Wow, thank you so much for the reviews. I honestly didn't expect anyone to actually read this, so thank you! I'll try to update whenever I can, so bear with me :)

Chapter 2

Several hours later, his phone rings.

"Mr. Novak?"

For a second he's confused, about to say that the speaker has the wrong number and hang up until he remember that's the identity he's using.

"Speaking."

"I'm sorry it's so late. It's about Dean Winchester."

"I'll be there in a second."

He hangs up before they have a chance to reply, and forces himself to wait for a few minutes. He could just appear directly in the middle of the hospital, but that probably wouldn't go down well. Ten minutes pass until he can't bear the wait any longer, and he steps forward and when his foot hits the ground he's standing outside the hospital. He quickly makes his way to Dean's room where Dr. Morten is checking the readout on the machine by his bed, scribbling down numbers. When he enters she turns round, looking at him oddly.

"That was fast."

"I was in the vicinity."

"Obviously."

"You wanted to speak to me?"

"Yes. Well, not me exactly. He was asking for you," she moves to the side slightly and Dean grins at him. His heart lifts for a second; he'd been worried, but his friend seems okay.

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello Dean."

"I'll just leave you two alone," the doctor announces, jotting down the final numbers and putting her pen back into her pocket. She leaves, closing the door behind her.

"You look better."

"No I don't."

He frowns. He'd thought people liked to be complimented on their appearance, even if it was a lie.

Dean seems to mistake his confused silence as a sign of expectation.

"Look, I'm sorry about yelling at you earlier."

"It's okay. I'm sorry for-"

He raises a finger.

"Don't he dare. If you say 'I'm sorry for not protecting you' or something like that I swear I'm gonna hurl. Or punch you. Maybe both."

"Punch me?" He raises an eyebrow. It doesn't look like Dean can even stand. He huffs, but his eyes are twinkling.

"Okay, maybe not," he admits, then pauses, his eyes scanning the room and his brow furrowing slightly. "Hey, where's Sam?"

Castiel's heart sinks, but he says nothing.

"I haven't seen him yet. you'd think he'd come and check up on his brother, right?"

Still he doesn't answer, refusing to meet his eye.

"He's okay, right? I mean, he was closer to the door than me. He should have got out alright."

He searches through his brain for something to say.

'Cas? Cas, look at me!" He looks up. Dean's eyes are fixed on him, wide with fear and concern. "Where's Sam?"

"He's... busy at the moment. He'd be here if he could."

Dean's shoulders relax and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Yeah? Well tell him to get his ass over here when he's done with whatever it is. Is he okay? He didn't get hurt too bad?"

"No, he's okay. He's safe," he reassures Dean, and has to swallow the lump that rises in his throat.

He hates having to lie to him, it makes him feel guilty and it takes all his self control to stop himself from throwing himself down in front of him and telling him the truth, apologising for trying to hide it from him- but it's more than that. He hates how easily how the lies come, like honey, dripping smoothly from his lips. How far he's come, from the mindless soldier following orders, faultlessly loyal, pure, perfect. He's killed, and rebelled, and sinned, and turned his back on his father and his brothers and sisters, and he did it all for this man. And what has it led to? He's lying to his friend's face, a skill that he taught him, and he has to lie because he wasn't there to protect him and Sam when they needed him most.

"You were asking for me?" he remembers, in an attempt to change the subject because, to be honest, his lying skills aren't exactly up to scratch and he doesn't want Dean pressing him for details.

"Oh yeah. The demons-"

"Taken care of."

Of course they are. They both know he didn't really need to ask. He had five hours while Dean was asleep to track them down, find the creatures that did this, and when he's determined to do something it gets done. The only real problem was how to spend the other four.

"Good."

He opens his mouth to speak again, but a nurse chooses that moment to walk in and start changing the drip attached to his arm. Dean sits in silence, grimacing at him behind the nurse's back until he leaves and the two of them are alone. He tries to stifle a yawn, but Castiel sees it and remembers that, although he seems fine, Dean's just been through a trauma. He's lucky to be alive but he needs time to heal, and that means letting him sleep.

