A/N: Welcome to my first Supernatural fanfic! I recently caved and watched this show earlier this summer for the first time at the behest of some friends. I quickly became addicted. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine.
Summary: "An angel?" Charlie's Bradbury's eyes are huge as she stares at Dean over the rim of her glass. "Geeze, Dean, do you have that kind of money?" Destiel, alternate universe. Rating is for safety.
The Angel By Your Side
"An angel?" Charlie Bradbury's eyes are huge as she stares at Dean over the rim of her glass, foam still dotting her upper lip. "Geeze, Dean, do you have that kind of money?"
"Do I have a choice?" Dean Winchester scrubs his face and voices the question that has been plaguing him for the last two years, ever since Sam made his announcement. "I mean, Sammy's shipping out tomorrow, Charlie."
"Yeah, I know," Charlie counters, taking a hasty gulp of her beer, her gaze darting away as their waitress walks past to take care of the table behind them. Dean follows her gaze, and they both stare in appreciation for a moment before getting back to the conversation at hand. "I'm worried about him just as much as you are, Dean. But—an angel? They're expensive, Dean, and each one charges a different rate!"
Dean raises his own glass to his lips and doesn't answer. What he's considering doing is really, really stupid.
Sure, he knows vampires that work in blood drives and blood banks, extracting blood and leaving the donors with a pleasant buzz that no needle could give them, and he know werewolves that work with sheep farmers and ranchers out west, keeping their livestock safe from their wilder cousins. Hell, Bobby even runs a haunted house at Halloween that has four ghosts on staff!
But angels? Angels do not come cheap, and unlike most of the supernatural creatures that inhabit their world and walk among humans, angels are supposedly extremely difficult to work with and demanding.
Not to mention expensive as hell.
"I have some money saved up from the garage," Dean finally replies, but he must not sound convincing enough, because Charlie gives him a weak smile and shakes her head in response.
"I'm just worried that the angel will ask for something that you don't want to give."
"Well," Dean drawls, settling back into his seat, "maybe I'll get lucky. After all, didn't you score a sweet deal with that fairy you contracted? What was that, a month ago?"
Charlie turns almost as red as her hair and tries to bury herself in her beer. "That was different," she mumbles. "That was a mutual contract, and Gilda didn't ask for anything I didn't want to give."
Dean grins at her until she squirms in her seat. "Shut up," she snaps, and Dean can only laugh.
"But, in all seriousness, Dean," Charlie says soberly, setting her glass down with a clunk on that table, "are you really going to do this?"
Dean finishes off the last of his beer and stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the sticky floor, nearly inaudible beneath the music blasting from the speakers. "It's my only chance at keeping Sammy safe, Charlie." He tells her, his jaw tightening, his green eyes hard. "I have to try."
Am I really doing this? Dean has considered several incarnations of Charlie's question over the last several hours. A quick Internet search and a call to Garth—for all his dorky looks, the man has serious connections to the supernatural community—and Dean finds himself with a scrap of paper with an incantation/prayer/spell jotted down in his own shaky hand.
He stands in the empty bay of his mechanic garage. He moved all the cars he'd been working on out to the gated lot behind the shop. He's not sure how big angels are, and he wants to make sure he has plenty of room in case something goes wrong. His only company is Baby, his dad's '67 Chevy Impala that Dean has lovingly kept in working condition.
"I send this call out to any angel that can hear me." Dean's voice shakes and cracks, and he clears his throat impatiently, frustrated by his own nervousness. Come on, man! It's not that hard!
"I want to make a bargain." There, that's better. Bolstered by the way his voice rings in the space, Dean continues. "I ask for a being that can provide protection. I will give anything that is asked as payment."
As his voice dies away, Dean scans that empty room, his muscles coiled and tense, waiting. Did it work?
Two minutes pass in utter silence—the longest one hundred and twenty seconds of Dean's life—and he grimaces in frustration and disappointment. Balls, he thinks, borrowing Bobby's favorite phrase.
Just as he's lifting his hand to toss the incantation into the trash—what a load of crap—it happens.
There is a faint bloom of blue-white light in the center of room, unfolding like a bright flower. It grows steadily brighter, and Dean raises a hand to shield his face, his heart pounding. Did it really work?
