Sam was the first to die. His brother, Dean, only took a few short months to follow. They passed at the ripe ages of 70 and 74, much older than either of them had apparently ever anticipated. I never truly understood this. Over the course of my life I had seen many die young, some even before birth, whilst others roamed the mortal plane for an entire century.

There seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to it: these things just happened.

My father, Castiel, told me that Sam and Dean were taken too soon. Though I got the impression that they could have lived hundreds of years and he still would have believed it was too soon. He knew better than I did what impermanence meant. I knew it meant fleeting; here one second and gone the next… but I still never truly felt it. It was a concept that I understood in words but not in being. Castiel once told me that death had yet to be part of me. He'd said it in a heavy and torn voice, with an untold wisdom glistening in the depths of his eyes.

I saw loss there.

I saw centuries of torment that I had yet to endure.

And I believed him.

I never dared argue those words because I sensed something within me that had yet to break. Something that had already long ago broken within him.

I think that frayed tether of hope cut to its final thread the day Sam died. We had been in Heaven, where I was to be the watchful eye over the angels: instructing them on which battles to wage and which to yield. It was where I was to protect the human souls as they passed through the veil. Castiel, as my father and my mentor, taught me the importance of peace. And he taught me the meaning of family. He told me that family didn't end with blood and that it didn't start there either, but you loved and fought for them—even when it hurt. Whilst my uncles—Dean especially—hesitated to believe that returning to Heaven was the right thing to do, Castiel insisted it was for the best. But after some years, I started to see that perhaps it had pained him to say it. And perhaps he had said it purely for my sake and not his.

My father, whenever he falsely believed he was free from curious eyes, looked lost. He appeared burdened with a look in his eyes that longed to be somewhere else. Though his vessel never actually aged, he somehow looked older. I saw the flicker of emptiness overtake him for those few brief moments, and I eventually realised that he no longer belonged here. He hadn't for a very long time. Heaven was a house more than a home, and the angels were almost like complete strangers to him. I knew he often thought of Sam and Dean, though I don't believe he ever spoke to them after leaving Earth.

I still haven't asked why, and I likely never will.

That day, as we walked the halls, he suddenly froze. His face scrunched up and he placed his fingers firmly to either temple, as though massaging a harsh pain beneath them. And then he had fallen. His knees had hit the floor, a pain fuelled power forcing the ground beneath him to quake. I was sure all of Heaven had felt it. I had, for the first time, been afraid to approach him. Then, he had finally collapsed upon himself entirely, with his face hidden in his hands. And Heaven had continued to shake—each tremor a short, violent burst, somehow in time with the beating of my heart. Each time the ground boomed, my heart did too. Eventually, I had knelt at his side, admittedly fearful that if I didn't do something then the thin cracks forming beneath my father's knees would open to a dark cavernous pit of nothingness, and that it would consume him. Still frightened, I had placed an unsteady hand on his shoulder. And he had looked at me. I remember thinking he had become someone I had never even met before. This hadn't been the Castiel I had always known. This was an empty shell, void of anything or anyone.

"Sam Winchester has passed," he had said, each word being torn painfully from his throat.

"How do you know?" I'd asked. It wasn't our duty to watch each soul as they entered Heaven, though I always ensured that the angels responsible for the task did so without fault or corruption. Castiel couldn't know if Sam's soul had ever even entered the veil.

"Dean prayed to me," my father had said, almost at a fragmented whisper now.

I hadn't asked questions. I hadn't argued as Castiel had, after some time, gotten to his feet and left Heaven without me. It was the first time I had truly been alone. For those first few months of my life, Sam and Dean had been like adoptive parents to me: raising me in Castiel's absence (Dean doing so grudgingly at first). They had, with all the restrictions of their humanity, tried to teach me right from wrong and fought to protect me from harm and the evil influences that wanted to abuse my abilities. They had failed at times—there was only so much any one human could do. Though together they had done enough to keep me alive until Castiel's eventual return.

