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Dean Winchester wasn't a holy man. He didn't believe in god or the father or...whatever the third thing was. And, most of all, Dean Winchester didn't believe in angels.
The concept of angels were almost humorous to him, even as a child in Sunday school; big guys with fluffy wings floating around in dresses, playing harps and being generally good- what wasn't funny about that?
More seriously, though, (and on a more mature level) Dean didn't have time for crap like that. He worked two jobs, one teaching middle schoolers to read Odysseus properly, the other fixing cars in his dad's shop on the weekends. Both careers were overall fulfilling to his sense of self, but they weren't overly filling towards his wallet, so to speak.
With his father recently deceased in a car accident and his mother lost to a house fire when he was 11, Dean was left to take care of his 15 year old brother Sam, and his 12 year old brother Adam. In the end, having a drained wallet (with two hungry boys to feed, no less) wasn't something one overtly desired. Sure, angels may have been a nice concept to some, hell, comforting even, but since the day Dean's mother died (from the first night the young Winchester's father stumbled home drunk at 1 am with a half-finished bottle of whiskey in his hand), Dean had been on his own. Offers of help had been few and far between from then on out.
So what does all this have to do with angels? Some may say that the story began when the hood of Dean's Toyota was smashed in by a large object that landed on it from out of nowhere. Others, however, would more accurately say the story began on the afternoon of John Winchester's funeral, 3 weeks before the fateful accident.
/
The weather was unusual for that time of year in Kansas. The sky was slate grey and the air was heavy with a wet chill. A fine mist fell from the sky, slowly soaking the attendees of the outdoor funeral.
Some of the older attendants chose to grasp umbrellas in their hands, shielding their pressed, dark, dress-clothes from the offending droplets. However, most of the younger crowd chose to bear the rain, as though withstanding the mist paid some sort of penance in God's eyes.
Somewhere towards the back of the gathering, a reed-thin boy with short-cropped blond hair spoke up above the low din of the crowd.
"What do you think rain is?" Adam said from beside Dean. The smallest Winchester gripped his brother's hand and stared up at the sky, the clouds nearly matching the gray of his eyes.
"It's water, dumbass." Sam scoffed from the other side of his brother, where he too held Dean's hand. Sam may have been 15, but some of his more childlike actions were excusable that day (at least in his mind, for he had never bothered to consult anyone else on what they thought-not that he cared).
"Sam..." warned Dean half-heartedly. He was looking around, anxious to see who would be attending. Would his cousin make it? Or his old math teacher who had been friends with John? What about Bobby Singer, the man who used to babysit Sam and Adam when Dean was still too young to do it on his own? Bobby had called earlier offering his condolences, but when it came to the subject of him attending, he was unable to say.
"Didn't mom used to say they were the tears of angels? Heaven weeping for some important reason? Maybe the angels are crying for dad..."
Sam wrinkled his nose at his younger brother "You didn't even know mom, how do you know she said that?"
"Because Dean told me, that's why!" he shot back with all the innocence a 12 year-old could muster.
"Well he's wrong. It's just water, nothing more!" he said with a toxic edge to his voice, " Why don't you grow up?"
"Sam!" Dean finally turned his full attention to his brother. He hadn't seen Bobby Singer, much less his math teacher or his cousin, "Enough!"
Sam huffed again and rolled his eyes while Adam moved even closer to Dean, pressing their sides flush together.
The way Sam was acting wasn't out of the ordinary per say. Dean dismissed the younger Winchester's harshness to the phase he was currently going through-you know, puberty. But there was a certain barb preset that day that ate Dean up inside.
It wasn't the fact that Sam was dealing with his dad's death with harsh words and anger, no, that was to be expected. What unnerved Dean was the fact that the way Sam was coping was the exact same way Dean had coped with his mother's death all those years ago.
And that scared Dean.
Because if he wished for one thing and one thing only, it was that neither Adam nor Sam ended up like him.
He squeezed his brothers' hands tighter at that thought, almost as if he were physically trying to delay the onset of a cruel, harsh reality- as though he were the only thing between the shore and the furious undercurrents of the sea.
/
Somewhere above the gray, and far above the Winchesters, two men sat among the clouds, quietly listening to the Winchesters' exchange.
The men were dressed in robes of silk, wearing thin headbands made of bright gold set with glowing, azure crystals. From the backs of their robes protruded two identical sets of enormous, downy wings, which were currently resting on the clouds as though they were as solid as any floor. Each man beamed with an ethereal presence, one which both calmed and evoked a sense of humility in all those who were ever graced with the presence of one of the men or any others like them.
They sat, legs crossed, looking down through their compound microscope that was no other than the eye of god, to Lawrence, Kansas. As they watched, the pair spoke in hushed voices-
"Are you sure he is the man you seek?" asked a large, dark-skinned man.
"I am sure of if, Uriel" nodded a much smaller, pale man with a drastic shock of brown hair. "I can see his soul and it is the color of a righteous man-a man of both love and war. No human's soul glows that color, save his; Dean Winchester."
"But he is merely a boy-only 24! Your age and wisdom exceeds him by millennia, Castiel, does this not worry you in the slightest?"
