67. Lion's Teeth

All in all, Castiel isn’t quite sure how he survives the interaction. 

He’d stammered out a response to Bobby’s question, every instinct inside of him screaming that he was saying the wrong thing regardless of whatever had come out of his mouth. He’s not even sure he remembers what he said, if he’s being honest. All he knows is that Bobby’s eyebrow had climbed steadily higher on his face until it had disappeared under the brim of his hat, and Castiel had been sent upstairs with a sigh and a thumb over the shoulder after he’d stumbled over enough words for the man to grow impatient with him. 

The stairs creak when he walks – flees – up them. 

At first, he’s not sure where Dean has gone, but the light under the first door down the hall tips him off. When he pushes it open, Dean is standing stiffly in the middle of the room, his arms wrapped around his chest. He’s looking around with a quiet sort of wonder, his face guarded and careful, and Castiel almost feels as though he’s interrupting. As though he should escort himself back downstairs, regardless of the fact that he’s fairly certain Bobby is one step away from chasing him out with a loaded weapon. 

He lingers in the doorway, something painful catching in his chest as he watches the man in front of him. After a while, Dean seems to realize he’s there – he turns to look at him and steps back toward the bed, giving Castiel a shaky smile. 

“Well, come on,” he says, clearly going for nonchalance and landing squarely on nervousness. “Don’t you wanna see what kinda dorky kid I was at fifteen?”

Castiel blinks. “This was your room?”

Dean huffs. “Yep. I couldn’t believe it when Bobby told me. All this space to myself? I thought…” He half laughs, sitting down on the bed tentatively, his hand scrunching into the worn flannel blanket on top. “I thought I wouldn’t even be able to sleep without Sammy there. Turns out I actually liked it. Go figure.” 

Castiel carefully steps inside, starting to look around. “They didn’t change it,” Dean says, his voice a little rough, and Castiel tears his eyes away from the walls, focusing on the omega instead. “God, Cas – they didn’t change anything. They waited.” 

“Of course they did, Dean,” Castiel replies quietly. 

Dean bites his lip. Bizarrely, he looks guilty. “But… there’s no way they thought they’d see me again. Not for real. And all this stuff… it would hurt them,” he says softly. “I don’t know. It feels like a lifetime ago.” 

“It was,” Castiel agrees. He sits down next to the man, puts his hand on the bed – Dean takes it absently, still staring at the walls around him. He’s clearly overwhelmed, and Castiel can easily understand why. “They missed you,” he replies gently, squeezing his hand. 

Nodding silently, Dean looks down at his lap. Fiddles with his pants. Castiel takes the moment to look around the room in earnest, finding himself curious about the kind of child Dean might have been. 

The room, in its way, begins to tell him. He can see Dean here. 

He sees him in the old movie and band posters with ripped corners and crease lines, tacked to the walls. In the little model cars. In the action figures – a man in a white shirt with a strange looking gun on his hip, another with a broad hat and a lasso. He can see Dean in the scattering of animal bones and feathers and rocks on the bookshelf, set with careful symmetry in front of dozens of books; worn paperbacks with cracked spines. Authors like Steinbeck and Hemmingway and Vonnegut. In the stacks of tapes, lovingly alphabetized from ACDC to Vaughn; in the beat up guitar hanging on the wall next to the closet. 

He wonders if Dean plays. 

He wonders why he’s never thought to ask. 

Castiel feels his heart constrict. Somehow, even though Dean invited him here, he feels as though he is being shown something incredibly private. Something… beyond important. He can feel nothing but gratitude that Dean has chosen to show him, and shame that he has never taken the time to ask about simple things like this. 

He has helped Dean to heal, and will continue to do so. He loves him. But Castiel is beginning to realize that he doesn’t know him – not the nuances of him. Next to nothing of the million little moments that turned him into the man he is today.

His silence starts to dig into Dean before he can stop it. When he turns to look, Dean seems almost… rueful. “Ain’t much, is it,” he asks sheepishly, glancing at Castiel with his head ducked down. “I mean… God. Looking at it now…” 

Castiel furrows his brow. “Dean…”

“I just,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. “I know you’ve got money, Cas. Serious money, obviously. But I never did. Bobby, either. So, I get that this ain’t real impressive or anything, but…” 

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, more firmly this time. 

Dean looks up at him. The vulnerability in his eyes is pronounced, as much as he is pretending otherwise. He’s afraid that Castiel is going to judge – to look down on – his roots. His refuge. 

He takes a breath. “I love it because I love you,” he insists, and he can see the way those words hit Dean – can see that he holds them gently, like something fragile and precious. “I see the child that you were, and the man you might have become, given half the chance. I see you, here,” Castiel continues slowly. “In these four walls. This was your home.” 

Dean swallows. Agrees, his words shaking a little. “Closest thing I had. To a real one, anyway. Without the wheels,” he amends, smiling faintly. But the expression fades after a moment, and he looks down at his lap. 

“You know,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “I’d forgotten. But we were actually supposed to be here, when it all… when everything happened." Castiel can tell he's skirting around something, giving it a wide breadth. “I mean, we used to stay all the time as kids – summers, especially, and any other time Dad was gonna be gone during breaks. More and more often over the years. And when I turned sixteen, Bobby asked if we could stay for the year.” Dean smiles. “He said it was ‘cause he needed someone to help him out with the auto shop, but I think he just wanted us around.” 

Castiel nods. “It… excuse me for saying,” he says gently. “But, frankly, it sounds like this would have been a much better environment for you and Sam.”

Dean laughs, self-deprecating. “Yeah, well. No shit. Teenage me might have known that, somewhere deep down, but I definitely wasn’t ready to admit it. Not till it was too late.” 

Castiel stays quiet. Lets Dean gather his words in the slow, careful way he has become accustomed to when he speaks of his past. 

“It – yeah. My fault,” he finally manages, shaking his head. “Dad and Bobby fought. Over me, pretty sure. And Dad got fed up. Decided we didn’t need to be around someone who was gonna make us soft,” Dean spits, frustration clouding his expression. 

“They fought over you?”

“I fucked up,” Dean says shortly, “and Dad had to set me straight. Bobby kinda… he flipped, I think.” He snorts, shaking his head. “He and dad had real different ideas on how to teach a lesson, that’s for sure.” 

Castiel feels something like dread curl up inside of him. “What does that mean?”

