Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction, so reviews and criticisms would be brilliant. This was originally meant to be a one-shot, but I've got some ideas for another chapter, so let me know if anyone would be interested!

Go ahead, go ahead

Lose our shirts in the fire tonight

What makes you think I'm enjoying being left

To the flood?

We got another thing coming undone

And it's taking us over

And it's taking forever.

- The National, Runaway.

"Angels are watching over you." That's what Dean's mother used to say to him, isn't it? I remember overhearing him talk to Sam about it before. I don't think she meant it this literally. She wasn't a psychic.

Dean is sleeping. I stand at the foot of his bed. He doesn't know I'm here, of course. That would be unwise; I suspect he has questions I can't – shouldn't – answer. I remember everything now, how many times I was made to kill him. It was five-hundred and twenty-one times before I could do it without throwing up, crying, or hesitating to the point where he killed me. It was Dean. I know him completely, ever since I dragged him and his battered soul from Hell. It felt every kind of wrong to be destroying what I felt was a part of me.

The lights are off, but I can see. Dean is lying on his front, limbs sticking out and hanging off the bed slightly. He's shirtless, and from here I can faintly see the handprint I left on his upper arm. That wasn't just a simple accident, nor did I endeavour to do it. To raise Dean successfully, I was forced to share part of my Grace, my very essence, with him. Only then could he pass through the gates of Hell untouched. Such an encounter leaves a mark, and a bond. No matter how many times I betray Dean, he will always forgive me. He doesn't have a choice.

Of course, I will avidly avoid betraying him. Especially now, since I suspect I love him.

Meg told me I should read more. I went to the "library" and asked them if I could have a book. The physically attractive woman laughed, said I was funny, and touched my shoulder. I didn't flinch away. I will do that from now on.

The woman gave me a recommendation and said it was her favourite book. It's called, The Notebook, by Nicholas Sparks. It's not a notebook. I read it briefly and told the woman I didn't fully understand what they meant by the concept of being "in love". She smiled and told me that it's when a person fills your whole world, when you constantly feel like there is a cord connecting the two of you and you feel it pull the further they are from you, when you want all of your days to be like the ones when you're with them because everything is just, simply, a lot better in their company.

Well, to quote directly, she said, "It's when you really really like someone, to the point where it could be classed as obsession." But I explained what I thought it meant, and she agreed, so this is my definition.

I immediately thought of Dean. When I'm not near him, I'm... uncomfortable. Everything is slightly shifted, as in watching a television show where the audio is out of synchronisation with the video. I would give my life for Dean. I would give a lot more for Dean. I would do anything for Dean. Everything I think about seems to be centred around him: I decide which town to visit next depending on where Dean is; I decide which witnesses to kill and which to spare depending on how similar their eyes are to Dean's; when creating an alias, I anagram the words "Dean Winchester" (if this doesn't provide a suitable name, I add on extra words, such as "Impala", "family", "pie", "hunter", and "mine". The latter is a last resort.).

Dean turns over in his sleep. I hide myself briefly as his eyes flit instinctively over the room, the result of a hunter's childhood. Poor Dean, rich in ways he tries so hard not to take for granted. I call to mind the memory of my hand on his face, as he looked up into my eyes with such trust and betrayal. I'm still trying to figure out how he could feel both of those things at the same time.

Naomi no longer has power over me, as far as I see. I am myself again. Maybe this time I'll stay for a little while. Things keep getting in the way of my plans, namely that I keep dying. It passes like an instant for me, the space between dying and being brought back to life, but for Dean (and Sam and) it's months. When I return, I'm different. Or, in my view, he's different.

I lean over Dean, touching my fingers to his forehead. I deepen his sleep so he won't wake up for at least another two hours. Then I place my hand on the side of his face and fix the cut on his left forearm and the sprained wrist he's gained since we last met.

"Dean," I whisper quietly, not loud enough for human voices to hear. He lets out a small snore, leading me to laugh softly. I should have guessed that Dean would respond to my stimuli.

At first, I thought that the attachment I felt to this man was wholly due to our journey from perdition. But that would simply lead to a bond, no feelings. If it were only a bond, I wouldn't look into his eyes as if they were my own, or long to simply hold his hand, or not wake him up as I stand over his bed. He's a very handsome man, I've noticed. Even more so as he sleeps. The lines drawn by the misfortune of his life retreat into his dreams, and his face is left without burden.

I want to wake him.

I want to talk to him and ask him whether he's been in love before.

