Title: Don't Ever Play with Guns, Ch. 1
Beta: Bread_and_Butterflies
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Castiel, Gabriel, no pairing yet.
Spoilers: None. This is an AU, but character names from every season will appear.
Warnings: Strong language, angst, violence, ethnic slurs, sexual assault/abuse, discussion of murder, allusions to domestic violence and physical and sexual abuse
Summary: A WWII veteran known as Dean Winchester is locked away for a horrific crime. Extreme physical and emotional suffering beset him in prison and only his fellow inmates, Gabriel and Castiel, can comfort him. The mysterious Castiel, in particular, becomes important to Dean.

A/N: This story takes place in the 1940s as WWII wages on. This story is inspired primarily by Shawshank Redemption and will draw from it, but it's a separate thing and will end very differently. I could never, never, never, EVER say I'm even remotely close to being a good enough writer to write something as amazing as my favorite movie… so let's get that out of the way. Ethnic slurs, sexist, and homophobic language appear throughout this fic for historical accuracy and obviously don't reflect my views. 1940s society was not very PC, so I am warning you now! Themes of rape and physical and sexual abuse are also pervasive.

I just thought of Dean in prison and I made this really depressing, dark, and violent thing here. Be very mindful of the warnings. Also, look out for many different SPN characters. They will turn up like Waldos, in various forms. This story will have Destiel in it, but I haven't decided what to do exactly yet.

P.S. – Gabriel~! I've never written him before and I'm glad to be able to use him. I'm sorry if I am unable to do him justice. :O

Finally, I would like to thank the kind-hearted Bread_and_Butterflies for offering her beta-ing services to me! Thank you! :D

Okay, read on!

"What do you think, brother? Which one's it going to be?"

Castiel took a drag on his cigarette and blew out a long smoky ribbon, "You know I don't like this game, Gabriel."

"That's what you always say, but you do always play," Gabriel winked at the man to his side. They were standing among a mass of men clad in gray, watching an influx of men emerge from a bus. The men filed out of the bus like ants, captivating the attention of every inmate that had already been serving time. Castiel's somber blue eyes roamed over every new man until they caught on a tallish man with lightly colored hair.

"That one," Castiel said, "The pretty one."

"Are you serious? That's your guess? You're telling me you're picking the fella with the face of a stone-cold killer that's got 'hardened vet' written all over him? You've got to play to win, amigo," Gabriel groaned. They were making bets on who would be the first of the new blood to cry that night. Gabriel had picked up this game from the former kingpin and he now organized all the wagers.

"That's my choice," Castiel nodded. "If he's even half aware of how beautiful he is, he'll be the first to cry…. because he knows he will suffer the most."

"Well, I'm picking the fat one. Just look! He's already nearly blubbering. Child molester if I ever saw one," Gabriel grinned and took Castiel's bet. The other men around the pair were also placing their bets and discreetly handing items to Gabriel.

Castiel returned his attention to the cigarette in his mouth and the soldier boy with the clear, sharp eyes. He looked so young and Castiel thought he saw freckles on his face in the distance when he passed. Castiel wondered what the other man had done to find himself in a prison populated by murderers, thieves, addicts, and rapists. Something about the green-eyed newcomer made him unlike anyone else Castiel had come to know. Perhaps that was why Castiel selected him. The new inmate wasn't just beautiful, but he also looked stalwart and out of place like a righteous man descending into a den of wolves. Although Castiel thought he certainly looked like he had killed some people in his life, he couldn't sense any evil in him and that made him suspect that he could break. The bleakness of prison and all its horrors would destroy that gorgeous man.

Gabriel distracted Castiel by swiping his cigarette and taking a drag for himself. Gabriel didn't like to smoke, so he was smoking just for the sake of pestering Castiel. Gabriel was a relatively short man with pale skin, chestnut brown hair, and a mischievous smirk of a smile. He was known for being crafty and for having the ability to get a convict any kind of contraband he might desire. His usefulness and his power for bribery gained him an elite, almost godlike status among the men. Being Gabriel's best friend came with many perks, not limited to cigarettes. Castiel looked wounded and frowned at the smaller man as the cancer meant for his body entered Gabriel's lungs instead.