The light shifts and undulates, and then it dies away, taking the brightness with it so suddenly that Dean is left blinking rapidly, eyes watering.
The light has resolved itself into a human-sized shape, and Dean blinks again, trying desperately to get his eyesight back so he can see what's going on.
"That was foolish."
The gravelly, deep voice is a surprise. Dean's not sure if it's Charlie's stories of Gilda or the pictures of angels he sees on TV or in advertisements, but for some reason, he was expecting a woman.
But no, it is a man who is gazing at him from across the garage. A man nearly his height, with stubble on his cheeks, dressed in a suit, a trench-coat thrown over it. His dark hair looks rumpled, as if he just rolled out of bed or has a habit of running his hands through it repeatedly.
But it's his eyes that momentarily hold Dean. They are blue—a startling blue that echoes the light he saw just before the man (the angel) appeared—and piercing, as if they can see to the depths of his soul. At the moment, the angel is staring at him intently, head tilted slightly, considering Dean.
"That was foolish," the angel says again, and Dean starts a little, the spell of the angel's blue eyes broken. Dean opens his mouth, but nothing seems to come out. The angel takes a step closer, his eyes sweeping over Dean, clearly taking his measure.
"You shouldn't promise to pay anything that is asked," the angel intones, his shoes making sharp sounds against the cement as he paces closer. Angels wear shoes? "You might not summon an angel who is lenient. They might want your life."
The angel is two feet away when Dean's brain snaps back into gear, but it's not with the reply he had hoped.
"Where's your robe?"
The question clearly surprises both of them; the angel rocks back on his heels, and he tilts his head again, this time a little farther, his eyes squinting in concentration. Dean shakes his head. What the hell?
"What?" The angel asks, the gravelly tone more pronounced.
What the hell. Dean crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow. "Where's your robe, your harp, your halo? Where are your wings? I thought you guys would look more like the ads."
The angel squints at him, his eyes still noticeably blue. "I scanned this time and place before I approached," he tells Dean slowly. He glances down at himself and back up, and Dean follows his gaze. "I thought that this form would be the most appropriate. Is it not?"
Dean shakes his head. "There's nothing wrong," he tells the angel. "You're just not what I was expecting."
"Humans have curious ideas of what we should be," the angel says solemnly, his face and tone completely serious. Dean has no idea if he's joking or not, so he says nothing. The last thing he wants to do is piss off his one chance at keeping his brother safe.
"Are you an angel?" He asks. The question seems stupid—the man just appeared in an empty and locked garage in a burst of light—but Dean wants to make sure. Shifters are tricky bastards, and he cannot afford to get screwed. Not when Sammy's life is at stake.
The angel nods once, but he seems to read Dean's disbelief and doubt. "I am the angel Castiel."
At the word angel, there is an impossible rumble of thunder around them. Dean feels the floor underneath him shake, and then there is a flash of lightning inside the room with them, and Dean can only stare—
Because for a moment, he is pretty damn sure that there was the silhouette of wings spreading from the angel's—Castiel's—shoulders. Then the room lightens again, and the angel—Castiel—is watching him, waiting.
"Okay," Dean says, blowing out a shaky breath and hoping his legs don't buckle underneath him. What the hell kind of shit have I gotten myself into? Then he remembers why he's doing this, and his resolve hardens. Sam. I'm doing this for Sammy.
"So you're an angel." Dean attempts to paste a casual grin on his face and pretend like his guts aren't turning to Jell-O at the moment. Like I do this every day. "Can you help me?"
The angel is still watching him. The stare is intense, and Dean feels like squirming—he's never met anyone with such a searching, focused gaze. He's not sure the angel has blinked or looked away from him since he appeared.
"What do you need?"
Dean takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. "I need you to watch over my brother."
The angel nods once. "It is good that I came. I am a soldier; I have been a guardian before."
Oh, thank you. Dean masks his heart-stopping relief with an easy smile. "Good."
"Where is this brother I need to watch over?"
Dean takes a deep breath. This is the help he's been praying for every night since Sammy announced that he was joining the Marines, just like their dad. He had joined ROTC to help pay for undergrad and law school, and Dean was as surprised as anyone when Sam had announced his decision to serve and then come back and be a lawyer.
