Chapter Text
1997
The kitchen smells like bacon and fried eggs when Castiel comes downstairs. The old radio on the kitchen counter crackles and whines as it plays an unfamiliar song. Bobby whistles along to it, his motions smooth and practiced as he loads a plate with food and deposits it on the table.
At Castiel's approach, Bobby looks up and startles, nearly dropping the pan. “Jesus.” He takes a deep breath. A smile appears on his face, summoned there mostly by means of willpower. Castiel can tell. “Morning, Cas. We oughta put a bell on you.”
Castiel doesn’t acknowledge this; he isn’t sure how. All his life, he was taught to keep himself quiet and respectful, but his quiet seems to unsettle Bobby. Then again, Bobby’s tendency to call him “Cas” unsettles Castiel. It seems only fair that he should return the favor.
“Thank you for the food,” he says as he sits down. He waits until Bobby joins him at the table with his own plate, then folds his hands and bows his head to say a silent grace.
Bobby doesn’t pick up his fork until Castiel is finished, but Castiel doesn’t think Bobby prays. He just waits for Castiel, and that too is unsettling. Castiel is still technically a child; he's the one who is meant to obey and fit himself to the needs of his elders.
His mother used to be very clear on that subject.
They settle down to their food. It’s hot and filling, but Castiel can barely bring himself to touch it. His stomach is in knots.
“So,” Bobby says, with all the forced cheerfulness of a newly hired youth pastor. “First day of school. You excited? Nervous?”
Castiel looks up from his plate before he speaks to Bobby. He used to have a tendency to keep his eyes low and mumble, but his mother soon cured him of that.
“I’m fine,” he says.
Bobby’s smile flickers. “Yeah. Good. But it’s… you know, it’d be alright if you’re not. It’s a big day.”
Castiel already knows this. He spent his entire life being homeschooled, up until his mother’s sudden death a few months ago. After that, Castiel moved through a series of temporary arrangements that finally culminated here, at his permanent foster placement. That, at least, is the theory. Castiel isn’t so sure yet. He and Bobby feel like an ill-matched pair of socks placed in the same drawer by accident. Nothing about that seems like a good foundation for permanence.
Still, in a purely theoretical way, this will be his first time going to a school where he is meant to stay; with peers who are meant to become his friends.
If he thinks too hard about it, his lungs squeeze too tight for a full breath and his hands begin to shake.
Bobby is glancing at him in an uncertain sort of way, and Castiel realizes he's missed his conversational cue.
“I’m fine,” he says again.
Bobby nods, and silence falls, interrupted only by the clink and scrape of forks on plates. Castiel gives up on eating anything more.
“You’re sure you don’t wanna… wear something a little more casual?” Bobby asks. It’s tentative, as if he worries about hurting Castiel’s feelings. This, too, is unsettling.
Castiel moves his hands under the table to hide the way they’re shaking a little. “This is what’s correct to wear,” he says. The black slacks and white button-down he has on are the only things that feel familiar about today. It’s what he’s worn outside the home for as long as he can remember.
“Okay, yeah, sure,” Bobby says hurriedly, as though he’s made a misstep and is eager to correct it. Castiel’s stomach lurches. He prays to God that he doesn’t throw up in Bobby’s kitchen from sheer nerves, then chastises himself for praying over such a frivolous thing.
Perhaps God isn’t listening anyway. Castiel is too far away from his old church to go there anymore, and if he wanted to go to a new church, he would have to find the right one. He would have to ask Bobby to help him find it, and maybe drive him.
These seem like insurmountable obstacles, but his mother would call them excuses. Signs that Castiel’s faith is feeble.
“Time to go, I think,” Bobby says, rising from the table. “C’mon, I’ll drive you.”
There’s no cross in the classroom. Instead, there is a map of the United States on the wall and a banner mounted across the top of the blackboard that spells Your Voice Matters in cheerful all-capitals.
“I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America,” the class intones, facing the flag that hangs to the right of the board, “and to the republic for which it stands.”
Castiel has been the subject of curious glances from all corners of the classroom ever since he stepped inside. He can still feel them on his profile and the back of his neck, like a series of pinpricks.