"Relax. You know I always get you more," Gabriel replied before blowing a perfect ring into the air. Castiel watched it in awe.

"How do you do that?"

"Magic," Gabriel answered, wagging his eyebrows.

"Welcome to Curtanica Correctional Penitentiary, Mr. Winchester. My name is Zachariah Spencer and I will be your warden." The words that came from the mouth of the balding, aging man sitting across from Dean sounded pleasant to the ears. In spite of this, Zachariah's face was unable to conceal the disdain with which the man regarded Dean. When Dean said nothing, Warden Zachariah Spencer became irked. He gestured to the two guards at either of Dean's sides. "These fine gentlemen are Uriel Leroy and Sam Andréal. We call Sam here 'Andréal' or 'Andy' because we have another Sam that's been here longer than he has. Uriel and Andréal will help accommodate you."

At this, Dean regarded the man named Uriel. He was an enormous black man with a body like an ancient tree and a content, albeit twisted, smile. The man identified as Sam Andréal could not be more to the other extreme. Andréal was a lily-skinned youth that could hardly be called a man. He was delicately built and stood at attention with an observable uncertainty. While Uriel radiated confidence and strength, Andréal glowed with an innate kindness Dean surmised would be scarce at his new home. Dean couldn't resist making a comment. "You hire kids, Zach?"

"He's new," Zachariah responded bluntly. The disrespect Dean showed pushed every single one of the warden's buttons. "And that's Mr. Spencer, or Warden, to you."

Dean glared at the warden. He was every drill sergeant, every boss, and every teacher Dean had ever hated. "Yes, sir, Warden Zach, sir."

Uriel's fist connected with the side of Dean's face so quickly the Winchester was left seeing stars. "Apologies. Uriel has a temper," Zachariah stated without a hint of regret in his voice. "I looked over your case, Mr. Winchester."

Dean froze and avoiding looking into the warden's icy blue eyes.

"Awful, bad business. I know you are unfamiliar with the notions of respect and common decency, but I will extend all the hospitality within my power to allow you to serve your two life sentences with dignity." The warden stood and went to collect something. He approached Dean, regarding him with a snaky smile. "I have seen hundreds of men enter and leave this institution – some for the better, some in coffins. I have hope for you yet. The greatest gift I will ever be able to give to you is this, the Word of God."

When the warden placed the Bible in Dean's hands, the Winchester reacted as if he'd been handed a container of dismembered body parts. He felt nauseated being in the presence of the warden, especially while holding a book of lies. "I don't want this," Dean said. "Thanks, but no thanks, Warden."

"An atheist. I'm not surprised," Zachariah waved his hand and Uriel lifted Dean to his feet. Andréal was holding Dean's new garb and he collected the Bible when Dean let it drop to the floor. The warden got the last word. "I pray that even your corrupt, wicked soul may be healed here. I pray, Mr. Winchester, that you may learn to accept the Lord as your savior and repent for your sins. Take him away."

Uriel carted Dean off and, by the grace of God, Dean managed to suppress his urge to tell Zachariah to go fuck himself. Dean was stripped of everything that made him a free man. Uriel took pleasure in shoving him along and hosing him down roughly. "Not such a lady killer now!" Uriel howled and chuckled. "Water's cold, get used to it."

"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted in response. When Dean was clean, he was dressed in the same gray garb of incarceration as all the men that had watched him climb off the bus. The boy guard placed the Bible in Dean's hands.

"Please take it…" Andréal pleaded, knowing that Dean would most likely need it. Shrugging, Dean took the Bible, figuring it might make for good toilet paper if he ever ran out.

