Summary: AU. Witnessing the catastrophic death of his parents has left Dean Winchester haunted. At Sam's pleading request, Dean agrees to speak to a local priest about the things that are troubling him. Soon, Dean is forming a more profound bond with Father Novak than he ever thought possible. Destiel, implied Sabriel.

A/N: This first chapter is sufficiently angsty, fair warning. But please don't be dissuaded, it'll lighten up. It might even make you smile toward the end of it.

I Stayed in the Darkness with You

Chapter One: Enter Sandman

Dean awoke with a start, gasping in the stark silence of the room. As he blinked, trying to make out his surroundings in the darkness, it all came back to him. The motel room. Falling asleep. And the dream. Again.

"Dean?" Sam's voice carried through the dark room. He and Sam were on a 'vacation' in the sleepy little town of Pontiac, Illinois, one Dean hesitated to refer to by that name. The word vacation typically implied that the vacationers had a set date to return to their normal lives, or at the least that they had the intention of returning. But Dean wasn't sure he and Sam even had plans to go back to Lawrence. Ever.

"Mmm?" Dean slurred, trying to fool Sam into thinking he'd been sleeping all along, snoring at the most. But Sam wasn't stupid. He wouldn't think that.

"Did you have the dream again?"

Shit. Of course Sam figured it out. He always did.

It all started fifteen days earlier, back at their childhood home in Lawrence, Kansas. Sam and Dean had had a normal childhood, growing up thus far in a cute little house in a nice little town with a happy little family. Completely ordinary. However, all of that changed on one fateful night: May 2. Their parents, John and Mary, had gone out for a drive, celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary, not even bothering to inform 25 year old Dean and 21 year old Sam where they were headed. As they'd said, "It's our night and we're headed wherever the road takes us."

In a highly unfortunate twist of fate, that road had carried them nowhere good. It had been a cool night, extraordinarily cold for May, and a freezing rain was falling. Dean could remember teasing his parents, telling them to be careful and that the roads were slippery as they'd told him countless times when he'd been a brand new driver. He remembered the sound of John's 1967 Chevrolet Impala pulling out of the driveway as he and Sam waved goodbye, planning a fun-filled night of their own.

The second the Impala had fully disappeared into the darkness of the night, Sam and Dean had bolted outside, sharing a tattered umbrella and running to the Roadhouse down the road. Their plan for the night had consisted mainly of beer, beer, girls, and a little more beer. The memory was perfectly clear, as though it had been yesterday. Hell, it was probably a whole lot clearer to Dean than yesterday, or any other day since May 2. Because May 2 was the only day Dean kept re-living, over and over, stuck in his own worst nightmare. He'd brought that piece of the past into his present, and he was sure it wouldn't leave him, no matter how far into the future he got.

As they ran down the road, talking and laughing and already starting their night off on what seemed like the right foot, the brothers had heard a loud crashing noise, the horrible sound of metal on metal that shattered their easy nonchalance. Dean could recall throwing a sidelong glance at Sam, and he remembered the look of horror he saw plastered on Sam's face. They had stopped dead in their tracks, whipped around and taken off, full-on sprinting in the opposite direction, searching for the source of the shattering bang.

Their footfalls, perfectly in sync on the wet gravel, sounded somehow strange to Dean, more like thunderclaps than the soft, simple noise of feet falling on the ground. The rain was growing heavier and heavier as they ran, but the boys were relentless, never slowing down, never missing a beat.

Dean wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Of course, in a time like that, one would be bound to think the worst, to assume the most horrible truth possible. But sometimes those adrenaline-based suspicions turn out to be absolutely correct.

As Sam and Dean rounded a bend in the road, the source of the metallic crash came into view. A monstrous freight truck, easily an 18-wheeler and probably far larger, was spun around, sitting horizontally across the road, looking nearly unscathed aside from a miniscule dent in its front grille. And sitting on the edge of the road, there was Dean's worst fear.

Shiny black metal.

Rain fell on the wreckage, the fenders of the black classic twisted into unnatural angles, the front bumper laying off to the side about 20 feet. The Impala. Or what was left of it anyway.

"Sam, stop," Dean growled, a sharp, gravelly command. "Stay right there." He pointed to a spot on the edge of the road a safe distance from the car, a distance from which Sam could see what was happening but could never make out the details.

Dean wasn't even sure how he got Sam to listen to him, to stay put. Knowing his little brother, Dean had doubted that Sam would obey his order, fully expecting the younger man to follow him right into the scene of the crash. But apparently something in his voice had left no room for argument, no room for a challenge of any kind, because the next thing Dean knew, he was standing right next to the Impala. And he was alone.