Surprised and terrified.
Sammy had been Dean's responsibility ever since their father had placed the infant in Dean's arms on the night of the house fire that killed their mother. John Winchester had thrown himself into his work as a mechanic after Mary's death, and while Sam had gone to college, there had been no question that Dean would take over the garage after John was gone.
Dean blinks away the memories and finds the angel still standing there, still staring, and he gets a sense that the angel's patience is infinite, that he has been there before the stars burned into existence, and he will be there long after they are snuffed out.
"I need you to watch over Samuel Winchester during his military tour until he is home safe again." Dean uses his brother's full name to give the angel Castiel the most information possible. "He's—"
"Wait."
"What?" Dean crosses his arms more tightly. "Is something wrong?"
"We haven't discussed payment." Castiel's brow furrows. "I prefer to be paid first."
Dean swallows hard and reaches for his wallet, trying to ignore the sweat that is beading his forehead. "All right. How much do you charge?"
"I don't have any use for human money."
Crap. "What do you want?"
The angel takes a step closer, until he is nearly encroaching on Dean's personal space. "Your soul."
"What?" Dean backpedals immediately, his arms falling to his sides, bracing for a fight he's not sure is starting, not sure if he can win. "Man, you're an angel. That's some demon shit! This isn't a deal for my soul." Shit, did I summon the right thing? "I don't make deals for my soul."
Dean knows how demons work, and he swore he would never make a deal with one. He backs up further as the angel advances, and he wishes desperately that he had asked Garth for a way to kill the thing, or a way to banish it.
The angel's brow is furrowed again, and he looks…concerned? "Why are you troubled?" He asks, stopping when he has Dean backed against the office door, fighting off panic and the urge to lash out.
"I am not a demon," the angel says seriously. "I am not asking for your entire soul, merely a piece of it. I am a collector, and that is the payment I require for my services."
This is a business deal, Dean reminds himself. He forces himself upright, to keep from cowering against the office door. "You won't take my entire soul?" He's seen what happens to poor schmucks who take a demon offer and have their soul sucked away. He'd rather die than be a vegetable like that.
The angel shakes his head. "I will not. You have my word. Give me a piece of your soul, and I will guard your brother against harm."
The mention of Sam bolsters Dean. "Fine," he snaps, and is grateful when his voice remains steady. "Do it."
For a moment, the angel merely stares at him. Dean opens his mouth to demand that the angel just get on with it, when he feels a tug. It happens in the center of his chest, in some deep part of him he didn't even know existed. The tug happens again, more insistently, and Dean finds that his gaze is locked on the angel's, that the creature's eyes have grown bright blue, brighter than before, a brilliant shade that Dean finds mesmerizing.
Then the glow fades from the angel's eyes, and Dean feels a curious hollow sensation in his chest, as if a tiny piece of him has been broken off. The sensation fades a moment later, and Dean finds himself standing in his garage, his mind still his own, and an angel still staring at him.
There is a slight smile on the angel's lips. "Thank you. Now, where is your brother?"
Dean shakes off the weirdness of the last thirty seconds and thinks of Sam. "Private Samuel Winchester, stationed on the USS Harry S. Truman—"
"I will find him, Dean Winchester." The angel cuts him off abruptly. There is a faint rustle of feathers, and then Dean is alone.
Dean stares at the spot where the angel stood. When did I tell him my name?
"Holy shit." Charlie is gaping at him again. Dean hopes this won't become a regular thing. "Holy shit, Dean! You did it!"
"Can you keep your voice down?" Dean hisses, glancing at the people around them. No one seems to notice Charlie's excited exclamations, but Dean doesn't want to take any chances. He took a gamble telling Charlie about the angel—Castiel—because he needed to tell someone, and if he told Ellen and Bobby, his aunt and uncle would call him twelve different kind of idiot for taking such a chance.
"But—an angel, Dean!" Charlie squeals. "You actually made a deal with an angel! What was it like?"
Dean studies his empty glass. "Not what I was expecting. No wings, for one thing."
He looks up to catch Charlie's crestfallen expression. Looks like I'm not the only one who was expecting fluffy feathers and halos. "What did he look like?"
