A/N: This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series 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. All stories are co-written with my friend AccidentaLeft.

This story follows "Fade to Black," but it isn't necessary to read that first. This will be a multi-chaptered story tracing a series of little moments between Sam and Castiel at the beginning of their relationship, and following the evolution of uncertainty into friendship, and then into something that hangs by a thread, whispering the word more. Sam and Cas centric, but Dean often joins in.

Warnings: None.

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Stepping Stones

Warmth I

Sam stuffed his hands down in his pockets as he shuffled through the deep snowdrifts of the conifer forest, ducking white pine boughs with every step. Northern Wisconsin in the winter was turning out to be a major downer; even though it was only afternoon, it was ten degrees past too cold already, and the snow was so deep under the trees that the flakes slid in over the tops of even his enormous boots. Sam pulled the sides of his coat closer together. The edges of the puffy blue jacket barely overlapped, forget about zipping, and the cuffs of his brown jacket stuck out awkwardly from the sleeves.

The hunter felt almost as ridiculous as he looked stuffed into the coat two sizes too small, but it was cold enough that they'd been forced to buy an odd assortment of winter clothes at a thrift store—and while Dean could always seem to find something in his size, Sam generally wound up with about what he had on: a puffin coat that bunched around him like the Michelin man, a striped ski hat with a tassel ball on the top, and a pair of gloves with so much lining he couldn't hope to so much as turn a door handle.

"Horrifying, Sam" had been his brother's helpful comment as he suited up to leave the cabin they were renting earlier that morning. "I hope you're not going to question anyone, dude, because right now I would not talk to you, and I know you, man."

"Hilarious," Sam replied, struggling to force his gloved fingers around the doorknob. "I'm just going to check out the river."

Dean sat up straighter, and Sam glanced back, catching the concerned look that flitted across his brother's face. The tall hunter sighed a little, giving up on the door handle and working the gloves off his fingers.

"Dude, don't worry," Sam said. "It's broad daylight, and I have no intention of actually going out on the ice, so I should be fine."

Dean's nose crinkled, and he shook his head, rocking his chair onto its back legs. "I'm not worried about the ghost, Sammy," he said. "But there are going to be people at the river. Seriously—have you seen yourself?"

Sam sighed, holding one fat black glove in the other hand as he finally got the doorknob to turn. "I can handle it. Just don't miss your meeting, Inspector Waters. And seriously—bundle up, Dean. It's cold." As if to prove his point, icy air hissed in as Sam pushed the door open against the wind. A small flurry of snow burst into the entryway like unwelcome confetti.

"Close the door!" was his brother's final complaint as Sam slipped out, pushing the heavy door back into its frame.

It took a minute to get his gloves back on—mostly because trying to force his fingers down into the two-sizes-too-small accessories was like trying to shove his hand into a wet plastic bag with his fingers swathed in bubble wrap. In those few seconds, the chill had gotten into him, and it stayed with Sam for the rest of the afternoon, all through his investigation and even now, on his way back to the cabin, the icy river winding silently through the trees at his back.

Bobby had turned the boys onto this case: a tiny logging town where ice was inexplicably breaking in the dead of winter. So far two people had gone under: one a little girl on skates, who had been pulled out immediately, and the second a seasoned logger who had been rescued but lost a foot and three fingers to frostbite. Both times, completely solid ice more than a foot thick had suddenly split, creating a chasm into the deadly cold waters below. It hadn't been difficult to discover the cause with a town this small—he was only three back issues into the library's archive of the local paper when he hit the headline about the tragedy of John Lander, who had fallen through an ice fishing hole in the river and been swept downstream until he got caught on a matt of driftwood and froze to death right there under the ice.