Dinner was served in the mess hall and Dean sat down in a spot where he saw the fewest men gathered. He desired to be alone with his thoughts, but soon realized that would be impossible. As he suffered through his first mouthful of discolored sludge, a tray clattered down in front of him and a hand was extended to him. "Hey, pal. I'm Gabriel. What's your name?"

Dean stared at the hand offered to him and refused to take it. As Gabriel slowly pulled his hand away, he stared at Dean until Dean gave in. He grumbled unwillingly, "Dean Winchester."

To his chagrin, another man sat beside Gabriel. Dean regarded him coolly and noted that he had a disheveled head of thick dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. He was unshaven and a surprising vibe of gentleness accompanied the moroseness he embodied. Having companions had only one positive effect. Observing Castiel and Gabriel helped keep Dean's mind off the running mess of so-called food he was consuming in quick mouthfuls to avoiding thinking about the taste.

"This here's Castiel," Gabriel beamed and gave the scruffy man a pat on the back. "And the guy sitting right next to you is Death."

"W-What?" Dean dropped his spoon and turned to look to his side. He was startled when he caught sight of an elderly man with black hair who was wearing a dour expression. Dean wondered how long the man had been sitting there without him noticing. Now that Dean's eyes were on him, he saw that the man was imposing in every possible sense. His face was familiar from grainy black and gray photographs in the newspapers. Dean's eyes went wide. "Wait. You're not the Death. The Death-Death… from Crowley's mob? That Death? You got caught? Again?"

"It must have happened while you were off at war," Gabriel grinned, trying to get information from Dean. Death was as infamous and as feared as his name suggested. There was a web of myths surrounding him. Two convicts dropped dead the day Death was brought to Curtanica, leading some men to believe that he was death incarnate. They said he could kill a man with a single touch. All the inmates parted from Death's path wherever he walked and they avoided looking directly into his eyes. Only Dean could have been stupid enough to sit right next to Death.

"Mr. Winchester, eat. Your slop is getting cold," Death said in an unaffected tone. When Death told you to eat, you ate.

Gabriel watched with no small amount of amusement as Dean tried not to tremble as he shoveled unpalatable gruel into his mouth. He doubted Dean had expected to find himself in the company of a nationally feared syndicate hitman on his first day. "So, tell us," Gabriel pried, "Army, Navy, or Air force?"

Dean blinked up at Gabriel, "Army."

Castiel kept quiet, but listened and watched Dean intently. He wondered if he'd been fighting the Germans or the Japanese because he had obviously been to war. Castiel picked at his food like a bird while Gabriel and Dean continued their conversation. As though he had read Castiel's mind, Gabriel asked, "Krauts or Japs?"

"Krauts," Dean responded and his face became hard as stone. He had no plans of making friends on the inside and he thought Gabriel was an annoying opportunist. Dean didn't think Gabriel was talking to him out of the goodness of his heart or because he was looking for new pals.

"When'd you enlist? Did you sign up after Pearl Harbor?"

"No," Dean frowned, getting more irritated by the second.

"Ah, must come from a family of military men," Gabriel answered. "Father? Brother?"

"Both," Dean said. "Dad was a marine. My brother and I signed up together, not that it's any of your damn business."

"Whoa, just tryin' to make conversation here. Thanks for your service, buddy," Gabriel said with a salute and stole Castiel's roll from his plate. The blue-eyed man didn't mind. Dean narrowed his eyes at Gabriel and got up to leave. After he was gone, Gabriel peered over at Castiel, "Wow, touchy. Maybe you were right about him."

Night was sluggish in coming, but it eventually came. Dean was assigned a cell alone and he was locked away for the night much earlier than he was used to going to bed. When the bars clanged in his face, he began to grind his teeth together. This wasn't how he was meant to live. Yet, when Dean settled down into his bed quietly, he considered the fact that he probably deserved every bit of pain and isolation. He stared at the wall, examining every crevice until his cell became a solemn work of art. He was so drawn into the wall he could see minute specks of dust collecting on the plaster in the dim moonlight. Dean rested without moving or sleeping for hours.

