There's beautiful art to go with this story that I would embed if I could. You can find it on somuchcolour's tumblr, post / 144413418094 / spn-case-fic-minibang-deluge-by-adiamond

When Dean was sixteen and Sam was twelve, their dad wrapped up a salt-and-burn in West Virginia that could ultimately be blamed on the McCoys. Before the remains had time to cool, he was back at the motel telling the boys to pack up and be ready in fifteen; "We're going to South Dakota."

"We going to see Uncle Bobby?" Dean asked as he obeyed. It was easy to keep the excitement out of his voice, because he felt an equal amount of trepidation.

A trip to Sioux Falls could mean some downtime as a family while John and Bobby spent half the day drinking over lore and the other half bullshitting old hunting stories, training the boys and generally relaxing. It could also mean him and Sam getting left there for who knew how long while John took off for some hunt he didn't need or want them along on.

"No. Got a hunt."

That was all the explanation they got before they were on their way, thirty minutes and a shouting match between John and Sam about speediness and unreasonable expectations later. No one talked.

About a third of the way through the nearly nineteen hour drive, once Sam had slumped into a moody nap in the back seat instead of moodily staring out the window, John turned down the music and glanced over at Dean in the passenger seat.

"This is a big one," he said. Dean was instantly on alert, his whole torso turned towards his dad to receive info. "Bobby's heard from a couple guys who already looked into it and came up with nothing, and meanwhile we got whole families going missing. I need you at your best for this, no getting distracted or losing focus until we've got it figured out."

"Yes, sir," Dean answered past the sting of hurt. He knew he wasn't perfect, he'd made mistakes and caused problems, but he always did his best on hunts and he'd thought he was getting pretty good at helping his dad on them. It had been almost a year since he killed his first werewolf, but John's pride in him had been short-lived. His dad's view of him had taken a kick to the ass when Dean had missed his salt-loaded shot while holding off a ghost, then taken too long to reload.

But it had been months since then, months in which he'd done everything right, so he hated that John took his eyes off the road to give him a hard look and emphasize, "I mean it, Dean. No screwing around on this one."

"I won't." If the roll of John's eyes was anything to go by, he hadn't hidden the sullenness of his tone very well. No criticisms of teenage behavioral problems or similarities to Sam were forthcoming, though, so at least they weren't about to get into another argument.

They drove on a few more hours in silence, broken only when Sam started pointing out the exit signs for all the questionable diners and drive-ins along the highway. Dean was also hungry by that point, but didn't feel like getting on one side or the other—or, as was usual, in the middle—of the passive-aggressive fight, so he kept his mouth shut and waited for the two of them to resolve it. Everyone in the car was disgruntled by the time John jerked the car over the line onto an almost-passed off ramp.

"What do we know?" Dean asked once tempers had been tamed by chicken fried steak—John—and seven out of eight slices of a pepperoni and sausage pizza—Sam, who still managed to be hypocritically disgusted by Dean's eating habits—two cheeseburgers and a rootbeer float.

"It started with break-ins," John said as he signalled for the check. "At least a dozen, across a few neighboring towns. Nothing missing, as far as anyone could tell, but any photo albums or frames that weren't in bedrooms had their pictures pulled out and destroyed."

"Destroyed how?" Sam asked, clearly in spite of himself given how he'd continued to sulk up to that point. He hated their work, their travels, and sometimes their father, but damn could the kid geek out over theories and esoteric connections. "There was that ghost in Mount Vernon who undeveloped them, or the werewolf who ate them in—" He caught himself getting overly enthusiastic and slumped back against the vinyl upholstery of the bench, glowering out the window.

John shot Dean a gloating, triumphant smile at that before answering. "Images blurred, paper warped, and a film of salt left behind on them. Trails of salt all over the houses, too."

They paused the conversation as the waitress brought their bill and John dropped a few tens on the table, but back in the Impala Dean commented, "Salt, huh? That rules out some things."

John grunted an agreement.