Sam had taken me under his wing with barely a moment's hesitation, clearly desperate for me to defy my malevolent potential. He had always urged me to fight what I was supposed to be—what my biological father, Lucifer, had always intended for me to be. And Dean, despite all his sharp edges and his frequent threats, eventually stood before me: protecting me the way he protected Sam.

Despite Sam's kindness and his immediate readiness to accept the role as 'father', it was actually Dean whom I leaned towards. There was something about Dean's refusal to accept me that made me all the more determined to earn his affection. I always wanted for him to take kindly to me the way Sam had. He was the one who I followed and tried to learn from, even mimicking his behaviours and spending many strenuous hours listening to his music and watching his movies and eating his favourite foods. I adopted his mannerisms and dressed much the same way. From what I didn't know then but I do know now, I believe these efforts did nothing but annoy him, though they certainly seemed to amuse Sam.

It was only after, in another day of traversing the bunker, that I entered that one room, that things took a turn. It looked like every other unused bedroom, with the bed perfectly made and the furniture empty of any belongings. Peering into the wardrobe, it was completely empty. But then, opening the top drawer of the bedside table, there was a lone mixtape that was labelled: 'Dean's top 13 Zepp traxx'. I'd picked it up and turned it curiously in my hands, not knowing who it was for or why it was there.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?" Dean had boomed from the doorway, genuinely startling me. I'd dropped the tape out of fear, which only seemed to anger Dean even more. Without another word he had stormed into the room and taken me tightly by the arm, pulling me out into the hall before slamming the door shut. He had pointed, with a trembling hand, at the door, and said, "Don't you ever—EVER—go in there again! You hear me?! Don't you dare!" Red had crept up the skin of his neck and into his face, and his eyes had gone wide, the pupils large and terrifyingly black. I remember believing he may very well kill me there and then, considering he had threatened to various times for lesser reasons. I hadn't understood, but I hadn't questioned it then either. And I never did go back into that room… even when Sam eventually told me that it once belonged to Castiel.

I don't know what changed, but a few months after that incident, Dean had sat down beside me in silence and had allowed himself to show the remorse he felt. He didn't cry then, but I got the sense that he likely did every night in the privacy of his room. Dean was someone that didn't like to cry where someone could see him. He preferred to hurt alone. But that day, he had let me see something I never believed he was ever going to share. I had been granted witness to something that maybe he thought I would also feel. I'd lost Castiel that day too, though I hadn't had the opportunity to meet him except through my mother's eyes.

After that, Dean's threats and warnings ceased. He never truly took kindly to me, but I knew I had been accepted, and that was enough.

They had proven to be good father figures to me, though it was always Castiel who earned the title of 'Father'. And it was Castiel who had stood with me when I struck Lucifer down. It was Castiel who abandoned his true home to ensure I remained righteous and did what I could with what I had to make the world a better place. My father sacrificed for me things that I never realised he had to lose… until the first Winchester brother died. He had lost time with them to grant it to me, and I had never thanked him for all those years.

He didn't come home for a long, long time, and I resisted every urge I had to follow him to Earth. I knew I was needed in Heaven, and that he wouldn't want me to abandon my post, but I still longed to all the same. The human half of me felt like I needed to be there. But I waited. I waited many months before he finally returned. But he came back a completely different man to the one he was when he left. He'd stepped out of Heaven a broken shell and returned as irreparable shards, and somehow, I knew. I knew then that he had gone home to a single Winchester and left only when there was nothing left.

Dean Winchester had died, likely to be reunited with his brother, Sam.

But it was clearly forbidden for the angels to interact with the souls unless absolutely necessary—a law that had been enforced after all the apparent chaos from years before when many souls had escaped. Stability was still new to Heaven, and Castiel was unwilling to threaten it. He had told me that he had made many mistakes over the years, and had hurt many of his fellow angels, though he had never expressed how. I knew it was dire from the way the angels had greeted us—watching him with as much, if not more, disdain than they did me. So, even as I suggested it, Castiel refused to breach the law to reunite with his true brothers.