Dean glances at him, lost in his own memories. “I messed up the night before. Left Sam alone for the night, because… well. It don’t really matter. I slipped up and said something that gave me away, and Dad found out. He, uh.” Dean’s expression flickers, as if he’s examining the memory for the first time. As if he’s really thinking about it, and doesn’t like what he’s discovered. But he powers through anyway, unwilling – or unable – to admit that. “I mean. He knocked me around a little, you know. No big deal, just to make sure I was listening. And he was right, honestly, but… I guess Bobby didn’t see it that way.” 

Considering how hard he’s biting his tongue, Castiel is surprised he’s not bleeding. He keeps his silence, but only just. 

“Woke up to them screaming bloody murder at each other – bottles crashing, picture frames rattling, the whole nine yards. And then Dad was storming upstairs and telling us to pack up our shit and get in the Impala and… and that was it.” 

He clears his throat. “Figured, you know. Bobby probably wouldn’t want anything to do with me, after that. He didn’t need that kind of trouble in his life. I just wish I’d… I don’t know. Wish I hadn’t fucked up. Then maybe we could’a stayed longer. Maybe… maybe Sam wouldn’t have been in a place where he could have been… um. Collateral.” 

Castiel swallows. “You know that wasn’t your fault, yes?” he asks gently. “You were a child, Dean. Arguments between adults… that wasn't your burden to bear.” 

“I was sixteen, Cas,” Dean argues, rolling his eyes. “Old enough to know better. But I didn’t think, and I… I got careless. And I took away the only chance at a good home Sam had, just like that. Fucked it up. Just like everything else.” 

Castiel can feel the protest forming in his mouth. Can feel himself puff up, indignant and angry at the idea that Dean could blame himself for something he had no control over. At the injustice of it all. And he starts to push – starts to press for more details, to demand to know how Dean thinks he messed up, to try to dismantle the image that the man has of himself after years of being told he isn’t good enough no matter how hard he tries. 

But Dean isn’t ready to hear him, and he has already moved on without him. He’s staring across the room, curious. “I wonder if…”

He trails off, and then gets up, striding over to the closet. Castiel watches, bemused, as he opens the door and stands back. 

Inside, what Castiel assumes were his clothes hang, untouched and quiet. Dark greens and blues, worn plaids and tee-shirts and carefully folded over jeans. There’s a pair of boots on the floor, neat and orderly, clearly well loved. 

“Damn,” Dean breathes. And, at first, Castiel thinks he’s talking about the clothes. But after a moment, he realizes that Dean is concerned with something else entirely. 

He’s looking in the mirror. 

There’s one hung on the back of the door; long and skinny and a little warped. He can see Dean’s expression in it. Can see that he looks… spooked. 

Castiel cocks his head to the side, watching him silently. Dean reaches up, brushes a hand through his hair with a pinched expression on his face. He runs a thumb along his cheek. 

He’s exploring, Castiel realizes. Reacquainting himself with… well. With himself.  

“I look like dogshit,” Dean sums up, with such blunt simplicity that Castiel almost laughs. “Good god.” 

“You do not,” Castiel says, shaking his head. And he really doesn’t. Dean has begun to regain his color, his strength, and though he is still too thin, he is miles healthier than he’d been when he’d first walked through Castiel’s door. So much so that it is sometimes difficult for Castiel to remember how unhealthy he’d been.

Dean seems to be reading his mind – he glances back, rolling his eyes. “That’s ‘cause you knew me when I looked like death warmed over,” he insists, turning to look at himself again. He grimaces, picking at his shirt and pulling it away from his skin. “I look like I escaped from a psych ward.” 

“Dean,” Castiel chides gently. Dean falls quiet, but his expression stays the same. Brittle and disappointed. Ashamed.

Silently, Castiel stands up to join him. He comes up behind Dean, making sure the man sees him before he reaches out to touch his shoulder. He’s half certain that Dean will pull away from him, but he doesn’t – he leans back into his touch, sighing. And Castiel takes that for the invitation it is. 

He leans forward. Wraps his hands around Dean’s middle, gently pulling him back until his back is flush against Castiel’s chest. Rests his chin in the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Dean doesn’t seem to mind the contact – he just relaxes, sagging in Castiel’s grip, his arms folding perfectly into the crooks of Castiel’s, hands resting on top. 

“You don’t,” Castiel repeats firmly. “Your appearance is different than you remember – of course it is. But you are in recovery, and every day you grow healthier. That isn’t hard to see.” 

“I look so small,” Dean says softly. “‘Specially compared to you.”

“You’re taller than me.” 

Dean snorts. “You know what I mean, Cas,” he insists, a little peeved. Still, he turns his head, his cheek rubbing on Castiel’s – the touch is warm, and soft, and makes Castiel want to kiss him. His scent has started to return in earnest, so long after his last dose of the blockers, and Castiel finds himself inhaling the apple and cinnamon warmth of him. Finds himself enjoying the way that Dean’s eyes flutter shut when he makes a satisfied hum. 

“You’re very handsome,” Castiel finds himself rumbling. He knows it sounds sappy, but he doesn’t care – he’s prepared for Dean to mock him, because he means it. But when Dean huffs out a laugh, it’s not at Castiel.

“Shut up. No I’m not,” he mumbles. His cheeks are pink, and he’s looking down. Away. 

“You are,” Castiel argues pleasantly, “and I will not.” 

Dean is quiet for a moment. He opens his eyes again, staring at his reflection, his dark green eyes skating up and down his thin frame. Lingering on his scarred wrists. On his neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.” 

“Handsome?” Castiel asks, incredulous. Because, battle worn or not, Dean is handsome. Undeniably so. 

But he shakes his head, mouth twisting. “They usually called me pretty,” he mutters quietly, grimacing. Castiel ends up mirroring the movement, because Dean’s scent has gone a little sour. “Hate that fucking word. Pretty.” 

There’s a story there, Castiel knows. Something Dean might one day share with him, when he’s ready. For now, though, Castiel can wait. He rubs his jaw a little more intentionally along Dean’s neck, blatantly scenting him. He is well aware that he’s risking an argument with Sam by doing so, but it’s worth it when he sees the way it makes Dean relax. His scent simmers back down into contentment. 

“You’re much more than that,” he murmurs, holding Dean a little tighter. The omega’s smile in response is perhaps a little feeble, but it’s genuine, and Castiel is about to double down when they hear Bobby’s lunch call echoing up the stairs. 

Dean’s smile transforms into something a lot more fond. “Ready for round two?”

They end up in the living room, much to Castiel’s relief. 