"What else?" Sam asked. Dean turned in his seat to look back at him, but he kept glaring pointedly at the median guide rail. "You said it started with the break-ins, but we wouldn't be going there just for that."

"Whatever it was, it came back for some of the families. Parents and kids vanished, salt trails in their rooms that weren't there before. There's three missing so far, none from the same town and not taken in the same order as the houses were hit. No consistent timing for any of it, either."

"So. What's the plan?" Dean asked, turning his attention back to the driver's seat. "Scope out the houses, see if we can figure out who's next, wait for something to kill?"

John shook his head. "I'm gonna be coordinating with a couple local guys Bobby knows. Figuring this out might take a while. I need you two at the school to see if there's anything there, it's got kids from all over the area collected in one place. You can work on other research after class."

Two weeks later, they'd collected three more houses with ransacked photo albums but no new disappearances. No leads, either. John and one of the locals, a bulldog of a man named Fred Metz, had been playing FBI to get access to scenes and files, but every evening John came home frustrated with nothing significant to report. He'd nap for a few hours while the boys—mostly Sam—did their homework and ate, then he'd either have his share of the leftovers from dinner and depart on a fruitless patrol in hopes of catching something in the night, or spend the next few hours training Sam and Dean for whatever evil they might encounter.

Sam had settled in about as well as he usually did: a combination of teenage angst, nerdiness, and resentment made him a prime target for bullies, which he tried to deny until Dean caught a couple of older kids at it and beat the crap out of them.

Dean himself was trying to balance gathering information from other kids, like John had asked, with not being too sociable or letting himself get distracted, also like John had asked. It was uncomfortable and a bit lonely; it wasn't like he expected to have friends or anything, but he usually enjoyed the minor popularity that came with being a mysterious new kid.

"We're not the only new faces in town," John announced over dinner on a rare night when he had joined them while it was still warm. "Fred says there's a kid in your class"—he nodded at Dean—"who showed up right around when the first victims went missing. We can't figure out who he belongs to, so I need you to get a look at his records, see if there's anything weird going on there."

Surprised, Dean asked, "Who? No one's mentioned it, and they're all debating about whether it's a serial killer or a curse."

"Some foreign name... Maybe French?" John mumbled as he pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. "There it is—Castiel Novak. Check up on him, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

Castiel Novak was quiet and largely ignored by the rest of the small student body. He had dark, messy hair and blue eyes with a faraway look in them, which combined with his perpetual frown to make him look grumpier than Bobby most of the time.

Once Dean started keeping an eye on him, he mostly found him staring out the window in the back of the classroom or spending lunch in the school's 'library': one table, three chairs, two bookshelves. He wasn't shy, exactly; he didn't hesitate to stare back when he caught Dean looking, but he also never initiated a conversation or answered with more than a few words when anyone talked to him.

After a day and a half of observing him and trying to figure out if there was a better way to go about it, Dean gave up on subtlety. He found Castiel in the library bent over a large book with black and white illustrations, walked up to loom over him, waited for him to look up in puzzlement, and punched him.

"Have I done something to offend you?" Castiel asked as they sat outside the principal's office, waiting to be summoned. He regarded Dean as if he were a riddle, not angry even as a bruise bloomed surprisingly fast and dark on his cheek. Dean hadn't hit the guy that hard and he was familiar with all manner of bruises. Either the guy had sensitive veins or something else was up, because the mottled blue mark had appeared almost instantly under Dean's knuckles.

Between that and his odd manners, Dean decided that Fred might be onto something after all. He still hoped to manage a look at Castiel's file once they were in the office, but he had a chance to try and dig for more information from the kid himself and he wasn't going to disappoint on this case.

He didn't have time to work out much of a strategy with Castiel staring at him quizzically, so he shrugged and said, "Not really. I was just having a bad day and you were there."

"Oh." The confused look didn't leave Castiel's face. "It's just that it seemed that you had come looking for me in particular."

"Yeah, sorry. You seemed like an easy target, I guess. Is this gonna get you in trouble with your parents or anything?"

"No, I don't have an appointed guardian."

