The first time Castiel died, he had only been 3. It was June – bright, sunny, and warm. His mother was sat in a lawn chair in the front lawn with a smile on her face, curled under the shade of a large oak tree as a forgotten book sat spread on her lap. She watched as her youngest boy followed his older brother around, playing knights and dragons or whatever it was. It had come without warning – Castiel was giggling at his older brother who was in the middle of declaring his love for the princess (their mother, apparently) when the boy paled. It happened too fast to notice. He crumpled to the ground without a sound, his bones snapping and his skin tearing. He hadn't even been interested in anyone before his soulmate ended his life in a single moment.

Castiel died again when he was 7, except this time they had more than an educated guess as to what had happened. Right field – the least active part of little league baseball. Castiel had gotten used to drifting off, maybe watching the clouds or a lazy bee the buzzed across the field. He never was any good at sports. No one would have guessed that his severe lack of talent and general dislike of sports would have ended his life – a straight shooter from a left hander that flew into right field faster than any normal little league hit. It sunk into his temple and sent him flying back. Now, you might be saying, there's no way an 8 year old can hit a ball hard enough to kill a kid. While this is true, a swarm of ants who immediately attack and defend any potential threat to their nest – which Castiel had the misfortune to fall in – can indeed kill a child if he is fatally allergic to them.

It's impossible to tell who died first in the next two cycles of life. In 1947, Castiel was born still. He was meant to save his parent's marriage, but because of his death the family fell apart and the mother was left alone in her sorrow. The father was convinced that it couldn't have been his son's soulmate, finding yet another excuse to blame her for something. That August he drank him and his ex-wife to death, suffocating her already dark world. In 1970, Castiel was found in his crib when he was only 8 months old. His mother sobbed at the fates for giving her child such a terrible hand in all of his lives – convinced his soul could never do any harm.

He lived again in his next life to be 17.

It's 2006. His first day of high school. The brick building looms mockingly above him as if it knows that not once in any of his lives has he ever been to high school. As his brother's car pulls away from the front of the school, bumping along the uneven road to the student parking lot, Castiel feels another dull pain in his arm. If one looked under the sleeves of his jacket – thank god it is never hot in this town – they'd see the red angry lines in the area of his inner elbow. They appear at random times, mostly in the worse he could think of. His mother told him that his soulmate was sad. Castiel didn't really understand why being sad meant wanting more pain. Maybe when he found them he'd ask.

They only started last year, when he was 13. He'd woken up feeling like his arm was on fire despite how wet and sticky he felt. He remembers clear as day stumbling across his room to the light, screaming in shock and fear when he saw that his arm, bed, and side were covered in blood. His father had scrambled in his room first with a baseball bat before scooping him up and carrying him to the bathroom. Pretty soon they realized all the blood had come from 3 deep cuts, all parallel on his arm. His mother, a pediatrician, said that he must have been bleeding for a while.

He'd gotten used to carrying a first aid kit with him wherever he went, which also gave him the excuse to carry his sketch pad around with it in a bag. He just wished his soulmate knew better than to harm themselves during school.

Head down, Castiel traversed through the crowded hallways. Some girl was talking about the bruise she had gotten, wondering aloud to her friend in amazement at the thought her soulmate was a fighter. That was hot, unless he gets beaten up all the time. I hope it's not that. Castiel thought that she was maybe unfair, and besides, it's not like she can be with anyone else anyways. Law doesn't allow it.

The law does, however, allow divorces for special circumstances. Things like spousal abuse, someone being arrested for life, other situations where that might happen. But getting divorced is rare. About as rare as your soulmate being related to you (it's happened). It sucks after that, Castiel has noticed. You don't have that special love in your life anymore. If you appeal to a court, you can even marry someone after that if all parties are agreeable.

Well, the ones not arrested or things like that.

Some of the more religious folks often speak against divorces and things, even in dire circumstances. Defeats the whole purpose of living without your soulmate, they say. Personally, he doesn't care what people decide to do with themselves. It doesn't affect him directly, so why should it matter? He prefers sitting apart from the crowd. He likes to see all that he can, see the different points of view. Being a part of it all gets confusing, and you can't see light from shadow. That's why he loves art so much. He can choose any angle he likes and go from there. Captures the memory forever. That's what he likes.

He passes some seniors talking about their summer projects. One did a really neat research paper about theories of tattoos and piercings. It doesn't make a lot of sense when you think about it that when one half gets a tattoo the only thing that happens to the other is some redness and a bit of pain as it heals, and if the other gets a piercing, it closes on the other partner but stays on the original. Castiel thought that was interesting. He'd like to read that.

The bell for class shrieks down the hall, surprising Castiel so much he stopped in the middle of the hallway. As opposed to the stereotypical high school settings, no one shoved him into a locker with a loud obnoxious laugh. Instead they broke around him, glaring in annoyance at the idiot freshman who was standing in the middle of the walkway. He stood there only for a moment before someone bumped into him and brought him back to Earth again. Unfortunately he had been holding his stuff in his arms, throwing the contents forward as he stumbled. His first thought was thanking it was only the first day, or he felt more important things would have been lost in the crowd of feet that an eraser.

