Sam could have traveled down the dark road again after Dean's final death, but he was too busy caring for Castiel. The angel had fallen for Dean, and now Dean wasn't even here to care for the helpless child. That was left to Sam . . . like the Impala, and the Colt, and the Bradens, and Bobby's house . . . just one miniature fallen angel that had ended up the sum and total of Samuel Winchester's world.

Dean only looked back at them once on his way to kill Lucifer.

And even that was just long enough to make sure that Sam had picked up the naked and squalling newborn that the devil abandoned. Just long enough to see Castiel quiet and curl into Sam's awkward hold. Then Dean kept going, leaving the two of them completely dependent on each other for their very lives.

Sam suspected it was deliberate on Dean's part to saddle his younger brother with a helpless baby whose very life depended on Sam's care. (In another way, Sam's life depended on Castiel because if it wasn't for that tiny trusting figure, Sam would have put a bullet in his head when the world didn't end.)

Bobby had left Sam the business along with the house, but Sam had never been good with cars the way Dean had been. So Bobby had left him money and a legit story. Somewhere along the way, the older hunter had managed to clear the Winchester's records, and they'd known for almost eight months about Castiel. (Lucifer had ripped the baby from his mother's womb at 32 weeks and left the woman to die on the side of the road. Castiel was premature for the sake of a timetable. The tiny child could have been the devil's greatest pawn. Sam didn't know why Lucifer gave the former angel up.) All the forged paperwork for Castiel Robert Winchester was tucked into the envelope of important papers that Bobby left in his desk before Death had arrived.

Sam Winchester was a legal entity for the first time in five years with a clean slate, and he was poorer than dirt. He couldn't get a job . . . couldn't depend on anyone to truly keep Castiel safe while he worked. He had no friends to ask, and no daycare would be persuaded of the importance of salt lines. (He couldn't stand being parted for Castiel that long even if Ellen or Bobby came back from the dead expressly for babysitting. Virtually every second of every day the baby was curled against Sam's chest, and every night he was cradled there as they both shared the too small cot in the panic room.)

He couldn't run new scams without ruining his legit standing and attracting attention. He couldn't hustle pool with a baby. He had no savings, and Bobby's went fast on baby formula and perishables delivered from the store in town. He was dependent on Bobby's stockpiled store of Armageddon rations, the well, and the generator since he couldn't even pay any of the utility bills.

By the time Castiel was a year old (Millennia plus one, the Voice liked to remind him.), Bobby's store was nearly empty, the yard was a rusty, unchanging heap, and neither of them had taken a step off the property since Sam almost crashed the Impala through the gate a year ago. They still slept in the panic room. When Sam wasn't busy caring for Castiel, he was raising every ward he could find in Bobby's library to make the property impenetrable.

Castiel toddled a little on the rare instances Sam put him down long enough to do so, but seemed mostly content with Sam's habit of constantly carrying him. He hadn't spoken yet, and he was rather small for his age. Sometimes, Sam worried between fits of paranoid frenzy.

The little boy had been sleeping against Sam's chest when Sam aimed Bobby's shotgun at Rufus' head. (They had been catnapping on the porch in the late summer sun and Sam had found freeze pops in the bottom of the freezer. Both their lips were purple, and the radio was playing classical music when the rumble of the dying truck passed through the gate.) Sam covered the dark head with one large hand, and held the gun steady.

Rufus paused just past the car door, and held it in both hands.

"Wake the kid, and I'll ventilate you, Rufus," Sam hissed.

Rufus stared at him levelly and slammed the door shut. Sam swore, but Castiel didn't stir. When the kid slept, he was dead to the world. Sam stood up cautiously regardless, and braced the gun against the porch rail, but keeping it steady on the older hunter.

"Winchester."

"Rufus," Sam returned. "Get back in your truck and go."

"Bobby said I could always come back here," Rufus cocked an eyebrow.

"Bobby's dead. Just leave, man."

