"You might as well come in," Dean offers, stepping aside to give Castiel space to enter the room. Castiel takes a couple steps inside, and Dean shuts the door behind them. "Don't mind the mess," he adds.

Castiel looks around. There are cassette tapes scattered everywhere, with a radio by his unmade bed. His acoustic guitar leans against the wall in the corner of the room, and his electric one sits next to it in a guitar stand. The floor is mostly clean of clothes and other things, with the exception of the music he must have been listening to not too long ago.

"It's fine," Castiel mutters.

"Why'd Gabriel trick you into coming here?" Dean asks curiously.

Castiel shrugs. "Because he can."

"Sounds like him," Dean agrees, taking a seat in his bed. He pats the spot next to him, welcoming Castiel to sit as well, but he doesn't. "Don't worry. I don't bite. Usually."

Castiel tilts his head in confusion.

Dean chuckles. "Joking, joking. You want to sit?"

"I — I'm good," Castiel replies.

Dean rolls his eyes and stands up. He takes Castiel by the wrist and pulls him onto the bed, and the boy lands on his back. He bites back a groan as he feels the cushion press against his bruises. Even something as soft as a bed hurts when he hits it that hard.

"You okay?" Dean asks, noticing his discomfort.

"Yeah," Castiel lies.

"Are you sure?" Dean asks skeptically. "I barely pulled you and you look like I threw a five hundred pound weight at you."

"I'm fine."

"You say that a lot," Dean observes. "But you never really are, are you?"

"I'm fine," Castiel repeats.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Dean says. "You don't look fine."

"I'm fine," Castiel insists.

"Alright, my mistake," Dean says, but it's clear he doesn't believe it. "Well, since you're stuck here with me, we might as well talk about something fun. Um... Do you like sports?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"Any sports," Dean adds. "Any at all. Watching then, playing them, anything."

Castiel shakes his head again.

"Alright. Do you hunt?" Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head again.

"Do you like cars?" Dean asks, seemingly grasping for anything now.

Castiel shakes his head once again.

"Do you watch Sherlock?" Dean asks hopefully.

Castiel shakes his head once more.

"Well, this is going well," Dean says sarcastically. "Alright, Castiel, what do you like to do?"

Castiel shrugs.

"Anything," Dean adds. "What's one thing you like to do?"

"Play guitar?" Castiel says, more a question than a statement.

"That's a start," Dean agrees. "I feel like that's too specific, though. Um... What type of music do you like?"

Castiel shrugs. "Everything."

"How about rock?" Dean asks. "You know, the classics. AC/DC, Bon Jovi, those guys."

Castiel nods. "Yeah."

"Who's your favorite?"

Castiel thinks about this for a moment. His favorites change frequently, but his favorite song doesn't. He might as well go with the artist that sings that. "Kansas."

Dean grins. "Nice choice. What's your favorite song by them? Carry on my Wayward Son?"

"Dust in the Wind," Castiel replies.

"That's good, too," Dean agrees. "I tried to figure that out on the guitar, but it didn't go very well."

"It's hard," Castiel agrees, but he doesn't really mean it.

"Can you play it?" Dean asks curiously.

"Not off the top of my head," Castiel replies. "If I had the music, I could."

"I guess that's why they invented the Internet, then," Dean replies, pulling out his phone.

"No, you don't need to —"

"I want to see if you can play it," Dean interrupts. "Because I can't. And don't sugar coat it if you can. I want to see how much of a master you are at this." He walks over to his guitars. "Acoustic or electric?"

"Acoustic," Castiel answers, only hesitating because he doesn't really want to do this. He wouldn't do it on electric anyway.

Dean takes the guitar and hands it to him. Castiel puts it in his lap, the incorrect position so it doesn't press against the small bruise on his rib from getting hit there. He's not even sure when that was. As Dean searches the song, Castiel tunes the guitar. It's mostly correct, but he adjusts it slightly anyway.

As he waits, he tries to figure it. He's heard if enough that he can sort of guess how it might go, but not very well. He's sure he'll figure out how to do it with the music, but at the moment, he can't play it by ear.

Dean shows Castiel his phone, which is open to a site with the lyrics, the name of the chord written above the words with the accent. "That good?"

"That works," Castiel says, his eyes on the phone. It's so small, he has to squint his eyes to see it. "Can I...?"
Dean seems to know what Castiel is saying, because he hands over the phone. He takes a moment to find the strumming pattern, then goes through the start, memorizing the beginning. Oh, that's not bad. He can play that.

He puts the phone down and gets ready. He plays the introduction slightly faster than necessary, because he'd like to be done with this soon. He glances at Dean's phone again for the part with the words, then stops playing to scroll down. Well. This is going to be interesting.

Castiel practices a couple of times silently before playing it again. This time, he actually gets to the words.

"I close my eyes, only for a moment and the moment's gone. All my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity. Dust in the wind. All they are is dust in the wind. Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea. All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see. Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind..."