Bobby hadn’t even tried to set the square, well worn table in the little nook off of the kitchen – it’s piled with papers and books anyway, he’d reasoned, and they’d all agreed that the living room was as good a place to eat as any. It had seemed like a happy coincidence, right up until Castiel had caught Sam shooting Bobby a grateful look behind Dean’s back. 

It’s strange, perhaps, that he feels something warm in his chest at the realization that Sam and Bobby had discussed this. That they had prepared something for Dean – a way to make him comfortable without embarrassing him. Without making him feel small or burdensome. 

They’ve settled in on the sagging, comfortable couch and the pair of armchairs; Dean next to Castiel, Sam and Bobby on either side. They’re all clutching bowls of steaming, hearty stew, the warmth of it bleeding through the ceramic and into Castiel’s hands. He hasn’t eaten much – it smells and looks appealing, logically, but he’s too stressed to eat with Dean’s surrogate father drilling holes into him with his calm, intelligent gaze. 

Dean, on the other hand, is devouring his food with enthusiasm, his legs folded in front of him and his bowl in his lap. “This is fantastic,” he says out of the blue, breaking the prolonged silence. His mouth is full. “Oh my God.” 

Sam sputters out a laugh, nearly choking on his own bite, and Bobby’s eyes crinkle at the sides. “I’ll pass along my compliments to the chef. Ellen will be glad to know it ain’t goin’ to waste.” 

“Ellen made this?” Dean asks, surprised. He swallows down his bite, looking a little alarmed. He flicks his eyes into the kitchen as if she’s going to magically appear. “When?”

“Just whipped up a batch yesterday,” Bobby answers easily. “She’s got a full house, but I still usually end up with some of the leftovers.” 

Sam leans forward, setting his empty bowl onto the table. “She took on another one, then?” 

“Two,” Bobby confirms. 

Dean is looking back and forth between them with his eyebrows drawn together. “Someone wanna clue me in? Jo ain’t an only child anymore?”

Sam laughs. “Oh – not like that. Ellen runs a halfway house, sorta. Gives folks jobs at the roadhouse while they figure themselves out. Room and board, too, for those that’re in need.” 

“In need?”

Bobby and Sam both turn to focus on Castiel, silent for a moment. It’s Bobby that breaks it, clearing his throat. “She volunteers.”

Dean, at this point, is frowning. “Volunteers for what?” he demands, blatantly annoyed. “Would you two quit beating around the bush?”

His brother and his uncle exchange a look, communicating silently between themselves. “It’s part of a bigger program the state runs,” Sam says, running his hand through his hair. “Uh. It’s…” 

“It’s a halfway house for freedmen,” Castiel says quietly. 

All three of them turn to look at him now. “A what?” Dean asks, his eyes wide. 

Castiel shifts, uncomfortable with the attention on him. He holds his still full bowl like a pitiful sort of shield. He’s done plenty of research on places like this – had visited them with Balthazar back when they’d been trying to decide how best to help the people that NRR would eventually care for. 

He clears his throat. “Different states follow different… protocols, I suppose, when it comes to the breaking of a slave contract. Most of them are based around the idea that the individual needs to be able to function in society like a normal citizen.” He takes a breath, fiddling with his spoon. He can feel Bobby staring at him, his expression unreadable. “As you know, Washington doesn’t allow anyone to be freed until they’ve passed those sorts of tests – GED, psych evals, job training – but some states, like this one, have far fewer prohibitive restrictions when it comes to breaking contracts. At least for slaves that have been registered within their borders for a given length of time.”

“Problem is,” Sam jumps in, tactfully not mentioning Dean’s blatant disbelief, “that means that most of the people who get out of the system have nothing. No education, no savings, no credit. No way to get a job or an apartment. And a lot of them…” 

“End up right back in the system,” Dean says softly. “Sure. I get it. I mean… if it’s between that and starving to death, or being homeless…” 

“Right,” Sam says, apparently relieved that he hadn’t been forced to spell it out for him. “So… places like the Roadhouse help them get back on their feet, so to speak.” 

Dean takes a deep breath. Another. “How… How long has she been doing that? Pretty sure it was just a dive bar, last time I was around.” 

Bobby and Sam exchange another look – or perhaps a battle of wills, because after a moment Sam gets up to take his empty bowl to the kitchen. The sounds of dishes being washed follows shortly, and this time, it’s Bobby that speaks up. “Son,” he says as he gets up as well, brushing his hands off on his pants. “She’s been doin’ it for about a decade now.” 

Dean blinks, his uncle’s words sinking in slowly. When they do, his shoulders hunch. “It’s ‘cause of me, isn’t it.” 

The words are dull. Guilty, almost. And they cause Bobby to stop in his tracks and turn around. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Hell yeah, it is.” 

Dean ducks down even further, his eyes falling to his lap, and yes – Castiel can smell it now. That same damp, guilty scent that springs up every time Dean thinks he’s caused his family grief. This time, though, he doesn’t get to wallow in it.

“Quit that,” Bobby snaps, his mustache bristling. “Scrub that hang-dog look off your face, kid.” 

Dean looks up in surprise. “I–”

“Don’t start,” Bobby interrupts severely. “What’d you think? That we’d just forget about you?” 

Dean stares at him, eyes wide. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I… I guess I thought you would.”

“Well then you’re dumber than I thought,” Bobby announces gruffly, turning around abruptly to follow Sam into the kitchen. 

Castiel doesn’t even know he’s trying to stand up until Dean’s hand on his leg pushes him back down. His heart is pounding hard in his chest, a protective sort of anger stirring in him at Bobby’s rough words. “Dean–”

“Relax,” Dean murmurs. “He’s… that’s just how he is, Cas. He’s not, um. Not mad at me. Not like you think.” 

Castiel takes a moment to look at Dean – to really look. He’s still hunched in on himself, still too small – his arms wrapped around his middle, his mouth pressed into a thin line. But he doesn’t smell afraid. Doesn’t even really smell ashamed, not anymore. Castiel doesn’t know what to think. 

He starts to ask, but he stops himself. The odds that he will understand the answer are slim to none. It’s not as though he has a stellar example of family dynamics to work from, after all. He decides to take Dean’s word for it, reaching out to squeeze his hand instead. 

They’re still hand in hand a moment later when Bobby reappears in the living room – Castiel only just resists the urge to snatch his hand away, feeling bizarrely like a teenager who is meeting his significant other’s father for the first time. Bobby, to his credit, doesn’t say anything, though he does give their intertwined fingers a long look. 

“Dean,” he says, jerking his head out to the porch. His eyes linger on Castiel. “Come out here with me a second, will you?”

