A/N: (fic takes place just after episode 503: Free To Be You And Me)

Hello there! First story on this new account – I'm excited! This is by no means my first slash fic, so no need to worry about shoddy excuses on my part. If this story sucks, no need to cut me some slack. Tar and feather me if it's not to your liking. If you do happen to enjoy this, then yay! This is by far my favorite piece I've written so far for this pairing. Hope you like it! Please review either way :D

Chapter One: A Wonder

This was not the angel's first time on Earth. He had, of course, touched down before, many decades ago, in the body of a vessel with the purpose of protecting a charge. After so many centuries, he knew full well that humans were nothing but the combination of given traits that saw little to no variation. Never before, however, had Castiel encountered a human being so complex as the man called Dean Winchester. In his eons of experience observing and occasionally interacting with the human race, he hadn't met a man so prone to violent mood swings, unexplainable bouts of laughter at seemingly mundane things, or surges of dumbfounding protection of all the things that he held dear. Dean was truly a loyal man, that was certain, but he did come with his peculiarities.

The biggest trait that set Dean apart from his fellows, Castiel thought, was his appetite. Now that Dean and his brother Sam had for the time being parted ways, Castiel was left alone quite often with the elder Winchester. This time offered many acute observations that the angel had before been unable to make.

His first observation: Dean Winchester drank a lot of beer.

"Isn't it against your rules to drive while consuming alcohol?" said Castiel. He looked over at Dean in the claustrophobic darkness of the Imapla and watched the man once again lift the neck of a dark brown bottle to his lips.

Swallowing, Dean chuckled with the half-lifted smirk that he had so well perfected after countless executions. "Don't you worry about 'our' rules, alright? I've got it handled." He shoved the bottle suddenly into Castiel's unsuspecting hand and began fiddling with the car's radio, muttering under his breath about radio stations not knowing the definition of good music anymore.

The angel looked down at the three-fourths empty beer bottle. An acrid, bitter scent was wafting up from the lip of it, and mingled in was the slightest whiff of Dean's natural aroma. Castiel brought the bottle a little closer and let his heightened senses play with the smell of the beer. If the stuff tasted like it smelled, it couldn't be too appetizing.

"Hey now, angel-boy," Dean said, snatching back his drink, "hands off. I need this if you expect me to stay awake for the drive to… Where is it we're going again?"

"Oakland County," said Castiel. "It would be much faster if you had let me use my—"

"No, no," Dean cut across quickly. "I already told you, Cas, no more funky angel teleporting. The ramifications are not worth it." Castiel had already brought up his hand as if he were going to touch Dean's forehead and bring them directly to the site of their next obligation.

"As you wish," said a resigned Castiel. He settled his hands in his lap and looked placidly out through the front window. From the corner of his eye he watched Dean drain the rest of his beer and set it in the back seat where two empty bottles were already rolling about. It was common habit for Dean to drink, even more so since Sam had left. Castiel had never mentioned it before, but he saw a noticeable change in Dean's already peculiar personality whenever alcohol was brought into the picture. Sometimes his mood changed for the better, and sometimes it took a downturn. Human emotion was not a well-known subject for Castiel, but he knew enough about it to see the subtle alterations in his charge's actions.

By the way that Dean was singing some classic rock song at a growing volume, Castiel felt it safe to assume that tonight his drinking would not turn him into anything bitter or irate (at least, not too irate). Even though Dean wouldn't admit it, the absence of his brother was a physical thing that was almost like the loss of a limb. The anxiety over Sam's well-being pressed on Dean's mind with every added minute in which Castiel rode shot-gun instead of Sam. There was some insistence from Dean that he was happy to be on his own, but Castiel knew better than to believe him. Although he was emotionally blank and fairly ignorant of human culture, Castiel knew the difference between truth and lies.

After another hour of driving, Dean pulled into the parking lot of a roadside motel and made it clear that he wasn't driving another foot until he'd had his minimum of four hours' sleep.

"What should I do until you are done sleeping?" said Castiel. He watched Dean pull his duffle bag from the trunk and head for the main office of the motel.

"I don't care," said Dean over his shoulder. "Aren't you supposed to be looking for God, anyhow?" He stopped, awaiting Castiel's response.

The angel drew up close behind Dean in several long steps. "The trail has gone cold. I am taking a few days to collect my thoughts and devise a new course of action."

Dean turned and nearly fell backwards at the discovery of how close Castiel had become. 'Personal space' was a lesson taught and failed many times over.

"Peachy," Dean said. "So why are you still playing 'Angel in the Outfield?' Don't you have anything better you could be doing?"

Castiel thought for a moment, taking the question into deep consideration as he did with any question that Dean asked him. He didn't notice the irritated way in which Dean ran a hand over his exhausted face. "No, I have nothing else I should be doing" the angel said finally. "My biggest obligation is keeping you protected. Since Sam's departure, I have been increasingly anxious about your safety."

A muscle at the corner of Dean's eye twitched. "I don't need a friggin' babysitter, Cas."

The angel blinked several times. Babysitter? Dean was not a baby, that much he knew. Could Dean be using the term metaphorically?

