My fallen angel falls no more.
He shows up, bloody, at my door.
I take him in, and wash him up.
I treat him like a new born pup.
I ask his name, and in reply.
He says, "I can't remember my name, but hi."
And it's kind of odd, but I ask no further,
But in his coat, I find a feather.
And it's black, and silk, and soft as day.
"Dean Winchester," I later say.
He looks at me with surprise,
And tilts his head and narrows his eyes.
"Dean Winchester." He repeats slowly, as if he's heard it before,
But on the subject he says no more.
I occasionally catch him muttering to himself.
And he'll take dad's journal from the shelf.
And he mutters things about saving someone from hell,
And he often whispers, "Castiel."