I suspect he'll say no.

But then I draw to mind Lisa, the woman he stayed with for a year before asking me to wipe her memory of him for her safety. He knew he was being a little selfish, but he knew he was allowed to be. I think that loving someone means doing what you know they'd do to you, instead of what they'd want for themselves. Those are two different things. For example, I want to let Dean sleep. Dean wants to wake up and shout at me. I am in love with Dean.

I'm standing in his bedroom, and that makes me happy, because Dean's never had a bedroom before, and he can love it without the fear that it will be sent to Hell. I look over his bedside table, on which lies Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut, along with a picture of his parents and a notebook. I pick up the notebook and read the first page.

TO BUY:

*5 CAT SKULLS

*BONES OF AN INFANT no sammy. no.

*BONES OF AN INFANT DEAN WE NEED THEM

*a knife that kills humans for good

*A SPELL THAT DESTROYS ALL PIE

*a hex bag that repels snotty giant little brothers with flappy hair

*ONE OF THE MANY STRIPPERS THAT HAS TURNED DEAN DOWN

*hey chastity was pissed at cas / busy stripping that wasn't me

*A BOOK TELLING DEAN HOW BULLET POINTS WORK

*a can of whoopass for sam wait forgot I already have one

*bitch

*JERK

The notes deteriorate down the page, ending in a crude drawing of something I think is an elephant, with the caption, "Samantha".

I flip quickly through the rest of the notebook. I find scribbled numbers, practise demon traps, and a home remedy for how to fix a dislocated shoulder in a moving car. When I reach the last page, however, I can tell that something is hidden inside the cover, because that's what I would do.

As carefully as I can, I extract the paper from inside the binding. I sit at Dean's desk and smooth the paper out in front of me. I don't believe it. Dean has drawn a picture of me. But—

He has drawn a picture of me from three thousand years ago.

I recognise my old vessel immediately. Julius was an honest man, if the town drunk. So when I came to him in the night and told him I was an angel, he didn't question it. He said, "I'll do anything! Don't hurt me!" I took that as an invitation to control his body for the next two hundred years.

"Oh, Dean," I whisper again. I turn to look at him, sleeping silently, his heartbeat slightly raised.

"Cas," he replies.

I freeze. His voice sounds like a moan almost, of longing. He misses me. It's the bond talking. I turn back to the picture, turn it over. My vessel from five thousand years ago looks back at me. The pencil lines are thin, light, delicate. Dean has surprisingly careful fingers.

I can't help but breathe "Dean" one more time as I exhale. It is met by a louder, "Cas."

Immediately I am by his side. His eyes dart from side to side under his eyelids, and his heartbeat is getting faster. He is sweating ever so slightly.

I frown. I put him unconscious for two hours. He shouldn't be responding this way.

Dean's skin is firm and tight over his muscles. It looks very soft. I think I would like to touch it, but I don't test that theory. If there is one thing I've learned from watching Dean (and Sam), it's that embraces are saved for before battles and after battles. Maybe not even then.

My need for Dean has grown since my isolation from Heaven. Naomi must have been blocking it somehow, filling my head with missions and statistics to distract me. But at the end, she turned my need into the need for revenge, for blood. She didn't know that that can't be done. She didn't know that nothing distresses me more than seeing Dean hurt. Seeing him covered in his blood – seeing myself covered in his blood brought me back. The moment the connection was broken was the moment my love for Dean overcame the walls in my mind.

I can never tell him this. But I probably will as soon as he looks at me like he does.

It's unfortunate to think about all the simple things I cannot do with Dean. I cannot hold him when he's sad. I cannot cook for him, although I doubt I would be able to do that anyway. I cannot give him the dark brown overcoat I found that matches mine. I cannot smooth his hair down or consentingly touch his face. It's times like this when I wish I could dream.

I haven't visited Dean's dreams in while. Sometimes he remembers me being there, even if I'm only standing under the shade of a tree in the background, taking mental photographs. If I went there now, he wouldn't let me leave, and I don't think I'd want to. Everything about Dean is worth the struggle it causes.

I'm getting ahead of myself, acting like this, as if Dean is my whole world. I still have my mission to obtain the other half of the demon tablet. I still have to protect the angel tablet. But I gravitate towards him. He is my anchor to humanity.

A few months ago, when I was still being controlled by Naomi, Dean and I had a private conversation about the true nature of angels.

"Cas..." he'd said, sidling over to me. "So, could you become human if you wanted to?"

I'd frowned. "Define human."