"I can't do that, boy. I'm not back in town two days and I'm hearing rumors flying about Bobby's place. I haul ass, and find the place looking like this . . . and you . . . boy, have you even looked in a mirror?"

(He had smashed them all in a fit of rage back in December when he thought he saw John Winchester in one. He only stopped when he heard Castiel crying in the panic room. He'd spent Christmas stitching up his hand with Castiel in the baby sling as Christmas Carols played over the radio.)

"Three months past needing a shave and a haircut I'd imagine," Sam laughed bitterly.

"Bobby and your brother died for you, boy. You gonna run all that into the ground?"

"My choice," Sam closed his eyes and waved Rufus off with the gun. "Get off my property."

"You ain't got much left, boy. You never had much money to begin with, and what Bobby's set aside must be running low. You ain't ordered formula from the grocery store in over a month, and the Sheriff is really worried about that kid you found or stole from somewhere. She should be sending social services up here, but she won't because of what you did for her awhile back."

Sam stared at the older hunter blankly.

Rufus cleared his throat awkwardly and took a step closer to the porch. "I gotta know, boy. Where'd he come from? Does he have folks looking for him, or did you not even check?"

Sam slowly realized that Rufus didn't know the whole story about the end of the world that wasn't. That Rufus didn't know about Castiel.

Sam tightened his grip on Castiel until even the baby couldn't ignore it anymore and whined softly into Sam's chest. "I didn't find him and I didn't steal him, Rufus. He's . . ."

(He was supposed to be Dean's. As soon as they found out Castiel had finally fallen, they were searching for miraculous pregnancies while Bobby forged legal papers. "Everything he did, he did for us, and he's not going to be anything but a Winchester now." So he was supposed to be Dean's. They were going to avert the apocalypse and retire and do one miserable thing right for once. Then Lucifer came to them and Dean left to kill him. Dean was supposed to be the child-rearing expert, but it's Sam who has known every moment of Castiel's brief human existence.)

"He's mine," he finished firmly.

"Fool boy, no one in your family has ever looked like that," Rufus indicated Castiel with a jerk of his head. "If you won't return him to where he belongs, I mean to stay and keep an eye on things. Make sure you're safe enough around him."

"Only one who is."

"You mean to tell me Bobby's alcohol stash is untouched?"

"I could shoot you, but I don't have to." Sam set Castiel on the porch, and shouldered the shotgun. "I'm a tax-payin' citizen now, Rufus. I could call and have the Sheriff come up to run you off for me. It'd be easier for you to take off now."

"Yeah, and what taxes are you payin' next year without an income, Winchester? How are you gonna put food in your mouths when Bobby's stores run out? I need a place to stay between hunts, and I can run the Salvage for you. Teach you how to do it yourself if you're interested."

"And what do you get out of it?"

"A paycheck and the satisfaction of knowing that kid won't starve with you. Think about it, Winchester. You'll have a second hunter on the property for emergencies, and money coming in. I know how badly you need it boy. Bobby was prepared, but it was supposed to be the end."

Sam glanced from the hunter to Castiel and back up again. Slowly, he lowered the shotgun. "You touch him, and I'll make you wish I'd killed you."

"Fair enough. I figure I can crash in the old shed with Bo."

Sam shook his head. "The dog goes. Too dangerous with the baby."

"Bo wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Not with him. Dog's a deal-breaker."

For a second, Sam thought that he'd won and the older hunter would take off, but Rufus grit his teeth. Turning back to the truck, he called the dog out of the back. It circled his knees, and Rufus crouched to give it a rubdown. "Go on, boy."

The dog lay down at his feet. Sam recognized that level of devotion. That was the kind of devotion that came from having nothing left, and the grip Rufus had on its collar was proof of mutual feelings. (He'd fall apart without Castiel needing him. He had nothing else left of Dean, and while Castiel had been Dean's angel first, the baby was Sam's now.) Sam grimaced. "Keep the thing chained up. He gets loose and he's gone. I won't risk it."

