Chapter Text
I'll fight for you to stay.
-- "Bad Boys," 9.07
Cas's Honda is in the driveway already when Dean pulls up that afternoon. He grins and takes the steps up to the porch two at a time. "Cas?"
"Would you check the mail?" Cas is coming down the stairs, a laundry basket overflowing with bath towels. A single blue bra dangles over the side. "The prepaid college bill hasn't come yet, we might need to call--"
Dean beelines for him, grabbing the bra, which is most likely Claire's, out of the basket by two fingers. "Dude, you can't wash bras with towels."
"Why not?"
"'Cause they're delicates. If you put 'em in with towels, they'll get… I dunno. Messed up."
"Towels are soft," Cas says stubbornly.
Dean rolls his eyes and tosses the bra back into the laundry basket. "Whatever. Let Claire yell at you for messing up her bra, see if I care." He darts around Cas to thunder past him up the stairs, slapping him on the ass as he goes.
"Dean!"
"Yeah, babe?"
Cas looks long-suffering, but there's also a smile denting the corners of his eyes. "The mail?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get it." Dean disappears into the bedroom to get changed, and Cas proceeds into the garage to start the wash.
Dean heads back down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing a sweatshirt and a t-shirt that's not stiff with sweat, and a different pair of jeans. Mondays are his short days at the garage, since all Mondays suck and making them shorter makes them better. He jogs back down the front porch steps and down the ridiculously long walk to their mailbox, shivering as he kicks slush off the sidewalk he shoveled just frickin' yesterday. There's a whole buttload of envelopes sitting in the mailbox, and he starts to rifle through them as he heads back up to the house, letting himself back into the warmth of the front hallway. Bill, something for Cas, postcard from Krissy, bill--
"Oh shit."
Cas comes out of the garage, shutting the door on the sounds of the washing machine. "What?"
Dean holds up two white, official-looking envelopes. "SAT scores."
Cas's brows lift. He comes over then, and plucks the envelopes from Dean's hand, putting them on the table.
"Hey," Dean protests.
"You were going to hold them up to the light," Cas says unrepentantly. "The girls will be home in fifteen minutes. Just hold your stallions."
"Horses, Cas. It's 'hold your horses.'"
Cas quirks Dean a glance that is all slyness, and Dean huffs out a laugh because Cas is always baiting him like that, and Dean is always falling for it. He snakes a hand out to hook two fingers between the buttons of Cas's Oxford, pulling him close. Cas lets himself be pulled, placing his hands on Dean's hips. He smells like Gain detergent and the cheap fruity air freshener that dangles from his Honda's rearview mirror.
"What do you want for dinner tonight?" he asks.
"What kind of question is that? Food."
Cas rolls his eyes. He squeezes Dean's sides, and Dean squirms, lets out a laugh. Cas smiles.
Dean grins back. "We should go out. You know, to celebrate." He motions at the two envelopes on the table.
"What if they didn't do well?"
Dean snorts. "Cas. Our kids are awesome. They did great."
Cas's intent gaze stutters for the first time, flicking away from Dean's, toward the floor.
"Okay," Dean says. "The kids. Is that better? The kids are awesome, and I know they did great."
Cas opens his mouth like he's about to say something, some protest, probably, about how it's not that he doesn't want the kids, it's just that he doesn't think he has a right to them, and that's when the familiar hiss and shriek of the school bus coming to a stop comes from outside.
Dean leans past Cas to grab the envelopes off the table and then tugs him toward the front door by the finger-hook he still has in his shirt.
Emma and Claire have just reached the porch steps when Dean opens the front door. "Well, hello, Things One and Two."
Emma and Claire both eye him suspiciously, then look at each other, then return even more suspicious looks to him. Behind them, the bus hisses back into motion and rumbles away down the street.
Dean holds up two white envelopes like he's holding up a royal flush. "Check out what came in the mail today."
Emma's stomach sinks.
Claire climbs the steps and takes her letter. She opens it carelessly, the way she does everything, because she's Claire and she probably scored a freaking 2400.
Sure enough, the corner of her mouth is curving into a satisfied little angle, and Dean, looking over her shoulder, lets out a whoop.