Immediately, Castiel dropped to the ground, collecting the fallen items and shoving them into his bag. He'd been carrying most of his stuff because he didn't want his bag to be heavy. Why hadn't he just stuck everything in his bag? This would all be far less embarrassing if he'd done that. Now he'd be late to his first class. He counted through what he had, nodding and muttering under his breath to be sure he didn't leave anything off of his mental checklist. Except – where was his sketchbook? No, no, this can't happen. It's going to get damaged, someone's going to steal it, some of his favorite stuff was in there where –

Something was thrust in his face. Castiel blinked in surprise and shot back, mouth open in preparation to speak. But then he looked up. Loose jeans, an old, soft looking t-shirt, leather jacket, and the greenest eyes he'd ever seen. He had a million freckles that decorated his face like the stars in the night sky. He was beautiful, and Castiel swore his heart skipped a beat. "Is this yours?" he asked. Castiel's eyes flicked to his hand, his sketchbook held out. That's what scared him, his sketchbook being thrust in his face. He blinked, shaking himself out of his stupor.

"Yeah," he said, taking it gratefully and doing a quick flick through to make sure it wasn't damaged. There wasn't even a foot print of it. "Thank you." He slipped it into his back with finality, zipping it closed and standing. He was a good few inches shorter than the kid, enough that he had to tilt up his head to look him in the eye.

He nodded and smiled. It was uneven, the left side quirked higher than the right. It sort of came off as a smirk, but his eyes shone in the way people do with genuine smiles. "I saw some of your stuff. You're pretty good, kid," he said.

Castiel's eyes widened. "You looked at my art?" he asked softly in surprise. No one saw inside his sketchbooks. Not even his brother.

"Yeah, man, they're really great," he laughed, sliding his hands into the pockets on his leather jacket. "You in art or something?" There was no indication he was in a rush. In fact, he looked like he had all the time in the world. His green eyes looked Castiel over, and he couldn't tell how he felt about what he saw.

He was wearing nothing special, just a blue sweater and some okay fitting jeans. His wild black hair was as tame as he could get it that morning, yet it still looked like he'd rolled out of bed with some pretty lady who'd forgotten her money. He couldn't find his contacts this morning either, so he was stuck with his glasses. Really, he just looked like a grade A nerd if you were being honest. "Maybe," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand nervously. He wasn't sure what else to say.

"Maybe," he chuckled again, shaking his head with a grin. He looked away as if he couldn't believe no one else in the now empty hallway had heard. He didn't notice that Castiel tracked his tongue across his lips with his eyes, but he did notice the flush on his face as he met his eyes again. "I like you kid."

Castiel frowned. "I'm not a kid," he said in opposition. That was the second time he'd called him that, and honestly, this kid wasn't that much older than him.

"Aren't you a freshman?" he asked, looking him over once more as if his appearance could prove something.

"Aren't you?" he shot back. How very wrong he was, he found, as the person in front of him threw back his body in laughter. The sound filled the hallway and seemed to give the old school life. It definitely filled the two of them with it.

"Calling a senior a freshman, you're funny kid," he said as he recovered, wiping away invisible tears. He shook his head and began to walk away his shoulders still shaking with laughter. "Thanks for that. That's the most I've laughed in a while," he called, turning as he walked to wave farewell to him before ducking into a hallway.

The sad part was it seemed like it was true.

Castiel, being as paranoid as was, had stopped in his third period to look through his art and really make sure nothing was ruined. On one page he had attempted to draw a racing horse but found he couldn't get the lines right, so in the top left corner in bright red letters he had written "trash". Now there was more, scrawled in thin blue pen.

"Hey now, it's not that bad. I bet your pick up lines could use some work though." Under that was a number. That senior must have written it before giving him the book. Why? What possible reason could he want to give Castiel his number?

Before he could go on a wild adventure to find this senior and demand answers he probably wouldn't get, his lip flared. He gasped and frowned at the numbing pain, reaching up to touch his lip. It was bleeding. His lip had split and he knew what had happened. Apparently, his soulmate was not only sad, but angry. Castiel was sent to the nurse and given an icepack, even though it wasn't that bad. He had the sneaking suspension that his senior would have teased him – lightheartedly of course – for the injury.

Later that day, Balthazar – his brother – had been talking on about how he'd seen a fight that day, and that one kid only walked away with a few bruises and a split lip. He hadn't seen who they were, but it sounded very exciting.

Castiel was too shocked to answer.

That first day wasn't the first time Castiel was late to class. As school went on he'd seen that senior more and more – he later found out his name was Dean – and they'd wave, or Dean would come hang out with him at lunch, or they'd walk for a bit before parting for classes. He was his best friend.

After Dean graduated, he kind of fell apart. He was busy trying to support himself and his little brother by himself while being plagued by other thoughts. School was the one stable thing he had, and after he left it was just his car, his brother, and Castiel.