Dean blinks. He glances over, a question on his face that Castiel aches to see. “I’ll be alright,” Castiel says quietly. Permission without permission. It’s a delicate song and dance. 

Squeezing his hand, Dean gives him a grateful look. Castiel takes his empty bowl from him, stacking it underneath his still-full one, and Dean’s fingers trail over his when he pulls away. 

The screen door bangs shut behind them, its metal frame rattling. 

Castiel takes a steadying breath, smoothing his hands down his pant legs a few times. He feels jittery. As though he should be doing something, but isn’t. He’s certain it’s because he’s in a new space, surrounded by tense discussion – and equally sure that Dean’s anxiety is only compounding it. 

Sam doesn’t sound like he’s going to be done with the dishes any time soon – from what he’d seen, there had been quite the build up in the sink – and so Castiel has been left to his own devices. He can’t say he minds, frankly. 

He gets up. Wanders around the living room – pacing, he thinks, more than anything else. He’s half listening to the murmur of Dean and his uncle out on the porch, half focusing on the things on the teetering shelves all over the room. 

Much like Castiel, Bobby seems to be interested in books. His collection seems to be in a similar state of chaos as Castiel’s had been before Dean had moved in, and Castiel wonders, idly, if Dean had once had these organized in a similar way. If they’ve eroded over time, or if they’ve always been this haphazardly stacked. 

The longer he looks, the more easily he can pick out details. There are pictures on the shelves, too, and lots of them. Mostly of Sam, in various stages in his life; his high school graduation, various field trips, birthday parties. One – a new photo, judging by the lack of dust on the frame – of him standing proudly with his law degree next to Bobby, a woman around his age, and a young woman around Sam’s. These, he surmises, must be Ellen and Jo. 

It’s only once he picks up the photo to examine it closer that he realizes. There are no pictures of Dean. 

None. And with so many of Sam, it has to be intentional. Castiel feels something unpleasant twist in his stomach, feels his heart start to constrict. He sets down the photo of Sam gently, flexing his hands at his sides. 

And then he sees the albums. 

A half dozen of them, stacked up neatly behind the photo he’s just been examining – dark leather binders with silver rings. He pulls one out at random, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he’s snooping, and not caring enough to stop. 

The very first page proves his hunch correct. 

Here are the photos of Dean. Piles upon piles of them, page after page. They have been stuck in, seemingly, at random. He wonders how many had been pulled from their frames and tucked out of sight; too painful to keep out in the open, and too painful to throw away. 

The first he finds is one of a dark eyed, moody teenager in a leather jacket that is too big for him. His arms are crossed over his chest as he leans against the wall and he’s looking away, seemingly unaware he’s being photographed. The next is a bright eyed child with a gap-toothed smile, with jeans ripped at the knees and dirt smeared across his cheek. The one after that is a child, perhaps twelve or thirteen, hunched over a book with a younger boy that must be Sam, his face animated and expressive as he makes his brother giggle. 

All are unmistakably Dean – green eyes and a scattering of freckles, hair cropped short enough that he might have been intending to enlist, clothes usually too big for him. A grin that’s almost always wide. 

Castiel can’t stop. He finds photos of Dean next to people he knows, and people he doesn’t – one of him and Bobby at a zoo, Sam a fuzzy blur in the background. One of Dean peeking out from under a jacked up car, his face oil-smeared and his smile bright and genuine. One of him with his arm slung over the shoulder of a young girl who must be Jo, Ellen laughing at them in the background, a panting dog sprawled at their feet. 

There are Christmases here. Birthdays. Moments of time where Dean had a normal, loving home. And, all at once, it hits Castiel exactly what Dean must have lost when their father took them from here, long before he ever sold his life away to protect his brother. It makes his heart twist fiercely in his chest, looking through these – seeing who Dean was before cruelty attempted to hollow him out. Seeing the potential of what he could have been, if fate had been a little more kind. 

It doesn’t escape his notice that there does not appear to be a single photo of John. 

It’s not until the door slams shut behind him that he remembers himself. Feeling strangely guilty, he snaps the album shut and fumbles with it, sliding it back into place just as Bobby rounds the corner, Dean in tow. 

There is a moment of silence as the old man gives him a once over, his expression unreadable. Castiel stands, stiff as a soldier, as the man inspects him – hoping against hope that Bobby will not find him too lacking. He’s fairly certain that the old man had pulled Dean aside to talk about him, specifically.

“Bobby.” 

The two of them both turn to look at Dean, who is staring at his uncle with his arms crossed over his chest. His mouth is turned down into a frown. “Would you stop giving him the stink-eye?”

“He wasn’t,” Castiel says quickly, hoping his lie is not as transparent as it feels. 

“I was,” Bobby corrects, his voice mild and maybe even a touch amused. It might be Castiel’s imagination, but he feels like the man’s expression softens a little when Castiel looks at him in surprise. “And I already told you I ain’t makin’ any promises.” 

“And I already told you,” Dean insists, staring him down, “You don’t need to harass him. He’s… he’s a good guy. Ain’t trying to do anything but help me. Would it kill you to be a little less hostile?”

Castiel should probably step in and try and diffuse the situation, but he finds that his voice is stuck in his throat. It feels… unexpectedly good, actually, to have Dean stand up for him in such a blatant way. He thinks back to the way that Dean had stood his ground against Claire, over a week ago now, his shoulders stiff and his back straight as he’d acted as a barrier between her and Castiel. He’s adopted the same stance now. 

Good as it feels, though, Castiel is well aware he shouldn’t be something that gets between Dean and his family. 

“It’s alright, Dean,” he says finally, clearing his throat. “I’m sure Mr. Singer–”

“Bobby.” 

“I’m sure Bobby has done his own research into my family history. It’s… natural that he’d have doubts.” He doesn’t want to admit it, but he knows it's true. Being attached in any way to the Morningstars doesn’t exactly inspire a lot of confidence or attract the right sort of people, as Castiel had learned. There was a reason he’d changed his name. 

Dean huffs at him, but Bobby gives him a considering sort of look. “Why’d you leave?”

The question is blunt. Not something he expected to be discussing in the middle of the day, standing awkwardly next to a bookshelf he’d clearly been snooping in. He’d like to sit down, but Bobby essentially has him cornered. The sounds of the sink have gone quiet in the other room – Castiel had no doubt that Sam is listening in too.

“They didn’t want me in the first place,” Castiel finally says, his voice a little too quiet. 

