Chapter Text
1986
Dean slips the eight-pack of Schneiders Red Hots into the waistband of his oversized track pants, tucked right up close to the twin boxes of extra-cheesy KD. He sends out a hope and a wish that they’ll stay put until he’s out of the 7-Eleven and far enough away that no one will notice the sharp-edged belly he’s sporting.
The harsh white glow of fluorescent lights through yellowing fixtures beats down on the back of his neck as he debates another pack of hotdogs. It’d get them through tomorrow night, too—maybe even lunch, if Sammy left them some Lucky Charms—if Dad’s still gone.
It’s been ten days since he tossed Dean a twenty and took off for uncle Bobby’s and Dean ran out of the last nickels and dimes six days ago.
His stomach rumbles, and that does it. He snaps up another pack of hotdogs and stuffs them down his pants, the frozen dogs melting against his hip. Dean looks through the magazines as the guy behind the counter wins another game of spider solitaire on the beat up old monitor, not paying any attention to the kid with seventeen wieners in his pants.
Dean holds his breath and counts down from three in his head.
Three—he watches the man’s wrinkled brow jump and crease, sweat beading on his forehead.
Two—the soles of his shoes squeak on the stained linoleum as he moves toward the door. The glass panel is lined with iron bars.
One—Dean has his hand on the door, the hinges creaking. He takes one last look at the man and their eyes catch. Dean’s heart drops.
He runs.
Dean’s lungs burn as he pumps his legs, his ratty shoes nearly disintegrating around his feet, but he doesn’t slow down. He can’t hear any pounding footsteps behind him, though, so maybe he can ease up… Maybe, he’s in the clear.
Not that it matters. Now that the man knows his face, he can’t go back. Dean curses himself for his stupidity. He should’ve been more careful; he shouldn’t have looked back.
He slows to a walk when he reaches his neighborhood, but every car has him jumping out of his skin and hiding his face in his hoodie. Every shout has him searching the faces of those walking up the sidewalk.
Moms and Dads pass, pushing strollers and clinging to huffing, puffing fleabags or tiny, chubby fingers. They stare at his dirty, oversized clothes, and Dean can almost hear their thoughts. Where are that kid’s parents? He asks himself the same thing all the time.
Dean passes manicured lawn after manicured lawn, all with trimmed rose bushes and in-ground sprinkler systems. Two-story family homes with wraparound, covered porches and white siding. No white-picket fences, but when Dean closes his eyes and pictures one for himself, it’s there.
Cookie-cutters, Dad calls them. For gingerbread people. They aren’t gingerbread people.
The hotdogs are starting to melt and cold water drips down his legs. He’s got blisters already, but he can see his house. Right at the end of the no-exit street, short and fat with dirty windows and leaky gutters. The front step creaks and the grass hasn’t been cut since forever. Since they moved here, at least. Dean doesn’t remember much about the old house. Dad says it was a house for gingerbread people.
Street lights blink on as Dean walks, but he’s only two houses from his own when a moving van catches his eye. He stops, watching two men in gray jumpsuits pull down the back door of the moving truck. Another man, dressed in a sweater-vest and trousers, talks with them. He can see a woman through one of the windows, her hair tied up in a knot, her dress perfectly pressed.
A boy sits on the front steps, his dark hair a wild mess. A gingerbread boy, Dean thinks. Dressed in pressed slacks and a sweater-vest to match his father’s. He looks about Dean’s age; maybe they’ll be in the same class. That wouldn’t be too bad, unless he’s mean. He could be mean; a lot of kids are mean to him, so Dean has to be mean back.
He hopes this one is nice.
“Castiel,” the woman calls, poking her head through the door. The boy looks up, but instead of looking at his mom, he finds Dean staring. “Dinner’s ready.”
Dean’s stomach rumbles at the thought of a nice, hot meal. He ducks his head and turns away. There’ll be no hot meal until he’s home, and Sammy’s bound to be as hungry as he is.
Moonlight pours in through the open curtains, a nightlight for Sammy if he needs to make a run for the bathroom. Dean managed to score some pull-ups from Mrs. Moseley the other day, so he won’t have to change Sam’s sheets if he does have an accident, at least. Dad hates that Sam wears them, but he hates it more when he wets the bed, so he puts up with it. The kid’s only three, after all. Hardly even potty trained yet, Dean’s working on it, though.