Over those three years, he never told Dean about any of his scars. He never went without long sleeves around him, and Dean never said a word. Truth be told he was always wearing long sleeves too. His father's jacket or flannel or something of the sort. He'd only seen him without sleeves once or twice, but that was early on in their friendship.

In this particular summer, school had ended a few weeks before. He hadn't seen much of Dean – he was spending all his time with Sam before he left for California to go to college. Sam was a year older than Castiel and managed to skip ahead a grade. He said he needed a head start for the summer courses and finding a house and a job. Normal adult nerd things, Dean liked to say.

It was late, Castiel was up working on a midnight inspiration at his desk. The sound of his phone ringing ripped through the silence, scaring poor Castiel so bad he shot a foot from his chair. When the initial heart attack faded, he caught the phone on the last ring. It was Dean. "Jesus Christ, Dean, you scared the shit out of me," he panted. He normally didn't cuss, but Dean just brought that out in him.

"Hey Cas," Dean whispered. He sounded different, hushed. Uneven.

"Dean, is everything okay?" he frowned, setting down his stylus and pushing up his glasses. He knew Dean would be upset when Sam left, but honestly he didn't expect it this soon.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine," he lied, blowing out a stream of air. Castiel heard the sound of a car drive past on the phone, the sound of tires running through the thin puddles of water from that morning's rain shower.

"Why are you outside? It's freezing," he chastised, standing to pull on shoes. If Dean was outside this late it was bound to end in disaster.

"I'm at the park. I need to see you," he said, breathless.

"Are you serious Dean? It's one in the morning!" he said loudly before remembering that unlike Dean he didn't live alone. Nevertheless his shoes were on at this point and he was looking for a thicker jacket.

"Come on Cas," he sang, a bit whiney. Castiel shook his head. He was going to regret this.

"Our place," he caved. "I'll be there in five."

"Great, see you then," Dean said gratefully before hanging up the phone.

Five minutes later, Castiel was at the park, wrapped in a hoodie and some gloves he'd come across in the mess of his room, muttering under his breath. "Stupid Dean. Stupid nickname. Stupid cold." He just wanted to be inside and finish that cute piece of fan art he'd been creating. But for some reason this bloody child had the ability to pull his strings and drag him along into his ridiculous things for lack of a better word. Like when they broke into that arcade. Or when they snuck into a rated R movie for free. Or –

"Cas!" Dean called, bouncing slightly underneath the large oak tree that they announced was their official spot two and a half years ago.

Castiel couldn't help but laugh. "You look terrible! Why couldn't we meet somewhere warm?" he shouted as he walked over. Dean may have the ability to drag him from his comfortably toasty room and kick ass drawing tablet, but not even he could make him run without a valid reason.

"Thanks for the compliment, beautiful," he said sarcastically as he approached. "And everywhere warm is closed." He threw his favorite leather jacket at him with a smirk, comfortably wrapped in another and several layers of clothing.

"Why aren't you wearing this?" he asked, putting it over his zip up nevertheless. It was too big on him.

"I've got enough layers. Besides, I knew you wouldn't be smart enough to bring more than one," he said casually, although Castiel could tell he wasn't himself. He was tense and awkward. This wouldn't be a normal conversation.

"Dean?" He asked, stepping closer in concern. "What's wrong?"

The older man sighed and looked at his feet. "I'm fine Cas," he said softly, kicking at the ground. He didn't say anything more.

"Liar," Castiel said sternly, crossing his arms as he looked him over. Over the years it's become habit for them to do that to each other, as if whenever they did they could strip away whatever layer the other just couldn't seem to get past.

Dean cleared his throat and straightened, pulling something from the pocket of his jeans. It was a bunch of notebook paper, stapled together in one corner and folded neatly. "Here," he said, holding it out. Castiel looked at it for a long moment before slowly taking the paper, a sudden vision of his freshman year flooding his mind. He looked back up to Dean who only looked away. "Don't open it. Not yet."

The younger frowned, slipping it into his pocket obediently. "What is this? What's going on?" he demanded. He didn't like this. It was wrong. Something was dangerously wrong.

"I'm…I'm going away for a bit. It won't be for long, but I really need you to read that for me when you leave," he said like it was rehearsed.

"I don't like this. Where are you going? Why?" he asked, scared. His friend was in front of him, falling apart, and he didn't think he could fix it.

"Just trust me, okay? You don't have to worry about me," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He was shutting down, closing himself off from Castiel.

"Dean –" Cas said, starting forward, but a pair of headlights tore through the space between the two men. They both looked as a horn went off. It was for Dean.

"I have to go, Cas," he whispered sadly. He looked back at the younger for a moment, then without hesitation stepped forward, pressing his lips hastily against Castiel's. Like always, he was too shocked to say or do anything in that moment.

And before he could recover, Dean was gone.

That night Castiel couldn't sleep. He'd paced his room, he'd cried, he'd called Dean several times but never got a response. Around dawn, he'd fallen onto the foot of his bed, sobbing into his hands. Dean's letter was at his feet, 6 pages long. A 6 page long apology. A 6 page long goodbye. Castiel didn't even know what had happened when he fell back against the sheets, the back of his skull dissolving into a pool of blood.