TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS STORY: PROSTITUTION, SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, TORTURE, RAPE/NON-CON, CHILD ABUSE, AND FLASHBACKS TO ALL OF THEE ABOVE. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS STORY I FAY OF THESE THINGS TRIGGER OR UPSET YOU. I WILL POST SPECIFICS ABOUT EACH CHAPTER IN MY AUTHOR'S NOTE.

Chapter 1 warnings: Mentions of child abuse

Chapter 1

Dean doesn't know where he is, or how he got there, but he doesn't care. He just keeps turning corners and dodging cars and listening for the thud of boot-clad feet behind him. Only after he's heard nothing but the indignant horns of commuters for several blocks does he slow and finally come to a stop in the alley behind some bar. Dean leans against a dumpster and tries to catch his breath, chest heaving. He sinks to the ground with exhaustion, not caring that something wet is soaking into the seat of his jeans and that some kind of insect just drawled its way across his knuckles.

There's a slow burning rage in the back of his mind, rage that he lets seep int every corner of his mind until he physically can't hold it in anymore. He slams his fist into the metal dumpster with a growl, but staggers upright when he hears a startled cry come from behind it. Dean starts to move back as a head pops up from behind the dumpster, quickly followed by shoulders and a torso. The boy standing in front of him is about Dean's height, with wild black hair and a rumpled shirt.

"Who are you?" The boy asks suspiciously, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand while simultaneously running a hand through his tousled hair.

"No one," Dean replies quickly. "Sorry, um, I'll just go." The boy peers at him curiously.

"You're not a customer," he states, and Dean nods quickly. He's definitely not looking for the services the boy probably markets. "What's wrong?" He seems genuinely curious, and his piercing blue eyes feel like they're boring holes into Dean's.

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. I should let you go back to sleep." Dean turns away, but he hears the boy step out from behind the dumpster and towards him.

"No, you've obviously been running, and there must be a reason why you look so upset. Why are you here?"

"Honestly, dude, I didn't mean to end up here. I'll go."

"Stay," the boy commands, and there's something about his voice that makes Dean turn back to him. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Why should you care?" Dean snaps, but the boy doesn't flinch .

"Why shouldn't I? Now tell me what's the matter."

"You're bossy."

"Yes, I am. Now tell me." Dean shrugs and looks down at his feet.

"Dad kicked me out of the motel. He'll be gone by the time I get back." The boy's eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"What do you mean? Gone?"

"Yeah, gone. He's probably packed the car up by now and driven off with my brother and all my stuff." Dean laughs bitterly, blinking away the tears stinging the backs of his eyes. The boy reaches out a comforting hand, but withdraws it when Dean shifts away.

"I'm sorry." The look the boy gives him tells Dean that he knows it's an inadequate response.

"Yeah, well. That won't fix it. I just wish I'd had enough time to say goodbye to Sammy."

"Your brother?" Dean has no idea why he's telling all this to a strange, bossy guy who sleeps behind a dumpster and probably turns tricks for a living, but there's an air of kindness around the boy that Dean didn't see a lot. He seemed interested and, even more surprisingly, concerned for Dean and his well-being.

"Yeah, my little brother." Dean scuffs the toe of his three-year-old sneakers against the dirty asphalt and glares at a pile of trash a few feet away. The boy shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

"I'm sorry. I've been rude. My name's Castiel." He sticks his hand out again, but Dean takes it this time and shakes, making eye contact and trying not to be intimidated by the boy's inhumanly blue eyes.

"Dean," he replies. Castiel nods and stifles a yawn.

"Sorry. You kind of woke me up there." Dean looks away again, guiltily, and drops Castiel's hand.

"Like I said, I should go. You can get back to sleep." Castiel looks confused, brows pinching together.

"I thought you said your dad would be gone?"

"I just thought I'd check to see if he left any of my stuff behind." Dean doubted it. He'd be lucky if John hadn't burned his clothes. He turns away again, and this time Castiel doesn't stop him.

"Dean?" He calls after a moment.

"Yeah?" Dean replies, half turning.

"If you don't have a place to stay, you could always come back here. It's rather nice, for an alley." Dean grins, but hesitates. He doesn't know this person, no matter how well-meaning he may be. He doesn't know why Castiel is on the streets, why he lives like this. He could be a criminal or insane or even just down on his luck. But he seems honest and open, and he took an interest in dean when he could've just thrown something at him and yelled at him to get away.

"Thanks, Cas. I'll remember that."

• • • •

Dean isn't surprised at all to find the Impala gone when he finally makes his way back to the motel. What he is shocked to see is a pile of clothes next to the slightly propped door of their motel room. There's a small piece of paper fluttering from underneath the pile, and Dean pulls it out and holds the note gingerly.

Sorry. Love you, it reads in Sam's hurried scrawl. Dean sinks to his knees in front of the door and tries to stifle the sobs building in his chest. What if this is the last he ever hears from his brother? What if he never sees Sam again?

A few minutes later, when Dean's pulled himself together, he stands and enters the room. It's immaculate, almost as if no one had been there for days, and he knows that housekeeping - if there is any at the cheap business - won't come for a few more hours at least. Dean pictured Sam stalling for time, waiting for Dean to walk back in the door, even after John's shouts to never come back were thrown angrily across a busy street. Maybe Sam had made the beds as slowly as possible, double and triple-checking that the sheets were even on both sides, before straightening all the shampoo bottles and sneaking a t-shirt or some socks for Dean under his jacket when John wasn't looking.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean whispers to the empty room. "I'm so sorry."