Bobby frowns. “You’ve got plenty of money. Good calm head on your shoulders. Can’t tell me they didn’t want you to pick up some of that business.” 

Castiel grimaces. “Michael… asked. I said no.” Bobby’s expression doesn’t change. “The business is abhorrent. I don’t think I need to explain that to you.”

“Guess I’m just wondering how you came to that conclusion,” Bobby muses, leaning one shoulder on the wall. “Considerin’ who your role models must have been, and all.” 

Dean bristles before Castiel can even open his mouth to reply. “Not everyone becomes their fucking father.” 

His tone is harsh. Angry. Castiel can smell the strange, spiced scent of Dean’s frustration. It’s not something he’s familiar with – Dean so rarely reacts with anger. It’s a dangerous emotion, Balthazar has told him. One that can get a slave into a lot of trouble. A world of pain. 

It means something, that he’s feeling it now. That he’s expressing it on Castiel’s behalf. 

Clearly, the words reach Bobby. His expression flickers, the mask he’d worn receding. “Hell, kid,” he says, his voice softer. “I know that.” 

“So act like it,” Dean demands fiercely. “Quit crucifying him for shit he ain’t done.” He spits the words like arrows, his eyes blazing as he moves forward. Castiel, frozen in place, doesn’t even try and resist when Dean steers him toward the backdoor. “We’re going on a damn walk.”

Bobby, to his credit, doesn’t even try and stop them – he amicably moves to the side, letting them both pass unobstructed. And, while his eyes do linger on Castiel for a moment, there is a visible lack of hostility in them.  

Hours later, they find themselves back around the coffee table for dinner, the lamps casting gentle shadows on the wall and the news on mute. 

He and Dean had explored the property for a while. Dean had wanted to give him the “grand tour,” as he’d dubbed it with great fanfare – but the truth had been clear. Castiel had seen the anxiousness in his steps, had seen the jittery way he’d flitted from car to car and tree to tree, and he’d simply walked along in silence while Dean worked his nerves out of his system. 

Standing up to anyone – even his own family – is a lot for him. 

They’d ended up in the shop itself after a while, and Castiel had stood back – had lingered by the door while Dean familiarized himself once more with his childhood home. He’d smiled when Dean had shown him a picture of a gruff looking man named Rufus, when he’d poked fun at the piles of disorganized papers all over the shop. He’d even, perhaps jokingly, asked Castiel if he’d be willing to look over Bobby’s finances. 

“It’s a wonder he pays the bills,” he’d said fondly, and Castiel had taken that for the compliment it was. 

He’s managed to eat a little more this time around, though he finds himself picking at his plate after a few bites. Dean has lost some of his enthusiasm, as well – he’s poking at the salad Sam had constructed with a doleful look. 

“He got you, man,” Dean says, shaking his head at Bobby as he chews on a fork full of spinach. “Rabbit food.”

“It’s good for you,” Sam says snootily. “Vegetables aren’t poisonous, Dean.”

“So why do they taste like it?” he asks grumpily, stabbing his fork into a cherry tomato like it has personally offended him. Sam makes a face, rolling his eyes. 

Castiel might be inclined to agree with the sentiment, at least some day in the distant future. For now, all he can think about is how Dean used to be scared to tell him he wanted juice instead of water, or that he didn’t like bell peppers. Can only think about how Dean had gone for weeks without eating anything at all unless Castiel had directly asked him to. 

Silly as it may seem, complaints about food are progress. It’s not something that he expects Sam to notice, but he thinks, judging by the look in his eye, that Bobby might understand a little better. 

“The Harvelles want to see you,” the old man says, pointing his fork at Dean as he does. “And I gotta tell you, I don’t think they’re taking no for an answer. It was all I could do to keep them from charging over here first thing.” 

It’s clear to Castiel that Dean is trying his hardest to keep his expression neutral – is trying to hide his nerves. He’s not overly successful. “What are you worried about?” Sam asks, cocking his head to the side. 

Dean shrugs, moody. It’s clear he doesn’t like having all eyes on him – Castiel drops his gaze, focusing on his food instead. “I dunno. Guess I just… I don’t know,” he repeats, frustrated. 

“Ellen dropped a whole pitcher of beer when I told her,” Bobby says, sipping his drink. “And then she hit me with the mop for telling her when she had something breakable in her hand.”

A smile flickers to Dean’s face. “Sounds like her,” he says quietly. He sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He looks tired. 

“I think the only thing you’re risking is Jo laughing at that mop,” Bobby points out, his eyes flicking up to Dean’s hair. It’s longer than ever, of course – gently curling behind his ears, at the nape of his neck. “She thinks Sam’s hair is a hippy dippy nightmare, and you ain’t far off at this point.”

“He’s trying to steal my look,” Sam says in a stage whisper. Dean flicks the tomato at him, and it bounces off his chest, landing squarely in his salad bowl. 

“I need a damn haircut,” he announces, frowning as Sam laughs. “This crap is getting old.”

“I like your hair long.”

A moment after he’s spoken, he wishes he hadn’t. Three pairs of eyes swing toward him, all of them wary. 

“I–” he starts, stumbling over his words as his cheeks redden at how obvious he’s being. Christ. “I mean. I just. It doesn’t… it doesn’t look bad, is all I mean–” 

“You gonna tell him he can’t cut it?” Bobby interrupts, and oh. 

Castiel had thought they were upset with him over being smitten. Somehow, he’d managed to forget just what it means when an alpha has a preference about their omega’s appearance. What it means when an owner likes a look on a slave. 

It is getting harder and harder for Castiel to see them that way. As unequal. And that’s dangerous, because careless words like that make him look like a man he is not. Even Dean is looking a little uneasy, his eyes flicking down to his lap. 

“I can… I could just. Keep it,” he offers meekly. “If you–”

“No!” Castiel interrupts, and Sam stiffens even as Dean flinches minutely. But at least he looks back up, his eyebrows drawn together. “I didn’t mean it like that, Dean. I have no say over your appearance.” 

“Damn right,” Sam mutters, though it doesn’t sound like he wants to fight. Bobby, too, has settled back into his chair, the wary lines of his shoulders relaxing. 

“Well,” Dean says after an uncomfortable moment, forcing a smile to his face. “Then I want to go short again. Don’t like the way it’s tickling my neck, and I’m not gonna rock those emo bangs Sam’s got.”

“Do not,” Sam says, petulant. Just like that, the protective alpha male in him has faded – he’s back to being a younger brother. 