Seeing that Castiel was still mulling that one over, Dean turned on his heel and went into the motel office with a muttering of curses. When he returned five minutes later with a room key, Castiel hadn't moved.

"You might as well come inside with me," Dean said gruffly, "if you don't plan on treasure hunting for God or whatever." He grabbed a few guns and a bag of salt from the trunk and led Castiel rather hastily toward room number six.

The duffel bag was unceremoniously tossed into a chair, and Dean quickly followed in its descent, although he aimed for the creaky bed set against the wall beneath a rather ugly watercolor painting. Castiel watched the man sling an arm over his eyes and exhale loudly. He really did seem exhausted.

"You didn't need to bother getting two beds," Castiel said. "I don't need to sleep." Regardless, he sat down on the edge of the twin bed several feet from Dean's.

Dean lifted his head only slightly to regard Cas with a bit of a grin. When he fell back into his previous position, it was with a heavy sigh. "Yeah, old habits, I guess." His thoughts were on Sam again. Castiel wasn't sure what to say that could reassure him. The relationship between the Winchesters was one so thick and multi-layered that Castiel could not begin to understand it in the comparatively short amount of time that he'd known the two. Slowly, he was beginning to appreciate the truly emotional, hellish circumstances which drove a knife between them in the form of Michael and Lucifer. Maybe that's why he was risking himself for the Winchesters; because he, even as an angel, could feel compassion for these two men who feared the thought of losing each other above all else.

Castiel moved to the head of his bed, stretching out his legs along the mattress. From this position, he had a perfect view of the door, the window, and Dean (although it was hard to see anything else in such a tiny room). "Sleep now, Dean. I will wake you in four hours."

The man was already asleep. He wasn't even fully in the bed. His feet were still planted on the floor and his arms were thrown loosely up around his head as if he were falling. Castiel gave a soft chuckle and extinguished the lamp with a flexing of his mind, leaving them in almost total darkness. Light from the outside streetlamp was seeping in through the yellowed muslin curtains, giving the room a rather grim atmosphere. Castiel marveled momentarily at Dean's apparent comfort in such places. That was another wonder of this man; he had low standards for so proud a person. From the food he ate (greasy piles of processed meat not to be stomached), to the women he pursued (simplistic, peculiar creatures with carnal desires), to the very bed on which Dean now slept, none of it was good enough for him. Well, Dean of course didn't think this, but Castiel was of the opinion that the man deserved much better. He deserved the "apple pie life" (an expression the angel still didn't fully understand) that Dean and his brother always talked about.

Maybe it all came back to Dean's appetite. His appetite extended beyond food, drink, and women. Dean's hunger was more of a lust. He wanted as much out of life as he could lay his hands on, maybe because of his constant encounters with death itself.

Castiel's thoughts and speculations of Dean could fill many hours, more hours than he had at hand. He looked away from his intense fixation on the window and focused on the man sprawled across the neighboring bed.

The tattered t-shirt was threadbare, worn in. Even in the dim lighting, Castiel could see clearly the places where it would soon grow holes. The way the cloth was lifted on his body, a wide stretch of skin was visible above the waistband of Dean's jeans. The jeans were old, too; bloodstains that had been hurriedly scrubbed in a motel sink dotted several places on his knees and thighs. His boots were heavy and torn along the seams.

After surveying all of this, the angel's eyes again found that bare patch of skin on Dean's stomach. There was a bit of hair there too, just barely, at the hem of his jeans. Dean's awkward position was pulling his pants down enough to reveal half an inch of boxer shorts. Castiel felt almost intrusive at looking, which was new for him. He usually wasn't ashamed at making observation. Perhaps he was spending too much time together with this human; it was affecting his judgment and personality in startling ways.

Castiel hoped that looking elsewhere would ease his own mingled feelings (embarrassment? guilt?). Of course, his eyes immediately sought out Dean's face.

There was no answer to the angel's emotions there. The shape of Dean's lips was too perfect. Parted slightly and breathing softly, the man looked utterly like the face of peace. His expression was not wholly calm, however. Castiel could see a furrowing at Dean's brow as if he were troubled even in sleep.

With no audible sound, Castiel eased himself off the old mattress and got to one knee beside Dean's bed. The man stirred slightly; his senses were well-practiced enough not to be snuck up on.

"You are a wonder, Dean Winchester," Castiel whispered on the end of a sigh. His hand rose to Dean's face and one careful finger brushed the crease of the man's brow. Castiel watched with unshakeable focus. He'd known for some time that his angelic control was slipping, but never had it breached so completely. Being cut off from heaven should have been enough to set him on his righteous path, where he belonged, but these months with the Winchesters – with Dean – they had shaken Castiel's once-decided morals. Free will was not something he was practiced in. He didn't know what it was like to live as Dean did, to know what one wants and to take it without question. As the angel crouched there in that moldy motel room, he saw with utter clarity what all the lights of Heaven had never shown him; Castiel knew what he wanted.

"Cas! Man, I told you to gimmie four friggin' hours! Why the hell are you touching me?"