Dean stooped down a bit, peering through the driver's side window but finding himself unable to make out anything at all inside the car, knocking on it frantically, wanting his father to just open it already. When nothing happened, Dean tried the door handle, but his pulls were to no avail. Locked.

He wasn't sure what to do, coherent thought not making itself readily available. After what could've been a split second or ten minutes, he had no fucking clue, Dean finally had a plan ready. He grabbed the bottom of his hunter green cotton t-shirt, pulling it with force that left no leeway. The cloth tore easily, a large strip unraveling in his hand, the hand he wrapped it around the second the action became possible. With one easy thrust and a whispered "Sorry, Dad" Dean's cloth-covered fist flew easily through the window, sending glass shattering across the interior of the car.

Surprisingly enough, John did not sit behind the steering wheel, but rather in the passenger seat. It was a rare occasion when Mary drove the Impala, but apparently tonight was one of those times. Dean's heart sank immediately when he saw his mother slumped forward against the steering wall, her blonde hair tinted with shades of pink-ish red. Her arms were in two entirely different but equally anatomically improbable positions, one balled up in a fist and smashed at an unnatural angle between her body and the steering wheel, the other twisted in the strangest of ways, the fingers laced with John's.

"Mom?" Dean called, and when no response was to be heard, he called a little louder, "MOM?"

Nothing. Stark silence.

The rest of his rescue endeavor passed in a blur, and by the time he heard sirens nearing from down the road, the harsh reality of the situation had already hit him. They were dead. There was no hope. There was already no hope when Dean reached his parents, never mind once the emergency responders reached them.

All Dean could remember was the way the flashing red, white, and blue lights had played strikingly in the drops of falling rain, mixing with the liquid of his tears and making the world look like a streaky, poorly painted flag. He remembered the cold, no the downright bitter, wind whipping against his jeans, numbing his skin where they were torn into little rips that weren't a part of the pants' original design. But most of all, he remembered how stained the seats of the Impala were, red washing over their normal peaceful, creamy tan, making them look like the poor, innocent fields haunted by the echoes of past wars that had taken place on them, tainted by the blood shed there and resonating with chords of a life all their own.

And then there were those eyes. His father's had been closed at least, peaceful, easier. It was Mary's eyes that haunted Dean. Eyes that were wide and blue and shocked, as though she'd seen it coming, seen Death at her doorstep in the most shocking of ways, seem that dually coming at her and knowing she'd had no control over her fate, over the fate of her husband on their 25th anniversary, her only solace the feel of holding his hand one last time. Those eyes were so distinctly dead that they shook Dean right to his very core, and the reverberations of that shaking had not yet ceased, not even weeks later. They still echoed in his subconscious; no matter how hard he tried to repress the memory, and damnit he tried his best, he was haunted.

"Dean...?" Sam repeated, gently prodding his brother once more for a response to the question he'd proposed, his voice soft and careful in the darkness of their motel room.

The air felt heavy to Dean, making breathing feel like a battle. But he gathered strength from the reservoir he'd been tapping into almost constantly as of late, needing to answer Sam, needing to put his fears to rest. "Nope, I'm fine Sammy. Don't you worry about me."

Sam simply snorted in the darkness, recognizing the lie just from his brother's too-quick answer and too-even tone of voice. It was almost robotic, an answer Dean had used so often in the past days that Sam recognized it instantly. "Bull. Shit. Dean. I know you had the dream again, I'm absolutely positive. I just wish you'd talk to me about it..."

"About what Sam, what?" Dean answered, his voice harsher than he intended, causing even him to grimace at the sound of it. "They're dead. There's no changing that, and no amount of feeling our feelings in brotherly expressions of love or chick-flick moments will change that."

Sam was rendered silent for quite some time, simply unable to form words of any kind. What could he say to that? He'd been horribly worried about Dean for the past two weeks, the way he wouldn't even speak to anybody for days after the accident; the way he left all the funeral arrangements to Sam and Bobby, a close friend of John's, the man who found John his love, his Impala, who'd always had a hand in raising the boys; the way Dean never left John's mechanic garage, fixing and buffing and washing and waxing the Impala, refusing to give up on it, needing to fix it, to have it 'back to normal', no matter how far from normal it would always be; the way he had eaten and slept in terrifyingly meager portions in that garage until the Impala was fixed, back to looking 'brand new'; and especially the way Dean had been awaking every night screaming or gasping for air, constantly living in fear of sleep for fear of having the recurring dream he'd never actually explained to Sam.

"I'm sorry," Dean murmured, breaking the silence that had left Sam at a rare loss for words. "I'm really sorry Sammy. I didn't mean to go off on you like that, and I hope you realize that. I just... I just don't really want to talk about it. I can't. So get some sleep, and don't worry about me, I'll be okay."