He only took a reprieve from his silent brooding to chuck his Bible in the direction of the toilet. Whatever Dean was feeling, he did not allow himself to shed a single tear. Gabriel won the prison-wide bet, as he usually did. However, Castiel's other prediction about Dean was correct.

The very next day, Dean found himself becoming popular for all the wrong reasons. He'd caught the eye of Kristoffer Alastair, a man known and feared for his cruelty. He was tall and past middle-aged, but full of vicious vigor. Alastair was one of the few known serial killers of the times, who delighted in torturing and keeping his victims alive for as long as possible. He was America's Jack the Ripper. He'd been a butcher by trade and had an unconventional knowledge human anatomy that he had memorized with sick detail. Alastair was the worst imaginable combination of intelligence and heartlessness. When he saw something beautiful, he desired nothing more than to dissect it into its parts. Alastair hadn't seen a man as beautiful as Dean in a long while.

Alastair's power also derived from his minions that were never far behind. Miggs, a lanky, dark-eyed, sardonic blond, was a man that had been convicted for plowing down a family on a drunken joyride. Under Alastair's tutelage, Miggs had become exponentially more brutal. Alastair was also always in the company of a man known only as 'Ruby.' Ruby was sly and as handsome as he was callous. He was a tan, black-haired jewel thief and bank robber that never thought twice about spraying bullets at the people that got in the way of what he wanted. He didn't take kindly to being locked away and was more than glad to torture his fellow inmates with Alastair.

On Dean's second day in prison, he was taken by surprise by Miggs and Ruby and hidden away in a place where Alastair knew they would not be seen or bothered. "Welcome to your new home," Alastair gestured to the dark, damp location. His voice was soft, musical, and foreboding. "Lovely, isn't it?"

Dean knew where this was going. War-hero and tough guy, he fought like a lion, but could only best one or two of them at once. With Ruby threatening to break his neck and Miggs too eager to bend his arms the wrong way, there wasn't much Dean could do. Alastair gently touched his face because sometimes the worst forms of torture were the soft, unwelcome kinds. Dean reacted just as Alastair wished – with disgust.

"Dean Winchester, I'm Alastair. Pleasure to meet you. You've already met Miggs and Ruby," He grinned and tried to force Dean's mouth open. "You and I are going to become very close… I can tell."

As Alastair admired his lips and teeth, Dean made a horrible sound of protest and growled, "If you even dare, I swear to God, I will bite down hard if it's the last thing I ever do."

"Come on, Dean," Alastair replied, "There is no God here." The three men may have left Dean's mouth alone that day, but their actions were no less merciless. Hell on earth visited Dean in Alastair's form, leaving behind a human that was bleeding and broken.

The trio of ruthless devils visited Dean as often as they could and only sometimes was Dean strong enough, smart enough, or lucky enough to escape their atrocious whims. On the days when he was physically unharmed, Dean still haunted the jailhouse like a shadow of his former self. He spoke even less than he had before and no longer had a desire to eat. Dean forced himself to eat anyway, assuming that if he was well fed he would have better chances of defending himself. For weeks and then months, Dean was made only of cuts, bruises, and sore flesh. His duty of washing hundreds of trays, pots, and pans each day aggravated his injuries like pouring salt on a wound. At times, he thought he would be blinded by pain, fear, or both.

On occasions when he was unable to perform his duties, he was sent to the infirmary. Dean came to know Uriel's unkind countenance very well and came to find it devastating in its indifference. The doctor, Frank Devereaux, was sharp-tongued and cantankerous, but he worried for Dean in the acerbic way only he could. The Winchester knew Dr. Devereaux expressed his concerns to Uriel and probably others whenever Dean left his care. Everyone knew about Alastair and his gang. Yet, Dean was certain Uriel wouldn't bat an eye if one day he wandered into the infirmary, collapsed, and burst open at the seams.