Castiel looks up at the phone again for the break in the lyrics, silently playing this part. Castiel tries again from midway through where he just was.

"Same old song, just a drop of water in an endless sea. All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see. Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind..." He plays part of the new part, but the guitar slips, and he loses his fingering. He sighs and pulls it back up.

"It would be easier if you held it correctly," Dean tells him.

"No, this works."

"That's going to keep slipping like that," Dean warns him. "I can get you a footstool thingy if that helps."

"No."

Dean sighs. "You're too stubborn. Come on. You're not even playing right like this."

He moves the guitar to the correct position, and Castiel winces involuntarily as it hits his bruised rib. Dean looks at him curiously.

"What?" Dean asks.

"Nothing," Castiel stammers.

"You're a horrible liar," Dean tells him. "You know that, right?"

Castiel doesn't answer.

"Seriously, what's up?" Dean asks. "Why can't you hold it?"

"No reason," Castiel lies.

"What, broken rib or something?" Dean jokes.

"No, my ribs are fine," Castiel says quickly. Too quickly.

"What happened to your ribs?" Dean asks.

"Nothing," Castiel lies.

"Are they broken?" Dean asks.

"They're fine."

Dean frowns. "I can tell you're lying, and the way you're being so defensive about it, I'm kinda worried. If you hurt your rib, you gotta tell someone, because that can be really bad."

"I didn't," Castiel insists. Someone else hurt his rib, so he's not technically lying, right?

"Lemme see," Dean says. "I've taken care of enough injuries to know when something's bad."

"No," Castiel says quickly. "No, I'm fine. Really."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Stop being such a baby. Let me see. If you need a doctor's visit, you should probably find out sooner rather than later."

"No, you don't need to —"

"Castiel," Dean says sternly. "Let me see."

Castiel sighs. "It's nothing. See?" He puts the guitar down and lifts up the front of his shirt just enough to show the bruise, only an inch or two in diameter, before quickly dropping his shirt again.

"Wait, what the..." Dean reaches for Castiel's shirt, then pauses. "Can I...?"

"Why?" Castiel asks cautiously.

"Can I?" Dean asks again, not answering the question. He takes Castiel's silence for a yes and lifts up his shirt again, looking at his back this time.

"Oh my god," Dean breathes.

Castiel quickly pulls his shirt back down. He didn't think Dean would be able to see the bruise on his back. That one's much bigger and much darker, and he'd much rather keep it hidden.

"Dude, what happened?" Dean asks. "Fall off a horse or something?"

Castiel bites his lip. He didn't want Dean to see that. There's nothing he can say to explain it away. He can't just say that it was Dean's best friends that did that. The fact that Dean doesn't even know genuinely baffles him, but he's not going to change that.

"I'm sorry, I — I have to go," Castiel mutters, already starting to run out of the room.

"Wait, Cas —" Dean reaches over and grabs Castiel's wrist before he can leave, pulling him back.  Dean accidentally pulls up his sleeve, just enough to show some of the scars littering his arm. Dean stares for a moment, speechless, and Castiel instantly pulls his arm away, pulling the sleeve down over his hand.

"Cas, man, what happened to you?" Dean asks. "I mean, the bruises, I can get that. I've had my fair share of them, too. But the cuts?"

Castiel just looks down at the floor silently.

"It was you..." Dean realizes aloud.

Castiel doesn't say anything. He waits for the inevitable. For Dean to say he's weak, or a coward, or that he deserved it and worse.

That doesn't happen. Instead, he hears one simple word.

"Why?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He wishes he could just leave. He doesn't want to have to explain everything, and to Dean Winchester, no less.

"Because of what they did?" Dean asks.

"They?"

"My teammates," Dean clarifies. "I know they're not the nicest people, but I didn't think..."

Castiel doesn't confirm it, because he can't. It's not Dean's teammates fault; not entirely. Sure, it's the jocks that give him most of the physical blows, but it wasn't just them that made Castiel break. It was everyone. Everyone who ever called him names or talked about him behind his back. Everyone who ever watched him suffer and ignored it, or worse, laughed. And he's sure Dean has done all of those things.

"I'm leaving," Castiel mutters. "When Gabriel finds out, tell him I went home."

Dean tries to stop him again, but Castiel ducks under his arm before he can. He hurries out of the house, thankfully avoiding any confrontations with the other boys. He walks quickly, trying not to draw any attention to himself as he finds his way home. Ignoring his siblings' requests for help, Castiel makes a beeline for the stairs and hides into his bedroom, locking the door behind him so he knows he can be alone.

Castiel sighs and lies down in bed gently. He doesn't bother trying to see if the bruises on his back are healing. They aren't. Their only chance to heal is the weekends, when he isn't being pushed into walls every day. It's a good thing he has the next two days to recuperate before he has to return to the hell that is school, because he's not ready to go back to hell just yet.