"Alright..." Sam answered, a sigh in his voice, but he rolled over and went to sleep, leaving Dean to his thoughts as he'd requested. Sam was a good kid like that, a good little brother. He listened, he understood, and above all, he respected Dean's wishes. Always had.

It seemed like an eternity before Dean saw the first rays of the morning sun peeking through the single window of the little motel room. He hadn't drifted back off into oblivion, partly because he was just too tired to even fall asleep and partly because he really just wanted to avoid the dream. And he knew it would come the second he fell prey to the sandman. It always did.

Dean had already taken a drive down to a rundown diner in the tiny center of the little town, picking up greasy breakfasts for himself and Sam. His original plan was to wait for Sam, to have breakfast together, but he'd been too hungry. He'd given in and just eaten his bit of bacon, pouring himself a cup of the stale, black coffee available in the room, and was already contemplating running back to the diner for a second serving of bacon and eating breakfast with Sam anyway by the time his brother stirred in bed.

Sam was funny that morning, almost secretive. He'd taken a long, silent shower, not bothering to turn on the small radio in the bathroom as was his custom. He hadn't really made any effort to speak to Dean, really only answering direct questions. He'd even eaten his breakfast funny, his eyes unfocused as he sipped his coffee and munched halfheartedly on his ham, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich, the sort he usually devoured ravenously.

Maybe it had been a single thing, or maybe it was the combination of things, but something tipped Dean off that Sam had something up his sleeve. He had to. "I can see the wheels in turning in that head of yours," Dean said all too knowingly, "What are you planning?"

Sam remained aloof, still holding onto some secret of his. "Uh, nothing too much," he responded, but his eyes betrayed him, "Wanna go for a drive?"

"Only if I'm the one doing the driving." Dean had driven every single day since he'd fixed the Impala, as if it wasn't even a question anymore. And Sam knew why. He knew he'd never want Sam to feel responsible for an accident that harmed or even killed his brother. He knew he'd rather have the burden on himself than ever put that on his little brother. And most of all, after what they'd seen, he just wanted to be the protector.

"Not today," Sam said, mimicking that commanding tone Dean had used so effectively on him, praying that it would work. "I mean, please? I haven't driven the Impala since... Since everything. For old time's sake?"

"Put the freakin' puppy dog eyes away." Dean rolled his own eyes in feigned exasperation, but Sam saw a ghost of a smile cross his lips, the closest Dean had been to a smile since the accident. More importantly, as Dean walked toward the door, he threw the keys at Sam in that way he always used to, that playful, brotherly way Sam missed so much.

"Do I at least get to know where we're going?" Dean asked once they were seated in the Impala and Sam was driving along the quiet road. A mist hung in the air, setting Dean's nerves on alert, pushing him toward a dangerous edge in his psyche.

"It's a surprise."

And with that, the rest of the ride was silent. Sam concentrated on the road, sneaking worried glances at Dean every few moments, knowing the fog would be stressing him out. Dean watched Sam, in part to make sure his eyes remained on the road and his hands remained on the wheel, and in part just to avoid looking out at the fog. The radio was turned off, something so uncharacteristic of Dean that it worried Sam perhaps more than anything else. That radio hadn't been turned on since the accident, or not that Sam knew of at least. Perhaps his brother thought it'd be 'a distraction', some catalyst lurking in the shadows and waiting to set off the next horrible accident. Regardless of his reasons though, Sam didn't bother trying to touch it. He wanted Dean comfortable, especially today.

Sam pulled the Impala into a parking lot on the other side of town, and the second he rolled in into park, Dean released a disgusted little grunt. "The fuck, Sam? Why are we at church?"

Sam averted his gaze, almost as though he was embarrassed by what he was about to say. He answered his brother's question while staring out the windshield. "I'm worried about you, Dean, really worried about you. You won't talk to me, I'm amazed you even let me drive this car today. I'm fully aware of the fact that you hardly sleep, and when you do, you typically wake up screaming. I know you can't stop thinking about the accident, I know you're still living that day, over and over, and I want to stop you. I don't want you to be stuck in May 2nd forever." Dean saw Sam blink quickly as his eyes glazed over a little bit. Sam was about to cry. "And Dean, I set up a meeting for you. I know I should have told you, but you'd never have agreed to it if I'd asked. So I just did it."

"Sam, I don't-" Dean began, but his brother cut off his words before he was allowed to finish the thought.

"Dean please. I am begging you. Please just go talk to the priest. He's a nice guy, I promise. He's young and he's new and he gets it. If you don't do it for yourself, do it for me? Just give him a shot; you don't have to come back if you don't want to. Just this once. Please?"