Dean only found true sanctuary in the library. He spent as much time there as he could, trying to find some semblance of peace. The library was quiet and Dean thought it wasn't often used because it wasn't particularly well organized or stocked. The space for the library was larger than needed and full of desks and shelves. Dean sat there, sometimes with a book, staring out at nothing. The only other person that spent as much time in the library as Dean was the man that worked there. He would cast discreet glances at Dean and go about his work organizing the labyrinth largely without being noticed.

Today was different. Today the man sat down across from Dean and peeked up at him shyly. Now that he was sitting in front of Dean, he wasn't sure how to start a conversation with him. He decided a greeting would do. "Hello, Dean."

The man looked up from the book he was pretending to read and said, "Hi, Cas."

Castiel shifted in his seat and became full of trepidation because he was not used to talking to people that weren't Gabriel. "My name's Castiel."

Dean was vaguely aware of that, but he preferred Cas. "Doesn't anybody call you Cas?"

Cas shook his head. "But it makes sense. A shortened version of my name. I don't mind it."

"Good. 'Cause I'm callin' you Cas. What can I do for you, Cas?" Dean leveled.

"Nothing…" Castiel looked away unsurely. Dean's gaze was so intense, but his hands were shaking. Cas knew he couldn't ask if Dean was doing okay because it was a stupid question with an obvious answer. More than anything, Castiel wanted to reach out to Dean in some way, but he didn't know how. "I was just…interested in talking to you."

"Yeah, well, we're talking."

Castiel got half a mind to get up and leave, but he remained in place. He turned his thoughts down an avenue that was slightly less dark. "I've been wondering about you."

Dean gave Cas a moderately displeased look and shrugged. "Okay."

I like you.

Castiel's heart throbbed and his eyes widened at his own train of thought. He liked Dean, without knowing why. For whatever reason, he'd been interested in Dean since his arrival and he cared about his fate. They hadn't even spoken to each other before, but he felt a connection to Dean. Castiel talked to Dean about the only thing he knew for certain they would have in common: crime. "Um. I've just been wondering," He faltered, "What're you in for?"

Dean heaved a heavy breath and looked down at the table like he'd just been stabbed in the chest. He hadn't been willing to tell anyone his story since arriving in the pen. Maybe now was that moment because Dean could die today or tomorrow. Maybe Castiel had appeared before him as a sign, as a symbolic priest figure to which he could confess his sins. "I killed my wife," Dean explained, "At least that's what they say, but I'm innocent."

His answer surprised Castiel, who looked upon Dean gravely. "I believe you," Castiel said earnestly. "I believe you're innocent."

"How can you?" Dean scoffed. "I haven't even told you the story yet."

When Castiel showed an obvious desire to hear his tale, Dean raked his eyes around the library to make sure they were alone before recalling his story out loud for the first time outside of a courtroom. His ordeal seemed to have happened a lifetime ago, which made it easier to relive. "You know anything about cars?"

Castiel shook his head.

"I do. I had a 1939 Graham Model 97 supercharged convertible, precious and one of a kind because she was mine. Dark exterior, powerful engine. When she made a single sound that was off, I knew about it. I knew how to pick her apart and put her back together again just right. She was my baby."

Are we still talking about a car? Castiel paid close attention to Dean, hanging on his every word.

"I knew my wife like I knew my car, okay? She was one of a kind too. Sweet, beautiful, amazing. I killed something, but I tell ya, it wasn't my wife. I knew everything about her. The way she smelled, the way she smiled, and the way she…" Dean's eye twitched. He had to stop. He chewed on the inside of his mouth and recalled the awful nightmare that had been allowed to become a reality. "Some months ago, I get home from working a long day at the garage. I'm oily, dirty, and smelly. She hates that, but she always gives me a kiss anyway. That was her thing. 'Dean, you stink' and a kiss. Not that night."

