It comes to him in bits. Little pieces that flash behind his eyes, vivid images that play in his dreams. Memories he thought were lost to him. Things the damn accident had stolen from him.

He remembered asking his mom to make three lunches in the morning and then doing it himself when she got too sick.

He was young, elementary school when they met. He noticed the other never had food at lunch or snack.

He remembered asking his mom why his mom didn't pack him lunch.

"Maybe he doesn't have one," she says the first time.

"Maybe they're poor," she reasons.

He finds out the boy whose name is too hard to say, whose family is too poor or whose mother isn't around loves peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

He nicknames him Cas.

Cas has eyes that make him think of the sky when he's happy, and the ocean when he's sad. He's too skinny and he squints when he tries to read. Dean is pretty sure he needs glasses.

Dean finds out that Cas' has a mother when he asks if he can come over after school and meet Sammy. His mother won't let him out of the house except for school. When Dean asks why Cas looks down at his hands and won't answer.

In second grade, Dean's mother gets sick. It's words he doesn't really understand. They said her blood was sick, and pretty soon mom didn't get out of bed much anymore, and Dean had to make lunches. He made Sam's for daycare, and he made his and Cas'. Sam asked him once why he made three lunches, and he told him it was for a friend who didn't have any. Sam had hugged his brother's waist tightly before their dad took him to daycare. That summer, their mom passed. Dad always smelled bad after that and Sam spent a lot of nights curled up in Dean's bed.

In third grade, Cas starts coming to school with bruises. For a long time, he won't tell Dean why. He starts wearing long sleeves in the summer, and it makes Dean sick to think about why. Cas stutters excuses when he asks. Dean may be young but he isn't stupid. He knows falling down stairs won't make a bruise that wraps all the way around his wrist. That it won't leave a hand shaped mark on his cheek that he sees when Cas is sitting alone in the cafeteria. It's early in the morning, and the only reason Dean is already there is because Dad has to drop him off before work now. Mom can't walk him to school anymore. He thinks about asking Cas why he's so early, but figures he'll get the same shrug or stuttered excuse.

When Cas starts having trouble-walking Dean has had enough.

"Why are you always hurt?" Cas looks up at him and his eyes look like the ocean today, dark and tumultuous and sad. His eyes are ringed by dark circles that didn't used to be there. "Aren't we friends?" Dean pleads when Cas doesn't answer.

"Mommy says I've been bad," Cas whimpers. His chin is quivering and his eyes are shining, his tiny shoulders shaking and when the first tear falls the floodgates open. "She used to say I was her angel, but now she calls me mean words. She won't let me outside. I just want to go outside, Dean." He remembers hugging Cas. He was a small boy, barely bigger than the kindergartners.

It's the last day he sees his friend.

"Do you remember me having a friend in elementary school?" Dean asks Sam over the phone one day. He's on his fourth cup of coffee and it's barely noon. He'd been up most of the night avoiding the last dream, the one where he hugs the little boy, though now Dean is grown but Cas is not.

"I mean probably. You had a few friends."

"Do you remember the lunches?"

"Lunches?"

"Did I take an extra lunch to school?" Logically, Dean knows the statistics. He knows the age of onset, he knows how his illness progresses. Logically, he knows there's no way he'd already made up Cas as an eight-year-old. Realistically, he has a hard time trusting what he thinks or sees regarding Cas anymore.

"Uh. Yeah, actually. I think you did. You'd stopped by fourth grade."

"Did I ever say why? Did I tell you who it was for?" His voice is growing desperate now, his mind so close to an answer, to close to confirmation.

"You just said it was for a friend who never brought lunch. I don't remember if you ever told me a name."

"Damn it," Dean curses. Not for the first time, he aches for some whiskey. He can't drink though. Shouldn't anyway. He's been warned. Alcohol has interactions with your medicines, Garth had said before he'd left. He'd never bought any for the new apartment. It wasn't so hard to avoid it if it wasn't in the house. When it's sitting on the counter practically asking to be consumed, well, that was a different story.

A week later Sam calls back.

"Dean?"

"It's three in the morning, Sam. Couldn't whatever this is wait another four hours?" He grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. He'd finally fallen into sleep that didn't involve little boys covered in bruises with teary eyes.