"Congratulations, Claire," Cas says where he's standing behind Dean, and he's not looking at Emma, but he's looking at Emma; she can sense the mental message he's telegraphing Dean, like be careful about being so enthusiastic about Claire when Emma might not have done as well.
Her stomach sinks lower. She accepts the envelope Dean hands her.
Dean looks at her expectantly. His arm's around Claire's shoulder; he's tugged her close in a hug of pride, and his other arm twitches, like he's waiting to pull Emma in, too. "Go on, kiddo."
Emma shakes her head. "I don't wanna open it yet."
"What?" Dean says. He lets go of Claire. "C'mon, Em, you did fine."
Emma shakes her head again.
"Dean," Cas says.
Emma bristles. She doesn't need Cas to fight her battles for her. Or feel sorry for her. Or, or--anything.
Dean looks back and forth between them. Concern and sympathy is starting to crease his face. "Em, if it's bad, we can fix it." Emma hates how gentle his voice has gone, like he feels sorry for her, too. "We'll get you some tutoring and you can take it again, no big deal."
Emma flattens the telescoped envelope in her hand. "I'm not worried," she forces out. "I just don't feel like finding out right now. Jeez. Low expectations much?"
Dean looks slightly convinced. Cas is still unreadable. And Claire doesn't look convinced at all.
Emma rolls her eyes at all of them and heads upstairs.
The next day, at school, she heads toward the electives hallway in the break between second and third period. She slips inside the bathroom no one uses because it smells like weed and there's always used condoms floating in the toilet bowls, and she tears the envelope and its contents into five short strips.
She crumples them up and stuffs them into the used tampon container in one of the stalls.
When the bus drops them off at home that afternoon, she knows a shit-storm is brewing the minute she steps through the front door behind Claire. Dean is sprawled across the couch in front of the TV, which never ever happens. At this time of day, he's either still at work, or he's outside working on his car, or Cas's, or the old Chevy Cavalier he keeps promising will be ready for Emma and Claire soon that Emma and Claire suspect never will be because Dean's goal is to keep them dependent on him and Cas for rides forever.
Claire doesn't seem to notice anything. She looks at Dean, then promptly heads upstairs, because of course she doesn't have anything to hide.
Actually, she more likely heads up the stairs to perch at the top of them, because she's got twice the observational abilities Emma does, despite the Amazon thing, and she probably sensed the shit-storm from the minute they got off the bus, like some sort of invisible cloud boiling over the house that only Super Observant Claires can see.
Emma attempts to sidle after her, stubbornly quashing the urge to grab one of the loose straps dangling from the back of Claire's backpack.
But Dean clears his throat and says, "Have a seat, Emma."
He's pointing at Cas's armchair. Emma looks at it and hikes her own backpack straps tighter over her shoulders. "Actually, I have a lot of homework tonight--"
Cas enters the room silently from the kitchen. He's still in his work clothes, his tie not even loosened from his neck. His hair is tufted in several directions as if he's been dragging his hand through it. He sits in the loveseat across from the armchair and pats his hand gently on the cushion beside him.
Emma goes over and sits. The zippers on her backpack scrape the brown leather of the loveseat.
"I got a call this morning," Dean says. He's not sprawled anymore. Is standing up, actually, and Emma hunches her shoulders narrowed under her backpack straps. "The guidance counselor at your school wanted to know if you already took your SAT. Apparently they got a message that your scores should be in, but there weren't any results in your record."
Emma doesn't say anything. She feels heat on the tips of her ears and wonders if Claire is at the top of the stairs, listening to all this. She glares at the carpet.
"Emma," Cas says quietly.
She raises her eyes to him unwillingly.
"Where is your letter?"
"I threw it out."
"What?"
Emma doesn't look at Dean. "I. Threw it. Out."
Cas says quietly, "Why would you do that?"
"Because I didn't take the test," Emma says. She feels spiteful.
"What do you mean, you didn't take the test?" Dean demands. "We dropped you off! I watched you go inside!"
"And I pretended to have to go to the bathroom and left."
"Why the hell would you do that?"
"Because I didn't want to take the test!"
"Why not?!"
"Because there's no point!" she shouts. "I'm not going to college!"
"And why the hell aren't you going to college?"
"Because there's no point!"