“One nation under God…” Castiel says, along with the class. His hand presses more tightly over his heart. The student in front of him, a short, red-headed girl, has remained stubbornly silent the entire time. “Indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.”
“You may be seated,” says the teacher at the front of the room. He's a gaunt, older man in a neat suit and tie. “Class, I’d like you to—”
A commotion breaks out at the door to the classroom. A boy rushes in, still pink-cheeked from the March cold and grinning as he jogs up the rows to a desk that is to the left and slightly ahead of Castiel. At least five different students nod to the boy as he passes. One holds up his hand for a high-five. The red-haired girl in front of Castiel looks at the boy in a questioning sort of way. The boy’s response is a one-shouldered shrug.
“You’re tardy, Dean,” Mr. Dumort says crisply. “Again.”
Dean drops into a chair near the front, discarding his backpack on the floor like an afterthought. “Sorry, Mr. D. I wanted to be here with you all on time. Really, I did. Just missed the bus.”
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” Mr. Dumort says. Castiel watches, but doesn’t see Mr. Dumort make any sort of mark on his attendance sheet to show that one of the students was tardy. Strange.
“As I was saying before Dean’s interruption…” Mr. Dumort rises, and Castiel’s hands begin to shake again. They’d only just stopped. “... class, I’d like you to meet a new student. Please give a warm Patriots welcome to Castiel Novak.”
Castiel rises from his chair to a buzzing chorus of largely indifferent greetings. Someone giggles. No doubt everyone in class has already marked him as an outsider and oddball.
“Would you like to say a few words, Castiel?” Mr. Dumort asks.
For at least the third time today, Castiel says, “I’m fine.”
To his great relief, Mr. Dumort doesn’t insist. He asks Castiel to be seated, and Castiel struggles to calm his frantic heartbeat.
When he’s regained control over himself, he looks up. To his left and a few rows ahead of him, the tardy boy — Dean — has turned in his seat to look at him. Castiel inclines his head; a question.
The response is a small flicker of a smile before Dean turns to face the front.
Dumort asks Dean to stay back after first period, which just figures, considering the kind of day Dean’s been having. He takes his time packing up until everyone, including the new kid in the churchy getup, has already left.
“I didn’t mark you down as tardy today, Dean,” Dumort says when Dean stops at his desk. “You already have several tardies on your record. Any more and you’ll start to face disciplinary consequences. I happen to think that a suspension isn’t an appropriate solution for tardiness.”
Dean white-knuckles the strap of his backpack. “Thanks, Mr. Dumort. It won’t happen again.”
It’s a lie and they both know it.
Dumort sighs. “Dean, you have a good head on your shoulders. I’d like to see you in a situation where you’re able to use it. You could be the best student in your year if you apply yourself.”
“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffs, and leaves it at that. It’s not exactly polite to tell a teacher he’s full of it. Dean isn’t even the smartest kid in his own family, let alone the whole grade.
Silence falls, long enough that Dean looks up from where he had his eyes fixed on the tops of his sneakers. He finds Dumort studying him with a thoughtful look.
“Parent-teacher night is coming up in a few weeks,” he says, when he apparently feels he’s made Dean squirm hard enough. “Please make sure to convey to your father that I’m particularly interested in speaking with him.”
“I will,” Dean says, but chances of Dad coming to parent-teacher night? Well, they’re about as good as the chances of Kurt Cobain rising from the grave.
“You think he’s Mormon? I mean, who the fuck else dresses like that?”
“Oh, and what, you’re the official Lincoln High authority on fashion, Mr. All-Flannel-All-the-Time?”
Dean grins to himself. “She’s got you there, Jesse.” His eyes stay focused on the notebook in front of him. He’s been working on drawing faces, especially men’s faces. Women are easier, all softness and flowing lines, but the hard angles of a male jaw are still giving him trouble.
“Thanks.” Charlie nudges him. “Hey, Artist Guy, you getting anything to eat?”
Dean shrugs, eyes still on his drawing. “I’m not hungry.”
Two fingers grab his upper arm and pinch it, hard.
“Ow.” Dean drops his pencil to rub at the spot. “What the hell, Charlie?”
