Dean digs his feet into the concrete ledge, pressing his back against the wall as he looks down. The street below is completely blocked off – police cars at either end preventing traffic from passing through and he knows, even if he can't see it, that police tape will be strung around the front of the apartment block to keep the nosey civilians, who look more like ants from up here, from getting too close. He is awed at how small everything appears from up here.

"Captain Winchester."

The sudden voice from the window to his right makes him jump slightly, and his heart catches in his throat. For as much as he came up here to throw himself off, his survival instinct is screaming for him to take those precious few steps back towards the window and climb back in to safety.

"I'm Detective Castiel Milton," the voice continues, "and I understand you asked for me."

Dean nods in acknowledgement of the man's presence, but doesn't take his eyes from the crowds gathering below.

"So what brings you out here today, Sergeant?"

The cop is calm. Too calm.

"Besides the view?" Dean jokes.

The cop doesn't even smile.

"Do you have any friends or family you wish me to call for you?"

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

This guy is persistent, and Dean smirks. "No." There is a pause, and then, "My mother's dead," he tells him, and he's not sure why. The words just come tumbling out of his mouth of their own accord, and no matter how much he wants to he can't take them back.

"Is that why you're out here?"

"In a way," Dean answers. Which isn't actually a lie. He'd been out on a routine patrol with a pretty blonde soldier called Jo, who reminded him in a way of his mother, when they'd come under attack. Both of them died that day, the only difference between them being that Dean was still walking. He'd gone to her funeral last week. Jo's death is the last link in a chain of events that all started with the house fire in which his mom died in Lawrence, Kansas, 22 years ago today.

"Do you wish to discuss it?"

"No."

The cop says nothing, leaving a silence for Dean to fill. He hates silence – it makes him feel alone; that's why there's always music blaring in his car whenever he goes out driving. The faint cries from the crowd down below whose words carry up on the breeze aren't quite loud or distinct enough to ease his nerves. He hears someone shouting at him to jump, and he sets his jaw. Not yet. Not quite yet.

"You know, I'm not really good with heights," Dean tells him.

"Then this is a strange way for you to choose to leave this world."

"I don't like flying, either - but that didn't stop me from shipping out on a six-month tour in Afghanistan."

"I'll bet that was tough," the cop says.

"What'd you say your name was, again?"

"Castiel."

Dean raises an eyebrow. "That's... unique. I think I'll just stick with Cas."

Castiel shrugs. "Call me whatever you like."

There is no way that Dean should be seeing the innuendo in his words given the circumstances, so he blames the deep, gravelly voice. He cleared his throat. "You know this job of yours, it's a pretty grim way to make a living," he says, desperate to feel like he has someone there with him. Which he does, but the cop's not with him, with him – he's just there.

"You can't save everyone," comes the reply. "I never forget those I fail, but I try to focus on those I can help."

Calm, and controlled. Unlike Dean.

"I'm hoping you're one of them," he continues.

"Do you have a lot of friends on the force?"

"Not really," he shrugs.

Dean catches the slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He says it so casually, like there's nothing he can do about it yet he accepts it. It just is.

"You know, you and me – we've got a lot in common," Dean tells him.

He looks over, looking at the cop for the first time, and digs his feet in harder. He was expecting the guy to look neutral, almost bored – which he does – but it's just a mask. Dean can see the depth of the underlying concern in his blue eyes; the eyes that are far older than the rest of him. He's seen too much, Dean can tell, but he has never stopped caring. He's got too much heart for the job, and Dean wonders how much longer he'll be able to take it. Guys like him don't last long. Not unless they find a way to switch off.

"Sergeant, I know you're desperate. I can see that," Castiel tries again to get through to him. "But these people down there, they don't care. They want you to jump. But I do care."

"I know," Dean says. Again, he's not even aware of talking until he hears the words and realises it's his voice he can hear.

"Can I get you anything?"

"How about a double cheeseburger?" Dean chuckles, until he's hit with the finality of it. His last meal. "And a slice of pie," he adds wryly.

"How about a drink to go with that?" Castiel asks, and he's still so damned composed that Dean can't tell if he's joking or not.

"Coke," he says, and Castiel nods.

One of his legs is starting to cramp up, so Dean starts to roll the ankle joint in the hope of helping his circulation – not that it'll help much. And he's going to be suffering from a lot worse than cramp soon.

He looks up at the sky. There are storm clouds in the distance.

"There's a storm coming," he notes.

"The weather report says there's a fifty-fifty chance that it might break up before it gets here," Castiel tells him conversationally.

The cramp in his leg is gone now, but when he puts his foot down it's too near the edge and he loses his footing. There is a moment when he could swear that his heart had stopped as blind panic sets in, but as soon as it's started it's over. There is a collective intake of breath from down below, and Dean almost feels sorry for disappointing them. He regains his balance and pants as he once again presses his back against the brick wall behind him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, casting a quick glance over at Castiel, and that's when he sees the outstretched hand still hovering in midair, too far away to be of any use. But that still hadn't stopped the guy from instinctively reaching out to Dean. So, this guy really does care. His blue eyes are wide with fear – the same fear that's currently running through Dean's veins and forcing his heart to work twice as fast. But cocky bravado takes over then, because Dean Winchester doesn't do fear. "I've never felt more alive."

"I don't think you want to jump," Castiel tells him, and maybe this guy can see right through all the layers Dean hides under until he's staring at his freaking soul.

"Is there a moment that you can tell if someone's going to go off or not?"

Castiel's head cocks to the side and his blue eyes narrow as if surprised at Dean's question. "Sometimes," he admits, nodding. "Sometimes you can tell. You can feel them give up."

"I think you've already given up," Dean tells him.

Castiel's eyes widen, and his mouth opens and closes. In that brief moment that he loses his composure, Dean can see the pain that's eating him up inside; the weight he's carrying.

"Don't give up on me," Dean asks him, and he's almost begging. Almost.

"I'm going to get you off this ledge," Cas promises.

"Dead or alive?" Dean quips.

"Alive," comes the sincere reply, and Dean almost hopes that he's right.