Dean shrugs. How is he supposed to explain the power he felt radiating from the angel, the bloom of light, the glow, those blue eyes? How is supposed to explain that Castiel's gaze makes him feel as if he's being taken apart, stripped down to his very soul, and then carefully rebuilt? "You know, he looked like a guy."
"A guy?" Charlie's eyebrows are trying to disappear into her hairline. "You meet one of the most elusive, expensive supernatural beings around, and he looks like a normal guy?" She pulls a face, her disappointment clear. "Bummer."
"So, how'd the date with Dorothy go?" Dean asks, wanting the topic to be on anything other than the angel. Charlie brightens at that, and Dean welcomes her chatter. It will distract him from worrying about Sam—he shipped out today, and Dean hopes that the piece of his soul he bartered means that Sam didn't go alone.
Two weeks later, Dean is propped on his bed in his apartment, his laptop balanced on his lap, reading Sam's most recent email. From what he can tell, his gamble worked. Sammy hasn't seen combat yet, and he's perfectly safe.
Dean doesn't pay attention to the rustling sound that suddenly fills the room—he assumes the crappy AC unit just kicked on.
"Dean Winchester."
Dean yelps at the sound of the gravelly voice suddenly emanating beside him, his laptop toppling off his lap onto the bed beside him. Twisting around, he finds an angel standing beside his bed.
"What the hell?"
The angel—Castiel, his name is Castiel—frowns a little at that, and Dean wonders faintly if the angel has a problem with his cussing. Then he's on his feet, and now he's the one invading the angel's personal space, and the other being doesn't flinch.
"What's wrong? Is Sam all right?"
Castiel tilts his head—even after one encounter, Dean can tell he uses this tic to express confusion at human foibles. "Nothing is wrong. Your brother is safely asleep in his bunk. I do not sleep, and I thought you might appreciate a report as to his well-being."
"Oh." Dean backs down at that, putting space between them. "Yeah. Thanks." He doesn't sit again—he doesn't have another chair in his room, and it would feel weird, sitting while an angel loomed over him.
"How is he?"
Castiel frowns again, but not in concern—this seems to be another expression of his confusion. "He is well. The sea travel is slow—I could take him to his destination with my wings in two of your heartbeats—but he seems to find it acceptable. He plays cards with the other men, but he often loses." He looks up at Dean. "Why would he continue to play if he does so poorly? The money he puts forth at these games—I was under the impression that it is important to humans."
Dean huffs a laugh at that, relaxing. "Yeah, that's Sammy, all right." He never was very good at poker. Or pool.
"Is there anything else?" Castiel asks, clearly done with his report and poised to go.
"Uh," Dean stutters for a moment, caught off guard by the abrupt change in conversation. "No, that's it. Thanks."
With a nod, Castiel vanishes in the same faint rustling that marked his appearance. Dean tries not to think about the sudden loneliness that rushes in to keep him company.
So begins a routine. Castiel will appear, often at completely random times and in random places to give Dean a report on how Sam is doing. Dean stops jumping the third time he looks up from brushing his teeth and sees Cas standing behind him, reflected in the mirror. The nickname came about because Castiel sounds so stuffy and formal, and the angel didn't argue the first time Dean shortened his name without thinking.
Most of what Cas has to report is mundane, and much of it is repeated in Sam's emails to Dean—travel, the monotony of a never-changing landscape, stories of the men he's serving with. Dean knows Sam's destined for the Middle East, but he's not sure exactly where.
Sometime between his fourth and fifth report, Cas's visits become progressively longer. Dean's not sure if it's because the angel doesn't sleep, or he simply wants conversation with someone—Sam can't see or hear Cas, and Dean doesn't want Sammy to know what he's done, because he doesn't want to hear about it. Even so, Dean doesn't object when Cas begins to linger after his initial report is done.
In fact, Dean finds himself beginning to accommodate the angel. Cas only ever seems to appear in his apartment, so Dean puts a chair in his bedroom so that he can sit on the bed and Cas in the chair, should Cas appear there. Even though he has no idea what nights Cas will show up, Dean begins to set out a second beer when he grabs himself one after dinner. If Cas doesn't make an appearance, Dean simply drinks both.