Before Dean could question that surprise of a statement, Mr. Rogers called them in. The man had gone overboard embracing his television namesake, complete with a hideous sweater vest and a disturbing coo as he spoke barely loud enough to be understood.

"What seems to be the problem, boys?" he asked sweetly once they'd settled into the chairs facing his desk.

"There is no problem," Castiel started to say, but the principal interrupted.

"I think the issue here is that you're both so new, you haven't really found friends to fit in with yet. I know that can be hard for young men just figuring themselves out, but I think you two can help each other through it. So I want the two of you to try being friends!"

Dean looked sideways at Castiel, but the other boy's face stayed blank as he listened to Mr. Rogers. He didn't seem opposed to the idea, which was a good start.

Mr. Rogers continued, "In fact, I'm so sure it'll help that I'm not even going to punish you for this fight if you promise to spend the rest of the week getting to know each other."

After that, it was easy to talk the man into giving them the rest of the afternoon out of classes so they could 'bond.' They made the walk back to the library in silence, but it felt surprisingly amiable given that Dean had sucker punched Castiel less than half an hour before. Seated across from the other boy at the solitary table, Dean found himself staring at the bruise he'd caused and regretting the circumstances with guilt that increased every quietly passing second.

"Look, man, I really am sorry about the..." Dean gestured at Castiel's face, trailing off when he pulled back without Dean getting anywhere close to actually touching him. Dean grimaced and dropped his hand. Okay, maybe he was still a little wary after being attacked for no reason. That was understandable. "Actually, you want some ice for that? It's looking like it'll be a pretty nasty bruise."

"Oh." Castiel hovered his fingers over the injury. He frowned slightly, then shook his head and rested both palms on the table. "No, thank you."

They sat in silence until Dean started to feel awkward, though Castiel seemed perfectly content. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but something about the way he studied Dean's face carried an air of interest that Dean hadn't seen him display about anything else in the few short days he'd been familiarizing himself with the boy's habits.

"So, Cas," he said when he couldn't handle the wordless staring any longer, "you're really on your own? That sounds rough."

Castiel's usual almost-frown deepened mildly. "It's not a particular hardship. I'm able to provide for myself. Moving to this area has been an adjustment, but I believe it is going well."

It was a perfect opening. "How did you end up out here, if you don't mind me asking? It's kinda, uh, middle of nowhere. If I had a say in it, I'd be gone in a heartbeat."

"I was sent here because it was believed I had family in the area. I haven't been able to locate them yet, but I am content staying either way."

"Sent? By who?"

Cas's face briefly contorted, scrunching inward. "The court, I think. To be honest, I'm not certain of all the details."

Dean couldn't help noting that the entire explanation was incredibly vague, which didn't help him figure out if the kid was at all involved. He took a breath to dig deeper, but Castiel beat him to it.

"And what brought you to the 'middle of nowhere', Dean?"

"Oh, well, I'm a lot more boring. My dad got a lead on a job out this way, so we're here while he's checking it out."

Despite Dean's concern that Cas would try to follow up on that, he just nodded and fell quiet again.

Searching for something to bring the conversation back around without being too obvious, Dean noticed a spread of newspapers under Cas's large book, still open where he'd left it after Dean's assault. He could see part of the headline of the top sheet: 'Four More Missing.'

It was as convenient an opening as any. "What do you think about all the weird goings-on?" he asked, tapping at the paper. "I've heard people's weird theories, but I don't really know any details."

Cas glanced down, but shrugged. "I don't know much. I'm sure I've heard the same rumors, but I've been busy settling into my apartment and catching up on schoolwork."

"You're not worried?"

The ending bell delayed Cas's answer, but once it stopped ringing he just said, "Not really." He packed up quickly, and Dean—who wasn't entirely sure where his bag had ended up and didn't really care—followed him out of the school.

On the sidewalk, he stopped Cas with a gentle touch to his shoulder. Cas tensed and jerked it away, but his face when he turned held only curiosity.

And a dark, fist-sized bruise.