"Alright, Sam," Rufus nodded slowly. "Kid got a name?"

Sam's eyes narrowed and he hefted Castiel again. "That's none of your business."

Rufus moved into the shed, and his dog was chained up outside. Cars started coming and going on the property once more, and Sam hid with Castiel in the house during the day. Sunny afternoons on the porch were forgotten. People were dangerous. Rufus was a big enough threat on his own.

Sam almost slit the other man's throat the first time Rufus brought in the renewed grocery orders from town. Sam had been cooking with Castiel clinging to his leg, and suddenly there was someone. Else. There.

(Even after he recognized the older man, he considered killing him. There was someone else inside the house with him and Castiel.)

Castiel had fallen on his butt when Sam ripped free of the toddler's hold in order to react to the threat. Sam shoved Rufus away to scoop up the former angel. Something smoked on the stove, but Sam didn't take his eyes off the other hunter. His heart was still beating furiously under Castiel's cheek.

Rufus looked away first, and moved to take care of the burnt stew. Sam sank into the nearest chair, setting the steak knife on the table in order to hold Castiel tighter. He dropped his chin to rest on top of the kid's dark head. Castiel clutched at his t-shirt with both hands, and Sam pet him until the baby calmed.

Rufus watched them carefully as he moved to put away groceries. Sam tried to ignore him.

"He talk any?"

"No," Sam rasped. There was silence.

"You ever try talking to him?"

Sam laughed harshly. "Some days that's all I ever do."

("You know, Cas, I killed a woman . . . a nurse who looked after little babies like you. I drank her blood, and then dumped the body, and ran off to find Lillith. I knew it was wrong. I think I knew that Dean was right. I know that I knew better. But I did it anyway." Sam shifted on the cot. Until a few months ago, Sam hadn't slept on his back since Jessica, but Castiel would fall asleep faster curled against Sam's chest.

"I think you should have killed me before it ever got to that point. Just smote me where I stood the first time I tried to convince you all that I knew better. I always know better," Sam scoffed bitterly, stroking Castiel's back rhythmically. The baby sighed softly, his breath ruffling the collar of Sam's shirt.

"I always know nothing and get people killed. You shouldn't have listened to Dean. You should have just killed me, and then this wouldn't have happened to you. It's my fault you're like this, Cas. And it was Dean's too, I guess. He was a dick, but he didn't mean it. You were his best friend. His only friend. As soon as Gabriel told us that you had fallen, all the apocalypse stuff took second place to finding you." Castiel snuffled softly. Sam brushed his lips against the dark head automatically.

"Sorry, Cas," Sam whispered. They lay there in quiet contentment for a long moment before the oldest living Winchester wrinkled his nose. "Oh, come on, man. You didn't . . ." Sam sighed. "Of course you did. It's the precursor of anti-bedtime arguments." He shifted Castiel and carried the baby over to the makeshift changing table. "Don't get excited," he warned. "As soon as you're changed, we're going to sleep. You like sleeping, remember? When it's your own idea, you power nap like a pro. Four hours, man. That's all I'm asking for."

Castiel waved both hands above his face as if reaching for something. Sam rolled his eyes and proceeded to change the diaper and replace the sleeper. Cloth diapers weren't leak-proof. He decided to just strip his own shirt off, and toss an extra blanket on instead of making a trip upstairs.

"Bed," Sam reminded, as he crawled in and resettled Castiel. "Non-negotiable." He closed his eyes and rubbed the baby's back. "Say your prayers, little one" he rasped. He no longer attempted actual singing, but settled for just mouthing the lyrics. "Don't forget my son to include everyone." He wasn't Dean; Dean would actually remember a proper lullaby.

