The room was dark, a night light tinting the black that hugged room. There was also the moon whom, from the window, peaked at three little boys curled up with each other in the bed.
The boy with a mop of hair, Sam, snuggled a pillow, deep in sleep and unaware. Next to him, his older brother, Dean began to sit up, watching Sam from the corner of his eye. He pondered what he was dreaming of, hoping it was something pleasant.
Once Dean was for sure he was asleep, he turned to watch his best friend Cas. Cas was tensed and on guard, facing the wall. Dean knew his friend all too well, this was him at his weakness point, he could see the way his shoulders slouched yet were so tense. He was quite aware that he was very much asleep.

Dean definitely was protective over the two, he felt the responsibility churning through every inch of his body. If he didn't pay close attention to either of the boys, he knew something terrible would over come, possibly, death. He knew how it had always found a way to sneak in. Like how it had stolen his mother, leaving them with a father who was never home. Like how they really knew nothing about Cas' past expect for his parents had possibly died.
He might be eight and young, but he wasn't naive. The things he had learned were too hard to handle.

His throat suddenly felt dry, like he had been through the entire Sahara Dessert.
He cautiously cast two glances at the boys and slid to the end of the bed, extremely careful not cause any movement to the bed at all. When out of the bed he makes sure that the bed doesn't dip upward too apparently by raising his hand along slowly with it's movement.
For a few minutes, he drifts in the room, making sure that neither of them were awoken, then he saunters out of the room.

By the frame of the kitchen, he relives the worst night of his night.

Everything had been the same for little Dean, by this time he was just four, happy, and fulfilled. He had heard clacks and a cut off yelp. The kid was curious, not as afraid as he knows he should have now been, a sleeve rubbing a drowsy eye.
What he saw still haunts Dean, creeping in the back of his head. A man cupping his mother's body, a knife in her abdomen. Blood trickling down her white nightgown, painting it crimson. Her cherry lips, agape. Aching murmurs of pain escaping her mouth as her green eyes rolled to the back of her head.
And before Dean could even shed a tear, she was gone.

"No... Mom," his hand absently reached from his side, the salty tears trickling over his freckles. A few sniffles worked their way out, then he was dashing to where the assailant would have been, but now was a cabinet. He banged his fists on the man's knees, the wooden frame, and scratched through his pants, crying for his mother as if she could come back. Growls and silent screams escaped his mouth and he stood up and leaned his body against the counter, whimpering. Whispering how it was his fault, how he couldn't protect his own mother. How could he have been so weak. So weak, he stood there in bewilderment and the man escaped, as his mother fell to the cold tile.
There, he sobbed for minutes, unsure if everything was real, unsure if he could keep the two boys upstairs safe. He wondered what he did to deserve this, what Sammy did. They were just kids, still are. Is this what God thinks is fine? If so, he wasn't sure how long he'd have left.
"Cut the crap, Dean," his words pounded at him, as he choked them out. "You need to quit being such-a-whimp. There's nada' you can do now." He slowly began to do what he came down to do in the first place, have a drink.
He opened the cabinet and shakily pulled the glass out. He stared hard at the reflection he made in the class, thinking about things that would make him happy.
Immediately Cas comes to mind, his selective, yet wistful way of words. They wouldn't cheer most people up, but they reassured him.
Then he thought of little Sammy. He poured the drink. Sammy was his everything. He brought the edge to his dry lips. Sammy and Cas. He gulped it down. Cas and Sammy. He gasped after a chug. He didn't want it any other way. He slammed him glass down on the counter. He couldn't have it any other way, could he?

"Dean," he turned to find Cas, his usual black mussed hair tussled more from the bed. A look concerned yet fiery behind the clear shades of blue. He silently prayed that he hadn't seen his break down, Cas finally stopped believing he needed some strong help.
"How long where you there?" He demanded, voice rough with worry and mixed with fake anger.
His eyes gleamed dark for a second, informing Dean that he'd seen it all. He'd most likely followed Dean the whole time. "Well.. I'm perfecting fine! I don't need any of that stupid crap you always give me about needing help!"
"Dean..." Cas' eyes narrowed and his eyebrows furrowed, such a look always sent shivers down Dean's spine, despite the heat or the cold.
He wasn't too sure how to respond, and it seemed Cas was being a selective mute as usual. Should he tell him he was scared? But the would incline that he was wuss, not what he wanted. Should he tell him it was the heat of the moment? But Cas was much too smart to be gulled by that. And now Dean was drawing a blank, and the moment of uncertainty was wavering far too long.
"Cas," he replied back, finally, but nothing followed that. It wasn't that he didn't know what to say, it was more like Cas could read in between the lines, as Dean could read his eyes. Cas' look softened as he slowly walked to Dean, questioning.
"It was just tonight," he whispered, hating how weak he sounded. "I haven't seen it in forever, I swear." His green eyes met the opposing blue frightened by the pity that hazed them. "Stop that Cas. I don't need your stupid pity."

The silence brewed for so long.

"Dean, I do not think you are weak, but I do think you are stupid. You are stupid because you face all this alone, you act like we can't save you, that only you can save us. John may never be home, but you aren't the only one here that can protect. I can protect Sammy too, Dean, you are too torn to do this by yourself..." He, too, sounded defeat and broken and he then pulled Dean into a comforting embrace. And whispered with his flat and raspy voice, "I'll protect you."
And with those three simple words, Dean felt at rest. Like he could finally get a night's sleep again. Something was lifted off from his shoulders, maybe it was the responsibility, or maybe it was stress. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment, but he felt like he was finally safe. That no man would steal him away with just a knife, leaving Cas and Sammy fending by themselves.
He felt as if an angel were watching over him, an angel with eyes that spoke rather than a voice.
An angel named Cas.