A/N: This is the first story in a mild AU/canon divergence series I've been writing with a friend, called The Other Guardian 'verse. There's a detailed note about it on my profile page, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

This story is set right after Dean is raised from Hell - it borrows from the events of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester," when Sam and Castiel met for the first time, but there's no raising of Samhain here. Centers on the characters' impressions after this iconic meeting. Sam and Castiel centric.

Warnings: None.

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I Shall Not Want

Castiel preferred the roofs of churches. There was a coldness and solitude that could not be touched when he stood between the arch of flying buttresses and the glitter of stained glass, staring out into the gray of a winter storm. The snow had obliterated the heads of the gargoyles along the gutter, turned them into formless monsters with stunted wings, hunched at the edge of the roof as if they feared the crippling fall. Castiel stepped into the space between two of them and squinted through the blowing snow.

The town was all but silent. A few cars rattled through the streets below him, spewing gray clouds of exhaust and skidding on the icy asphalt, but most of the world as it spread out from the church was stillness and white sidewalks and trees bent under the weight of the snowfall. The Winchesters' hotel was just visible in the distance, its red shingles barely showing through layers of blown snow. Castiel could easily have stood on that roof instead, amid the air conditioners and the detritus of broken branches, withered leaves, extinguished cigarettes. The church had seemed close enough.

A flurry of snowflakes brushed against his hand, motionless at his side; the second sensation he had ever felt through that skin. Castiel lifted it slowly, examining his palm and the flex of his fingers. It had seemed small, suddenly, compared to the other hand, the long fingers wrapped around his with such enthusiasm, such desperation. It had taken two hands to cover Sam Winchester's. He had not expected that.

Castiel had hardly been aware of him at first—the younger brother. He had preceded Dean into the hotel room, weapon drawn, but Castiel's attention had been fixed a few feet behind him on the racing pulse of his primary charge, the one who had struggled so as he was dragged from Hell that Castiel's hand had seared into his shoulder. It wasn't until the gun dropped, and understanding dawned on Sam Winchester's face, that Castiel sensed him as anything more than a shadow presence, footsteps a beat out of sync with Dean's. The greeting had been automatic.

Hello, Sam.

Castiel did not know what he had been expecting from Sam Winchester. He hadn't thought he was expecting anything at all. But he had been surprised how quickly the lines of the young man's face opened up, lost all sharpness. Suspicion, adrenaline, and a fragment of what Castiel suspected to be fear, hardened over the long years until it looked like fearlessness—all of those were swept away by awe, by faith, by the eagerness of his open hand extended hopefully into the space between them.

Castiel had heard thousands of voices raised in prayer, not only asking but believing, searching for an answer of any kind, for anything reaching back. He wondered if the expression Sam wore at that moment, when he held out his hand, was the same as those hundreds of thousands of souls might have worn as they made their devotions.

Oh my God. Er… ah… I didn't mean to… sorry. It's an honor. Really. I've heard a lot about you.

Castiel stared out into the snow and relived the details of Sam's features at that instant—his lips parted on a drawn breath, his eyes wide above a tentative smile, the lift in his shoulders. He wore his faith right there on his face—the deep, heartfelt faith of a true believer, faith that had weathered many storms, battered but never broken. Sam was different from Dean—Castiel knew it at that moment, though he did not care.

And I you.

Castiel had expected to be able to feel it in his hand—had expected it to be warm with hellfire, with a taint two decades old. But it was cool to the touch, just a human hand. Castiel cupped it in both of his and marveled at how cold those fingertips were, so susceptible to a few minutes outside in the snow, as mortal and fragile as any other hand.

Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood.

The lines had returned to his face suddenly, his expression pinched, confused, as if his entire soul were crying out Wait, wait. Castiel wondered if his words, though correct, had somehow been wrong. But Uriel had taken over then, put Sam in his place, explained their arrangement to the Winchesters—that there might be consequences of Dean's time in Hell that Heaven could not yet foresee, and that Castiel would be nearby, an angel if not a guardian. Castiel had let his subordinate do the majority of the talking, because Uriel was far more accustomed than he to communication with lesser beings. But throughout the conversation his attention had drifted again and again to his fingertips, still reeling from the sensation of brushing against cool skin, skin that should have burned with the blood of the damned, should have sizzled against his—but did nothing, was nothing but human. Castiel turned his hand over and caught a cluster of snowflakes on his palm, and looked out over the world, and wondered.