Dean finds that he doesn't mind the angel's visits—they give him something to look forward. Outside of his occasional night out with Charlie or Benny, his life is spent mostly in the garage. With Sam deployed and not as available for conversation as Dean would like, he finds that he enjoys Cas's company.
Their conversations become about human things—Cas is endlessly fascinated with human culture the longer he stays in Sam's company, and most of Dean's evenings are spent answering Cas's curious questions about some human ritual or another he witnessed that day while shadowing Sam.
"I don't know, man." Dean spreads his hands in a universal gesture of helplessness, leaning back in his chair. Cas sits across from him at Dean's small table, the TV blaring a football game in the background. They had begun the evening in front of the TV—Cas had heard sports being discussed by some of the men in Sam's company, and he came to Dean for answers—and now they were sitting at the table after Cas had quickly comprehended the game and grown bored.
Cas squints at him, and Dean has to hide a smile, amused by the confusion. "Humans often choose mates of the same gender?"
Dean shrugs. "I'm not sure how to explain it, Cas. Love is love. Some girls find other girls attractive, and some guys find other guys attractive. Some people aren't attracted to anyone. I don't judge. Everyone has their own thing."
"Humans are interesting." Cas muses. Then his blue eyes are on Dean, so innocent in their ignorance. "What is your preference?"
Dean takes a long swig of his beer, gathering his thoughts. He's been with plenty of girls, but that doesn't mean there are times he isn't curious. Maybe if he met the right person, but he hasn't yet. Cas is watching him intently, waiting for his guidance in this next lesson in understanding humans. "I'm all about the girls," he says finally, keeping it simple for the angel's sake.
"Fascinating," Cas murmurs, clearly turning this new development over in his head.
"What about angels?" Dean turns the question on the angel, unable to deny his own curiosity. "What about you?"
Cas looks up at him, and then away for a moment, the blue eyes darting back under the sweep of dark lashes. "Angels are not like humans. We do not see ourselves as having genders, as humans do. We are beings of light, and we are attracted to the soul of another. That is how we form attachments."
Dean considers this for a moment, and then finishes off his beer. "So it doesn't matter if it's a girl or a guy, as long as their soul is attractive, you're interested."
Cas shakes his head, frowning. "We do not identify as female or male, Dean. We merely respond to the beauty of another soul."
It's on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask what Cas wanted with his soul, but Cas suddenly tilts his head in a way that Dean knows has nothing to do with curiosity. He grows solemn and still. He had told Dean weeks ago, when Dean had asked, that he was keeping one ear on Sam all through their conversations, so he would know the second anything was wrong.
"I have to go."
"What?" Dean half-rises in his seat, tense. "What's wrong? Is it Sam?"
There is a rustle of wings, and Dean is alone.
"And he just left?" Charlie chews on her lower lip, unconvinced. "What do you think went wrong?"
"I have no idea." Dean grunts in frustration, running a hand through his hair and frowning at the dark streaks of grease on the back of it—I thought I got all that off before I left work today.
"You haven't seen him since?"
Dean blows out a long breath in an attempt to stay calm—at the moment, all Charlie is doing is repeating what he told her minutes before, and it's doing nothing but raising his blood pressure.
"No," he grits out, and Charlie frowns in sympathy, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
Dean hasn't seen Cas in two weeks—not since he abruptly disappeared from Dean's kitchen. It's longer than Cas usually goes without reporting in, and Dean is more worried than he cares to admit.
There is a sudden pain in his chest that he can't explain, and Dean takes a deep breath, hoping to ease it. "I'm sure—"
The pain becomes a tug, much like the night Cas took part of his soul, and Dean is on his feet and pushing away his chair before he fully comprehends what he's doing, ignoring Charlie's startled questions across from him.
He scans the crowded restaurant, unsure of why his heart is pounding, why his breathing is shorter. Something is about to happen—he can sense it, and the hair of his arms and neck lifts, every muscle and nerve in his body bracing for impact. It's coming.
In the heartbeat between one blink and next, Cas is there, crouching in the aisle between tables, his blue eyes locked on Dean.