"I don't think so." He can't place the tone in Sam's voice and it's scaring him.

"Sammy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing. I just remembered something. There were some days you made our lunches at night, the day before school right?"

"I guess."

"You wrote our names on them because I hated peanut butter and your friend loved it."

"Sam," he breathes.

"You used to write Cass on the bag. Well, for one day. Then the next day you crossed out the second S."

"It-it was Cas?"

"I never met him, so I didn't put those together. If you hadn't asked, I don't think I ever would have remembered a kid you knew when you were eight. I'm surprised you remember."

"I am too. I'd almost forgotten everything about mom after that."

"You remember her again too?"

"Pieces. Shadows. Glimmers. It's never much, and I can't really see her face. Mostly just… the way it felt around her. The way it felt around dad before she was gone."

"I guess the doctor was right. Temporary amnesia."

"That fuck wasn't right. He said I'd get memory back within six to eight weeks. It's been like ten years."

"Close enough," Sam jokes, breaking some of the underlying levity of the situation.

"Close enough." Dean echoes, a small smile on his face.

This is stupid. This is so stupid. Dean changes his shirt for the third time, pulling on the red one again.

"This is so stupid," he mutters. Throwing a messenger bag over his shoulder.

He keeps up the mantra all the way through town. All the way through the parking lot. All the way down the sidewalk, earning him more than one awkward glance. He continues it down the tiled hallway, past all the numbered rooms.

He finally stops when he's outside room 2150, his class schedule in his hands, checking and double-checking the number.

General Psych – Room 2150 Education Building – Dr. Wesson

This was another one of Sam's ideas. Another one of the steps towards improving the life Dean hadn't thought there was anything wrong with. Admittedly, his apartment was nicer. It did feel better to have a job that didn't feel like it hinged on familial connections. It felt good when he had enrolled. It didn't feel so good now with his intestines tying themselves in knots.

He braces himself and crosses the threshold.

Dr. Wesson is a kind woman, but her choice of opening activity is annoying. She passes stupid sticker nametags around and has everyone write their 'preferred name' on them, whatever that meant.

Then they were supposed to talk to three new people, and get some basic information for the stupid handout she was filing through the rows of people.

He signed up for psych, not friend making 101.

He's securing his with slightly trembling hands when there's a prod at his shoulder. He turns around to meet the eyes of an edgy blonde girl whose nametag reads 'Claire.'

They have a basic interaction, and he ends up feeling just as old as he thought he would here, but not as out of place as he would have imagined.

She breaks off after a few minutes to finish her assignment, his answers on her page.

It was weird.

But a good weird.

He looks down several rows in time to see another conversation ending, and he gives himself his mental pep talk before approaching. From this angle, he can only see the back of the guy's head and broad shoulders outlined in a worn leather jacket.

"Hey," Dean says, but his voice catches in his throat when he turns and is met with one eye that looks like the cloudless summer sky, and the other, a shade lighter and dilated oddly, looking at his face from behind glasses, and then down to his chest where his nametag sits.

He's tan and broad, his legs thick and his biceps pushing against the seams of his jacket; his hair is thick and a dark brown, slight red highlights catching in the artificial light. The sleeves to his jacket are rolled up and the skin there is mostly bare, woven bracelets covering his wrists.

Pink lips part in a warm grin, leaving crinkles around those blue eyes.

There's so much different from the man he'd known in the hospital. He's not so thin and gaunt, he has glasses and a kind smile, and then he does something he'd never done in Dean's head.

He speaks.

"Hello, Dean."

I debated a long time where and how to end this fic. Originally, I had them meeting at a coffee shop where Cas was the barista and he'd happened upon him while he was passing through for a hunt. That was before I added the angst factor with Cas' background.

If anyone was wondering, Cas didn't talk because Dean didn't have a voice for Cas as an adult. He hadn't seen him since they were children, so there was no data for his brain to use, so I made him mute.

It's been a journey with this story, and it's been close to my heart the whole time, and now we're done. Thanks everyone for reading to the end, I hope you enjoyed. Hope the ending wasn't too terrible. (Of course I had to end it with Hello, Dean – gah).

If you have any questions you can hit me up at cassiel-of-Thursday , or just drop a comment here and I'll respond to it.

Thanks again,

Cassie