When Dean was young, he had spent a short time in a little home in Montana. It was the most boring, unextraordinary home there's ever been, or so it felt, and Dad was hunting most of the time anyway.

So Dean, and his 3 year old brother, Sam, would go out exploring. They would go out in the bushes and get poison ivy and dig holes in the ground, practicing their grave-digging skills (which their father fully approved of). Dean kept a watchful eye on little Sammy, but he was fairly lenient and went off on his own a few times. He looked up from the hole he was pointlessly digging for a moment. All he heard was a gust of wind, but it somehow sounded like more than that. Like… whispering. It wasn't some horror-story shit like his name, or anything, but it sounded like logical speaking. Like… some sort of ancient language. And not only that, it didn't sound like it was coming from everywhere like most wind, it was coming from a grove in the forest beyond the yard.

Dean followed the whispers into the forest, not even contemplating the ideas. He glanced at Sam (who seemed to be trying to either play with or eat some sort of bug on the ground, hopefully the former) and figured he was fine, as he stepped into the forest.

It was so dense, even the air seemed to be the same color as the green canopy around him. No wind should have gotten through, but still, he heard and felt the whispers across his neck. Tripping over roots and vines, he kept walking.

Finally coming through a tight pair of trees and nearly falling over, Dean stopped. He had come to a little, circular patch of grass, with trees surrounding it so perfectly it didn't look natural. Right in the center was a little box.

Dean walked up to it, and picked it up, the whispers stopping abruptly. He turned it over in his hand, examining its form. It was made of wood, and beautifully crafted in gentle, swirling, almost angelic designs. It was covered in a language he was not only unable to read, but unable to recognize. He opened it. Empty.

Dean didn't tell Sam about the box he had found. Or his father. For about a week, the box stayed under his bed in the room he actually got to use alone. Finally, he figured such a box he kept secret could serve a purpose.

He would never admit that he wrote a diary. But he didn't tell anyone anything, and to get it down on paper was somehow comforting. When he was sure Sam was sleeping and dad was gone, he would write what he was thinking about and put it in the box. It was midnight, one week after the box he wrote his first 'entry', per se.

I found a box, the first entry was titled, brief and to the point. I found a box today. It's little and made of wood and has letters from a different language on it. I didn't show dad. I don't think he'd care anyway. Stupid jerkface is too busy hunting stupid vampires. And Sammy can't read, so I'm not too worried. The school here is awful. Everybody thinks I'm weird because I can't tell them about my life because that would make me even more weird. I hate them too.

PS. this doesn't count as a diary cause diaries are for girls.

This is, of course, without the infinite spelling errors making it nearly indecipherable. As soon as he finished, he folded it up, put it in the box, put the box under his pillow, and went to sleep.

He intended to use it again tomorrow, at about the same time, and he followed through. Same as last night, he woke up at midnight, checked to make sure Sam was asleep and that dad was gone, then got out a piece of paper and a pencil. He took his box and opened it up for when he put in the message.

Just before he was about to start writing, he stopped. The paper in the box didn't look the same. The stuff he used was yellowish with lines on it, but this was clean, and an almost glowing white. He picked it up curiously. It felt warm, like it had just come out of the printer.

Unfolding it, he found it wasn't his note. It wasn't even close. In fact, as he read it over, he found it was a response.

I'm sorry your father isn't interested in what you've found, even though it is a rather remarkable thing to find. It said in classy, neat writing. And school will probably get better. You just need to get used to it. And this clearly isn't a diary, it's a journal, which is much more masculine sounding.

Dean creased his eyebrows reading. He went out into the kitchen, taking some holy water from the fridge, and sprinkling a couple dabs onto the paper. All it did was make it wet. Finally, he figured he'd communicate.

Who are you, how did you get my box? he wrote. He put the message in and shut the box. He put his head on his pillow, ready for a response in the morning.

The first thing he did when he awoke, which was only a few hours after this event, was snatch the box out from under his bed and open it. Nonetheless, another note on shiny white paper sat inside.

My name is Castiel, it said. And actually, this is my box. It is labeled with my name.

Dean read the note and put it aside, immediately writing back.

Is it a magic box? he asked. Are you a demon? The idea of the last question scared him, but he had to ask. He shut his eyes tight, for at least a few minutes, hoping he didn't have to be asleep to talk to the person in the box. Luckily, he was right. Opening it up again, he found his message was already gone.

It is a magic box, it said. but I'm not a demon. I'm an angel.

Dean immediately scribbled down a response, then shut his eyes tight again.

Does that mean you watch over me? Also, why don't you help?

The response was there, again, on the same paper.

Yes, I've been watching over you for a while now, ever since you found this box. And I'm very sorry, I'm not allowed to interfere.

Again and again, Dean would ask questions: Says who? Why not?

And again, Castiel would reply. It's God's orders, and I don't know why.