Guy had a right to be a bit jumpy, after all. Maybe it wasn't even Dean's fault; maybe he'd always been a little tightly wound. It would explain why he kept to himself, rarely interacting with anyone, but Dean wasn't gonna let that stop him when he'd actually found someone he liked talking to on a case.

That was a rare enough thing. Yeah, it was easy to pretend he fit in and joke around with the other kids, but they were all so clueless about the real world. Their biggest problems had nothing on a rugaru.

Cas was different. He seemed more worldly, like he'd been through enough already that he didn't care about popularity or whether the hot girls knew his name. He hadn't told Dean what had happened to his parents, but to be totally alone in the world at sixteen, it couldn't have been good.

So even though Dean had already apologized, he wanted to be sure Cas knew he meant it.

"I feel really crappy about taking my bad day out on you," Dean said. "Especially now that we've kinda gotten to know each other. You're a pretty cool guy, Cas. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, let me know, okay?"

Cas's smile spread slowly, almost hesitantly, but it was the first one Dean had seen from the odd boy and he still counted it as a win.

"I will. Thank you, Dean. I also enjoyed our conversation."

The next day, Dean caught up to Castiel just outside the school.

"Cas, hey!" he called, not wanting to startle him with the thump on the back he normally would have chosen.

Cas turned and Dean felt a flash of panic that quickly faded into disappointment as he had to reevaluate his opinion. The bruise Dean had given him, so quick to appear, was entirely gone, not even a trace of discoloration left on Cas's cheek.

Dean knew, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that nothing healed that fast without some kind of freaky supernatural intervention.

Cas didn't notice his fallen mood, though, greeting him with another tentative smile and, "Hello, Dean."

Trying to fight down the accusation welling up in his throat, Dean forced out a laugh and said, "Wow, that's some miraculous recovery you got going for you."

Cas looked confused until Dean gestured at his unblemished cheek, at which he glanced away and down. Guilt, Dean thought at first, but then Cas muttered a soft explanation about being good with make-up and Dean corrected his assumption to shame.

When the pieces came together—Cas's involvement with the court system, his parents being out of the picture, his aversion to touch, his skill covering up bruises—it all made sense in a way that had Dean kicking himself for not seeing the signs sooner. Like maybe before he beat the guy for no reason.

"No kidding? That's pretty handy. You'll have to show me sometime." He gently bumped his arm against Cas's, which seemed safer than the arm he wanted to sling over his shoulders to lighten the mood, and Cas did relax at the gesture. Leaning in with a fake whisper, Dean went on, "This may come as a shock, but I sometimes get into really stupid fights."

Cas actually laughed at that, a low chuckle that made Dean grin, and they walked to class side by side.

Dean and Cas spent most of their lunches together after that. Sometimes the time passed in comfortable silence, other times in discussion of class subjects, but they never ended talking about the disappearances again. Still, Dean grew more and more certain that whatever was going on, Cas had nothing to do with it.

The hunt slipped into a lull. As another week went by, then three more, John spent less and less time at the motel after dark. When the boys did see him, exhaustion clouded his eyes and dragged his already rough voice into a groan.

"Take the night off," Dean suggested as he tried to stir some life back into the congealed mess of mac and cheese left in the pot. Their milk had gone off, but with a splash of water and some patience over the miniature stove, he managed to get it to a state nearing edible before serving it to John.

"No, listen," he went on as John spared him a disbelieving look before digging his fork straight into the pot. "It's Friday, I don't even have school in the morning. I'll go out with Fred, you can nerd it up with Sammy. It'd be good to have a new pair of eyes on the books, and maybe you can even get some sleep."

Relief eased John's face, setting off a warm glow of pride in Dean's chest. He hadn't really had the chance to do anything useful on the hunt so far despite spending more time on lore than his homework, which was meaningless anyway. Neither he nor Sam had been able to offer any ideas about what sort of monster they were looking for. They couldn't find anything remotely similar recorded in the past, no mythology that matched. Absolutely nothing to go on.