The moment he looks up at Charlie’s scowling face, the rest of the cafeteria comes flooding back in: the smells of fried, greasy food, the sounds of plates and silverware, the sight of people at tables all around them digging into their lunches. Dean’s mouth floods with saliva. His stomach twists.
“You are hungry,” Charlie decides. “Here, have my chips. I don’t need them.”
Across the table from them, Jesse and Victor glance guiltily down at their empty trays. Jesus. This is why Dean spends his lunchtime doodling and trying to pretend he doesn’t care about food.
“You don’t need to give me food, guys,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“Shut up and take the chips.” Charlie shoves them at him.
At least his friends have given up asking why Dean doesn’t always grab lunch. He’d probably qualify for the lunch program, but Dad would have to apply for it, and that’s never going to happen. Not in a million years.
We might not be the goddamn Rockefellers, but we’re Winchesters, Dean. Winchesters don’t take charity.
Dean takes the chips with the closest thing he can manage to a grateful smile. His face feels too hot, his skin too tight. He fucking hates being poor.
At least they had enough stuff left at home for Sammy to take a sandwich to school. Kid’s gotta feed that big brain of his.
“Why were you late today?” Victor asks. He’s wearing his Lincoln High Patriots letterman jacket, because out of their little band of misfits, he’s the only jock. He’s also got this thing where he likes to ask uncomfortable questions.
“Missed the bus,” Dean says as he tears open the chip bag and takes a chip out, trying not to seem too eager.
“Uh-huh,” Victor says. “And why’d you miss it?”
Dean pops the chip into his mouth. His eyes flutter closed as he bites down and the taste of salt and grease coats his tongue. He didn’t exactly have time for breakfast either this morning. Hard to find time for a meal when you’re busy trying to sober up your father in the shower so that he makes it to work and doesn’t lose the main source of family income.
Not to mention doing it all without your little brother noticing.
Dean shoves another handful of chips in his mouth and grins around it. “Overslept.”
Predictably, this results in a chorus of groans and grimaces. Charlie throws a Twinkie at him. Dean pockets it while no one’s looking. He thinks that’s what she meant for him to do anyway.
“So who’s coming to my house tonight?” Charlie asks, once everybody’s calmed the fuck down about Dean’s manners. “It’s Monday. You know what that means.”
“New episode of Buffy,” Dean and Jesse answer in stereo.
Victor groans. “If you think I’m watching that, you’re tripping. It’s a show for nerds.”
Charlie leans across the table, expression deeply serious. “Victor. I’ve got news for you. All your friends are nerds. It might be time to accept that you, young Padawan, are also a nerd.”
Victor thumps the table with the flat of his palm. “Never.”
“Well, I’m in,” Jesse says, shrugging. Dean keeps quiet as he eats his last couple chips.
“What about you, Winchester?” Charlie asks.
Dean swallows around his final bite. He wants to say yes. He’s caught a couple episodes at Charlie’s house before, and he’s liked them pretty well. The kids on the show are high school sophomores, like them, but their world is full of demons, giant praying mantises and other bad guys that are reliably defeated at the end of every episode.
It’s nice to know the bad guys are always going to lose.
Besides, Buffy’s friend Willow kind of reminds him of Charlie.
“I’ll try,” he says, and hopes it’s understood that he means it. He’ll try to make it, but he won’t know for sure until he gets home and gets a read on Dad’s mood. If it’s a bad day, he’s not leaving Sam alone with that.
“Okay,” Charlie says, with a look that means she maybe does understand.
“Alright.” Jesse smacks the table hard enough to make everyone’s trays rattle. “Let’s bounce. I’ve got old Dumort for next period. He’ll notice if I’m tardy again.”
Victor snorts. “More like ‘absent.’ The tardy tend to show up.”
“Dumort’s alright,” Dean says as he gathers up his notebook and the empty chip bag.
“Maybe to you,” Jesse says. “He likes you.”
Jesse’s not wrong. Case in point was earlier today.
“Dumort likes Charlie too,” Dean points out to take the focus off himself. He balls up the chip bag and tosses it at the nearest trash can. It hits the edge before toppling over and in.
“Nice rim shot!” Victor raises his hand for a high-five. Dean slaps it.