They're shouting at each other, by now. Emma is on her feet too, she and Dean glaring at each other, and Cas stands up, insinuates himself between them. A hand on Dean's chest, a hand splayed out in front of Emma. "Stop."
Dean breathes, hard, against Cas's hand. His face is twisted angrily, and Emma's face twists just as tightly in response.
"Like hell you aren't," Dean says finally, his voice a low scrape of gravel. He turns on his heel and shoves outside, thundering down the back steps. There's a crash, and then another, and then the Impala's engine, growling as it pulls out of the driveway.
Cas and Emma are both still as its roar fades from earshot. Emma's glaring at the closed door; Cas is watching her. She feels it, and very deliberately does not look back.
He says, "Do you wish to talk about it?"
"No."
Cas doesn't say anything more. He steps toward her, and touches a hand gently to the crown of her head, and leans in to press a kiss against her forehead. Then he goes into the kitchen and starts making dinner.
Dinner is a silent, stormy affair. Dean comes back for it, his face thunderous, coming in the door just as Claire is setting the table and Emma, her guts in knots, is helping Cas carry the food from the stove. His return probably has more to do with the ten minutes Cas spends shut up inside the garage speaking in low, angry tones than with Dean actually being willing to forgive Emma, but it makes the knots in her insides loosen a little, anyway.
Dean glares at his plate the whole time they're eating. He doesn't even complain about them being instant mashed potatoes instead of from scratch the way he makes them, with milk and butter. Claire does, though, making pointed remarks about how these potatoes would taste much better if someone else had been around to make them. Dean doesn't even seem to hear, moving the green beans around on his plate with his fork.
He doesn't speak until Emma gets up to scrape her plate's remains into some Tupperware because she barely touched it.
"Put your shoes on."
Emma turns from the cabinet, bristling.
"Don't," he says sharply, "argue with me, Emma."
"I'll argue with you if I want to," she retorts.
"Dean," Cas says. "What are you doing?"
"We're going to the bookstore," Dean says steadily, though he doesn't look at Cas.
Cas sighs. He pinches his nose for a moment, eyes closing tiredly, then looks up. "I'm coming as well."
Claire's looking at Emma. "I'll come, too."
That's how they all end up piling into the car on a Thursday night to drive to the bookstore in the big outdoor shopping mall fifteen minutes away. On the drive, Claire shoots Emma sympathetic looks that Emma wants no part of, staring sullenly out the window instead.
It starts to rain as they pull off the interstate, so that they have to pull up their hoods and pick through puddles on the way across the parking lot to the store.
Dean beelines for the employee desk and asks where the test prep books are. Emma flushes in humiliation; it's not as if they couldn't have figured that out, themselves. He didn't have to ask someone to show them.
Cas has clearly come to the same conclusion. "Dean," he says, face disapproving as Dean heads back to them from the counter.
Dean ignores them both and heads past them into the stacks. Claire reappears from behind one of them, holding a book; she must have slipped away while none of them were looking.
"Dean, can I get this?" She holds out a book.
Dean takes it from her without looking at it or breaking his stride. "Sure," he says, and as she falls into step beside them, Claire shoots Emma a sly look. Emma tilts her head to see the bit of cover visible through Dean's fingers, and snorts despite herself when she sees it's a shrink-wrapped graphic novel with a hand-drawn picture of two half-naked guys on the cover.
The snort pulls Dean's evil eye back to her. She returns it as they stop in front of the ceiling-high shelf of Barron's and CliffNotes books. "I'm going to the bathroom."
"Not until you've got your book you're not."
"Do you want me to wet myself?"
Dean glares at her. Emma glares back.
"Claire, go with her."
Emma's nostrils positively flare. "I don't need a chaperone!"
"Apparently you do--"
"Enough! Both of you!" Cas's voice is nearly a shout, and it makes both of them flinch and fall silent. Cas never shouts. "Emma, you and I are going to take a walk. Dean, I don't care what you do, but do it quietly. Claire--you're free to do as you wish."
He strides past all of them, and Emma falls into step after him, pointedly ignoring Dean.
The minute they're around the corner of a shelf full of history novels, she bursts out, "He's being a dick!"