“Could do it on the back porch,” Bobby muses, using the last of his bread to soak up what’s left on his plate. “Like when y’all were kids.” 

Dean’s smile gets a little less forced. “Has your technique improved any?” he asks mischievously, a sparkle in his eye that Castiel has sorely missed. “‘Cause I spent a lot of time fixing your salon quality cuts back in the day, old man.”

Bobby sputters. “I’ll have you know I gave first class cuts in the Navy,” he huffs, though Castiel – now that he’s looking – can see that his eyes are just as lively.

“Well apparently the Navy ain’t lookin’ for style points,” Dean says snarkily. He unfolds himself from the couch, reaching around to gather everyone’s dishes. “Or straight lines.”

“Beggars and choosers!” Bobby declares as he makes his way into the kitchen. “Good God. A man gives a kid a free haircut every time he sees him and this is the thanks he gets.” He glances at Sam, and asks, his voice quiet, “Were they really that bad?”

“Terrible,” Sam whispers back, laughter caught in his voice. “I’ll go get the clippers.” 

They all end up on the back porch. It strikes Castiel as ceremonial, almost – the wooden chair set in the middle, the old towel draped around Dean’s shoulders like a cape. Sam handed Dean a small hand mirror a few seconds ago, and he’s doing his best to shine the rays of the setting sun directly into Sam’s protesting face. 

“Found it!” 

Bobby’s voice is faint within the house – he’d gone in search of an extension cord so he could actually reach Dean’s head with the clippers, and has been gone for long enough that Dean has grown fidgety in the chair. 

“When did you start growing out your hair, Sam?” Castiel asks, hoping to distract Dean from his discomfort. It appears to work – Dean brightens, and Sam groans. 

“Don’t get him started,” he mutters, but Dean is already talking. 

“Just about the time he started forgetting I knew best,” he says pompously, looking down his nose at Sam as though he pities him. Sam rolls his eyes from where he’s leaned back in a chair against the railing. “I think he did it on a dare, and then got too stubborn to go back, and now he’s convinced himself it’s a lady-killing look.” 

“It was not a dare!” Sam protests. Castiel is beginning to realize he’s witnessing an argument that has played out many times between the brothers. “I just decided I wanted to grow it out–”

“Because all those emo bands had the same hairstyles–”

“You listen to ZZ Top, Dean. I don’t want to hear criticism on insane musician hair–”

“Would you two quit bickering?” Bobby nudges the door open and carefully maneuvers out, dragging a bright orange extension cord with him. “Like cats and dogs, for chrissake.” 

“Dean started it,” Sam says smugly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Dean grins at him, and then turns to look at Bobby over his shoulder. “I was just trying to tell him he needs to be next in this chair. Back me up here, Bobby.” 

“Dunno,” the older man says, his eyes on the pile of cords and guards in his hands. “I think he fits right in in California. Lots’a bad hairstyles going on over there.”

“Hey!”

Castiel smiles to himself from his place against the railing. Watching Dean like this – surrounded by people he loves, tossing teasing insults back and forth with ease… it suits him. Makes Castiel wish he’d had something similar. He’s glad that Dean gets to have it again now. 

“There we go,” Bobby finally grunts, plugging in the last cord. The clippers he’s brandishing look practically ancient, and Dean glances back at them with incredulity. 

“You’re telling me those still aren’t broken?” he demands, shaking his head. “These are the ones you took off the boat, aren’t they?” 

“Shut yer trap,” Bobby says, no heat behind it. “They work just fine. Ain’t given up the ghost yet, and you won’t see me tossing ‘em till they do. If it ain’t broke–” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean interrupts. When he turns back around, he finds Castiel’s eyes and gives him a wink. Castiel grins back in perhaps an embarrassingly starstruck way; Dean’s answering smile turns a little shy. And then Bobby flicks the clippers on. 

It takes Castiel about half a second to realize something is wrong. 

Dean has frozen. Gone utterly, deathly still, his easy, leaning sprawl from before gone in an instant. His eyes are locked on something past Castiel, far away. 

Behind him, the clippers buzz, the noise loud but not grating. A familiar, innocuous sound. One that Castiel wouldn’t think twice about. But to Dean – 

Sam notices before Castiel can even complete the thought, his attention snapping to his brother. The scent of Dean’s fear spills out into the open air so quickly it’s as though a bomb has gone off. Sam leaps up from his chair, starts forward without a word, and Castiel can see Dean’s eyes widen, can see his chest heave –

“Sam,” Castiel murmurs, putting his hand out in front of the man to stop him. And Sam… listens. 

He listens, miraculously, his hands balled up at his sides but his feet glued in place. He tears his eyes away from his brother – looks at Castiel, instead, scared and confused and concerned. And Castiel, heart pounding, forces himself not to panic. To look steadily at Bobby instead, who has still not noticed anything is off; he’s fiddling with the controls on the clippers, a concentrated look on his face. 

“Bobby,” Castiel calls softly. He keeps his voice even. Tone gentle. He doesn’t want to scare Dean even more than he already is. “Turn those off, please.” 

Bobby glances up at him, his brow furrowed. But he, too, does as Castiel asks, and the silence that follows is deafening. 

Later, Castiel will probably remember to be grateful that they chose not to ignore him. Right now, he has eyes only for Dean. 

He’s pale. Shaking, ever so slightly. And when Castiel takes a cautious step forward, he flinches back half an inch, and then forces himself to stop. To move back forward. 

His scent sours into sorry, sorry, sorry, just like it had months ago when Dean thought he’d offended him. Submission, even in the face of utter terror. 

Castiel has no idea what Sam is doing. No idea what Bobby is doing. All he knows is that he has to break Dean out of whatever hellish place he is. He starts with soothing words – things that he couldn’t recall if he tried, murmuring nonsense in the gentle, soft tone that he’s found Dean responds to the best when he’s like this. 

But Dean just trembles, keeps his eyes locked on the ground and his chin tilted up. Castiel feels his heart crawl up into his throat. 

He should have remembered this. Should have remembered that Dean would have heard this same noise at the start of every retraining and every stint in the auction house. Should have remembered the kind of mental state it would put him in, to have clippers so close to his head – to be thrown back in such a sensory way to the worst days of his life. But he hadn’t, and now the only thing he can do is damage control. 

“Dean,” he murmurs, stepping another inch closer. “It’s alright. You’re right here, with me. Sam is here too, and so is Bobby. Are you hearing me? Dean?”