Dean took a moment to reflect on what he had seen in his kitchen that night. Their cabinets were white and their wallpaper was yellow with tiny flowers. The kitchen had always been a beautiful place. Dean went on, "She was angry for no reason. Furious. She looks at me and she says, 'I'm going to kill you.' My wife doesn't make jokes like that and she wasn't joking. She grabbed a knife like she was possessed and came at me. She starts saying the most horrible things I've ever heard come out of her mouth. She says when she's done with me she's going to take the boy. She's going to chop him up into pieces and make a stew in the bathtub. It didn't make any damn sense."

Castiel gasped and his face filled with sorrow.

"Lisa never talked like that. She loved the kid more than she loved me. That's something I know. I held her off. I ran away because I couldn't hurt her, but she came after me. And I was worried about the kid, which is the only reason I shot her. As soon as I did, and I got her blood on me, I said I was sorry. I said I'd call the ambulance and everything would be okay, but she didn't care. She laughed at me, laughed like some kind of monster and didn't stop coming at me," Dean hesitated to reveal the next part of his story. Castiel took a moment to observe the cuts on Dean's arms, some of them fresh and some of them quite old.

"You're not going to believe me," Dean's brow creased, "Just like the jury didn't. Her eyes turned black. Completely black. That's how I knew, for sure, she wasn't my wife. It was something else. I shot her point blank and she got up. She got up like it was nothin' and I was scared so I shot her again. I think twelve was the – twelve is a lot of bullets. Too many."

Castiel didn't say anything. Glassy eyed, Dean went on, now unable to resist letting words fall from his mouth. "Right when I was about to give up and let her do me in, it was over, finally. There was an awful smell – like pure evil. I don't know why I would remember something like that. The kitchen was a mess. Condiments, blood, broken plates."

"I didn't lie in the courtroom. There wasn't a lie I could come up with that could possibly explain it in a way that made sense. They thought I was a sociopath because I talked about her like it wasn't her – but it wasn't her!" Dean exhaled, "Since I remembered everything so well and didn't have a history of mental illness, they just thought I was lying. All of a sudden everyone was talking about how I didn't have a lot of friends and how I was 'cold.' They said I came back wrong from the war. But who doesn't? My only good character witness came from the town drunk. He vouched for me, even if he didn't believe she'd been possessed. It didn't matter. It didn't matter that I'd never hurt Lisa before or that I served my country. None of that mattered. The kid… The kid saw it. He didn't see everything, but he heard us fighting from upstairs and he saw me with the gun, covered in his mom's blood. They think I killed her because I snapped about the kid not being mine. But that's bullshit. I loved the kid like he was my own. But I did take his mom. Even if she was something else at the time, Lisa never came back after that, and it's my fault."

Dean's story was so terrible and full of pain that Castiel didn't have adequate words to respond to him. Dean found himself terrified of looking at Castiel because he was afraid Cas would be like everyone else. Surely, Cas would be disgusted with him and would think he was nothing but a sadistic monster. "So there you have it," Dean said. "Now you know I'm a wife-murdering psychopath."

"I believe you," Castiel responded simply, much to Dean's surprise. Castiel didn't look like a man that was prone to joking, so Dean stared at him in astonishment for a few moments. Not a single person had believed him.

Quietly, Dean asked, "You do?"

"There is a God, Dean, and there is a Devil," Castiel stated. "There are things in this world that can't be explained with evidence."

Dean looked down at his hands and whispered, "After that night, I believed in the Devil…more than I had while I was at war."

A long, low whistle interrupted Castiel and Dean's private conversation that was not so private after all. Dean's eyes were drawn to a bookshelf from which Gabriel emerged. "That's some story, Dean," Gabriel said. "I wouldn't go tellin' everyone."