"You're not going out of your way to make it easier for him," Cas says. He keeps walking, stops when they're in the comic book section at the front of the store, near the bathrooms. Turns to look her in the eye, his intent and dark blue. "We would never judge your reasons for what you do, Emma, but it would help us to know what they are."
Emma doesn't say anything. She presses her lips together and steps around him, into the alcove separating the women's bathroom from the men's, and pushes into the women's one. She hears Cas's sigh behind her before she shuts the door.
She locks it and turns around. There's a window set high in the wall, above the sink. She gets a foot up on the basin, the sole of her boot squeaking against it, then boosts herself up to the window. The only thing keeping it shut is a latch on the inside; she unhooks it and wriggles through the small square opening.
She lands on a sort of roof lean-to thing that looks out over a Dumpster set behind a faux fence that opens out onto the parking lot. The distance to the Dumpster is sort of a high one, and if she wasn't an Amazon, she wouldn't be able to do it without breaking something, but she is, so.
She lands on the Dumpster's closed lid. From there, she climbs the fence to jump down into the parking lot, the asphalt still slick with slush, gleaming under the big sodium flood lights.
Most of the stores in the shopping mall are closed by this time of night on a Tuesday. She hasn't got much choice for loitering, aside from some sort of pipe shop, a Claire's, a Mexican restaurant, or the movies. There's nothing good out right now, but maybe she can sneak into another showing of Guardians of the Galaxy to see the Hobbit trailer again.
She heads that way. She doesn't get much more than halfway across the parking lot before she spots a kid and his mom standing next to an old, old Celica. The kid's got his head tilted back, looking at the back tire, and the mom's looking through her wallet, shoulders slumped tiredly, and despite herself, Emma wanders over, her hands in her pocket and her jack hood up.
"Need some help?" she says gruffly.
The mom looks up. She's got limp brown hair, and there's dark circles under her eyes. "Oh," she says. "Thanks, but--it's a flat."
"I know," Emma says. "D'you have a spare? I could help you change it."
The mom gives her another weird look. The kid starts to chew on his knuckles. "Yes," she says finally. "Are you--are you sure?"
"Yeah," Emma says. "Here, is it in the trunk?"
Luckily, the lady's got a jack in the trunk, too, and some wrenches, or Emma would've had to go back to the Impala and face Dean all over again. As it is, it takes about ten minutes to pump the jack up, get the flat tire off and get the replacement on.
The mom looks slightly awed and alarmed, both, by how easily Emma grunts the heavy tires on and off, but Emma ignores it, keeping her hood up. She wipes her forehead when she's done, and wipes her blackened hands down her jeans.
"I--thanks so much," the lady says. "How can I--I mean--here." She tries to give Emma the lonely ten dollar bill from her wallet.
Emma shakes her head. "I'll watch you off," she says instead, and backs up, her hands in her pockets, as the lady, with one more glance at her, buckles her son into the car, then gets in herself and starts it up. The car trundles away, through the parking lot, back lights glowing in the darkness.
The kid is turned around, watching Emma through the back windshield. Emma raises a hand, like a wave. He doesn't wave back, just keeps staring at her.
Emma lowers her hand. She stuffs it deep in her pockets again, and heads toward the movies.
The drive back to the house from the bookstore is filled with the sort of silence that only comes when Dean is mad at Cas and Cas is mad back. When Dean's the only one angry, it's noisy--he makes pointed unhappy, disgruntled sounds to let everyone know it. But when Cas is mad at Dean back, it's a frosty I'm not talking to you until you acknowledge you're wrong silence in which Dean is left to stew in his own juices. Right now, Dean is emanating I can't believe you let Emma take off, and Cas is emanating I am two minutes away from smiting you.
Claire sighs, and presses her cheek against the cold window in the backseat, feeling her cheekbone grind against the glass. Surreptitiously, she pulls her phone out of her pocket, cupping it under her hand in the darkness to shield the glow as she checks again to see if Emma's texted her anything.
There's still nothing. She slides her phone back into her pocket.
She figures if Emma went anywhere at the shopping mall, it was probably the movies. She'd decided not to share that information with Dean, not when he'd freaked out over Emma taking off, not when he'd nearly broken down the bathroom door at the bookstore when Emma didn't respond to them calling her name through the door.