Castiel didn't seem to care. )

Sam knew Rufus was watching them, and that the man had been keeping a close eye ever since he pulled into the scrapyard. But the intensity increased after the incident with the steak knife. Rufus watched at night when Sam warily worked on cars under his instruction with Castiel sleeping against his chest in the baby sling that the child was fast outgrowing. Rufus watched them in the yard before breakfast as they lay in the wet grass and watched the sunrise. Rufus watched Sam put away groceries with Castiel clinging to his leg. Rufus watched, and he waited, but Sam didn't know what the hunter was waiting for.

(The voice had a lot to say about what Rufus was waiting for. He's waiting for Sam to freak out. He's waiting to put a bullet in Sam's forehead like Dean did the yellow-eyed demon, and then he's going to take Castiel.)

The hunter probably thought he'd waited long enough the day he came crashing into the house like hellhounds were on his tail, not even trying to hide his entrance. He burst into Bobby's study and Castiel's tentative block tower collapsed under the force Rufus used to slam the door. The baby reached out for Sam's knee, pulling himself upright and holding out his arms plaintively. Sam couldn't pick him up. He was holding his book in one hand and the other was on a knife. Castiel wrapped himself around Sam's leg stubbornly.

That stopped the other man in his tracks. He stood there at the edge of the wooden destruction, and stared at them suspiciously. "I found the Impala," Rufus said quietly, his voice tight. "Almost didn't recognize it."

(Huh. Sam's surprised that he found it. And that he had recognized it. Because yeah, Sam had hid it behind two larger trucks and a decrepit van after his last meltdown two months ago. That was after he'd taken a crow bar to it.)

Sam set the book aside carefully, fingering the knife concealed under the desk top. "I had a bad day."

"Uh-huh," Rufus said under his breath, and crouched to Castiel's level. If he reached out six inches, he could touch the toddler and Sam would kill him as promised. But Rufus didn't try. He just stared at the baby like Castiel held all the answers in his little fuzzy head. For all the hunters knew, maybe he did. "And where were you when your Daddy had a hard day?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in the seat. He didn't like the use of that name. It wasn't his, but it's what he basically insisted to Rufus was truth so he let it slide.

"Where do you think?" Sam bit off. "Safely sleeping on the porch."

Rufus pretended that Sam hadn't spoken. "I'd feel better if I could look you over, little guy. How about it? Just for my peace of mind."

Sam stared at Rufus. Even though he knew Rufus suspected his emotional state, even though he knew that the hunter suspected he was a danger to Castiel . . . it didn't prepare him for the verbal accusation.

(Rufus doesn't trust Sam. He knows about the mirrors. He knows about the car. The alcohol. Lucifer. Screaming, Crying. Hating. Dying. He's waiting for an excuse to kill Sam and take Castiel. He really thinks Sam could hurt that innocent baby . . . and what if he's right?)

Rufus wasn't right. Sam could prove it. "Ca—" Sam flushed. Rufus let the slip go. "Little one," Sam corrected, "come here."

With a sound caught between a laugh and a cry, Castiel reached to be picked up once more, and promptly clung to Sam's neck. It made it hard to undress the toddler. Sam hugged him back just as tightly, and then stripped him down to his diaper.

"You can see there's not a mark on him," Sam surprised himself with how detached and clinical his voice sounded, as he tugged free of Castiel's grip to turn the baby around. (Here was Sam. There were his emotions. And there's the wall between them for the first time in his life—the bloody moral vacuum that his professors at Stanford always tried to encourage.) Sam snagged a baby blanket from the arm of the couch and swaddled Castiel in it before tucking the baby under his chin. "And if I have it my way, there never will."

(That's why he didn't run Rufus off. That's why he let the old man stay. The day he became a danger to Castiel, the hunter was welcome to shoot him. The Voice didn't know what to make of that.)

"So long as we have an understanding, boy." Rufus backed away, kicking a couple blocks aside. "Didn't know he had any toys," the other man commented, frowning at the blocks.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Used to be mine . . . I think. Bobby never threw a thing away in his life, and I'm not completely inept."