Dean feels chills race down his spine even as his heart and the hollow space in his chest give a lurch. Distantly, he hears Charlie's high-pitched questions, and someone at the back of the restaurant shrieks, but Dean is completely focused on the figure in front of him.
This is not the Cas that Dean has come to know in the past few months—Cas, who gives shy smiles when Dean laughs in delight at something he says, Cas, who asks endless questions about humans, turning Dean's answers over in his mind with the care and consideration he gives everything. This is not the Cas with whom he has shared beers and football games and hours of his life.
This is Castiel the warrior, the soldier, the avenging angel. He stays in his crouch, his eyes still locked on Dean, a long silver blade clutched in each fist, knuckles white. Blood streaks his face, clots in his hair, splatters his trench coat, and blooms on his white shirt.
But it's not the blood that knocks the breath from Dean's chest. It's the expression on Cas's face.
His blue eyes are wider than Dean has ever seen them, except in surprise, and he looks terrified. His expression makes it impossible for Dean to draw breath, and he can only stare at Cas in horror.
"Cas?" His voice is strangled, but he knows Castiel hears him, because those blue eyes become even more piercing for a moment, and he feels that tug in the middle of his chest again. Then the angel's eyes focus on something just over Dean's shoulder, and he's gone again. Somehow, Dean can hear the rustle of wings even amid the chaos of the restaurant, and he's not sure why he suddenly feels like sobbing.
He comes back to himself to find Charlie calling his name, gripping his arm so tightly he'll be surprised if he doesn't have bruises tomorrow. "Was that him?"
Dean blinks and tears his eyes away from the space Cas had occupied long enough to look down at her. "Yeah," he says, his voice ragged. "That was Cas."
The call comes three days later. Dean has had a knot in his stomach since Cas's abrupt disappearing act, and when he answers the phone, he is not surprised.
Two hours later, he is on a plane with Bobby, Ellen, and Jo, heading for D.C.
It was supposed a routine patrol. That's what they're told when they arrive at the military hospital and are informed of Sam's status. It was supposed to be a routine patrol, and Sam's unit was nearly back to base when they were ambushed by enemy insurgents.
Sam will survive—he'll need physical therapy on his leg to help strengthen the muscles and he'll always walk with a limp—but he's alive, and that's all Dean cares about.
When they're let into Sam's room—he's unconscious at the moment, still doped up on painkillers after the surgery to reconstruct his leg—Dean stops dead in the doorway.
Castiel is standing beside the head of Sam's bed, his back to Dean, his attention completely focused on his charge.
Bobby, Ellen, and Jo don't seem to notice the angel—Dean isn't sure if they can see him. Cas had once told him that he could make himself invisible to anyone if he wanted.
Dean trails his family into the room, distracted from Sam by the slump of Cas's shoulders—even from behind, Dean can read the weariness in the angel's posture. Sidling up beside Bobby, Dean wedges himself between his adoptive uncle and the being that only he can currently see.
His family's attention is completely focused on Sam, and so Dean reaches out to let his hand brush against Cas's coat sleeve.
He can feel the moment Cas's attention snaps to him—there is that familiar sensation of being considered, and then the equally familiar weight of Cas's gaze.
Then it is gone, and when Dean glances over, the space between him and the wall is empty.
"Dammit," he mutters, dropping his head as Bobby glances at him. Focusing on Sam—he's so still, but Dean can see the rise and fall of his chest, and the monitors beside Sam's bed beep reassuring, reminding him that his little brother is alive. At the moment, that's all that matters.
"Dean."
Dean nearly jumps a foot in the air and comes close to smacking his head on the vending machine. "Cas!" Whirling around, he finds himself facing a penitent angel.
"Cas, are you okay?"
Cas won't look at him, and Dean finds that worrying. Glancing up and down the corridor—he really doesn't need any doctors or nurses seeing him dragging nothing down the hallway—Dean grabs Cas by the coat sleeve and tugs him a little farther down the hall.
"What happened?"
Cas still won't look at him. "Castiel." Dean tries again, and his use of the angel's formal name gets him a moment of those blue eyes on his, but then Cas is studying the floor again.
"Are you all right?"
At this question, full of throaty concern, Cas glances up fully, clearly startled. "I failed you."
Dean blinks. "What?"
