When Sam was little, he was lonely often. With uncle Bobby working in the salvage yard, their Dad took them to shooting ranges and martial arts classes. He learned what he had to, but he preferred to read. Uncle Bobby had tons of books. Books on science, on math, on everything. He found his friends in fictional characters. They gave him someone to know, someone to believe in. It made him feel accepted.
He once came upon Uncle Bobby's "special" library. The first book he opened was covered in diagrams, calligraphical ink and detailed drawings. He read it maybe a hundred times. It was about angels, mysterious beings who walked the earth with special powers and most of all, wings. At first, they were fiction like anything else, but soon, they seemed real. Uncle Bobby and his father would speak of them sometimes. Dean never mentioned them, of course, but he could tell that he knew something. He noticed that the angels could be summoned if prayed to. It was decided he would pray, to see if they were real.
He knelt down (he assumed that that was what you did) and clasped his tiny hands together.
"Dear angel," he began. "I am very lonely. Dean is a good big brother, but would you please help me make a friend? If you exist, please just send me a signal. Thank you. Also, I'm Sam Winchester. If you need a name. Thanks."
He waited and waited, but there was no sign. He sat up for hours, waiting, but no signal came. Finally, he fell asleep, disappointed that the angels were just another story.
That night, Sam dreamt of a bird. It was huge and golden, with beautiful brown eyes. It stared at him silently for a few minutes before nudging his cheek. He found himself on its back, soaring over the stretch of Los Angeles skyline. He stared down into the streets, saw the cars rushing about, watched the buildings morph and shape as the bird flew faster and faster. Soon, the bird swooped down, dipping into the Los Angeles river. He jumped off onto the thick cement and looked around. The walls were covered in beautiful art, intricate and delicate and bold. It was fascinating. He turned to see another boy, maybe his age. He had a brown hoodie on, a can of yellow paint clutched in his hand. His hair was a pleasant gold. He turned to smile at Sam.
"You asked for an angel. Here I am."
That's when Sam woke up. The dream seemed so real. He could vividly see the boy's mischievous grin as he finished off the paint.
For months, he dreamed of the bird, soaring over the streets of LA. Never again did he see the boy, but he would see all kinda of art. He'd walk onto the pavilion in downtown LA, he'd see the abstract sculptures, study the buildings, listen to the music, watch dances. When he woke up, he'd rush to the computer and look the art styles up, pore over them until he knew what they were. He even grew to love the bird, nick naming it Finchy.
One night, the dreams just stopped. He no longer soared above the skyline. He'd wake up angry, abruptly. He missed Finchy. He pushed to restart the dreams, taking the subway to the arts district and wandering all day, taking notes on the things he saw, but the dreams never returned.
When his dad died, he became frustrated and lonely. He hid away in his room and wrote poetry, drew pictures, played music on his old guitar. He started a journal and catalogued his days. Life was gray. He didn't even remember the angels until one day, when he was sitting alone in his room. He noticed the corner of the book falling from the bookshelf. His whole body lept up to catch it as it fell, and in that instant, he remembered. He remembered the stories of angels. He remembered praying and he wondered if maybe, just maybe, the prayers would work.
He got on his knees again and clenched his hands until they were white. "Angel..." He whispered. "Please come back."
He waited for a minute or so, staring around with a half-hearted expectation of seeing someone, something. Instead there was nothing.
He woke up the next morning with an oddly warm feeling in his chest. His journal had somehow been dropped next to his bed, and as he leaned down to retrieve it, he noticed a not sticking out. He unrolled it.
"Sam Winchester-
I'm sorry I haven't called. I've been really busy. But I haven't forgotten you. I'll come back, I promise.
-G and Finchy."
Sam taped the note to the inside cover of his journal and waited.
Cas would have easily disarmed the boy, had he been in the physical condition to do so. With his wing sprained, he was slightly lame. The boy lowered the barrel a bit when Cas relaxed his shoulders.
"You really shouldn't be up. You're hurt. You've broken three ribs, you have a serious concussion, and your ankle is sprained. Not to mention the fact that you have about a hundred cuts and bruises. You shouldn't be able to walk."
"Yeah, I've had worse." He quipped. "Care to give me a reason not to leave?"
"I want to know that I saved you for a reason. I could have let you get hit by a bus, you know."
"Fair enough." Cas murmured. "But I'm gonna leave anyways."
He whirled, ignoring the pain that shot through his leg and knocked the gun to the ground. His good wing flew out for balance, knocking the boy in the head with a painful crack. He fell to the floor and Castiel hurried out.
As far as he could tell, he wasn't far from the city. He couldn't fly, not with a lame wing, so he hobbled down the street until he managed to get a bit of reception on his cell.
"Michael?" He grunted. His older brother's voice shouted angrily through the phone.
"USELESS IDIOT! I SEND YOU TO TAKE CARE OF A SMALL GROUP, YOU NEARLY GET YOURSELF KILLED. BE BACK HOME IN AN HOUR FOR TRAINING."
"Michael, my ankle is-"
"I DONT CARE. ONE HOUR, CASTIEL, THEN WE'RE YOUR HUNTERS. I'D LIKE TO REMIND YOU YOU'RE AT THE BOTTOM OF THIS FAMILY. YOU'RE THE DIRT WE WOULDN'T WIPE OUR HANDS IN IF WE HAD TO." The line went dead, and Cas exhaled, worn out from Michael's latest torrent of verbal abuse. He turned to start down the road to the subway station and began limping along as fast as was possible.