Dean had been right and people had given him a wide berth at the river, probably in no small part because he looked like a backup dancer for Elf the Musical—again, Dean's pleasant sentiment. That was just as well, though, because it had given Sam a chance to examine the spot where John Lander had gone in, which was now essentially his grave. John Lander's body was too deep in the frozen river to be chiseled out, but close enough to the surface for his frozen face and hand to been visible through the opaque white of the ice. It confirmed Sam's suspicion that John's ghost was most likely breaking the ice in an attempt to free itself from the awful death it was trapped in. The conundrum was how to salt and burn a body they couldn't even reach.

Sam wasn't sure if his fingers were going numb or if he just couldn't feel anything because he'd wrapped them in eight layers of polyester, but whichever it was he picked up his pace, stepping out onto the hard ice of the empty backwoods road that led to the cabin. The wind picked up and bit into his raw cheeks. Sam ducked his head. Dean would probably be finished impersonating an Inspector from the Health and Safety Commission by now, and in this weather, it wasn't likely that anyone else would go out to the river, which meant they could probably take the rest of the night off without worrying about anyone else dying. The small cabin came into view in the distance, just a smudge of thick brown logs standing out against the snow, and Sam fought down a shiver from the icy snowmelt running down his collar, reminding himself of the thermostat and hot water heater awaiting him inside. He jogged the last hundred feet with his head down, his eyes tearing up from the cold.

He was almost to the door of their small cabin when he finally looked up, and then screeched to a stop, or tried to—the packed snow offered no traction and Sam floundered like a moose on the ice for a moment, his arms flailing, before finally regaining his feet and staring back into impassive blue eyes.

Castiel stood like a sentinel at the bottom of the steps leading up to the cabin door, hands at his sides and a stony expression on his face. He was also covered in snow, because for some reason he was standing just beyond the shelter of the overhang, little piles of snow accumulating on the shoulders of his tan trench coat. The tiny flakes stood out in fierce white against the dark strands of his hair. Sam pulled up short, suddenly unsure what to do with himself in his Elf-worthy getup.

"Cas..." The nickname sent a little flare through him—disbelief, maybe, or confusion at why an angel of the Lord was standing on their steps, doing a pretty good impression of a statue, the only kind of angels Sam had known until a few weeks ago. Sam was still more than a little in awe of Castiel, his brother's guardian angel, but it was harder to access when Castiel was slowly disappearing under a pile of drifted flakes.

"Sam," the angel greeted in his soft, low voice. He tipped his head as he spoke, and a mound of snow slipped comically from his hair to slump on the ground in front of him. Sam's heart fluttered again with something much lighter, and he felt a huff of a laugh leaving his lips, becoming a cloud of steam in the frigid air. He fought down a smile as he moved to the angel's side.

"What's going on, Cas?" Sam asked. "You have snow all over you..." He hesitated for just a second, but another pile of snow slid down to rest in the crook of Castiel's elbow and Sam made up his mind, lifting his hand. He felt clumsy in his ridiculous jacket, his puffy, overstuffed gloves making his movements even more haphazard as he tried to dust the snow from Cas's shoulders and hair. The angel looked up at him with dark, questioning eyes, and Sam hesitated once more, but even though Castiel's shoulders were rigid under his frozen coat he didn't step back, and as the snow drifted down around them Sam felt a certain warmth at the closeness.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder toward the cabin, then back at Sam; the hunter had almost forgotten he had asked the angel a question by the time he spoke. "I am waiting," Castiel explained. Sam blinked at the seeming non sequitur, then stamped his feet against the growing numbness in his toes.

"Waiting...?" Sam repeated slowly. "Why don't you wait inside?" It was strange to be talking to the angel in the cold like this, dancing from foot to foot. Cas's confused face seemed somehow human and Sam felt strangely comforted. Castiel offered a thoughtful frown.

"I have been told to wait outside," he answered. Sam shook his head, glancing up at the darkening sky and the tips of pine trees waving in the wind.