The one other task he'd been assigned, checking on Castiel, had only been helpful until he'd confirmed that Cas wasn't involved. Since then, Dean had started to feel guilty for spending so much time with Cas at school. It wasn't like he could be doing anything else—he'd already checked in every book in the library, heard everyone's opinions on the families and possible suspects, even poked around the teachers' lounge one day to see if he could find anything.

Still, it felt too much like ignoring John's instructions not to get distracted by making friends. Being able to do something concrete for the case would go a long way towards getting rid of that itch.

Then John's mouth firmed into a frown again and he shook his head. "No, Dean."

Sam had been staying out of it, pretending to do his homework without moving his pen at all for the last five minutes, but at that he slumped and started scratching angrily at the paper. For all his moody protests, Sam missed their dad when he got wrapped up in a hunt. Sammy's disappointment twisted Dean's chest into a knot even more than John's rejection of his help, and he had to do something to fix it.

"Dad," he said more softly, nodding his head sideways at Sam. Following the direction, John looked over and saw his younger son working furiously, his face furrowed into his awkward adolescent stage of upset. A few years earlier, it would have been a pout; aged a little more, it would settle into a scowl.

John rolled his eyes a little, but relented. "All right."

Dean grinned, his back straightening to relieve an ache he hadn't even noticed until the tension was gone. Sam still didn't acknowledge the conversation, but his writing slowed and his back relaxed out of its hunch a little, too.

John fixed Dean with a hard look. "But you don't leave Fred's side for a second, you do exactly what he says, and you call me if anything out of the ordinary happens."

"Yes, sir!" Dean just about raced over to his duffle bag, digging through his clothes—always packed after laundry day in case they had to leave in a hurry—to pull out the supplies he'd need. As he slid his boot knife into place against his right ankle, John's hand descended on his shoulder. He paused and looked up.

"I mean it, Dean. No getting smart or trying to be the hero here. Fred's running the show, you're backup."

Dean met his searching gaze, trying hard to make John understand how seriously he was taking his responsibilities. "I know, Dad. I got this, I promise."

"Good." John squeezed his shoulder once, reassurance or approval, Dean wasn't sure, then stepped back. "I'll let Fred know about the change of plans, have him pick you up here."

Tucking his gun—still just a 9mm, even though he could easily handle the recoil of a .45—into the back of his jeans and flipping his shirt to cover it, Dean nodded.

Their patrol that night was a total bust. Fred drove them around neighborhood after neighborhood, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but Dean got back to the motel just before dawn with nothing to report. It annoyed him, but he still felt good about having done something.

Until they got a look at the morning paper when they sat down for a very late breakfast several hours later.

"Damn!" John tossed down the page announcing another suspicious burglary in a nearby town that Dean and Fred hadn't even passed through on their nightly round. "We're chasing our goddamn tails on this one." He waved down the waitress for a check, even though their food had just arrived.

"Come on," he said as he pulled out his wallet. "I gotta drop you boys off so Fred and I can get out there before the locals ruin the whole scene."

Dean shovelled his hashbrowns down his throat in a matter of seconds, grinning at Sam with a mouthful of potatoes when he said, "You're so disgusting, I can't believe we're related."

Seeing as Sam left an entire waffle covered in whipped cream and strawberry syrup on the plate when he got up, Dean had his own doubts about that.

John returned later than Dean had expected that night, looking tired but also more hopeful than he had for weeks. He didn't say anything as he stripped off his jacket and boots and collapsed in one of the ancient chairs, though he did grunt out a thanks when Sam brought over a bowl of lukewarm chicken soup and a beer.

Sam and Dean let him eat in peace, but he'd barely finished when Sam blurted out, no longer able to contain the question, "You found something?"

John swallowed his gulp of beer before nodding and grinning at them. "Hex bags."

Sam actually looked disappointed. "A witch? That's all?"

"That's all," John confirmed. "Nothing new and inexplicable, just some human dirtbag with a grudge being weird about it. We cleared the house out. Fred's sitting on it for now, I'm heading out again in a bit."