Dean was awake.

Castiel drew his hand back, utterly shocked by Dean's abrupt spoiling of his calm fantasies. Rather than kneeling, he was now knocked backwards onto the dusty floor with his back against his bed. He looked up at Dean with wide eyes and eyebrows lifted to comic proportions. His mouth dropped open and close several times before he finally spoke.

"I thought we were…" he began, fumbling quickly for a lie. "I thought we were in danger. I was going to take you somewhere else but, uh, it appears we are safe now so you may—you may go back to sleep."

Dean sat up, rubbing the spot on his forehead where Castiel had touched. "What do you mean you thought we were in danger?"

Castiel was more prepared for questions this time. His moment of stumbling was over and his lie had been formed. He pulled himself back up into his own bed and sat once again on the edge. "I sensed a presence outside. I think it was just a spirit, weak and harmless. We're still safe. You may go back to sleep." The angel looked down at his hands, clasping them, and looked back to Dean.

"You alright, Cas? You're acting weirder than normal." Dean regarded Castiel for a moment. Slowly he stood, stretching, and went to his duffle bag and removed a bag of salt. Castiel watched him closely as he spread it in front of the window, door, and even the air vent. At least the lie about a spirit had been believed.

The angel cleared his throat, finding it uncharacteristically dry. "I'm fine."

Dean turned away from his ghost-proofing only to catch Castiel's intense gaze. One eyebrow quirked. "You sure? Cause you look spooked. And you're giving me the creeps."

Castiel averted his eyes again. "My apologies. It's just you're—"

"A wonder?"

The angel's eyes returned to Dean, wide and comical again. "What?"

A grin had crept onto Dean's face, and only then did Castiel realize he'd been holding it in since he woke up. "You heard me."

"You mean you heard me?"

Dean chuckled softly, returning the bag of salt to his duffle. "I don't sleep anymore, Cas. Not fully, anyway. So yeah, I heard you. I also know there was no spirit here. It would have been a rookie move to miss some flickering lights or cold spots." The man casually kicked off his boots and removed his jeans. Castiel sat on the bed in utter bewilderment.

"I-I… Forgive me," the angel said. "I didn't mean to…"

"What? Molest me in my sleep?" Dean chuckled again and tapped the spot on his brow. "Don't worry about it." He fell back into bed, fully this time. There was no indication in his movements that Castiel's actions had disturbed him. Maybe the beers he drank in the car had something to do with it?

Castiel tugged at the neck of his collar, still feeling too warm. Dean was lying motionless with one hand on his chest and the other above his head, which pulled up his shirt once again just enough to reveal skin. The man looked close to sleep.

"I meant what I said," the angel said softly. "You are an extraordinary man, Dean."

Dean opened one eye, looking at Castiel, and smirked slightly. "You're a pretty decent guy yourself, Cas."

The two men stayed silent for some time. Had Castiel's senses been less attuned to Dean, he would have suspected the man of falling asleep. No, Dean was still awake, which led the angel to believe that there was something hung between them waiting to be said. The room felt impossibly smaller, like the space between their beds hardly existed. Castiel suddenly tore a hand through his hair and sighed. He was still perched on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. Leaning forward, he buried his face in his hands and cursed himself with every language he had knowledge of. He was so absorbed in his internal frustration that he scarcely heard the shifting of Dean's bed. When he looked up, Dean was mirroring his position with an indecipherable expression.

"I'm not good at this stuff," Dean said, voice rough and low like Castiel was so accustomed to. The man's voice was a comfort. "But I, uh…am I nuts for thinking there's something, y'know, going on here?" He gestured weakly to the space between them, suddenly so vast now that it was being acknowledged.

Castiel considered this question. The trouble was, he didn't know how to respond. He was fascinated by Dean Winchester, that much was certain. But what that fascination meant was still being discovered, and Castiel felt he would not understand it for quite some time. He had a comprehension of the basics of being human emotion; sex and love were linked, he knew, but not necessarily equal. Just as his feelings for Dean were linked (respect and compassion; concern and affection), whether they were exclusively equivalent of the other was yet to be seen.

"You are my friend, Dean," said Castiel. "My greatest concern at this time is to keep you safe and on the track to defeating Lucifer."

Dean nodded with an air of having heard all this before. "Yeah, alright, that's what I thought." For a moment, he remained motionless on the edge of the bed. His gaze was unfocused and distracted as he said, "I'm gonna get my last three hours, then. Oakland County in the morning, right?"

"That's right."

The man grinned, looking care-free (yet tired) once again. "Vampires. Nothin' like a good old fashioned vampire hunt. G'night." Dean climbed under the covers and turned away from Castiel.

The angel stayed awake to wonder when exactly he'd been blind-sided by Dean Winchester. His feelings, although yet undefined, were nothing of the usual sort. Even as he glanced at the sleeping man, Castiel felt a stirring in his stomach.

He acknowledged that he might be in love. Love with Dean, another man, would not end well for him (Dean had a lot of guns and holy oil in that car of his). Castiel knew that love was not a wise emotion to be having, but he was beginning to suspect that it could not be helped.