"Told? Told by who…" But before the words had even left his lips, Sam was wincing, because it wasn't hard to put two and two together and come up with the only person rude enough to tell an angel to wait outside in a blizzard. Sam tried to run a hand through his hair but only ended up swiping a cold line of melting snow across his forehead. "Oh, god—I mean, uh…jeez. I can't believe Dean sent you out here—it's freezing."

Castiel tipped his head slightly. "Cold will not damage me," he assured Sam.

"Still..." Sam protested. "Even for Dean, that's pretty…" He trailed off as he noticed those sharp blue eyes fixed on his face. Castiel was studying him thoughtfully, and after a moment the angel took a step forward, lifting his hand. Part of Sam wanted to flinch away, from the angel and the familiar flutter that ached in his chest. His cold feet kept him frozen. A single breath blossomed into white at his lips as Cas's cold hand brushed snow from his bangs, the white particles floating down between them like their own private snowstorm.

"You are also covered in snow, Sam," the angel informed him. Sam breathed in and the cold air cut into his lungs. The trench coat settled like quivering wings as the angel lowered his hand. "When I appeared, Dean was very upset. He threw a towel at me and said I was to wait outside, but perhaps you could go in."

Sam frowned as he listened, trying to put the scene together, but then a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Cas, was Dean, uh…possibly naked when he said this to you?" he asked. He was already working his fat glove off and fishing for the key in his pocket. Castiel's eyes flickered up as though he were considering.

"Yes," the angel decided finally. Sam nodded, having expected as much, and moved past Castiel up the steps, waving him toward the cabin with his quickly numbing bare hand. The angel still looked unsure.

"Cas," Sam started, catching the angel's gaze, "Dean didn't mean you had to wait out here in the snow. He was probably about to take a shower…You know that little room you appeared in? He meant you had to wait outside of there—the bathroom."

Castiel was studying him again, and Sam tried to project as much sincerity as he could into his voice, offering a small smile. The doorknob rattled twice and then finally twisted open under his freezing hand, and Sam could feel the cloud of warmth rise up to meet him. He gestured Cas in again, and was relieved when the angel complied this time, stepping through the doorway. Sam followed and closed the door again as fast as he could. He pulled off his striped hat, shaking his hair out. Sure enough, Sam could faintly hear the sound of the shower from behind the closed bathroom door in the back corner of the small cabin. The cabin itself was nicer than most of the motels they stayed in, but smaller, with only twin beds so close together Sam's knees touched his brother's bed when he sat down, and a mini kitchenette that was practically in the bedroom, only a few small square tiles separating it from the carpeted space. Sam figured it was supposed to be cozy, with brightly colored afghans on the bedspreads and a ceramic bowl on the counter full of various teas, and a cheery vase of fake flowers in the corner—but especially at his size, he just felt like he was living in a doll house.

The tall hunter wrested the puffin coat off and hung it from a thick peg on the wall. Dean's jacket, hat, and socks were scattered over the floor, making wet impressions in the carpet, and Sam wrinkled his nose as he picked them up, feeling their cold dampness in his hands as he hung them beside his things to dry.

His fingers were started to sting as the warmth of the room brought feeling back. Sam turned to Cas. The angel had parked himself a few feet inside the door and hadn't moved any farther into the cabin. The snow was gone from his trench coat, leaving only large patches of darker tan where the shoulders and collar were wet. Sam felt a strange rustle of butterflies in his stomach, being alone with Cas, and he bit his lip a moment, staring at the angel.

"I'm gonna put on something dry." Sam gestured over his shoulder toward his bag, splayed out on the floor like a biology dissection from his earlier attempt to find his warmest clothes. Castiel looked over as Sam spoke, but his expression stayed utterly blank. Sam wet his lips. "Do you want something to…?"

"No," the angel cut him off. "I require nothing." Sam's hand hung in the air for a moment before he let it drop, catching himself and shaking his head.

