, “and as such, I know the name of all of God’s children. This is Sam and Dean Winchester.”

Jason makes a face, disbelief and something else twisting his features. “What? Don’t fuck with me, angels aren’t real.”

Dean laughs, a bitter, unamused thing. “Trust me, they are very real. And, this one here healed you. Not every day someone gets the angle mojo special.”

“What, from when you kidnapped me, you mean? I certainly don’t feel injured. Don’t bullshit, nothing heals that fast.” The vitriol in Jason’s voice is almost impressive.

“Angels do,” Dean replies, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Jason scowls, something dark taking over his features. If Dean had to guess, his last clearest memory is probably his death, considering the state they found him in. “None of your damn business. Now, let me go, or—”

“Or what?” Dean interjects, waving a hand across the room. Fuck it. The nuclear option it is. “I hate to break it to you, kid, but you’ve been dead six months. Nobody's looking.”

“Dean!” Ah, and there’s Sam with his sanctimonious bullshit. Give him a break.

“What?” Dean questions, turning to his brother. “He’s going to figure it out eventually if hasn’t already.” He turns back to the kid, ignoring how Sam has opened his mouth to continue speaking. “Best we can figure, someone altered the timeline and butterfly affected you back to life. You crawled your way out of your own grave; we found you, called our angel to heal you up, and have plans to give you back to Daddy Wayne promptly. Okay?”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters. “The kid just woke up, Dean. Have some tact.”

Jason goes pale. Cas quickly goes from restraining Jason to holding him up. Dammit.

The silence that falls upon the room is thick and stagnant. Dean shifts aware from his brother’s accusatory stare and glares at the wall. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then turns back towards his audience.

“Look. Jason. We didn’t kidnap you. If you’d like, I can hand you a phone, and you can call your dad now. It’s your business whether you believe we’re telling the truth or not, but trust me, all I want to do is get you back home. Okay?”

It’s true, too. If there’s no spooky shit going on — and Dean’s inclined to believe Cas and say that there isn’t — and the kid just got lucky by fate of the universe, then the best thing to do is deliver him back home safely. Yeah, there will be a lot of shit to deal with, but if Bruce Wayne really is the richest man in Gotham, then Dean’s sure they can handle it.

It takes a second for the kid to come back to himself. A focus returns to his gaze as he jumps at seemingly nothing, blinks rapidly, and flickers his eyes anxiously, calculatingly between Dean and his brother. He still holds himself loosely in Cas’s arms. Dean can’t tell what he’s thinking for the life of him.

“If I promise not to bolt will you tell your angel buddy to let me go?” There’s a slight disdain drawn over the word ‘angel’ as it leaves Jason’s mouth, but otherwise he seems to be trying to keep the peace.

“Seems fair to me.” Dean nods to Cas, who lets Jason go without complaint.

Jason straightens, taking a few steps away from the angel and towards the door. His gaze, now able to take in the entire room, bounces between the three of them warily, and he crosses his arms. “Where am I?”

It’s Sam who answers, “We’re right on the furthest edge of Gotham, on the other side of the bay. Gotham Cemetery can’t be more than thirty miles from here.”

“Gotham Cemetery,” Jason repeats to himself, still looking rather wane, “Right, fuck, okay. That’s— Whatever. Deal with it later. Phone?” It’s less of a question and more of a demand. The kid sticks out his hand as if to emphasize it.

Dean allows it, holding his phone out to Jason. The kid snatches it, holding it tight to himself as if one of them is going to take it away. He takes another few steps backwards towards the door, and Dean isn’t convinced that the kid isn’t going to bolt. His eyes don’t leave any of them for more than a few seconds as he punches in what is presumably his father’s number — and hopefully not nine-one-one, Christ, he should have thought this through — and waits for the man to pick up as he holds it by his ear.

Dean can tell the moment the man picks up. Jason’s entire body goes slack with relief, and the quiet, “Dad?” Jason lets out is so choked that Dean turns away.

That conversation is not for him. Dean sits down on the edge of his bed and makes eye contact with his brother. The look they share communicates more than words ever could. In the corner of his eye, he can see Cas follow his lead and sit down on the pull-out couch, although his eyes never seem to leave the kid.

“Dad, B, it’s— it’s Jason, I—” his voice drops, turns towards something that sounds more like pleading, “I— I promise this isn’t a prank call. Track this phone, come see me yourself. You can be here in less than an hour, B. I’m— I’m with three guys, they claim one of them’s an angel, that something in the timeline hiccuped and brought me back and they found me by the side of the road.”

A pause, and Jason’s voice grows desperate. “I can— We were fighting, B. We were fighting, and— and I ran away, and it hurt so badly when that clown killed me, B, Dad, please. I just— I just want to come home.”

Dean’s chest hurts.

Jason exhales shakily, gasping in several short, stuttered breaths, before his breathing evens out into a recognizable pattern. He’s calming himself down. “My dad is on his way.”

Dean takes that as permission to return his gaze to the kid. He decides to not acknowledge the wetness in the kid’s eyes, the blotchiness in his face. “Good,” he replies, honest. “That was always my intent.”

Jason’s eyes are sharp as they scan him again, then Sam and Cas. He nods, once, jerkily.