Dean sighed deeply. Every fiber of his being wanted to refuse, wanted to physically pull Sam out of the driver's seat, throw him into the passenger seat, and drive the Impala back to the motel himself. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to some priest. And yet, as he watched his brother, still staring out the windshield in a refusal to look at him, as Dean saw one single tear run down Sam's cheek, he gave. Sam had been through a lot lately, almost as much as Dean himself had, and Dean couldn't bear to see his little brother like that. Maybe it was just a gesture to please Sam, maybe Dean couldn't bear to cause him more pain, but regardless, Dean found himself getting out of the Impala and walking toward the church door, Sam jogging after him the second he figured out that Dean had silently agreed.

The inside of the church was cool and dimly lit, its emptiness causing every little noise to echo through its walls. The high ceiling was intricately crafted from dark wood rafters, standing in contrast with its light tan walls, giving it an old-world feel. Dean turned back, tossing a questioning look over his shoulder toward Sam. It would appear that they were alone.

But apparently Sam knew something Dean didn't, because he instantly knocked lightly on a door just to their left. It seemed that whoever was inside must have been on their way out anyway, judging by how quickly the door opened in response. A short man stood in the doorway, wearing some long robe which Dean would never in a million years have known what to call. Nor did he care what it was called. The man had light sandy brown hair and light eyes to match, standing a good six inches shorter than Sam, an annoying little smirk glued to his face.

"Sammy," the little man said, recognizing Sam in an instant. Every aspect of this man for some reason irked Dean endlessly, and the way he called Sam 'Sammy' only furthered his annoying effect.

"Hey Gabriel," Sam replied. Huh. So they knew each other. "This is my brother, Dean."

"I assumed," Gabriel replied, taking a slow, drawn out look at Dean. "Aren't you a little old to come running to the adults when you have nightmares? I was expecting a child..."

"Gabe." Sam spoke in a mortified tone, his face conveying shock as if Gabriel had just told Dean his deepest, darkest secret. "Sorry Dean, I-"

"Aren't you a little old to be an altar boy?" Dean returned, annoyed, cutting off Sam's apology.

Gabe laughed, the sound of it as obnoxious to Dean as everything else about this Gabriel character. "Touché."

"Uh," Sam began, still looking horribly embarrassed, "Is Father Novak in, Gabe?" He turned his attention away from Dean as he spoke, looking down instead to meet the eyes of the shorter man. He couldn't even bear to look at his brother after Gabriel had given away the fact that Sam had told him about Dean's dreams. He wouldn't have been surprised if Dean turned and walked out on the spot. And he wouldn't have blamed him either.

"Duh, you did have an appointment with him," Gabriel answered, still laughing like a child after telling what he thought was the funniest knock-knock joke of all time. "He's in the confessional." The second Gabriel pointed toward the door across the church, Dean was gone. He had no intention of sticking around that guy any longer than necessary. Gabriel could be Sam's problem now.

When Dean reached the little dark wood door, adorned with a simple little cross made of coal-black iron and a doorknob made of identical metal, he wasn't sure what to do. First he reached for the doorknob, but then he thought better of it and raised his hand awkwardly to knock instead, swearing he could hear Gabriel laughing from across the church as he did. However, before he could move his hand to hit the door, it stood ajar in front of him. Man, what was with these people and opening their doors before one had a chance to knock properly?

"Hello," a smooth, gravelly voice said immediately, catching Dean off guard, "I am Father Novak. But Castiel will do just fine." The man standing in front of Dean smiled, parting thick pink lips to flash a straight, white smile at him. Dark hair stood on all ends in a hairdo that made the man look as though he'd just rolled out of bed. But it worked. It probably wasn't even possible for his hair to look any better any other way. Endlessly deep cerulean eyes pierced Dean's, conveying a friendly, understanding greeting of their own. He was about as tall as Dean, perhaps a little shorter, and slight of frame, not overly muscular, but adequately built. His long black robe hung loosely over his shoulders, apparently a couple of sizes too large for him, only driving home the fact that he was brand new to this parish.

"H-hi Cas," Dean stuttered, then finished the thought with, "-tiel" after he'd realized he'd left off the end of the man's name, as though he had been trying to make up some stupid pet name. After a second, he amended, "Father Novak."

Castiel simply laughed it off, a deep, throaty noise that matched the richness of his voice note for note. "Cas, huh?" he questioned. "Well nobody has ever called me that... But I like it. Feel free to make use of it." He finished with a comforting smile, extending his hand.

Dean reached out for his hand, shaking it as he introduced himself, "Dean Winchester."

"So I've heard," Cas murmured, motioning for Dean to follow him into the small confessional room.

Here's hoping you found that enjoyable, even though it did start on a bit of a somber note. Opinions would be much appreciated, and a next chapter should be up shortly, after I edit it a bit. Until then, though, so very much love to the reviewers.