"Right, no—of course," he said. With nothing else forthcoming from his heavenly companion, Sam made his way across the room, a strange rubbery feeling in his chest. The angel wasn't looking anywhere in particular, but neither did he look away, and as he pulled on a pair of sweats Sam felt self-conscious in a way he hadn't since he was a teenager in a boys' locker room. Sam wasn't sure what Cas was waiting for exactly, except for Dean. Part of him wanted to ask the angel why he was here, if maybe he wanted to talk to Sam, but a cold hand somewhere in his chest squeezed around his heart at the thought, and Sam realized he would rather not know. Rather not ask and have the angel deny him again. Sam bit his lip so hard his skin turned white.

He could feel Castiel's dark eyes on him as he moved to the kitchenette, filling the cheery red teakettle and then flicking the stove on. The tall hunter leaned back against the counter, fighting his jumpy stomach. Dean's angel was waiting for him, but he was here with Sam for just this moment.

"Do you know what a snow angel is, Cas?" Sam asked suddenly, without thinking about it. He could tell he had surprised Castiel by the slight widening of his eyes. The angel shook his head slowly.

"I am not familiar with this creature," he admitted. Sam felt a little smile tug at his chapped lips.

"It's not a creature. It's a kids' game that you play in the snow." Castiel continued to stare at Sam, and the hunter wiped his hands nervously on his jeans. "You lie down in the snow and move your arms and legs…"

Sam waved his hands to demonstrate. Castiel's completely straight face almost made him want to quit there, but not if it meant going back to the silence.

"Um, anyway, it leaves an impression in the snow that looks like an angel." Castiel's expression shifted from blank to skeptical, and Sam hurried on. "I mean, not a real angel, I guess, but…" He trailed off, wishing he could just bash himself in the skull with the teapot and be done with it. "I guess not an angel at all," he finished. "Just some imprints in the snow."

Castiel didn't say anything, but his gaze remained fixed on Sam, and the silence felt so thick it stuck in the hunter's throat. He was saved the awkwardness of having to try and salvage the mess he'd made by the whistling of the teapot, and as he turned to click off the stove he wondered if his brother wasn't right, and if he shouldn't just go ahead and pave his mouth if he was going to walk around in there so much.

Sam opened the cabinet, considering the mugs that came with their furnished cabin. His fingers were still chilled, so cold the bones inside felt like they were made of ice, and he stared at them, pressed against the yellow countertop, before glancing at Cas standing stock-still in the entryway. He pulled down two mugs.

He could feel the angel's eyes on his back as he set the cups down with a soft click, retrieving the kettle and pulling the dish of tea packets closer. The steam curled up into the air and Sam took a deep breath; his nostrils filled with the scent of lemon a moment later as he dunked a tea bag into each mug, watching the water swirl with color. Sam tugged the strings of the teabags lightly, gathering his nerve. Before he could lose it again, he took one cup in each hand and walked over to the angel, holding one out. Castiel narrowed his eyes at the burst of flowers decorating the ceramic cup. Somewhere in the background, the water finally turned off in the bathroom.

"I know you don't need food or anything," Sam said before the angel could open his mouth. "And you don't have to drink it. It's just…when it's cold outside, it's sort of a human thing to hold a hot mug." Sam closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath of the lemon-scented steam that was finally warming him from the inside. Castiel stared at him, and for one moment Sam thought he would refuse even this—but then his hand came up, slowly, uncertainly, and he took the second mug. Sam smiled at Cas over the top of his mug, lifting it as though in cheers or salute, he wasn't sure.

Castiel stared at the mug in his hands for a long moment before bringing it up in an echo of Sam's gesture and breathing in the steam. His expression didn't change, and Sam wasn't sure if it meant anything to the angel at all, but as he listened to Dean bustling around the bathroom, muttering about angels so far up his ass he could taste feathers in the back of his throat, Sam was just glad that Castiel had taken it at all. It felt like something at least, a first step. Sam took another drink of tea and felt the last of the cold seeping out of him, chased away by a sense of warmth pulsing deep within his chest. He wondered if it had anything to do with the tea, after all.