Claire understands Dean has a hang-up over protecting his family, but seriously. If there's anyone in this family who doesn't need a bodyguard, it's Emma.
She'll probably text Claire when she gets out of her movie. Then Claire can sneak out of the house and steal Cas's car to pick her up.
Or, more likely, she'll get caught sneaking out of the house to go pick Emma up, and Dean will shout, and Cas will Thunderstorm Face back, and they'll all go to pick Emma up together so they can all enjoy the lovely, horrible silence of everyone being mad at everyone.
But when they pull into their driveway a few minutes later, someone's sitting on their front porch. They're too big to be Emma, and Dean tenses up immediately, his hand going inside his jacket as he slides out of the car, motioning to Cas and Claire to stay put.
The figure that eases to its feet is familiar, though, his hands coming up to show he's not holding any weapons.
Dean relaxes slightly, though he doesn't remove his grip from his gun. "Seriously, James? You couldn't call first?"
"We had to ditch our old phones," James says apologetically. "I didn't have your number."
Dean is making disgruntled sounds now, and tucking his gun back into his jacket, and looking around, as Cas and Claire get out of the car, too. "Where's Portia?"
A dog scampers down the porch steps around James' legs. It turns into a familiar, petite woman at the last one, her eyes dark and taunting. "Dean."
He just glares at her. He's been touchy about Portia and James since their spell turned Claire and Emma into four-year-olds. Portia smirks back at him, and looks past him at Claire and Cas, who are both getting out of the car. "Where's Emma?"
"Why do you care?"
"What, a godmother can't visit her goddaughter?"
"Sure she could," Dean retorts. "But we're not Catholic, and if we were, you wouldn't be Emma's godmother."
Portia's eyes narrow. "And who would be, pray tell?"
"Charlie," Dean says at the same time Cas says, "Amelia" at the same time Claire says, "Me."
James rolls his eyes heavenward. Portia glares for a minute longer. "Charlie can have her." She points at Claire. "Emma's mine."
James gives Claire an apologetic look.
"Really?" Claire says irately. "You guys can't fight over Emma when she's actually here to see it?"
Portia looks over at Dean. "Where is she?"
He crosses his arms. "Sleepover."
"Uh-huh," Portia says. "On a school night?"
"That's right," says Dean. "'Cause I'm a cool, laidback dad who trusts my kids."
Claire has to smother laughter into her fist. She runs up the porch steps into the house, inside which she can be heard bursting into laughter as the door swings shut.
Dean deflates slightly. Cas sighs, and motions James inside after him. It leaves Portia and Dean on the dark front walk, in the pool of light from the porch lamp.
"All right," Portia says. "Go on. What'd you do now?"
"You know what?" Dean throws up his hands. "Why don't you go find Emma. Let her tell you what a shitty dad I am."
He storms inside.
James and Cas look up when Dean stalks past them through the dining room and up the stairs.
"Uh oh," James says softly.
Cas lets out a frustrated breath. But he continues to pull spare linens out of the closet for James and Portia.
"Should you…?" James nods up the stairs.
"No," Cas says, more clipped than he intended. He lets out another breath, upset with himself. "They both need space." He pulls a spare pillow from the bottom shelf and folds it under his arm. "Things have been very tense between the two of them. It's something that's been brewing for some time, I think."
James doesn't say anything. Child-rearing isn't exactly his area of expertise, and he seems keenly aware of that fact.
Cas sighs again. "Help yourself to anything in the kitchen," he says, and heads upstairs to make the bed in the guest room for James and Portia.
Portia finds Emma in a little copse of trees behind the move theatre. She's sitting on the freezing curb, her boots planted in the slush, when she senses the dog trotting toward her. She looks up, eyes easily cutting through the dark, and sees the familiar ears, the swatches of dark fur. "Portia."
Portia pushes demanding paws into Emma's lap until Emma's straightens her legs out far enough for Portia to jump up into her lap. Then she butts Emma's hand with her head until Emma starts scratching behind her ears, albeit with a grumpy glare.
They sit like that for a few minutes, Emma petting Portia and Portia reclining her head to and fro to allow new areas to be scratched. Then Portia rolls over, jumping from Emma's lap back onto the cold curb. A moment later, she's sitting next to Emma in her human form, wrapped up in a too-big gray sweatshirt and a knit hat with a red pom-pom dangling from it.