His scent doesn’t ease – if anything, it worsens the closer Castiel gets, until he’s shaking uncontrollably, his hands gripping the seat of the chair with his nails digging into the wood. He swallows convulsively when Castiel reaches forward. Closes his eyes. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, barely audible, even as close as Castiel is to him now. “I’m s-sorry. Please, I’m sorry, I know – I know I’m not supposed to move, please don’t–”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts gently, voice as soft as he can make it. He hopes his words aren’t shaking. “It’s alright. No one is upset with you. You’re not in trouble.” 

It’s like Dean doesn’t hear him. Castiel steps forward one last time, crouching so that he’s lower than Dean. He reaches out slowly, trying to make his movements obvious, but even so Dean flinches back so dramatically when Castiel touches his knee that he scoots the chair across the wood by a few inches, the scrape horrible and loud in the quivering silence. 

When he slips forward onto his knees, Castiel is there to catch him. 

He tucks Dean to his chest, wrapping his arms around him like a security blanket, angling his nose into his neck in a way that almost feels routine. It is hardly the first time he’s done this – and he knows it will not be the last. Right now, his entire being is focused on Dean. Focused on making him feel safe. 

“Breathe,” he murmurs, one hand cupping the back of his head and the other pressing into the space between his shoulder blades. “Inhale with me, Dean. Listen to my breathing and match it, okay?” 

He’s not sure how long it takes for Dean to whisper his name. How many repeated reassurances it takes for Dean to know he’s really there. 

By the time he’s listening – dragging in shaking, greedy lungfuls of Castiel’s scent; huffing out exhales, harsh and panting – Castiel has all but forgotten the world around him. It’s not until he looks up that he realizes they’re alone. Not until he’s tucking Dean into his jacket that he understands Bobby and Sam have cleared out so they don’t overwhelm him – so they don’t embarrass him, witnesses to something so private and painful. 

It’s not until Dean’s holding him back and crying into his shirt that he understands it also means they trust him enough to leave him with Dean. Alone. 

He’s grateful. 

Dean has been out cold for a long while by the time Castiel gives up on sleep. 

He’s careful, as always, not to rock the mattress when he slips out from under the covers. Dean is exhausted after his panic attack, and he doesn’t so much as stir. He just sleeps on. Castiel spares another moment to be relieved that they’re sharing a bed at all. 

When he’d walked Dean inside, Bobby had been waiting for them on the couch. He’d taken one look at them – at the way Dean had been tucked into Castiel’s side, his face hidden and his breath still hitching – and had locked eyes with Castiel. 

He’d nodded. And that had been all the permission Castiel needed. 

Carefully guiding him up the stairs, Castiel had taken gentle charge for the evening. Had asked Dean to brush his teeth, to wash his face. Had stayed close all the while, his arm wrapped around Dean and Dean’s hand digging into his skin, holding him in place. They’d fallen into bed, and Dean had tucked himself, tiny and still shaky, against Casitel’s chest. He’d drifted off to Castiel rubbing his back, breathing finally slowing to something even. 

The stairs creak when he makes his way down, loud in the relative quiet of the house. Outside, he can hear the wind whistle through the grass around the house; a strange and lonely soundtrack. 

Bobby is sitting at the kitchen table. He’s nursing a can of cheap, weak beer, readers perched on his nose. He’s fiddling with a deck of playing cards, slowly bending them back and forth between his fingertips. He doesn’t really look all that surprised to see Castiel up. 

Castiel tries not to let that make him nervous. 

“How is he?” he asks, tone flat. He shuffles the deck on the table, the bridge of cards making a soft shick noise as they rub against one another. 

“He’s…” 

Castiel trails off. He deflates, rubbing at his face. “He’s asleep, at least. Will be for a while.” 

The older man gives him a long look, his fingers drumming on the table. He tosses the cards down and stands up without a word, turning his back to Castiel to fish through the fridge. He emerges with a couple more beers, knocks the fridge closed with his knee, and promptly moves toward the back porch. 

“Come on, Novak,” he says gruffly, when Castiel makes no move to follow him.

Castiel blinks. He goes. 

He catches the screen door just before it slams shut behind him and closes it carefully, not wanting to wake Dean – especially not with a loud noise like that. He can feel Bobby watching his careful movements. Assessing him. 

He’s looking at Castiel like he can see right through him. Maybe he can. Either way, he shoves a can into Castiel’s hand, and Castiel holds it limply, not quite knowing what he’s expected to do with it. He tries not to squirm under the old beta’s gaze, something twisting in the pit of his stomach, but he knows he probably looks as guilty as he feels. 

He wonders if Bobby, too, thinks he’s failed to protect Dean tonight. If he, too, is too guilty to sleep. 

“I don’t know when the first time John hit Dean was,” Bobby says abruptly, as though they’ve been speaking for hours, “but I do know that the first time he did it in front of me was the day the kid turned sixteen.”

Castiel stiffens. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why Bobby is telling him this particular story at two in the morning in the quiet of his back porch, or why it took a drink in his hand to get it going. He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t have to – just cracks the beer open. The old man knows he’s listening. 

“Backhanded him right there in the kitchen, ‘cause he’d figured out Dean had snuck outta the motel the night before and left his brother behind.” Bobby pauses, takes a long sip of his beer. He holds the can to his face for far longer than he needs to, mulling over his words. His voice is a little more rough when he speaks again. “I’m ashamed to say that I was too damn stupefied to do much of anything in that moment, ‘cept stand there like a fucking fool while John barked at the kid. The bastard really thought he was a drill sergeant.” 

Castiel swallows a familiar snap of anger at the mention of Dean’s father. He still hasn’t heard a lot about John, but the little information he’s gathered makes him want to crunch his knuckles into the man’s nose. It intensifies when Bobby leans over the porch railing and adds, “Only later did I gather that Dean’d been hustling pool to pay the bills. Bills his daddy probably didn’t even know existed.”

The can crunches in Castiel’s hand. Hard.

Bobby eyes him from the side, but he doesn’t comment on the foamy beer that is now running over his knuckles and dripping onto the wood. “I didn’t let it happen again, ‘least not in my house. Should’a kept them both and kicked John’s ass to the curb right there and then.” His voice is gruff, but Castiel can hear the regret in it, can see it in the way the old man takes a swig of his drink, like the alcohol can scour away the past. 

“I’m sure you did what you could,” Castiel offers, once he’s able to breathe without wanting to snarl. 

Bobby snorts. “No. I didn’t.” He spits out into the yard like he’s firing a gun. “I didn’t. And because I didn’t, we lost the kid for a damn decade.”