“Every teacher likes Charlie,” Jesse says, jostling her as they start walking away from the table. “Teacher’s pet.”
Charlie shrugs, unconcerned by the tease. “I can’t help being a genius any more than James Tiberius Kirk can help being a maverick.”
Dean falls into step behind his friends, but two tables down, he stops. The new kid, Castiel, sits there. He’s all by himself, bent low over a book, his tray pushed to the side with half the food uneaten. Dean tries not to resent that kind of waste and mostly fails.
“What’s that you’re reading?” he asks.
Castiel flinches, like he didn’t expect anyone to talk to him. He looks up at Dean, blue eyes going wide.
“Oh, uh.” He shoves a finger in to mark his place, then shuts the book to show Dean the cover. “The Bible.” His voice is pretty deep for a kid their age.
“Heavy,” Dean says. Not exactly eloquent.
Something sparks in Castiel’s eyes. For the first time since Dean noticed him in first period, he seems like a real person.
“Yes,” he says. “Both literally and figuratively.”
One corner of Castiel's lips curls up just a little, like his smile is shy of its welcome.
Dean chuckles. “Funny.” He casts around for something to say that’s more than a single word. At this rate, Castiel’s going to think he’s a complete imbecile. “Hey, next time, you wanna sit with me and my friends for lunch?”
The question surprises even him. He didn’t know he was going to ask until he did.
That little curl of a smile disappears. Castiel looks down. “I don’t think so. But thank you.”
“Oh. Yeah, no problem. Standing offer.” Dean’s not disappointed. He doesn’t need more witnesses to his semi-regular lunch humiliation. “Anyway, guess I’m gonna…”
Castiel nods. Dean waits another two seconds, but when there’s no sign that Castiel is going to say anything else, he starts walking away.
“I’m not a Mormon,” Castiel calls after him.
Dean stops, hangs his head. Of course Castiel heard Jesse’s stupid comment. Jesse’s a good guy, but he doesn’t always think before he talks.
“Okay,” Dean says, smiling over his shoulder at Castiel.
“Okay,” Castiel echoes and goes back to reading his Bible.
The moment Dean steps inside the apartment, he knows he’s not going to Charlie’s that night.
The lights are out and the curtains drawn. Dad sits in the armchair in front of the TV, watching a tape of an old football game. John Winchester was the Patriots’ star quarterback in his day, but an injury sidelined him in his senior year. He never got any scholarships, and his academic record didn’t exactly open any doors for him either.
Like a lot of other folks around here, he went for the easiest option: a job at the meatpacking plant at the edge of town. His high school sweetheart Mary Campbell stuck by him through it all, but she’s long gone. Burned in the same fire that took the house where Dean had spent the first four years of his life.
“How was work?” Dean asks as he sets down his backpack, slow and careful. Can’t make too much noise; not when Dad’s in this kind of mood.
“Fuckin’ sucked.” Dad stares at the screen, the flicker reflecting in his eyes. Dean clocks the half-empty whiskey bottle next to his chair. “That asshole supervisor’s half my age. He oughta have some respect for his elders.”
Dean bites his tongue to keep from asking his father not to piss off his supervisor and get himself fired. Ever since he turned sixteen, he’s been able to pick up a couple hours of work at the pizza place downtown, but that’s not enough to keep all three of them fed. They need Dad’s income.
“I’m gonna turn on the lights, alright? Sammy’ll need the light on when he gets here. To do his homework.”
Dad growls something that sounds like agreement. It’s the one thing the two of them are on the same page about: Sam’s the best thing about their family, and Sam gets what Sam needs.
It’s Monday. That means Sam’s got debate club after school. There’s a standing agreement with Sam’s friend Brady’s mom to bring him home after, since the buses don’t go that late.
Dean checks the wall clock above the kitchenette. Four-thirty, which means he’s got about an hour until Sam comes home. Enough time to cook (mac-n-cheese, again) and maybe clean a little. Maybe even time to get some of his own homework done, if he’s lucky.
But first things first: Dean crosses over to the wall phone in the kitchen and dials Charlie’s number. He knows it by heart; he’s had to cancel on her plenty of times before.