"But there weren't any hex bags at the other houses, right?" Dean asked, leaving the rest of the dishes in the sink to drop into the chair opposite. "You never said anything about them."

"Didn't find any." John finished his beer and set it down. He looked at the bottle a he thought, turning it on its edge as he spun the neck between his fingers. "We haven't been able to look at any of the abduction scenes between the break-in and the families getting taken, though. We've seen those houses after, and ones that so far haven't had anyone go missing. It's possible she's cleaning them up after."

"Do you know it's a woman, or are you just assuming? Because you know, it's just as likely—"

"Yeah, yeah. Point taken, kid." John reached up and ruffled Sam's hair, grinning when Sam pulled away and tried to smooth it back into place. "We're gonna watch the house the next couple nights, see if he or she comes back to try anything."

"Shouldn't have moved the damned hex bags. What was I thinking? Of course it scared 'em off."

John sat on the bed, his elbows propped on his leg and his face hidden in his hands. There had been no movement at that house and no other events that had been reported for the better part of a fortnight. It wasn't like John to give up on a hunt—over a decade later, they were still looking for the thing that had killed Mary—but he was obviously losing his patience with this one.

Even Sam, usually the first to complain about their inability to stick around in one place for any significant length of time, was getting antsy and wanted to leave. He never said as much, especially to John—he wouldn't risk it being used against him the next time they fought over hunting—but every day Dean was treated to a new complaint about the school or the motel or the town in general.

It all made Dean feel guilty as hell. He was actually enjoying their time in Nowheresville, despite what he'd told Cas during the first of their many conversations. He knew those, and Cas himself, were a large part of why he was so happy to be hanging around in an otherwise useless little dump of semi-rural South Dakota.

He liked Cas. He was just as smart as Sammy but about a million times less annoying and whiny. Dean's initial impression that he was always serious and mature was pretty close to accurate—Cas had seen a lot more crap than most kids their age, with Dean being an obvious exception—but he appreciated Dean's jokes when he actually understood them, and his own sense of humor was as dry and occasionally morbid as John's.

Despite being sure Cas would get along well with his family, though, Dean never invited him back to the motel or made plans to see him on the weekends. He knew his friendship with Cas wasn't getting in the way of the hunt, which would be stalled even if he ate by himself at lunch and never sat in the back corner in history letting Cas take notes for both of them while he copied Cas's math homework. But especially with John so frustrated and Sam so anxious already, it didn't seem like a good idea to flaunt his social life, such as it was.

So instead, he tried to cheer them up. It was always a challenge, since Sam took it as a point of pride to hate anything John enjoyed, but that just meant that sometimes they had to take turns. This was John's night.

He nudged his dad's shoulder. "If that's true, and they're not coming back because you cleaned out the hex bags, it means that you saved the family they were going to go after. Right?"

Of course, John wasn't that easy to console.

"If we'd kept on the house without moving them, we could have caught them there. And for all we know they've already skipped town. So we won't have a chance of tracking them down until it starts hitting the papers somewhere else, if it even does. Which means we probably have to wait for at least one more family to die that didn't have to."

Dean couldn't argue that they didn't know the families were dead. Even his most cheerful fake optimism knew there wasn't likely to be another explanation for a bunch of people vanishing, especially if a witch was involved. Fortunately, he had the next attempt at distraction at the ready to change the subject.

"Sammy and I haven't been able to practice our skills much, since you've had to be out a lot," he pointed out, ignoring Sam's glare as John dropped his hands to consider the statement. "If nothing's happening anyway..."

"Yeah." John stood, purpose and confidence returned. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Good work keeping on top of things, Dean. That's exactly what I need from you right now."

John drove them out to an abandoned pasture and drilled them until Dean couldn't feel his arms, but neither that nor Sam 'accidentally' kicking him in the face the one and only time he successfully got Dean on the ground was enough to ruin his sense of accomplishment.

The next morning, he was tired and sore and still grinning when he slung himself into the chair beside Cas just before class. His friend, on the other hand, quickly lost his smile as he saw Dean.