"I'll just-" he turns to follow the nurse out.

"No."

Castiel looks at him over his shoulder. Dean turns his head to indicate the plastic chair next to his bed.

"Please.'

He tilts his head slightly at him, trying to figure out what he's asking of him.

"You want me to stay with you?"

"Just until I fall asleep. Please, Cas," he begs, and the way he says it and the look in his eyes are enough to stop him from even considering leaving. He sits down in the chair, hands in his lap, ankles crossed.

"Like this?"

"Could you look more awkward if you tried?"

"I'm sorry."

"No need to- yeah, that's fine. That's good."

He settles his head down on the pillow and closes his eyes. It's strange, but Castiel never noticed how long his eyelashes were until now. They cast shadows over his cheekbones, delicate wisps like feathers. He's got nothing else to do; the rest of the room is stark, bare white, so he studies Dean's face. It's the first chance he's really had to do this, and even though large parts of it are still covered in bandage he can focus on the parts left clear, undamaged by the fire and debris.

Like his lips. They're bigger than most, almost feminine. And his hair. He's never thought about it before, but it's hard to place exactly what colour it is. It looks like a mousy, pale brown with streaks of lighter blonde until the sun comes out from behind a cloud, and then it becomes a dirty blonde colour. And his eyes. They're incredibly large and green and-

He realises he's looking at him.

"I thought you were asleep," he mumbles.

"I was. Nearly. But I could tell you were looking at me and it's kinda uncomfortable."

'Sorry."

"Will you stop apologising?"

"Sorry."

"Why are you looking at me anyway?"

"No reason."

"You're freakin' weird, you know that?"

"Yes. You've told me before, several times."

"Well it's true."

"I know. I'm-"

'Don't you dare."

"-sorry."

He bites his lip and grins, and despite himself Castiel smiles back at him. He closes his eyes again, but this time the angel stares fixedly out of the window, refusing to let his eyes wander until Dean's breathing becomes slow and regular and he knows he's asleep. Even then he keeps his gaze firmly fixed in one place, watching the people outside going about their daily lives. It starts to rain, and he sees them reaching for umbrellas in their bags, or pulling jackets over their heads, or quickening their pace in order to get to their destination a little faster.

One little girl slows down, her face turned upwards to the sky, mouth open to catch the raindrops and eyes squinting against the water. She lifts her palms slightly, and her mother turns round to grab her hand and pull her along, arms full of shopping bags that are quickly becoming drenched. The image makes him smile. Here's this girl, her face lit up with wonder and joy at something so simple as water coming out of the sky, that she stops to take it all in. And then there's her mother, who's seen it all before. She doesn't care about the rain; for her it's an everyday thing, a nuisance. The only thing that she cares about is her shopping getting ruined and getting home dry, so she grabs her daughter to hurry her up, because she hasn't got time to indulge her childish habits. In a way, he can relate. When he first came to Earth, everything was so...so new, and fresh, and exciting. His first vessel, and he learned that sitting up in heaven, watching humans from above is nothing like being down there amongst them. The Winchesters were used to it, of course; although in the grand scale of things they're mere infants, if that, in human terms they're mature, grown men. Life had exhausted its supply of new and amazing things for them, and he's starting to feel the same way. There's only so much the world has to offer until he starts to peek behind the curtain at the death, the misery and the suffering, and it's all downhill from there.

The thought that one day this little girl, so joyous and happy now, will become like her mother, tired and impatient and unimpressed by life and the world, creates a sinking feeling in his chest and stomach he's come to associate with sadness.

His reverie is interrupted when Dean starts to make noises. He looks down, thinking he's waking up, but his friend's eyes are still firmly shut. His brow is furrowed, and his lips are pouted, parting slightly to let distressed moans escape. He turns his head from side to side, muttering words to himself. He hears Sam's name several times, and his once or twice, but most of his mumbled words are begging, pleading.

"No...no...please..."

He knows enough to recognise that Dean's having a nightmare. A few seconds pass while he sits there helplessly, unsure what to do, before he bites his lip and make a decision. Gently, hesitantly, he reaches out with his mind to touch his.