Castiel got up and hurried to get back to work. Gabriel sauntered over to Dean and scratched the back of his head. He wasn't sure if Dean was crazy or not, but he believed that Dean had acted in self-defense. The fact that Castiel believed in Dean had a great impact on Gabriel. Castiel didn't talk to anyone. He was awkward and unsure, but he was honest in his belief in the Winchester. Castiel was perceptive and always told the truth, which Gabriel knew well. When Dean looked like he was getting ready to bolt, Gabriel extended a hand. "No, hey. Wait. Since I overheard your story, I'll tell you mine."

"'Overheard.'" Dean scoffed. The emotive, verbose veteran had returned to his terse, stony shell. Dean looked for Castiel, wishing more than anything to hear his story, but remained seated to listen to Gabe.

"I'm innocent too. I beat a guy to death," Gabriel grinned, keeping up his positive demeanor. "Love thy neighbor. You know that one, right? Well, this guy was my neighbor, and so was his wife. I just decided to love the wife over him."

Dean lifted an eyebrow.

"He beat his wife and his girlfriend – probably the kids too. Being a man's neighbor, you see a lot. Funny things, coppers. Sometimes they turn a blind eye. I guess I got a little carried away, but he had it comin'. A wife-beater beaten to death," Gabriel laughed without showing a shred of remorse. "It gets me every time. If you ask me, it was poetic justice."

After telling his story about having shot his wife, it was an understatement to say that Dean was nervous. Gabriel may have been smiling, but Dean did not feel reassured in the slightest. Catching his thoughts, Gabriel gave Dean a big pat on the back. "Don't worry, buddy. I won't come after you. Like Cas says, some things in this world just can't be explained. I like that, by the way, Cas. I'm going to start using that."

"I should probably, ah – "

"Whoa, kemosabe! Stick around!" Gabriel answered and plopped himself on the desk. "Lighten up, Dean. We're pals."

"Sure, whatever you say," Dean replied. He was no longer sure if 'pal' or 'friend' had the same meaning they had on the outside. Still, after having relieved his soul to Cas and having received understanding rather than disgust, Dean felt slightly better. Talking to Castiel and Gabriel was something he needed. With difficulty, Dean tried to remember how to be a sociable person. Dean changed the subject, "Hey, Gabriel. I got a question for you. You got a last name?"

"Guerrero de la Cruz."

"Say what?" Dean furrowed his brows. "That whole thing's your name? Are you joking? You don't look like a…"

"Like a spik?" Gabriel narrowed his eyes.

"No, that's not what I was gonna say. You don't look like a, um, Guerrero de la Cruz," Dean answered, doing his best to pronounce the name correctly. "That's all."

"Why does nobody ever believe me when I'm being honest?" Gabriel cried and lifted his hands to the heavens out of distress. "Well, that is my name. My real name."

"What's it mean?"

"Warrior of the cross," Gabriel replied and struck a dramatic, elegant pose.

"Yeah right, wise guy."

"I wish I was making that up," Gabriel smirked and then sighed. "Even I couldn't come up with a more ridiculous name."

"You speak Spanish?"

"And French, but only to my mother and to get tail," Gabriel answered and then frowned when he realized that the two circumstances were very different on a disturbing level.

"Well, whaddya know." Dean leaned forward on the table, enjoying a conversation for once. He still believed it was possible that Gabe was making it all up, but he was entertained all the same. Today was a momentous day in that it marked Dean's first smile. Today also marked the longest Dean had spoken to anyone. Full of charm and joie de vivre, Gabriel almost effortlessly drew Dean out.

"Family's a crazy thing. I've got some Spanish and French in me, but was born in the States. You should see my brother, Miguel. Michael," Gabriel mocked in a snooty tone. "He's blonde, blue-eyed, like you."

"Green," Dean corrected, "My eyes are green."

"Are they? Oh. Anyhow, ol' Miguel's got a rod up his ass this big," Gabriel gestured to make his point. "He's wound up tighter than Castiel. Thinks he's the Big Cheese, if you know what I mean. I'm not even sure how we're related."

"That's how I feel about my brother Sammy. He's a good kid – a real good kid. Nothing like me," Dean said sorrowfully. He hadn't spoken about Sam at all to anyone and that hurt. Gabriel and Dean shared a collective sigh of longing.