Cas drops his gaze again, and Dean growls in frustration. "Dammit, Cas, look at me and stop talking in riddles!"
"I didn't keep Sam safe." Cas's voice is lower than usual, soft with regret, and Dean has to swallow past a lump in his throat, hearing the full weight of Cas's self-loathing. "That was our agreement, and I failed you."
"Cas." Dean scrambles for a way to let the angel across from him know that he is absolved, but the only solution that comes to him seems a bit unorthodox.
What the hell. Stepping forward, Dean wraps Cas in his arms, pleasantly surprised to find that the angel is corporeal. The solid weight of Cas against him is warm, but Dean feels no reciprocation. He can feel the stiffness in Cas's muscles, as if the angel is holding himself back.
Dean releases Cas and backs up, wondering if he crossed a line. Then he sees the guilt that has carved lines into Cas's forehead and around his eyes, and he knows that he needs to do more.
"You didn't fail, Cas." This time, the angel keeps his eyes trained on Dean. "There was an ambush."
"I should have seen it coming." Cas's voice is rough. "I didn't, and Sam was injured."
"Did you do what you could to protect him?"
Cas nearly looks affronted, until he remembers the severity of his transgression. "Of course."
"Then that's all I asked." Dean reaches out and clasps Cas's shoulder. "Cas, Sam is alive, and I have no doubt it's because of you."
Cas shrugs his shoulders—an utterly human gesture, one he learned from Dean—and Dean's hands drop away, as if Cas can't tolerate his touch at the moment, or doesn't feel he deserves it.
"I did worse." Cas's voice is so quiet that Dean has to lean in to hear him. "I ran away, Dean."
"What?"
"When you…saw me," Cas stumbles over his words, trying to explain. "I was taken by surprise by the ambush, even though I shouldn't have been, and when the fighting was at it's thickest, I flew when I should have fought."
"That's when I saw you?"
Cas nods, his gaze locked on the floor between his feet. "Our…conversations have forged a bond, Dean. I was startled by the severity of the attack. I, a soldier of the angels! I have led garrisons of soldiers into battle, but the ferocity of humans…" The angel trails off, his downturned gaze distant, staring at something Dean can't see, lost in memories.
"I was startled, and so I pulled on our bond. I was looking for strength, but I pulled hard enough to send myself to you, momentarily. The second I saw you, I knew I had to go back, but by the time I returned…" Cas swallowed hard. "Sam was already injured. I failed you."
"Cas…" Dean reaches out, taking the angel by the shoulders again. "You didn't fail me, and our deal still holds. You saved my little brother, and that's all I wanted."
The angel stares at him, and this time, Dean tries to replicate Cas's piercing stare, pouring all his forgiveness and absolution into one gaze. They stand silent, entangled in the strands connecting them, but then Cas backs away.
"Cas." Dean tries one more time, but the angel continues to move away from him. "Castiel!"
There is a rush of wings, and then he is alone.
"Hey."
At the croaking sound, Dean sits bolt upright in the hard plastic chair the nurses brought for him. He finds Sam blinking blearily at him from the bed, and Dean doesn't try to stem the tears that crowd his eyes.
"Hey, Sammy," he says softly, scooting forward to reach out so he can gently squeeze his shoulder. "How ya feeling?"
Sam blinks at him, still a little confused. "What happened?"
Dean is sure he's asking how he ended up stateside, but he decides to tell him a different story. "Do you believe in angels?"
Dean straightens up from beneath the hood of a truck, wiping his hands on a rag that he tucked into his belt. It's been six months since Sam was injured, but his last session of physical therapy is today, and Dean is taking him out to dinner tonight to celebrate.
It's also been six months since he's seen or heard from Castiel, but Dean tries not to think about that.
Glancing up at the clock, Dean decides that he's done for the day. He wants to have enough time to get home and shower before going to pick Sammy up at the rehab center. Slamming the hood of the truck shut, Dean takes two steps into the interior of the garage when he hears it.
For a moment, he thinks his ears are deceiving him, but then he feels a slight tug in the middle of his chest, and he can't help the smile that spreads over his face.
We are beings of light, and we are attracted to the soul of another.
There is the rustle of wings.
"Cas."
Fin.