"Well if the job you did on the Impala is your idea of success, then that explains why you suck so much as a mechanic."

Sam looked away, flushing hotly. "I wasn't trying to fix it. I was trying to demolish it."

"Whatever for?"

"It was a really bad day," Sam shrugged. Then he smiled at something he didn't really find funny. "And Dean once said that he'd haunt my ass if I let anything happen to that car."

"Pair of idiots, the both of you," Rufus grumbled under his breath. "Drove Bobby up the wall, and now I'm stuck with you."

"There's the door," Sam tossed out the challenge flippantly.

Rufus didn't laugh, and he sure didn't leave. "I'm staying, boy."

Sam shifted awkwardly, and stood, openly taking the knife from its hiding spot to tuck into the back of his jeans. "I'm going to bath him as long as he's ready for one. Then we'll turn in early; I'm not in the mood to work tonight." Then Sam fled.

Rufus didn't let the Impala go that easily. He dragged Sam out to the Impala every night for a week, informing the youngest Winchester that if he's stupid enough to break it, then he's going to have to be smart enough to fix it.

It sounded so much like something Bobby would have said that Sam actually obeyed after the initial tantrum and the blows exchanged. Castiel had been fussy that night; neither of them slept and Castiel kept patting Sam's black eye in distress until the bruising finally began fading after a few days.

Rufus never made a move to touch Castiel even after the day in the Study, but all of a sudden the older hunter never shut up. He kept a running commentary on everything he did which was addressed to a wide-eyed toddler. Castiel was probably permanently stunned by the concept that two people could talk to him instead of just one (and only on occasion).

Rufus didn't even make an attempt to take the boy the night the Impala was declared driving-worthy or Sam might have had some expectations for how it would end. Rufus just produced a car seat from his truck and fitted it into the backseat of the Impala.

(Dean would have been rolling in his grave.)

"Picked it up at a yard sale," the older hunter commented. "Thought you might like to take the kid with you, and I saw you didn't have one."

(Sam had made the trip from Detroit to Singer Salvage with the baby tucked inside his jacket. He hadn't stopped once. Castiel drank cold formula and Sam smelled like baby urine for the better part of the week following. Fourteen months later, and Castiel hadn't been in a car since.)

Castiel was not impressed with the restraints, and made his opinion known with the fussy face Sam had hoped was left behind along with the end of the world and the month of colic. When that didn't work, Castiel moved on to almost crying, and Sam was just about to turn around in the driver's seat to free the toddler when Rufus let out a startled shout in sync with a shotgun blast.

Sam was out of the car and leapt over the incapacitated hunter in a single bound. (Rage and fear and hate were almost as good as demon blood for psyching him up to make a kill. The only coherent thought Sam even still had was that Castiel was too far away, and that from now on, Sam was never going to put the kid down. Forget the driving laws.) He appraised the shot to Rufus' knee on the move, and zeroed in on the shooter.

He almost didn't even register Chuck's terrified face as he zeroed in on the smaller man.

"It's n-not what it looks like, Sam!" the writer shrieked. "He was going to kill you!" He let out an even higher-pitched scream when Sam ripped the shotgun out of his hands and slammed it back into the writer's temple. The man dropped like a load of bricks.

Then Sam wheeled around, and kicked the knife out of Rufus' hand, bringing the shotgun up to rest point blank against Rufus' forehead. (He was going to kill Sam and drive off with Castiel, and Sam hadn't even done anything. Rufus just wanted to do away with Sam the second he let go of Castiel long enough, and Chuck could have killed Castiel. What was the stupid naïve little man thinking, carrying a shotgun he didn't know how to use?) Sam tensed in preparation.

"Now Sammy, don't go doing something you'll regret," a voice lectured from the edge of the property. Gabriel, the archangel, was leaning casually in mid-air, rebuffed by the wards. Sam's night was now complete.