"Castiel is my brother now. For life, I guess," Gabriel stated and then shouted across the library, "Right Cas?"

Looking horrified, Castiel raised his finger to his lips and shushed Gabriel. His sharp, crystalline eyes clearly stated, Not in the library.

"I love you!" Gabriel whisper-shouted to Cas and Castiel shook his head and went back to his duties.

Snickering for the first time in ages, Dean replied, "You're a gas." After a second, Dean cocked his head in the direction of their bashful librarian and asked in a hushed tone, "What's Cas' last name?"

"I wish I knew," Gabriel replied. "After all these years I don't know. He doesn't know. I'm not even sure if Castiel is his real name. That's just what he's always called himself. He's a John Doe in the system. I took a peek."

The world was turning out to be a far stranger place than Dean could have ever guessed. In spite of being a jaded soldier and a convicted murderer, there were still things that puzzled him. Castiel was strange. Dean watched him searchingly and wondered about the story of the mild-mannered, Christian criminal.

One step forward, five steps back.

The following day, Dean's thrush of hope was crushed, bones and all, by the monster of men, Alastair. This time, Alastair and his men went too far and broke too much. Dean woke up in the infirmary a week later. He couldn't remember having passed in and out of consciousness over the last few days. Dean didn't remember the concussion or the stitches. He only knew that he had died, in one way or another.

His body didn't look or feel like his own and his mouth was full of the faint, rank taste of old blood. Dean hurt more than he thought a human being was capable of hurting. A guard approached Dean, but Dean couldn't recognize his face or voice. Drugs. Despite the drugs he felt so much pain. The guard said something and left an envelope by his beside. Dean welcomed losing his awareness of the world.

The next time Dean awoke, he was more alert. His eyes glanced at the rolling tray table at his side. He moved to observe it more closely and cried out in agony from the horrific ache that overtook his body. He wanted the letter. If something was still allowed to be his, Dean wanted to take it and cherish it. He reached for it with the hand that wasn't broken and gingerly worked to unseal it.

The paper in Dean's hands would become his most precious possession. In the next weeks and months, he would read it everyday, multiple times a day in spite of having it memorized. The first words written on the paper caused Dean to burst into tears and his tears only flowed more freely as he read until he was a shaking mound of misery.

Dear Dean,

I miss you so much, brother. I know it's not right for me to say it, but I wish you were still here. I'm not used to being so far apart from you. It doesn't feel right at all. It's like I'm missing a limb. Garth misses you almost as much as I do. He told me to tell you he sends you a hello and a hug.

Dean cracked a sniveling smile and wiped his broken nose with his cast. His hands were trembling and his face was inundated with anguish as he read on.

I know you're tired of hearing it, but a day doesn't go by when I don't wish it had been me taking that bullet instead of you. You're my hero, Dean. You always have been, but now you have the bullet hole to prove it. I know you're probably thinking that I'm 'talking like a broad' again, but you can shut up because you're my inspiration. I was so happy to hear that you recovered fully. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if you hadn't. I prayed for your recovery every day and I pray for you still just in case.

When things get tough over here, I think of you sitting at Harvelle's, having a burger and a milkshake, and that always makes me smile – a little bit jealous too. I'm glad you're working at Bobby's garage. Please keep an eye on him and his drinking. Tell Jess, the Harvelle's, Bobby, and everyone else that I love them and I miss them. When this war is over, the first thing we'll do is have a big party. The first thing after I take off these god-awful shoes, that is. I lost one of my shoes! They still don't make many in my size so I'm wearing a pair that's too tight. They're driving me bonkers. If you can, send shoes.

I haven't heard any word from anyone in a long while, so I'm beginning to get worried. I hope you, Lisa, and Ben are doing well. Give them my love and please write back when you get the chance. Most of all, remember I love you. I love you so much.

Your little brother,

Sam Winchester