I hadn't really understood loss until then. A part of me felt pain at knowing that my uncles were gone; their bodies turned to ash and swept into the wind to scatter across the sea. But it didn't settle within me the way it did for Castiel. He felt it in a way I could not. Death, after all, was a part of him and not me.

He told me how angry Dean had been upon his return—at first fuming that he had left without a proper goodbye, and for failing to return despite his many desperate and lonely prayers. And then, finally, Dean had collapsed into him: his body aged and frail, surely aging many more years overnight when his brother died. And he had sobbed into Castiel's chest, his hands clasping urgently at the material of the angel's trench coat. My father recalled holding Dean there for hours, even when the tears eventually faded, probably with none left to shed, though his body continued to convulse with silent and wretched sobs.

Over the coming months, Castiel stayed with Dean in the bunker, sitting with him and secretly forcing him to sleep with a gentle touch to the forehead; knowing Dean would never sleep otherwise. And he made him eat even when Dean resisted, and continued to hold him each and every time he cried, which was often. Dean had lost all the will it took to hide his pain and had let it all go, allowing Castiel to see every inch of it.

And Castiel, when I asked, told me it was excruciating to watch.

He had tried to ease Dean's suffering, but the older Winchester's pain was more profound than what any angelic powers could heal. Despite having never seen this before, Castiel had been utterly unsurprised. He hadn't questioned it. He'd simply stayed and was what Dean needed him to be. Even when Dean's fury returned in waves: his tired hands clenching into weak fists and beating at Castiel's chest, accusing him of abandoning them, for not being there when Sam died, for not being able to save him.

And, worst of all… Dean often begged Cas to kill him.

My father didn't tell me this for many months. It was the one detail he kept to himself until his own pain was too much for him to bear alone. And he had told me, with his own body held defeated in my arms, and I had listened. I'd listened as he'd told me how Dean would plead for death, and how it was clear to him how Dean was already dying on his own. The light of Dean's soul was ebbing. Each day it got dimmer and dimmer, and there was nothing my father could do except watch.

And only many more months later, did he tell me about the time Dean tried unsuccessfully to take his own life. Castiel had thought how Dean's grief was cruel—that perhaps, as horrible as the concept was, Dean's death may be the only way he could ever again feel peace. But that night when Dean swallowed those pills with alcohol, Castiel couldn't bring himself to let his brother die. My father had saved Dean that night; healing him against his will, and again holding him as he cried.

That was when my father cried himself: shedding human tears, which I always believed was impossible. But I had gently wiped each tear away from his cheeks until eventually, he stopped.

My father had lost the will to take charge of Heaven, which meant the duty was left entirely on my shoulders. Despite the fear I felt at the prospect, I never argued, and I never pushed him to resume his post. Angels didn't need rest, yet he spent many days at a time lying down, never moving, and never uttering a single word. I was sure he was reliving not only those last few months he spent watching Dean die but also all those years he spent living with them.

I occasionally overheard him talking to himself: often apologising over and over again. Though I never knew what for. Sometimes he seemed to be speaking to them, each in turn, and I desperately hoped their souls could somehow hear him—though I once asked an angel that patrolled the halls that housed the souls whether this was possible, and he immediately denied it. I still hoped all the same.

And truthfully, I talked to them too sometimes. I thanked Sam for showing me what it was to be human, for teaching me how to live. I thanked him for helping me find my mother's past home, and for finding me photographs and diaries of hers to keep. And I thanked Dean for accepting me when his every instinct told him not to. I thanked him for being loving and protective in his own way; showing me what fun was and for eventually teaching me about music, and for teaching me to drive—even allowing me behind the wheel of his beloved Impala when he trusted I wouldn't immediately crash it.

Saying my own goodbyes somehow made it easier for me to approach my father. It felt easier to lay with him—together side by side as father and son. We never needed to speak: we understood each other without words. He missed Sam and Dean, and I was the only other person who could rightfully say that I missed them too. They had taken me into their lives much the same way they had taken in my father all those years ago.