"What?" Dean asked. Cas gestured to his own chin and Dean remembered the bruise, which barely hurt, and how it must look—especially to Cas. "Oh, no, it's fine. Just wrestling with my little brother, you know?"

Cas didn't look at all like he knew, but he still nodded and let it drop for the moment. His concern returned later, as they ate lunch in the library. Or, more accurately, as Dean ate lunch and Cas alternated staring at him and at an Encyclopædia Britannica that must have been a few years out of date at best. Volume twenty-four: Metaphysics through Norway.

When Cas again shifted his gaze from the book to Dean, Dean surprised him with a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich in front of his face. Cas pulled his head back, startled.

"Come on, dude. I don't think I've ever seen you actually eat lunch at lunch. You can't survive on nerdiness alone."

Getting that soft, almost reluctant laugh out of Cas was one of Dean's favorite parts of the day. "Maybe not, but I have survived this long on large breakfasts."

Dean snorted and took another large bite of sandwich while Cas's smile faded to a frown as he studied Dean. Around a mouthful of bread and peanut butter, Dean asked, "Wha?"

"How is your father's job hunt going?" Cas's voice was firm and solemn, even for him.

Swallowing thickly, Dean shrugged. "Not great. He's still following up on some things."

Usually, any kids curious enough to ask about John got too uncomfortable to push for more when Dean suggested they might be having money trouble, but Cas just got more thoughtful. Slowly, he said, "That must be frustrating for him."

As soon as Dean realized where Cas was going with that, he hurried to put a stop to it. They'd been through probing questions from concerned teachers and nosy parents, even dodged a few well-meaning but misguided social workers. With the hunt already as problematic as it was, they couldn't afford the time and effort needed to deal with another incident like that. Plus, he didn't want Cas to worry—especially if it ran the risk of bringing up his own bad memories.

"It's not like that, I promise. Sammy and I just got a little carried away with the roughhousing. Dad'd never do that."

Cas nodded, but his troubled expression didn't fade and Dean felt guilty over it for the rest of the day.

Then came the day when John was gone all night and late into the next afternoon. Sam and Dean, waiting with badly hidden anxiety on a day off from school, jumped up and abandoned their card game when they heard the Impala finally rumble into the parking lot. John opened the door, dirty, bloody, and grinning in triumph.

"It's done. I'm going to shower," he told them, dropping into a chair to unlace his boots, "then I want to be on the road by five. Bobby's got a line on a rugaru up in New York."

Sam bounced up and down like a kid in a candy store. "What happened? Come on, it's gotta be a good story. How did you find the witch?"

As John launched into an explanation of finding a creep trying to get back into one of the houses, Dean barely listened, too caught up in his own shocked thoughts. He'd known this was coming. That was how it always went. The hunt ended, they left. It wasn't usually a problem.

He hated that it was this time. The thought of never seeing Cas again started an ache in his chest, made sharper when he pictured Cas showing up to school Monday and not knowing why he wasn't there. Waiting a few more days before finally accepting that Dean had left, wasn't coming back, hadn't bothered to say goodbye. That Cas was well and truly alone now.

The idea of Cas's unhappiness was almost as intolerable as Sam's.

"Dean?"

Sam and John were looking at him. He'd missed the end of their conversation and had to stall for time to come up with a plan.

"You're sure it was the right guy?"

John's look was a mix of impatience and annoyance as he said, "You think that not only is there more than one witch in this population of, what, two hundred people at best, but that the second one just happened to be lurking around there?"

"I mean, aren't there usually covens or something? What if he wasn't working alone?"

"I know what I'm doing. We checked his car, his house, there's no sign of anyone else being involved. If something else happens, Fred is here and should be able to handle it alone now that he knows what's going on. We've spent too long on this one already."

He could see John's exhaustion, but the image of Cas sitting alone in the library made him keep pressing. "There could still be more going on! We should stay until we know—"

"Dean, stop." John stood, waving off any further arguments as he made his way to the bathroom. "Whatever's up with you, especially if it's about some girl, get over it in the next ten minutes because I don't want to hear anything else."