Sam’s quiet breathing is barely loud enough to hear over the whirring of the box fan Dean’s got propped in the bedroom window. He’s got a bruise the size of grapefruit on his shoulder from dropping it trying to get it up there.
He watches the watermark on the ceiling, the browning plaster bulges just a little under the wet weight. Dean presses two fingers into the bruise, trying not to wince as an ache spreads through tissue and bone. He presses harder as his eyes trace the edge of the dark spot.
“Castiel,” he whispers. “Castiel, Castiel, Castiel.” Will the ceiling fall while he sleeps? Slapping right down on his unsuspecting head? Or while he’s at school, during a thunderstorm? “Castiel,” he says, the name contorting his tongue and stretching his mouth. He’s never heard it before in all his life. “Cas,” he decides. Yeah, Cas is good. That’s what he’ll call him.
Dean doesn’t see the gingerbread boy—Castiel, Cas—again that week. He’s got no idea if he’s in his class or not since Dean hasn’t been to school since Monday morning.
They won’t let him in without clean shoes, and every time they want to call his dad to get him to bring some, he tells them no, he works nights, he won’t answer. They don’t know what to do with him then, so they try anyway and his dad doesn’t answer.
So, he goes home. He stays home, tries to wash their clothes in the river that runs on the other side of the small patch of forest behind their house, and worries about his next meal.
His bare feet stick to the dirty kitchen tile as he heads for the fridge. He’ll have to mop before Dad gets back; he’ll be mad if he thinks they aren’t taking care of the place—ungrateful shits, he’ll call them. Might forget to feed them. Might not forget; might just refuse. Just ‘cause Dean’s used to being hungry, doesn’t mean he likes it.
The fridge is dark when he opens it, the lightbulb burnt out sometime last May and Dad says it's a waste of electricity anyway. Not that there’s anything to see in the fridge; they’ve been running on whatever Dean can snag from the neighbors through cracked kitchen windows and unsupervised grocery bags.
He straightens up, snapping the fridge shut with a bang. Standing there for a minute, he wills the panic rising inside him to settle back into place. Sammy sits a few feet away, dressed in nothing but his pull-ups, his sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Dean’s old toy soldiers stand, lined up in sloppy rows on the cracked kitchen tiles.
He’s got to feed Sammy.
“Don’t move,” he tells his brother, not bothering to wait for Sam to look at him. The kid is happy; he’s distracted, so Dean should be able to go out and grab them some dinner.
He takes one last look over his shoulder before slipping out the front door.
It’s almost dark, that hazy hour or two between light and real night where the streetlights are on but people are still out and about. The worst time to go sneaking around, but Dean is desperate.
He looks up and down the block. Cars and bikes and cookie-cutter lawn mowers in every yard, taking up space.
Every driveway but one.
Castiel’s house is dark, their driveway is empty—score.
He’d bet they leave their doors unlocked, windows open, being new here and all. They don’t know how sometimes things can go missing from the pantry, or disappear from the fridge.
He heads that way, his head spinning with hunger as he crosses the backyard between his house and Castiel’s, sticking to the bushes and keeping low. A dog growls from the back porch, a squirrel squeaks, dashing up a tree, and Dean’s heart just about jumps up his throat when a motion-sensor light flickers on.
He runs for the next yard, tripping through the light until he’s safely in the shadows of the rose bushes tucked up tight to the wraparound porch. His heart beats a new bruise on the inside of his ribs. He feels like Sammy’s toy soldiers; broken and battered, still going despite the hits that won’t stop coming.
Dean pushes the feeling down and crawls along the outside wall until he finds a window. It looks into the basement, and it’s just big enough for him to shimmy through. He tucks his fingers into the groove and holds his breath before giving it a tug.
It cracks open. He tugs again. Again, again until it’s wide enough to slide inside.
Dean grins.