"Well, you know. DNA. Junk in the trunk. No special exorcism mojo." He stood surprisingly still, surviving on seven coffees and twenty-one minutes of sleep. I keep having to stop myself from trying to fix him. I'm afraid I'll accidentally change one of the things I love about him, when really all I want to do is make him safe.

Don't tell him, don't tell him. To keep him safe you need to be close to him. To be close to him, don't tell him. Don't tell him, don't tell him. Don't.

"Why would I want to?" I had asked, my head tipping slightly to the side, out of habit.

He bridled a little. "I wasn't asking that. Just, can you. Not would you."

I thought about it for a second. "Well, Dean, I can't change how I'm made anymore than you can change into some form of animal. Angels are only similar to humans in that we take you as vessels. But, I suppose, if all my powers were to drain away, such as when I was in the company of the Mother of All, I would be as good as human." I paused, studying the intricacies of his face, trying to figure out the emotions. "Does that satisfy you?"

He didn't answer. Sam came in. Sam always comes in when Dean and I are beginning to get somewhere. In the television show Doctor Sexy M.D., they refer to it as 'cock-blocking'. I don't understand. There isn't any poultry around.

Maybe I should kill myself.

No. I can't leave Dean. I promised not to hurt him.

He is facing upwards on the bed now, his features slipping slightly to the sides of his face as gravity tugs on it. I place my hand so lightly on his chest that no human should be able to feel it. "Cas," he breathes. I smile, in spite of myself.

Less than a foot from my hand is the place where, years ago, I gripped him as tight as I was able. I can't help it. I can't. There's a force of will, my will, his will, pulling my hand towards the old scar. My fingers align with the marks. And that's when Dean's eyes open.

He sees a figure standing over him in the darkness, and doesn't reach for his gun. He knows it's me.

"Cas! What the Hell..." He looks down at my hand on his arm. There's no anger painted in the masterpiece of his face. Only curiosity, and a drowsy, ill-informed fondness. I remove my hand, and the effects of the connection wear off. Dean looks up at me, glaring a little now. "Where the Hell have you been?"

"Dean–" I start to say, before I'm interrupted.

"I prayed to you, man! We looked for you! You can't just... leave like that! I have been worrying my ass off about you, about this whole situation, about what the Hell this Naomi bitch is gonna do next, and you just... disappear? What's so important that you can just leave like that?"

I blink back tears. Dean is the only one who can make me feel like this.

"Dean, please. I thought it was best to keep myself at a distance from you for a while. In case there were any left-over orders in my head. Naomi made me kill you. I don't want to do that."

He glances at his upper arm. His face softens a fraction. It's almost imperceptible. He's thinking that I was trying to protect him, that that's still bullshit and I need a real excuse, but he appreciates it, but he's missed me –

"Bullshit. You don't think I can defend myself against a dorky angel?" He starts to move, pulling back his covers to sit on the side of the bed. I retreat a few steps to give him his "personal space".

"Dean, you don't understand. They... I..." I can't finish. I can't tell him that they made me kill him a thousand times. I don't want him to know that I did it. I don't want to tell him how much it hurts me. I want to tell him.

"Cas?" He's noticed something is on my mind. He moves so he's sitting right up at the headboard of the bed. I sit at the foot.

"Dean, I don't want to be under her control anymore. I don't want to be under anyone's control. I don't want to be haunted by Sam's memories of Hell, or possessed by souls, or Leviathans. I just want to be myself, for a little while."

His brow creases. This happens frequently. "Why can't you be yourself here? With us? With me?"

He understands that he means a lot more to me than Sam does. I think he rather enjoys the notion.

"Dean, I'm just trying to keep you safe." I know it's futile to try and conceal the pain in my eyes. Dean sees it. He thinks about reaching out to me. His hand twitches, but he simply runs it through his hair, letting out a jagged breath.

He looks me dead in the eye, so intense that I can't even blink. "Where've you been, Cas?" he says quietly. There is no accusing tone in his voice. "What have you been doing?"

I look down at my hands.

"Hey, look at me. Cas." I oblige. "We're on your side. I'm always on your side." He speaks with such emotion that I smile minutely as I think that his loyalty is not as much the bond, as the man.

"I've been trying to find a suitable hiding place for the angel tablet," I tell him. This isn't a lie. "I can't carry it around with me for eternity. I'd most certainly be killed within the first few centuries." Dean raises his eyebrows, as he always does when I mention my age, out of curiosity more than judgement or repulsion.