He shut the bathroom door and the shower started up shortly after, leaving Dean and Sam standing in silence. After a moment, Dean began shoving the few belongings that weren't already packed into his duffle, haphazard and upset. He could feel Sam watching him, but he didn't acknowledge it as he systematically removed the scant evidence of the last three months of his life from the room.

It was done in a minute or two. Sam had only just started his own packing when Dean headed for the exit.

"Dean?" His voice wavered a little. "What are you doing?"

Dean felt a twinge. He was freaking Sam out with his abnormal reaction to their leaving, he knew that, but he could smooth it over later. He'd have hours as they drove to New York, days while John hunted down the creature. This was his only chance to try and fix things with Cas.

"I'll be back soon," he said and slipped out without looking back. He hovered on the other side of the door, waiting to see if Sam followed or alerted John, but he didn't hear anything.

The walk to the high school took about fifteen minutes. He wished he knew where Cas lived, but it wasn't something that had come up before. He'd have liked to say goodbye in person, but even having the address, he would have been able to send a letter or a postcard from wherever they ended up. As it was, his plan was to leave a note in the library—he'd never seen anyone else spend time there unless it was for class, and he was pretty sure he could hide it where Cas was likely to find it.

He could explain that they'd had to leave unexpectedly and ask Cas to write to him at Bobby's. Dean might not get the letter immediately, but they usually swung by Bobby's every few months. It was the best option he had.

He skirted around the main entrance even though the school was deserted, instead scaling the back fence and going straight for one of the library windows. Like the rest of the building, they were well-maintained but old; he had enough wiggle room to slip a wire under the sash and work at the latch.

He'd just about caught it when a rough hand clamped on his shoulder and yanked him back, dragging him around and to his feet. Wondering how they'd found him and inwardly cursing himself for being too focused to hear the car pulling up or the man walking up behind him, Dean squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and met John's furious expression with one of defiance.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John thundered. He shifted his grip to fasten in the sturdy fabric of Dean's shirt and began to haul him away. Dean tried to twist away, digging his feet in, but John was bigger and stronger and very, very mad.

"I just need five minutes!" Dean pleaded as they staggered towards the parking lot.

John shoved him against the brick exterior of the school, one hand still unforgiving on Dean's shoulder as the other jabbed inches away from Dean's face.

"You just need to shut up and get your ass in the car. Do you have any idea how much you scared your brother? How worried I was?"

"Dad—"

"I don't know why I bothered, I should have known you were just being stupid and selfish. I swear, Dean, next time I'm just leaving. You and your fuckups are on your own after this."

It hurt like a punch to the gut and left Dean just as breathless.

"Please, Dad, I just—"

"I don't want to hear it. In the car, now." John released him with a final shove towards the Impala.

Sam waited nervously in the back, his eyes wide as Dean reached for the rear door, but John pushed it shut and opened the front passenger door instead.

"Where I can see you," he said gruffly.

With the last of his courage as John put the keys in the ignition, Dean went for the Hail Mary.

"I'm sorry. I know I messed up. But we're already here, can I just finish what I was doing?"

John stilled. His face was still tight with anger, but he took a deep breath and asked, "Which was what?"

"You know that kid you asked me to check out, Castiel Novak?"

"That was nearly three months ago and you told me he wasn't involved. What's he got to do with anything?"

"We kinda got to know each other," Dean admitted. "I didn't want him to think something bad had happened when I didn't show up. I just want to leave him a note."

"And say what, Dean?" John started the car, cutting Dean off before he could answer. "It's better to just make a clean break. If he worries, he worries, but he'll get over it. That's not your problem."

To his horror, Dean felt his eyes start to sting as a scratch caught in his throat. Turning his face to the window and blinking it down as best he could, he said quietly, "He's my friend."

There was something softer than anger roughing up John's voice when he answered, but Dean was too upset to want to hear it. "I know it's tough, kid. But who we are, what we do? We can't have friends. We've got each other and that's it."