A/N: This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. There's a detailed note about it on my profile page, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

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Like so many things, human aesthetics escaped Castiel. Certain concepts he grasped, at least in the abstract: grandness, beauty, majesty, the aspiration of encompassing a higher ideal in physical form. The fish on the wall offered none of these. Castiel tipped his head to one side and studied the oblong, asymmetrical wooden body, the rough notches cut into its dorsal fin for scales, and the great, staring eyes protruding from its flat face, all of which gave him a vague sense of unpleasantness. Castiel couldn't see anything about the fish that made it inherently worth hanging on a wall, especially in the corridor outside of the lodge's restaurant, where it had high visibility. But he hadn't been particularly impressed by the posters of blond women in bikinis tacked up in a bar the Winchesters frequented in South Dakota, either, and Dean had explained that those were classics.

"Cas?"

Castiel had lost track of the Winchesters in his scrutiny of the fish. At the soft sound of his nickname, he glanced over his shoulder to find that Sam had come up behind him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. Dean was nowhere in sight. Sam's curious eyes flickered from Castiel to the strange fish, and then he gave a small smile. Castiel wondered if the fish made more sense to him.

"Hey, sorry about that," Sam said, rocking back on the heels of his heavy brown shoes. "I didn't mean to leave you behind, but Dean sort of took off, so…"

Castiel turned with a small frown. "What did Dean take off?" he asked.

A short laugh burst from Sam's lips, barely more than an exhale but still enough to tell Castiel that he'd misunderstood something again. "No, um… I just meant, he wanted to get to the bar in time for last call," Sam clarified, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the restaurant. "He said we could go back to the lodge if we left him the car, but I don't want him driving in the snow when he's smashed. So would you… I mean, do you mind hanging out for a while?"

Castiel followed the line of Sam's thumb to the doorway of the restaurant, all of its tables deserted now, though he could hear laughter coming from somewhere within, out of sight from the hallway. Dean's voice was easily recognizable in the mix. He seemed to be remarkably intoxicated again already. Castiel's eyes flitted back to Sam.

"I do not mind… hanging out," he said, working through the words carefully.

Sam's smile widened a little at the corners. "Okay. If you want, there's this sort of sitting area above the restaurant, where you can look out the windows…" The young man paused, and Castiel recognized the look on his face as one of uncertainty—an expression that Sam wore so often, and that Dean never had. Then Sam took a breath and reached out to grab the sleeve of Castiel's coat between his thumb and forefinger, and tugged. "Here, follow me."

It was a strange hold, Castiel decided, as Sam took a step backward and he followed, drawn by that tentative pull. He had been grabbed before, because Dean liked to emphasize his will through physical force, seizing the angel's arm and wrenching him forward as if the brittle bones of his fingers could really restrain Castiel if he chose to break free. Sam's hold was nothing like that. He almost couldn't feel it—just a slight tension on the cuff at his wrist, like a silk thread pulling taut between two spindles, ready to snap at the slightest resistance. He offered none. Somehow the hesitance of Sam tugging on one corner of his coat was so much more persuasive than force had ever been, and without thought he let Sam lead him up the first flight of stairs he'd ever ascended, too preoccupied until Sam released him at the top to notice how strange it felt to rise by bending his knees instead of beating his wings.

The area above the restaurant was dim; a large opening in the center of the space allowed for the restaurant's immense stone chimney, and looking down over the railing Castiel could see the tables laid out with clean silverware and empty glasses, and he could hear voices at the bar, hidden by the floor beneath his feet. Along the wall were large picture windows looking out over the landscape, and in front of each sat an array of furniture, all of it dark and empty like the room itself. Sam chose two chairs at a window facing east, and Castiel followed his lead, sitting carefully in the second one as Sam sunk down and leaned his head back along the wicker crown. A burst of laughter erupted from the bar below them, and Sam's lips twitched up in a smile, which he directed at Castiel with a small tilt of his head.

"Dean's laughing at his own jokes," he said, with a certainty that made Castiel wonder if Sam knew every sound his brother made, its meaning and its mood. The young man rolled his eyes. "I hope he's making friends down there and not just making a fool of himself."

Castiel turned to look out the window. "As when he… made his move at dinner."

Sam laughed under his breath, such a fleeting sound compared to the chorus from the bar. "Yeah. He does that a lot."

Castiel waited for him to elaborate, but silence fell between them instead, the whole space still except for the scrape of stools at the bar and the creak of wicker as Sam pulled his feet up to perch on the edge of his chair, wrapping one arm around his knees. Castiel focused on the view. The mountains were starting to glow against the eastern sky; the snow was still falling, but the crescent moon had slipped between a break in the storm clouds to ignite the fields of untouched snow, making the world beyond the windows sparkle under the thick red clouds. Castiel watched them twist above the hollow of the moon and thought, not for the first time, that Earth on the physical plane was a constantly shifting compilation of these tiny contradictions—moonlight through a storm, fire in the snow. Perhaps it was only natural that man was equally convoluted.