I think my father had always feared the day that the Winchesters were to perish—he had always known it was coming. It was an inevitable fate that was to befall him. He always knew he was bound to watch as the brothers were either torn apart by a monster or entity on a hunt or to watch as their skin wrinkled and hair greyed until eventually old age took them the way it did everyone.

He had always known this.

But it hadn't made it any easier when the time finally came.

But there was one thing Castiel had never anticipated…

Me.

My father was laid there as I walked into the room, and I insisted he follow me. I lead him to the gate between Heaven and Earth, and together we emerged at the sandbox. He was too tired to argue me leaving Heaven anymore, and instead silently held my hand, his eyes flat—a devastatingly miserable blue. It had been many years since I last walked upon Earth's soil, and I felt the grass between my toes. And I understood immediately what it was like for him here. What it was like to be home after a long time away.

Arriving back at the bunker, it even had a certain comforting smell to it—a smell I hadn't noticed whilst I lived here. I took a moment to myself to breathe it in whilst my father hesitated at the top of the stairs. He hadn't been back here since Dean died. The last few days he had spent here had been complete agony for him. The bunker simply didn't feel like the same place anymore. It's once reassuring and protective walls must have been tainted by the loss. I had to again hold Castiel's hand and draw him inside, promising him that while the rooms were empty, Sam and Dean weren't truly gone.

We walked first into the library, where Castiel paused at the table. He traced Sam and Dean's initials with trembling fingertips, ignoring where Dean had added Castiel's later on as CW after Lucifer had struck the angel down. I placed a hand on my father's shoulder and gave it a squeeze, watching as the tears slipped down his face.

He was too broken to wipe them away.

We walked together into the kitchen, where he paused to pick up Dean's bathrobe that he had left on the table, perhaps having shed it one day due to the heat from the stove. He held it in his hands, caressing the soft material with his thumb, and almost hugging it to his chest before folding it neatly and placing it back down where he had found it.

We walked together into Sam's room, where he carefully closed the books that had been left open on his desk—he first placed the bookmarks back into them, as though marking the place Sam had gotten up to in case he ever wished to return and pick up where he had left off. Castiel smoothed the blanket on Sam's bed and tucked his shoes back in the corner where they belonged.

We walked together into Dean's room. Castiel's tears turned into loud sobs, and he sunk into Dean's chair for a few moments. I knelt down and opened each drawer carefully, and eventually withdrew with a small box that, when opened, contained photographs. Wordlessly, I placed them in my father's lap and waited as he slowly picked them up and looked through them—pictures of Sam and Dean, of Mary and John, of Bobby. Pictures of what Dean always called: Team Free Will. Castiel gently pocketed these photos and kept his hand held protectively over his coat where they resided.

We walked together into his old room. There, without explaining it, he loosened his tie and pulled it off over his head, leaving the knot in place. He opened the closet and placed the tie on one of the hangers: leaving a piece of himself there, and finally making the room his own the way he never had in the past. I opened the same drawer I had all those years ago, and found the same tape I had dropped on the floor: 'Dean's top 13 Zepp traxx'. Miraculously, it appeared undamaged. I assumed Dean had come back to return the tape to its rightful place after forcing me to leave. But now it was to leave with who I now understood it belonged to. I held it out to my father, smiling sadly, and he took it.

"It was a gift…" he mumbled, sniffling a little. "I keep those."

I nodded, though I didn't fully know what he meant. I understood it was important to him. He stared at it for a few moments, eventually humming a tune to himself that I didn't recognise. I imagined it had something to do with the tape. He then placed it in his pocket along with the photographs.

And he smiled to me, a little light sparking in his eyes.

"Thank you, Jack," he said. "Thank you for helping me say goodbye."

"You're welcome, father," I said.

I think Castiel finally realised he wasn't alone.

Thanks for reading, guys! I hope you enjoyed this short story... though I did write it in one sitting between 2-5am so... I'm sorry if it absolutely sucks.