"See something you like?"

The flutter of folding wings reached him at the same time as the words, and Castiel glanced over his shoulder, the dark-skinned vessel behind him standing out sharply against the white slope of the church roof. The black suit he wore was dusted with snowflakes before his wings had even settled at his back.

"Uriel." Castiel watched his brother angel for a moment, and then turned back to the storm, lowering the hand he had been considering to his side. "I thought you had already returned to Heaven."

There was the whisper of a shoe in the snow, Uriel shifting one foot. "Soon." Castiel heard the crunch of steady steps, and then Uriel stepped up beside him at the edge of the drop, the frozen wings of a disfigured gargoyle rising between them. Uriel looked down as a truck thundered past the church, hunks of brown slush flying from its wheel. "You are staying," Uriel said.

Castiel followed the truck with his eyes. "For now. I will return to the garrison as soon as I am able. I don't expect this to interfere with our normal operations."

A deep chuckle rumbled up from Uriel's throat. It was a strange sound to hear from another angel—amusement that had always been metaphysical reduced to vibrations in the air.

"Take your time, Castiel. This is no ordinary assignment, after all. This is divine will of the highest importance."

Castiel didn't care to look beyond words in most circumstances. But there was an undercurrent to Uriel's voice, a curling sneer, that he could not ignore. Castiel turned far enough to study the derision on his brother's face.

"You disagree," he said.

Uriel scoffed. "Never. The will of Heaven is absolute. I only wish to know what greater plan we're fulfilling that involves catering to such filth."

Castiel exchanged stares with Uriel's dark, unreadable eyes. "You are dangerously close to blasphemy."

Uriel tipped his head, his gaze flitting from the ground to the twisted face of the gargoyle before it snapped back to Castiel. "If I confess myself, will you forgive me?"

Castiel turned away. He stared into the gray clouds grappling in the sky above them, the endless snowflakes the shrapnel of their clash, and felt Uriel's grace pulsing beside him—too close to pride, to rage, to be pure light. He waited for the throb of emotions to subside, let Uriel remember himself, as he always did, in moments of silence. Then he shifted at the edge of the roof and watched a flicker of snowflakes surrender to the fall, spiraling down to the white steps of the church.

"Return," he said, nodding once. "The garrison is to be under your charge in my absence."

An expression of interest flickered over Uriel's face. "You trust me with that."

It was not a question, not quite a statement. Uriel knew that the choice was not his, wasn't looking for an affirmation. Castiel wasn't sure what he was looking for. Perhaps just a reaction. Castiel turned and found his brother's eyes fixed on his face, waiting, curiosity or fascination curling the line of his stoic lips. Castiel frowned.

"Trust is not an issue." He paused, weighing his words, and glanced out over the city again, measuring the snowfall on the red roof slowly disappearing from view. "When Lucifer challenged God and the laws of Heaven, he declared himself, and battled, and fell. Deceit is not in our nature."

Uriel's laugh was a puff of air at his lips, a flicker of steam disappearing in the wind. "You always did mind your history."

For an instant, all was silence, Castiel watching Uriel and Uriel watching him in return, and waiting, Castiel was sure, though what he was waiting for was unknowable. Then Uriel stepped up to the very edge of the roof, the tips of his shoes hanging over the void, and Castiel felt him unfurl his wings, their great spread dwarfing the gargoyle held captive under the snow.

"Well, you have your orders," Uriel said, the black suit of his borrowed form flapping in the wind.

Castiel pressed his lips together. "I will protect the Winchesters."

Uriel's dark eyes stared into him. "Dean Winchester. The other is of no consequence." Then he turned his back, and the snowflakes swirled around them, displaced by the movement of his beating wings. "I don't know how you can touch that, Castiel, knowing where it's been."

Castiel said nothing as Uriel's wings burst forth and he disappeared into the cloudbreak, the wind exploding over the roof in the absence of his presence. He said nothing but in his mind he reconsidered the wonder on Sam's face, and the cool skin of his hand, and discarded Uriel's exclusion. Because Uriel's emotions ran too high when it came to the sons of man. Because it would be more trouble to keep them separate in his mind than to watch over both. Because they were all as children before the soldiers of God. Because they were human hands. Castiel closed his eyes and felt the snow on his face, and erased the distinction, from his mind and from his task. He would protect the Winchesters. Anything else was far too complicated.