Dean Winchester thought so very little of himself. He had good aim and a smart mouth, but take that away, and what did he have? A burning drive to be better, better, better. The ever present need to please, please, please. A brother, an anchor, the only thing holding him to Earth at all. Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Strip these things away, and Dean did not have an identity. Take away these borrowed traits, these desperate needs… and what was left, well, he wasn't sure you could call it a man at all.
Perhaps that's what drove him to self-destruction. He'd gotten it stuck in his head that if he died for his cause, if he gave away the one tiny life that he was allowed, then all was even. The deaths that weighed on his mind in the middle of the night, the souls he had tortured in the blackest pits of hell, the horrific things he had spit at his brother in times of frustration… they could be forgiven. He could be forgiven.
Sometimes, when a broken heart and drunken tongue betrayed him, Dean would admit to these things and how heavy they were on his shoulders. He would speak aloud and spill his dark secrets, his black regrets. His words would echo in the empty motel rooms, through the fields he parked in to drink. It was only when Dean thought he was alone that he could ever talk about such things. But what Dean didn't know was that he had a guardian angel. He had someone watching over him, praying for him, fighting for him.
And this guardian angel could not bare to watch anymore. He did what he could; he comforted in the ways he knew how. But he was inept in such subjects, he floundered at human emotion. So he did what he always did when things went awry. He prayed to a god that he wasn't entirely sure existed anymore. He begged for some relief, for something to lessen the burden on Dean Winchester's shoulders.
After many years of desperate cries and angry shouting, the angel's voice was heard. Dean was a broken man, self-professed poison. There was only so much stitching one angel could do, only so much glue that could be applied to hold the shattered pieces together.
When his outrage was loud enough, when his desperation was deep enough, the god that so many had given up on stirred. He listened to the angel's prayers.
Give him a second chance. A new life. Don't let him feel poisoned. Don't let him be broken.
And He did just that.
I found you as a beaten man, just as before. In the battle's heat, we would once again forge our profound bond. My first sight through these fresh eyes was your bloody face. And no matter how broken, I knew
I knew that I would always love you.
The air was always hot and dry here. It was the sort of heat that made Dean second guess his memories of cool, gentle breezes and soft, fluffy snow. In a place like this, such things didn't even seem possible.
An aching thirst in his sandpaper throat was now his constant companion. He never seemed to get enough to drink before they sent him off, but he had to make his water last. If Dean drank until his thirst stopped making his tongue itch, his canteen would be empty within ten minutes of being on the field. Self-control was a skill he sharpened every day because of this.
Not for the first time, Dean found himself silently thanking his father for all the survival lessons as a kid. The countless afternoons in the forest, being taught how to hunt and gather and ration his provisions, came flooding back to him now. Homesickness rolled through Dean as he pictured the trees behind his house in Lawrence, the forest he had trained in, grown up in. John was hard on him, some would even say cruel to him, but those nights where he was left to his own devices in the middle of the woods and trusted to find his way back home alive… they made him stronger now.
Of course, Dean's father had never been to Iraq. John didn't know how it felt to have the sun slowly burn you alive day after day. Sometimes it was so hot that Dean thought his skin would bubble and his blood would boil. But the ex-marine's lessons came in handy nonetheless. Because of him, Dean knew how to fire a gun (he was a pretty good shot, too), his body was strong and well-conditioned, and he was even practiced in hand to hand combat. The thing that he had taken away most from John, though, was the soldier mentality. Everything about Dean read military: his short hair, his posture, even his speech. He took orders without question, he had proper respect for his superiors… Yes, Dean Winchester was the perfect soldier.
And why wouldn't he be? Dean had been training practically since birth to get to this point, to be on the front lines defending his country. But with all the blood, sweat, and tears invested into the journey, Dean expected to feel more... fulfilled. Of course, he was proud to protect those back home, and he was glad he was (mostly) able to live up to John's expectations, but something about his life still felt empty. The way Dean's father had built it up, there was not a more complete way of life. There was no higher honor. Being a soldier was the best way you could spend your numbered days on Earth.
Now that he was here, though, Dean wasn't so sure. He had given up so much to follow the plan. Plan, plan, plan. That's all he ever heard about growing up.
"Follow the plan, Dean."
"You know that's not part of that plan, son."
"It's your duty to train, Dean. It's all part of the plan."
Usually, Dean didn't argue. He just wanted to make his dad proud. But when he had to skip his first dance to go to junior boot camp… well, who could blame him for being a little resentful? He didn't talk to his father for the entire eight hour drive to the camp, didn't send him a single letter for the two weeks he was there. It wasn't until Dean realized that his anger was getting him nowhere that he finally decided to accept his fate. He was a born and bred military man. It was in his blood.
Sometimes Dean wondered if that was all he would ever be good for, following orders and fighting. He wasn't the best at school, and he didn't really have any talents outside of what his father had taught him. The best he could produce in art class was a stick man, his writing was mediocre, and he couldn't carry a tune in a freaking bucket. It seemed like he was programed for war, destined for it perhaps. Anything outside of it was simply not within his capabilities.
In the grand scheme of things, perhaps Dean was better off in his decision to join the army. What other future did he have? There was no way he had the grades to get into a college, not one that was worth going to anyway. Besides cars, he didn't have interests that could be turned into a career. And though he loved working on the Impala, Dean wasn't too sure that he would like working on some rich yuppie's Mercedes for minimum wage. At least the army gave him a job, an income, something to do with his time after high school. Maybe it wasn't ideal, and yeah, maybe it was more his dad's dream than his own, but it really wasn't that bad.
Until he got shot. Everything in his world changed when he got shot.