Stealing from Castiel’s family is how he and Sammy stay full for the next two weeks. He’s learned their schedules, even—they go to church on Sundays and stay out until at least three in the afternoon. Thursdays are Holy Roller Bowling, according to the pamphlet on their kitchen counter, and both of Castiel’s parents have day jobs, so if Dad keeps not showing up, at least he can keep them fed.
He’s got two arms full of the gross, twelve grain healthy bread, organic peanut butter, and what looks like homemade raspberry jelly, his cheeks stuffed with the half-finished pizza slice he dug out of its Tupperware, when he hears a car pull into the driveway and his heart drops to the floor.
They shouldn’t be home yet. He hasn’t even finished his dinner!
Dean shoves the rest of his slice between his teeth, his whole body shaking as he struggles to get the lid back on the container, the container back in the fridge, and keep all his food tucked in his arms, all while watching the door.
Voices filter in as he breaks for the stairs, but a loaf slips free and he panics. He needs the bread. Laughter rises on the porch, the door handle is turning—they don’t bother locking it; who would steal from a nice Christian family in a good neighborhood?—and Dean dives for the loaf, snatching it up and nearly falling down the stairs in his hurry to get out of there.
“Castiel, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times; clean up the counter after getting a snack!”
“I didn’t have a snack…”
Dean squeezes through the window, his treasures waiting in the bushes on the other side. Once through, he turns to close the window, but his fingers still shake and he can’t get a hold of the edges. He’s so close, almost home free, he just has to—
The basement light flicks on. Dean’s eyes snap up. There, not twenty yards away, Castiel stands on the bottom step, dressed up in his gray slacks and purple button down, staring right at him.
Dean panics. He grabs his treasures and runs.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Dean just about drops the jar of raspberry jam. He nearly jumps out of his skin as dread sinks into his bones. Dad’s home.
“I, uh…” he starts, standing as still as he can, not daring to look his father in the eye. He can smell the sour stench of booze on him. It’s always there a little, but it’s stronger now. “Was getting us some food.”
Dad’s heavy, scuffed up boots batter the floor under his feet as he steps closer. Steel-toed, the material pulling away from the metal—painful when Dad wants ‘em to be. “You were s’posed to be watchin’ your brother.”
“I-I had to get food—”
“Why the hell couldn’t you take him with ya?” Another step closer and Dean wants to sink back through the door. He wants to run as fast and as far as he can, but Sammy…
“The money… it, uh—it ran out, and I—” His voice is shaking. Dad hates it when Dean’s voice is shaking—says he sounds like a pussy. Dean hates it when Dad calls him that.
“You been stealin’?” Dad’s voice is like the toes of his boots. Dean clutches his treasure close, frozen. He can’t lie. Dad always knows when he’s lying. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, boy.”
Dean swallows back the lump in his throat. He won’t cry. He won’t. Up, up, up, Dad is like a giant, so tall and strong, Dean’s got no chance against him. His anger shakes the walls, ‘specially when he’s been drinking.
Dean thinks Dad’s been drinking.
Dad rips the loaf of bread from his arms, brings it to his squinting eyes, and snarls, “Fuckin’ thief. No son of mine—”
Dean nearly collapses with relief when there’s a rap on the door behind him. Dad won’t hurt him in front of others, and maybe he can grab Sammy and sneak away while he’s busy.
Dad shoves him aside, one giant hand on his shoulder, swatting him like a bug. He goes flying, hitting the floor with a thud that scatters his treasures and bruises his hip.
“What can I do for ya?” Dad says, opening the door and putting on what Dean knows is his go away grin.
“Hello,” a familiar voice says, and Dean’s heart seizes up. He freezes, hand suspended over the jar of half-eaten raspberry jam. “My mother wants me to tell you that if you’re hungry, there is no need to sneak in through the basement. We love company and are always willing to help out a fellow neighbor in need—”
Dean panics, his need to get out of here driving his shaking hands to finish picking up the stolen food. He can feel Dad’s temper rising—his pride roaring in, taking over.
“We ain’t no damn charity case, and we don’t need your goddamn help—get the fuck off my property before I kick your scrawny little ass out of here!”