"Cas, why do you have to protect that damn thing? Why can't we get it to Kevin? That's as good a hiding place as any. No one's going near Garth's safe house. Hell, no one's going near Garth."

No no no I can't tell him. I look him in the eye. I lose myself.

Oh, Father, forgive me.

"The demon tablet contains instructions depicting how to close the gates of Hell permanently. No demons in or out. Most likely, it also says how to wipe out the entire demon population." I take a deep breath. I don't particularly need to breathe; it's a soothing habit.

"You think we'd close the gates of Heaven," Dean says, finishing my thought as it dawns on him.

"Dean, I'd be stuck on one side. I'd either have to leave my home, or Heaven, behind."

He looks at me, just looks at me. "Cas, if Naomi's part of something bigger, we might need to." I see my sorrow mirrored in his eyes. "People might die."

No no no, Castiel, hold your damn tongue.

"Dean, when you die, you'll go to Heaven. That much has been proved already. If I'm stuck on Earth... if I'm not on Earth..." I don't look at him, instead focusing my gaze on the pictures on the desk.

"Cas." He leans forward, slightly reducing the space in between us. "Why are you here?"

I aggressively avoid his eye. My emotions are crashing out of me, and I am unable to filter them. If I looked at Dean now he'd know everything.

"I wanted to... check up on you."

"Cas, I don't need – hey, did you fix my wrist?!" He flexes his left wrist and glares at me in my peripheral.

"I know you don't need it. I needed it. I was worrying. It was getting in the way."

Dean is silent for a moment as he prioritises his questions. But they're all so trivial. Why are you here at night? When are you coming back? Have you seen Kevin? Nothing of import. The only thing that matters is that I am here with Dean, and Dean is alright.

He starts to ask another question, so I tell him that I will answer his queries soon, but for now I would like to sit quietly in his company, if I may. He stops talking immediately.

The bed is comfortable. I sink rather low into it, as does Dean. Maybe the mattress is faulty. Though, I remember the days when a manger of hay was a big deal.

Dean moves slightly closer to me and reaches out, putting a hand on my right shoulder as we sit side by side. His grip is firm and steady, long fingers splayed, reminding me that he's there. I want to return the embrace, I want to touch him in return, but how can I? Nothing the pizza man taught me is relevant in this situation.

I move myself slightly over towards him, as he did. Our bodies are roughly 13.63 inches from each other. The air is still.

I wonder if maybe he loves me too.

No, no. Don't think about that.

What's good about me? What am I but another person willing to bleed for the Winchesters? How many have cared and died for them? Why should I be any different?

There will come a day when Dean is dead and Sam is dead and they're all dead and I'm alone and I'll be damned if I can't spend forever in Heaven with him.

I consider the action of sexual intercourse. I've never done it before. The Notebook made it sound enjoyable, as did the pizza man and his female companion, as did Meg's proposal about "moving furniture around". For Dean, sex would be inevitable in a relationship. I don't know if I can give him what he wants.

He doesn't love me.

He doesn't love me.

I am in love with Dean.

I realise that I am crying only after Dean has moved closer, so we are 1.95 inches apart, and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, gripping my arm tightly. He hasn't said anything since I asked him not to. I want to kiss him.

The tells in my eyes must have worn off in the twenty minutes silence, so I can turn to look at Dean, who was looking at me. Our faces are 10.73 inches apart. He looks in my eyes and waits for me to speak. I simply lean forwards and rest my head on his shoulder, and he rests his head on top of mine, while beginning to rub his hand soothingly across my back.

I feel useless. Dean has been through more than I have. Recently I beat him half to death. But here I am, being the victim. It's not right.

However, Dean has always been selfless. He's always been one to solve others' problems over his. This act of kindness benefits him as much as it does me.

So I stay.

I bring my arm up to wrap around his back, and he leans into it, surrounding more of my body with his. How often does he embrace Sam in this way? Does he?

My mind is surprisingly blank. I can hear Dean's heartbeat so loudly from here. I would like to thank Dean's heart for everything it's done for him. Well, and for me.

Half an hour later, I sense that Dean has fallen asleep. His breathing has become slow and steady, in a race to the morning. He is leaning heavily against me as I support more of his body weight than before. He has his serene, raw face back.

An hour later, I slowly extract myself from him, and lay him back on the bed. I pull the covers up to his chin. My desires are bouncing against the cage walls of my thoughts, dying to be brought into reality.

I kiss Dean on the lips and disappear before he can wake.