"Nice hat," Emma says, and Portia turns her head in a quick moment that slaps Emma's ear with the pom-pom. Emma sputters.
"Maybe I'll get you one for Christmas," Portia says.
Emma fidgets a little. She's talked to Portia, a little, or at least been talked to--every few months or so, a post card arrives in the mail addressed to Emma, a short sardonic message about whatever location the post card is from and a reminder to Emma to call if she needs anything, signed with a paw print.
It's sort of weird. But it also makes her feel kind of special, getting mail. Claire gets invitations from colleges and birthday cards and stuff from her grandparents, and Dean and Cas get bills and stuff, but this is the only thing Emma gets, that says she's here, that their house is hers, too.
"So," Portia says.
Emma shifts her butt on the cold concrete.
"Dean's giving you a hard time again, huh."
"Dean always gives me a hard time."
For someone whose other form is a dog, Portia's piercing gaze is unnervingly cat-like. "Do you always sit outside in the middle of the night with your butt in the snow?"
Emma digs her chin into her elbow. She takes a breath in, fits her mouth around the words.
But her chest gets too tight; the pressure slides up, and she bites down on the words instead, cracks them in two and swallows them down. Just because Portia's sent Emma a few postcards doesn't mean she's her fairy godmother. Doesn't even mean she's someone she can trust. Emma's just so desperate that she wants anyone, will take anyone, and that's a weakness she needs to squash before it gets her a shot to the head.
"Look," Portia says. "It seems like everyone has problems with their dad when they're a teenager. If they're lucky enough to have a dad around to have a problem with."
Emma barks out a laugh. "Then I wish I wasn't that lucky."
Portia sticks her hands in her pockets. "Do you mean that?"
Emma doesn't. Not really. But she's feeling defiant, so she says, "Yes" with a viciousness torn from her teeth.
Portia doesn't say anything. She stands up, and flips her pom-pom over her shoulder, studying Emma.
"Do you want a ride home?" she says finally.
Emma doesn't, really. But she also doesn't want to call Claire; is mad at everyone right now, somehow, so she pushes to her feet, icy air hitting the damp seat of her jeans, and follows Portia to her car.
After he makes up the guest room with fresh linens for James, Cas goes to the living room and settles in with a book to wait for Emma. He doesn't turn more than two more than two pages as he sits there in the lamplight, with the night pressing on the windows, until car headlights bounce across the far wall.
He gets up and crosses to the front window, peering outside. Portia and James' most recent car, a nondescript dark green sedan, is parked in the driveway behind his own car, and Portia and Emma are sitting in the front seat. Cas can't make out much of their expressions, with the porch light reflecting off the windshield, but he can make out enough to see that Emma is stone-faced and Portia looks…contemplative.
"Uh oh," says a voice behind him.
He turns. James is standing behind him, his dark eyes trained on the same thing as Cas's.
"What?"
James presses his lips together for a minute. Then he just sighs and shakes his head.
Cas frowns at him for a moment longer. Then he turns back to look out the window. Portia and Emma are getting out of the car. He crosses quickly back to the couch, picking up his book, and James slips soundlessly back up the stairs.
Emma's nose is pink with cold when she lets herself and Portia inside with her key. Her eyes flicker up to Cas, and for a minute, she looks apprehensive. Hunted.
Cas gets up and goes to where she stands. He hands her the book that was beneath his own: the pornographic novel Claire tricked Dean into buying at the bookstore.
Emma looks startled when she sees it. Then her face breaks into a smile of uncertain relief, her eyes flicking up to his.
He squeezes her hand. "Good night," he tells her, and goes upstairs.
Dean is sitting on their bed. The reading lamp on his nightstand is on. His pajamas are on, too, flannel pants and an old gray t-shirt, but he's not under the covers. He's sitting tensely against the headboard, a car magazine open in his lap. He fiddles with its glossy pages and does not look up as he says, "She home?"
Cas says, "She is," and goes into the bathroom to change into his sleep clothes.
When he comes back, he reaches over Dean and turns off his lamp. Dean, in a rare display of self-preservation, doesn't protest.
"I wish," Cas says into the darkness, "that you could learn to love the parts of yourself that you see in her."