Dean had been doing a routine patrol of one of the towns they had claimed. He had split off from his group to check on a family he had met the day before. They had lost their son when evacuating from their village, and asked Dean to help them look for him. He'd gone around for hours asking the locals if they had seen a boy by the family's description. He hadn't had any luck, but he thought that he might have better luck if he could get a picture to show around. He never made it to their house to ask for one.
Dean figured that he was a scared civilian, probably part of the group that had to evacuate the village ten miles away. There was a lot of talk among the townspeople that the bombs being dropped on the village belonged to the U.S. Hell, for all Dean knew, they could have been. Had he been put in that position, maybe he would have done the same thing.
Dean had just rounded the corner of the street with the house the family was staying at when he came face to face with a young man. He couldn't have been more than seventeen. In his trembling hands, he held a gun. Before Dean could open his mouth to try and talk him down, to ask him what the hell he was thinking, the bullet pierced through his uniform and the soft skin of his stomach. The pain was instant and fierce, and Dean couldn't help but fall to his knees. He clutched his stomach, looking up at the boy who shot him questioningly. His hands were already slick with blood, and his vision was tunneling. He only had a matter of moments.
"Why?" Dean heard himself ask. "Why?"
His consciousness faded before he could hope to hear the young man's reply.
White walls. White bed sheets. White tiles. So much white.
That was all Dean could think of when he opened his eyes. Why was everything so… colorless? These thoughts only stayed for a moment, though. The next thing to hit him was the pain.
At first, Dean could not discern the source of his agony. His entire body seemed to ache and protest. His muscles were sore. It hurt when he breathed. Oh god, it hurt when he breathed. He had to bite the inside of his cheek from crying out. After giving himself a few moments to acclimate to his new aches and pains, Dean took inventory.
He had all four of his limbs; that was good. All of his fingers and toes too. He was fairly certain his ribs were broken, considering his troubled breathing. Once he slipped the covers down and pulled up his hospital gown, he found the source of the problem. The bandage wrapped around his torso brought the scene back to his mind. The scorching sun. Trying to find the missing kid's family. The guy with the gun. Getting shot.
Shit, he'd been shot!
Well, that explained the broken ribs. If the bullet had enough force to pierce Dean's uniform, it definitely had enough for to break a bone. Or twelve.
Now that Dean knew where he was and why, he was free to worry about other things. Like what the hell that kid had done after he had shot him. Or why he'd shot him. Or if his team was okay. What if he'd gone after them after trying to ice Dean?
That lead Dean to another thought. How the hell had he gotten here? He didn't remember an ambulance coming to get him. Actually, he didn't remember anything at it. He remembered kneeling on the dusty ground, trying to hold his blood in… And then… blackness. Had his team found him? Or had another squad come to assist? He hoped it was the former. If another team had to come in, that meant blood was shed.
Dean needed to talk to someone. He had to know what was going on. It took some looking, which required moving and agitating his wound, but he found what he liked to called the "universal remote" of hospitals. It had buttons to move your bed up, down, backwards, or forwards, even one to change the thermostat. But these weren't the ones he was interested in. He scanned the remote, his vision still a little blurry, but succeeded in reading the one that said "NURSE." He pressed it without enthusiasm and waited.
Several minutes passed before a short, stocky man entered the room. His hair was close cropped, as expected, and very black. His large nose drew most of the attention, but he had quite extraordinary eyes as well. They were pale and gray, with specks of yellow that matched the trim on his blue scrubs. He gave Dean a quick, friendly smile before taking the seat next to his bed.
"What can I do for you, Soldier Winchester?" the nurse asked.
"I'd like to know how the hell I got here, and what happened to my team." The nurse laughed like Dean's answer was humorous. This made Dean annoyed. "I'm being serious."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend. It's just... when most people are shot, they want to know what kind of damage there was and such." The nurse was still grinning. "I'm David, by the way."
"Well, David, I can figure I have some broken ribs. I'm alive, so obviously the damage wasn't too serious. Let's move on. What happened to my team?" Dean asked in a steely voice.
"All of them are okay, I promise. The gunman was taken down before anyone got hurt."
This settled Dean's nerves a bit. If his squad was okay, and all the civilians were okay, then he wasn't a total failure.
"How did I get here?" was his next question.
"Another team was on patrol in the area. One of their soldiers found you and radioed in an ambulance. He's actually still here, if you'd like to talk to him," David offered.
Anything would be better than talking to you, Dean thought to himself. Give me one more cheesy smile and I might hurl.
"Yeah, I'd like to talk to him. What's his name?"
"Castiel Novak. Kind quirky, but he's a nice guy. I'll go get him for you."
Without further discussion, David rose and disappeared out the door. Dean let out a sigh of relief.
Castiel Novak. He'd never heard the name before. He must have been fresh from boot camp then. They often sent the noobies out on patrol first, since it was usually uneventful. Unfortunately for Castiel, that hadn't been the case. All the more reason that thank the kid.
It'd only been a couple minutes tops, but David was already back. Behind him was tall, well built man. His dark hair was short, but not quite as short as David's. His skin was sun kissed, just like everyone else here. Dean looked him up and down before looking him in the eyes. Oh, his eyes. Dean had thought David's were interesting, but this man's put his to shame. They were icy blue at the center, getting darker and richer toward the edges. Like a pool of spring water, or the ocean.
Something in Dean stirred at the sight of this man. A nagging feeling that he knew him from somewhere, like an actor in a new role whose face you'd have to stare down for a moment before you could place them.
The man stepped around David in a fluid, graceful movement. He came to stand at the end of Dean's bed, his intense gaze focused on him.
"Hello Dean," he said. "I'm the soldier that saved you."