The angel that was Castiel shook his head, "A human's life span is much shorter than that of ours, my friend. It is of optimum importance that we seek him out in this moment. A mere breath in our lifetime is a life well lived in theirs"
Uriel "hmm"ed to himself at this, but he did not speak again for another moment.
"When will you approach him?" He questioned.
When Uriel asked this, he was not looking at Castiel. He watched as Dean Winchester, the righteous man, bent over and scooped up a handful of soggy dirt and threw it onto his father's coffin. He wiped his hands on his slacks, leaving a muddy brown streak on his crisp black trousers.
"Not now…I should think he needs a few days to…heal" Castiel said as if the word were foreign to him.
"Humans…they are not like us." He continued, "They form bonds and attachments to each other. Sometimes these connections can become quite strong, and the severing of said connections can cause irreparable damage. If that were to happen, our plans may be thwarted beyond repair-something which is not desirable."
"But Castiel" Uriel began, voice more urgent now, yet more hushed than it was before, "Is it safe for you to wait any longer?"
"I have waited this long, a few more weeks will do no harm. I just have to keep-"
"But what about the man?!" Uriel interrupted, "Is he to be trusted?"
Castiel cast his eyes down to the oldest Winchester, now piling his younger brothers into his car.
"We must have faith that when the day comes, Dean Winchester will-"
"Do not deceive me with your talk of faith and hope! You may trust him, but to any other angel in heaven he is just another knuckle-dragging, hairless ape- barely more evolved than the animals they so resemble!" He spat, his malice for human kind finally fizzing over after being bottle for so long.
"That is enough, Uriel!" Castiel commanded with more force than either had used with one another in a long time.
"Dean Winchester is a servant of the Lord! He is a righteous man and when the day comes for him to do his duty to heaven, he will fulfill his destiny without question! Do you have so little faith in God's Plan that you are willing to allow your hatred for his most beloved creations get the best of you?"
A heavy silence hung between the two friends for a long time after that. By the time Uriel spoke again, Dean Winchester had long since driven away from his father's funeral.
"How can you be so certain that this is God's plan?" he said quietly. He had subdued his rage for the time being, which left him with quiet resignation.
Castiel said nothing. He looked down at his hands, so small in their human form.
"If this was God's plan," the larger man continued, "why are you being hunted like common game? Why is he not protecting you if what you are doing is truly destined? Truly righteous?"
Another pause lingered between the pair. Castiel turned his hands over and put them to his sides, pushing himself up off the clouds. He then offered a hand to his partner, which the man took graciously.
When his friend pulled himself up to full height, Castiel stood back and looked the other angel in the eye. His azure orbs met muddy brown ones, and with as much conviction as the angel could muster, with as much sincerity he could pull from the depths of his being, Castiel answered;
"Because I have faith. And that is enough for me."
/
Castiel was alone. All around him the clouds were dark and the stars had just barely begun to peek out from behind the dusky overcast after yet another day of rain. His wings stood out against the haze, contrasting a stark white against the murky backdrop.
Below him, Dean Winchester slept peacefully in his bed alone, save for the plush pillows pressed against his back and stomach, his blanket pulled tight around his abdomen.
Castiel watched as the man turned over in his sleep, mouthing something ineligible. He watched his brow furrow, just as clearly as he watched the man's dreams. They were dark, much like the surrounding sky, and filled with sorrow, but hope-so much hope.
For a moment, Castiel thought he felt something tug at his heart. This would be the last night Castiel would be able to observe the Winchester's dreams, the last night Dean Winchester would sleep peacefully without the watchful eyes of Castiel, angel of the Lord, watching over him. For tomorrow, Dean Winchester's life was slated to change forever.
The next day, Castiel is going to meet Dean Winchester.
/
It's 4:46 pm on a Thursday afternoon in August.
Dean Winchester is driving a 2003 silver Toyota, because his beloved Impala is parked in his garage back home.
He is returning home from a day at work, and is looking forward to seeing Sam and Adam. He promised to help Adam with his science project that night, and to help Sam study for his algebra test.
Dean would like to think he is moving on from his father's death, but his white-knuckled grip on his steering wheel and 3 cups of coffee since 7 am say differently. But Dean doesn't listen to them, when has he ever listened to anything or anyone besides himself and his father?
Dean takes a sharp turn down an old country road, passing a heard of sheep in a pasture. He is peering around another bend in the road up ahead, but he never makes it to that turn.
Suddenly, something is hitting the hood of his car, and Dean is breaking as quick as he possibly can. His windshield is nearly shattered, the waves of impact shuddering through his car like volts of electricity.
When he steps out, all he can smell are the burning rubber of his Toyota's tires and something like scorched hair. It's unpleasant, but Dean isn't thinking about the smell right now, for when he reaches the front of his car, the young man visibly balks at what he sees.
The road looks like it has been hit by a crater, and instead of steaming with the heat of impact, whatever is in the hole is giving off a mystical blue gas.
Dean's never been a coward, but right now, he's afraid to look into the smoldering hole. And when he finally does look in, what he sees is about 1,000 times more bizarre than what he thought he'd see.
Because instead of a meteor, or shrapnel from some doomed aircraft, what Dean sees is a man.
A small, pale man (from what he can tell through the grime and dust) with a drastic shock of dark hair. He is bathed blue light; silent and unmoving.
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