The Winchesters stayed in that home for Montana for a year and a half, which is longer than they'd stayed anywhere. The whole time, Dean talked to his imaginary friend Castiel, and they talked about God, and Heaven, and Dean's little life, and all his opinions, Dean asking question after question after question and Castiel happy to provide answer after answer after answer. Finally, it was time for the moving trucks to pull in. Dean's father was calling for him to get packing, and he said he was, but really, he was scribbling away at his letter to put in the box. It was written like this, exactly:

It's time to go,

it was titled. Dad says it's time to go away from this house forever. We have to pack only what we need, and if he finds this box, he'll throw it away. I can't bring it. Thank you for answering all my questions and being my friend. I'm gonna miss you. I'm sorry I can't take you with me. You're an angel so you probably won't care that I go too much, so it won't make you sad, which is good because I don't want you to be sad. I hope someone else finds the box and you can make a new friend and will be happy. And I'll keep looking for a box all the time and whenever I find one I'm gonna send you a message right away, A-S-A-P!

Dean tried frantically to wipe the water droplets off his paper before he put it in the box. He sniffed as he shut his eyes for a good ten seconds (which he found was all it actually took) and then opened the box again, to get a response on the warm, glowing white paper.

It's alright, Dean. It's very smart of you to leave the box here. I'd rather it wasn't thrown away, as you put it. It was my pleasure answering your questions, and although I am an angel I still do have emotions and I will always recall the time that we were friends with fondness. And I thank you, too, for writing such clever and inquisitive messages to me. Don't cry. Just remember, just because you don't have the box doesn't mean I won't be watching over you.

Always.

"Dean! We have to go!" His father's voice came from the yard.

"Coming!" He replied. He wiped his tears, closed the box, and left it just outside the window, resting in a flowerbed of posies.

It had been 23 years since Dean had last seen the box. He had forgotten completely about it really, and at about the age of 12 he was smart enough to figure out it was probably just his imagination or some jerk putting in messages for laughs, either way he hadn't thought about it at all in years.

He and Sam had been hunting for a while now, but they weren't on any cases now. Sam still didn't know about the deal…Dean leaned over the sink, splashing water in his face. His soul was sold for his baby brother's life. Those were the facts. Another relevant fact was that in one year, that sold soul would be dragged down into Hell and he would be tortured forever, basically. He knew Sam never would have approved, but he had to. Without Sam… he didn't know what to do.

"Yo, Dean!" he heard Sam call, stepping into the hotel. He was dripping wet from the harsh rainstorm outside, and thunder crashed as he shut the door behind him. Dean turned around, a fake look of 'everything's fine' springing onto his face. It was a superpower, given to all older siblings, he thought. You could be literally dead and soulless and look absolutely fine as soon as your little sibling walks in, for their sake.

"Yeah!" he called back. He saw Sam walking towards him then stopping, a look of confusion on his face.

"I was just getting some holy water from the impala. I found something in the front seat." Dean stepped up to him, curiously.

"What is it?" He asked.

Slowly, Sam withdrew from his jacket a little wooden box, marked with the same designs as writings as the box from his childhood. His heart sank. A rush of nostalgia passed over him. No way. It couldn't be the same one.

"Oh my God…" He muttered.

"You recognize it?" Sam asked, amazed.

Dean didn't answer, but took it from his hands.

"Hang on, what if it's a curse box!" Sam exclaimed as Dean began to open it.

"It's not a curse box." He said quickly. He took in a breath and opened the box.

Inside was the same, glowing white printer fresh paper he remembered. It smelled like the forest he found the box in. Slowly, he lifted the paper.

Dean, it said. Even the writing was totally identical.

It's high time we talked.

Dean's eyes widened. He looked around him, awed, listening for something more than the rain against the ground outside. "Castiel?" he asked softly. He flinched as thunder crashed, shaking the walls and making the ground quake.

"Who's Castiel?" Sam asked. Dean could hear the wind picking up outside.

"He was my imaginary friend when I was little," He responded, raising up his voice a little. "I found this box when I was young and I used to talk to him…"

"Talk to him?"

"Well, no, I'd write him messages, put them in the box and then get a reply."

"You sure this is the right box?"

Dean looked down at it and shook his head. "One way to find out." He said. He turned to Sam. "You got a pencil, paper?" he asked.

"Ah, yeah." He said. He hurried over to the table, grabbing a pen and tearing a sheet off an old notebook. He handed it to Dean. Dean put the paper against the wall as he wrote a brief message on it.

Is it really you, Castiel?

Nostalgia passed over him like a tidal wave as he put the note in the box. "Shut your eyes," He said to his brother, as he shut his own.

"What?" Sam asked.

"It only works if your eyes are closed." Sam nodded and shut his eyes, waiting for Dean to tell him he could do otherwise. Dean counted ten long seconds. He knew he shouldn't have been, but he was hoping he'd find the clean, white paper inside the box again. His heart racing, he opened the box. "You can open your eyes." Dean said to Sam as he opened his. Sam glanced in the box and his eyes widened upon seeing the clean, white piece of paper that clearly wasn't Dean's.

"What the-" He whispered. Dean didn't hesitate, taking the note out of the box and opening it up.