Sympathy swirls inside of him. “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen, Bobby.”

“I knew enough.” He says it plainly, not an ounce of forgiveness in his voice. “Those boys are sons to me, and I let them get jerked around the country for years and years ‘cause I had it in my head that family was just flesh and blood. Figured they’d be better off with their real dad than with me. Even when...” 

The harsh line of his mouth wavers. “Even when I found out what John’d been doing.”

Castiel takes a breath. “The… bounty hunting. Yes?”

For a long time, Bobby just stares out into the yard, his gaze a million miles away. “You know,” he starts, almost like he’s telling a story, “he used to make an honest living. Used to hunt down scum. People who deserved to get caught, to face the courts.” He spits out into the yard again. “But that got too hard for him, I guess. Difficult to do that kind of work sober, let alone drunk. He started taking up slave bounties instead. Something I’d never do. Something I thought he’d never do.” He half laughs, though there’s no joy in the sound. “The coward couldn’t even do it honest.”

Castiel feels something tighten in his chest. “Dean told me,” he says carefully. “That he used black market tracking pings to… to hunt them.”

“Like dogs,” Bobby confirms, disgust thick in his words. “Easy pickings, even without tracking info. Omegas, more’n anyone. Most of those poor bastards couldn’t have fought off a toddler by the time he found ‘em.” He shakes his head. “He justified it to himself. Told himself they’d broken the law, or sold themselves into it – that they’d made their own beds. At least, that’s how he tried to convince me. I confronted him over it that same night, after the boys were asleep.” Bobby grits his teeth. “The excuses that man made… about how he had to toughen Dean up so he didn’t end up like the sorry bastards he was hunting. Pathetic man’s man shit.” 

Castiel stares at him. “What did you say?”

“Say?” Bobby asks incredulously. “I didn’t say shit. I punched him square in the jaw and told him I never wanted to see his sorry hide ‘round here again.”

“As you should have,” Castiel growls. He thinks back to what Dean had told him – the shame in his words, the surety he had that he’d been the one to drive a wedge between his father and his uncle. In a way, it seems, he’d been right. Just not in the way he’d thought. 

There’s no satisfaction in the old man’s gaze when he looks up. “No. What I should’a done was get his goddamn kids away from him. His own son was an omega, and–” He breaks off. Takes a deep breath. “Dean tried so damn hard to be enough for him.”  

He shakes his head, the can hanging loosely from his grip. “Should’a known what would happen. Should’a anticipated it. Hell, you don’t get mixed up in soulless shit like that without dragging down everyone around you.” He blinks, hard. His hands are shaking. “But that night, I let him wake the boys up. Let him pack them up in that car and clear out without even saying goodbye. What a damn fool I was.”

For a long time, there is silence. Spring crickets and the first of the season’s cicadas sing out in the darkness. Castiel can see the moon above the trees. He stares out into the scrap yard, chewing on his words. 

“Dean isn’t angry with you,” he says quietly, and he can see Bobby’s shoulders slump out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t think he ever was.”

“Kinda makes it worse,” the man grunts. Castiel can’t help but agree. “Tried to do right by him with Sam after it all went down, anyway. Too little too late.”

“I disagree.” 

Bobby harrumphs, so Castiel presses on. “You took Sam in, raised him as your son, helped him get his life back together even after the devastation of losing his brother. That takes strength.”

“Strength had nothing to do with it,” Bobby sighs, and the way he says it tells Castiel he’s thinking about something else entirely, so he interrupts. 

“It sounds to me,” he says simply, “like it had everything to do with it. That, and loyalty.” He pauses. “And love.”

Bobby makes a harsh noise, somewhere between a laugh and a hitching sob, and turns his face away. “Love is what ripped that poor kid apart.”

“Love is what kept him alive,” Castiel corrects softly. 

Silent for a long while, Bobby finally nods, the small movement clear even in the dark. 

“Is that what’s going to put him back together, too?”

Castiel isn’t stupid. He knows what Bobby’s asking. So he chooses his next words carefully, mindful of the old man’s fears and suspicions while refusing to lie and deny what has become so painfully obvious to Dean’s family in such a short amount of time. “I care for Dean more than I thought it was possible for me to care for anyone.” He swallows. “But I am not deluded enough to believe that will fix anything. This evening being… an excellent example of that.”

Bobby takes another sip of beer, and Castiel is tense, waiting on the judgement of the elderly beta. “Still. If you care for him so much, why ain’t you sealed the deal?”

It isn’t what Castiel expected him to say, and he snaps his attention to the older man, anger rising inside of him like a snake. But he catches the look on Bobby’s face and realizes before he can put his foot in his mouth that this is a test. Perhaps the biggest one he will face here.

He swallows the accusations that had been bubbling out of his stomach and sets the still full can down on the railing. “I don’t want anything from Dean that he cannot freely give me.”

Bobby hums. The sound is neither positive nor negative. “He loves you too, you know.”

Castiel stares at him, caught off guard. Bobby looks over and takes in the confusion on his face, and scoffs. “It don’t take a genius to see it, boy.” 

“I…” Castiel frowns down at his hands. “How is it so clear to you?”

The old man sighs and finally relents, taking a seat on one of the rickety chairs on the deck. Castiel, distantly, thinks that he should really have them replaced with something more comfortable. The pinched look on Bobby’s face seems to agree. 

“Dean weren’t real friendly with anyone, even when he was a kid,” the old man starts, taking his glasses off to slowly and methodically clear the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “Didn’t trust nobody either, ‘cept me and Sam. ‘Specially after he presented.”

Castiel’s heart twists at the image – a young and lonely Dean, lost in a world that would not accept him, never settling anywhere long enough to gain a friend. “He was angry all the time,” Bobby muses, a far-away look on his face. “Got into scraps what seemed like once a week, for a while there. And that was when he was with me. I couldn’t tell you what the kid must have been dealing with when he was with John.”

He looks out into the yard with a contemplative frown. “He sure does trust you, though.”

“I… we have worked very hard for that,” he says slowly, not sure what Bobby is getting at. 

“Yeah. I can tell.” He squares his shoulders. Blows out a long breath. “Dean’s always had this way of seeing through people. Knowing which ones were good, and which ones were bad, no matter how they acted on the outside. Kid’s loyal to a fault, mind you, but that don’t mean he can’t see it. And he sees something in you, Novak,” he says, raising his can. “Don’t throw that away.”

Castiel blinks. Hard. “I would never,” he says quietly. 

“Good,” the old man says gruffly. “Good.”