Dean stands, his knees aching, head spinning as he rushes for Sammy. If they can just get to the back door…
“Of course, sir, but if you could return the mason jar when you’re finished with it; my mother needs them to make more jam—”
The door bangs shut, and Dean doesn’t have time to be afraid. His treasures hit the floor. The mason jar cracks, spilling sticky-sweet jam over the dirty tile.
Dean tries not to, but he can’t help the cry that escapes when his head hits the wall.
Everything hurts.
He winces as he climbs the steps of Castiel’s front porch, his stolen groceries tucked under his arms. The mason jar is in pieces, but he has that, too. His bloody fingers clutch the glass, staining it a brighter red.
Everything hurts, but he raises his hand and knocks on the door. Everything hurts, but he takes a deep breath. Everything hurts, but he forces a small smile when Castiel’s mom answers, staring through the screen door with a blank face.
“Hello,” she says, pushing the screen open slow enough for Dean to get out of the way. That hurts too. He thinks she notices. She crouches down, moving slowly like he’s a jittery squirrel. She’s pretty, with blue eyes like the summer sky, and her hair looks soft, and she’s wearing a skirt; not like his mom used to wear, but still nice.
“Sorry I stole your food,” he says, his throat scratchy from crying all night. “And broke your jar.” He’d wanted to save the jam that hadn’t touched the tile, but Dad made him clean it all up. Wouldn’t even let him have a slice of the bread. “I—I’ll replace it, I swear.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she says, and her smile is so nice. Her voice, too—she sounds like she’s someone’s mom. Dean wishes she were his mom. Then he feels bad, because really, he wishes he had his mom. “Have you eaten today?”
Dean blinks, his stomach rumbling. He shakes his head.
She watches him, and Dean’s not sure if it’s him she’s angry at, or someone else. He wants to drop the food and run, but he doesn’t think his legs will carry him that fast or far.
“I’ve just made sandwiches,” she tells him, and Dean’s stomach growls louder. “I always make too many; I’d blame it on my years of preparing church lunches, but…” She trails off with a shrug, and Dean’s not sure if he wants to push past her to get to the food, or run back to get Sammy. “Come in and eat.”
Still, he hesitates. Dad’s asleep on the couch, still out from the night before, but Sammy’s home, and Dean’s not about to leave him alone. He looks back down the street, chewing on his bottom lip as he deliberates.
“My…” he starts, but trails off. He’s not supposed to eat until Dad says. “Sammy, I need to—”
“Your brother?”
Dean nods, still looking past the gingerbread house next door to his own haunted house.
“Go fetch him; I will plate up some sandwiches for the both of you—Castiel!” She turns back into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
Dean stands on the other side, waiting for the gingerbread boy to make his way into view. He waits, but Castiel doesn’t come. He waits until he can’t wait anymore.
Dean turns away, his arms still full of squished bread and broken glass.
Dean shoves a second sandwich past his lips, his cheeks bulging with ham and cheese on a fresh set of multigrain bread. He still hurts, but his tummy is full, and his cuts are bandaged up. Nothin’ they can do about those, though—that’s what he’s told, anyway.
Behind him, Mrs. Novak—Hannah, as she insists he call her—cleans up, humming all the while. Beside him, Sam picks his sandwich apart, eating it part by part.
Across the table, Castiel sits, one perfect triangle of bread held up between his hands, the point covering the tip of his nose as he watches Dean with unblinking eyes.
Dean does his best to ignore him, but his owl-eyed stare is hard to miss. He hasn’t said more than a few words to either him or Sam, but he just keeps looking.
“Would you like to see my garden?” Castiel asks over his sandwich, and Dean looks up.
“No.”
“I have sunflowers,” he continues, like Dean hadn’t just shut him down. “And peonies. They should be in bloom soon, and there are plenty of honeybees I hope to observe. I’ll show you after lunch.”
“No, thanks.”
“I can show you what I’ve been reading.”
“I’m good.”
“Oh, and you can help me with my math. I would assume you are the same Dean that’s always absent on the attendance—I can tell Mrs. Tran we did it together, and maybe then she won’t fail you.” He says all this between bites of his sandwich, chewing quickly before swallowing it back and chattering on.
Dean sighs. “This friendship is going to be a lot of work, huh?”
Castiel grins around full cheeks.