Yes, it's me. It's good to finally talk to you again. I had to send you this prayer box again, there's a matter of grave importance we need to discuss.

"Prayer box?" Sam asked reading over his shoulder. "I've never heard of those."

"You wanna look it up while I put this thing in a devil's trap and do an interrogation?"

Sam crossed his arms. "Why can't you do the research?"

"Hey, the dude knows me." Dean rebutted. Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine."

Reluctantly, he turned and pulled his laptop out of his bag as Dean took the box and went down to the basement. It was a nasty place for a discussion, but he kept it in a devil's trap and ring of salt, just in case it was possessed. For a long time, he sat cross legged in front of the box. Whoever it was, he remembered every detail. It was kinda creepy, but also kinda nice.

So, what are you? Dean wrote.

You mean you don't remember me?

Of course I remember, but I want the truth.

I gave you the truth.

Those were just stories. You can't expect me to believe you're actually an angel.

You did when I told you the first time.

I was seven years old.

So?

So, I was a stupid little kid.

I have to disagree. You may have had a wild imagination, but I'll say you had a phenomenal understanding of morals and the world around you for your age. You were a pleasure to talk to.

You mean you actually liked talking to me?

Yes, is that a problem?

No, but you live in heaven. Haven't you got better things to do?

Not really. Heaven is a paradise designed for humans, Dean. For angels, it's just a residence.

What, like employees at a theme park?

If you like.

Dean chuckled slightly to himself. To think that the angel still cared about him… him, in particular. It was odd to even think about. He shook his head. No. Not angel. It was probably a demon or something. But he didn't want to think about it. He looked behind him, making sure Sam was focused on his research before writing his next note. He had an idea of what he wanted to talk about.

Is this about my soul?

He shut the box, with dread in his heart.

It is. The reply was brief, but it made his heart sink into his chest. Of course it was, he thought.

What about it?

You shouldn't have done that, Dean. I could have helped.

And what help could you have possibly provided? My life has been shit even with you "watching over me", and the only reason sold my soul is because my brother was dead. What exactly have you done?

Dean scribbled the note down furiously, putting the note in the box. He got back a single word response that rather confused him.

Rockwell.

Dean creased his eyebrows. The name rung a bell. Slowly, it came to him. He worked a case in Rockwell, California. Something about vampires. He couldn't put his finger on any of the details.

What about it?

Sam was off to find the nest in an abandoned warehouse, while you were taking care of other matters. He called back to say that he showed up only to find the vampires dead, with their eyes burned out of their sockets. You looked for something that could do that, but all you could find was angels, which was of course, nonsensical. Finally, you concluded no one was dying and you had cases to work, and you moved on.

Dean read over the note, confused. Every detail was correct, which was a little creepy. He still didn't see how it was relevant.

And? He prompted.

I killed them. I can see into the future, Dean, and those vampires would have taken Sam off guard. This is only one example.

And how many times have you done things like that?

Hundreds.

Dean's eyes widened for a moment. He considered thanking him but first he had to ask.

Why?

I told you I'd be watching over you.

Yes, but why me?

I'm not allowed to care about people?

Before Dean could write back, Sam called him back into the room. "I think I found something!" He called. Dean faked that same "I'm fine" look and stood up, crinkling up the note in his hand.

"Yeah?" He said, walking out of the dungeon and meeting up with him in the living room.

"Prayer boxes," Sam replied. "They were said to call to people in need with the music of the angels. They are labeled with the angels that answer to them in Enochian, and each angel has only one."

"Come on, man, you think that's the truth? Real angels?"

Sam shrugged. "I honestly don't see why not." He responded.

"Cause it's impossible, Sammy!" Dean responded quickly. "I mean, come on, angels?"

"We fight everything else people think is impossible! Look, why don't we find out? We'll stock up on everything we've got and then we'll ask to meet up with him."

Dean opened his mouth to object, but Sam was right. He reluctantly nodded. "Fine." He said. He stood up and returned to the dungeon, grabbing another scrap of paper on the way.

I need to meet you in person.

He wrote. He did the usual, shutting his eyes for ten seconds, but when he opened the box, the same note was there. He cocked his head, confused. He shut his eyes again, waiting the ten seconds, but again, there was the same message he had just written. He looked around him. Was he here? His heart throbbed. No. They weren't ready.

"Castiel?" He asked softly. Suddenly, a sound pierced through the air, a loud ringing in his ears. It rapidly increased to an outstanding volume, piercing Dean's ears. He winced, pressing his hands against his ears. He looked up. Around the corner, something was coming. A bright light blasted into the room.

"Sam!" He cried. Sam, hearing from upstairs, leapt up out of his chair and darted down the stairs. By the time he had made it down, Dean was alone, his back pressed against the stone wall, panting heavily in panic. Whatever was there was gone. Sam ran up to him, and Dean grabbed onto his shirt as though he was thankful he was there. He didn't turn his head.

"Sam!" He gasped. "I can't see!" He turned his head to try and see Sam's awestruck face, but all his vacant eyes saw was blackness. "I can't see!"