“I do have a question, though,” Sam starts gently in a tone that isn’t quite that, and Dean feels the fragile truce in the room shatter. “You seem to be taking the whole— resurrection thing pretty well. Relatively. And, your dad, he doesn’t need proof to come get you? No cops? Nothing?”

Any trust in Jason’s eyes shutter, and he regains a tightness and defensiveness to his stance that Dean hadn’t even been aware that he lost. “It’s Gotham. Weird shit happens all the time.”

It’s most definitely a deflection.

“But—”

“Sam, leave it,” Dean interjects.

“All I’m saying is—”

“Don’t,” Dean tries again, louder. “It’s not like I’m not curious either. But weren’t you just ragging on me for being too abrasive?”

And, boy, is he curious. He wants to know what’s going on just as much as his brother. Because it’s evident Jason’s no normal kid, resurrection put to the side, but the kid’s already been through enough. He doesn’t need him and Sam prying through his life when there’s no evidence that it’s anything in their wheelhouse.

Gotham is cursed, they can leave it at that.

“What about you guys?” Jason asks, almost accusatory. “How are you so chill about this?”

“You’re treating this like it’s any other Thursday. Do you just live your lives picking up dead people from the side of the road?”

“I mean, kinda,” Sam answers. “We’re hunters. Dealing with the supernatural is pretty much our thing.”

“...Right.” Despite his hesitance, it’s clear that Jason isn't filled with disbelief or suspicion.

Dean has to wonder what the kid has seen for such easy acceptance.

The silence while they wait for Wayne to show up is nothing short of awkward. All three men remain seated, while Jason stands warily in the corner by the door, a death grip on Dean’s phone. He never once looks away from them after his call ends, shoulders tight as he shifts foot to foot, even as he visibly starts to flag.

At some point, Dean turns on the tv, just for the noise. It plays some procedural show he’s never seen. Sam tries to make idle small talk with Cas, fails, and gets on his laptop, presumably looking for their next case.

“Are you really an angel?” Jason blurts, and the sudden attention of everyone in the room makes him shrink back before he straightens his shoulders, face set.

Cas nods. “Yes.”

There’s a shrewd, calculating gleam to Jason’s eyes. “Huh. And, I really was in a bad shape when I— When I—”

“You would have lived,” Cas clarified, “but you had severe damage to your finger, mouth, and brain. The fingers and mouth were the easiest to heal, of course, but the brain trauma was more complex to reverse. It is likely you would have been in a nonresponsive state for some time, if not indefinitely, had I not interfered.”

“Huh,” Jason says again, fainter. There’s a far away look to him that Dean isn’t going to touch with a ten foot pole. He blinks, takes a breath, and clearly trying to change topics, asks, “Whose— Whose clothes am I in?”

“Mine,” Dean answers. “Sam picked ‘em out, though. ‘Fraid we didn’t have anything smaller. You managed to take a shower and change by yourself last night. Your clothes are still in the bathroom, but trust me, you’re gonna be more comfortable in this.”

Jason hums, but seems to take him at his word. “You know, for kidnappers, you’re really bad at, like, keeping me restrained. I could have bolted by now.”

“We didn’t kidnap you,” Sam replies, “and you’re free to leave, if you want. Though Wayne’s already on his way, and it’s raining again, and we’re nowhere near Gotham proper.”

“I know that,” Jason scoffs, looking at them as if they are the ones that are stupid, “Why do you think I haven’t left already?”

“Uh, you’re like twelve, have no shoes, and Cas is a literal angel who you can’t run from?” Dean questions, voice tilted in amusement at the sheer audacity of the kid.

Because Jason fully believes that he could have left by now if he wanted to, regardless of whether they were trying to keep him there or not. It’s there in his stance, in the tilt of his chin and the challenging glint in his eyes. Dean believes he’d damn well try with everything he had if nothing else.

Jason shrugs, a forced levity to his shoulders and stance. “It’s not my first time being snatched.”

Dean shares a look with Sam. That’s hardly reassuring.

Silence falls again, and no sound fills the room outside the quiet chatter from the tv.

Dean’s just about figured out what’s going on in the show when their motel door opens with a violent bang, bouncing off the wall with a rattle. A large, hulking figure stands in the doorway, undecipherable in the rainy morning’s warped lighting, and Dean’s on his feet and gun in his hand for the second time that day in less than a second.

As the man steps inside, the weak hotel lighting casts over the man’s face, revealing a man who is in his late thirties at best. There’s a waneness to his frame that speaks to lack of sleep or undereating, his black hair looks like he just rolled out of bed, wild and unkempt, and his eyes are a deep blue, hard and calculative even undercut as they are by heavy purple eyebags.

Sam holds out a hand to Dean, a harried ‘put the gun down, idiot’ gesture that Dean doesn’t need to see twice before following. No reason to instigate who must be Jason’s father — Bruce Wayne, and apparently the most powerful man in Gotham.

The man does a brief, thorough scan of the room, much like his son, before quickly turning to the boy in question.

It’s obvious, the recognition. The way his shoulders go tight, his fingers twitching at his sides, his face unable to hide the deep, unending grief of a father mourning his son and finding something a lot like hope. “Jason?”

Jason’s entire body collapses, all the energy keeping him held up dispelled at one word. Wayne catches him as he falls into him, his crumpled face already wet with tears as he shoves his head into his dad’s shoulder and croaks, with all the release of fear and relief the young boy has, ”Dad.”