With that thought, he glanced over at Sam, and found the young man looking back at him, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. His expression had shifted like the storm, already uncertain again. Castiel met his eyes and waited. Sam fiddled with a loose thread at the knee of his jeans and then let his feet slide back down to rest on the floor.

"Cas… about what Dean said earlier…" Castiel felt himself frown, and Sam bent forward to brace his elbows on his thighs, a whisper of a laugh escaping his lips again. "I mean about, you know, you being a friend…"

Castiel sat back in his chair with a nod of understanding. "A friend instead of a stalker," he finished, remembering the distinction. Sam winced and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah. Uh. Look, I know he said that in the most dickish way possible, which is just Dean all over, but—he meant it, Cas. He didn't think about it, but…" Sam hesitated, his tongue darting out to wet his lips before he started over, staring at his hands. "I know Dean can be an ass, and you can ignore all that stuff he said if you want to. But I just wanted you to know…"

Castiel wondered why Sam so often did this—started sentences only to abandon them, or backtracked to start over. Sam didn't strike him as the type to speak without thinking first, and that made it stranger, all the places he stuttered over simple words. Then those hazel eyes lifted to find his again, and Castiel remembered Sam looking up at him from a wooden chair in a yellow hotel room, his feet braced on the furnace, his eyes deep like he wanted something so very hard to explain—holding out a Latin text, his face open with the simple request, though Castiel had the feeling it wasn't what he'd really wanted to ask. He wondered what words were supposed to go in these spaces, and if he'd know that if he understood more about humans, if he understood more about Sam.

Sam cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I guess I just wanted to say that I think of you that way, too, and… and I'd like that."

Castiel felt his eyebrows draw together. "Like what, Sam?" he asked.

Sam wound his fingers together in his lap. "I'd like to be friends."

Castiel glanced out at the storm. He watched the snowflakes on the glass and remembered Sam curled up in a windowsill, rubbing his socked feet together next to an old yellow book; remembered Sam offering him a mug of tea thick with lemon steam, holding out a brown soda that fizzed on his tongue. Remembered Sam smiling when he asked if angels dreamt. Then he turned back to his companion and tipped his head, and wondered if this was how friendship worked, if it was always a thing that was asked for and given, or denied.

"I haven't had a friend before," Castiel said.

Sam laughed at that—just a small laugh that was more breath than sound, but he ducked his head all the same, as if to hide his reaction from waiting blue eyes. In a moment he had recovered himself, though, and the laugh had retreated to a soft smile, flickering at the edges of his lips like it wanted to stretch into something more. Sam pushed his bangs back and held them as he shook his head.

"Then I'll be your second friend," he said, laughing again at the confusion on Castiel's face. "Because Dean really did mean it—he considers you a friend, Cas. And he would never say this, so I will, but… we care about you. Both of us," he added, his eyes flickering down for a moment to his knotted fingers in his lap. When they rose to meet Castiel's again, they were lighter, something unspoken sinking back into Sam until the angel couldn't see it in his expression anymore. "It was fun to have you sticking around today," Sam said. "Just as a friend. You can do that sometimes—if you want."

Castiel studied him in the silence of unsaid things, and watched his face, and wondered. Then he dipped his head in a short nod. "I will try to… stick around once in a while," he said, fumbling through the words.

Sam leaned his cheek against his palm and smiled. "I'd like that."

Castiel wondered if it would be redundant to say he thought he'd like that, too.

.x.

Sam was a pain in the ass.

Dean considered himself to be a pretty understanding guy as older brothers went. He understood that Sam had his bitch issues, like any girly, quasi-gay younger brother with hippie hair—he always had to have his coffee first thing in the morning and he insisted they eat somewhere other than greasy spoons at least once a week, because he was worried about getting fat or whatever. Recently it had also come to his attention that Sam was crushing on their friendly, neighborhood stalker-angel like a six-year-old girl on that Beaver kid, and he was making a concerted effort to give Sam as much crap about it as possible before he got over it and the moment was lost. But the thing that absolutely pissed Dean off the most about his little brother was that Sam could drag his feet like a fucking snail wearing concrete galoshes.

"Sammy!" Dean leaned against the bathroom door and hammered on it with the back of his fist, staring up at the wood planks of the bunkhouse ceiling. "I'm starving. Quit painting your nails and get out of there already."

There was a shift inside—probably Sam stuck in the tiny gap between the sink and the door, like a moose in a dog crate. "Dean, I'm trying to get my pants on," came Sam's voice, muffled through the thick wood. He still sounded as cranky as he had when he'd gone in, though. "Can you give me, like, five minutes here?"

Dean rolled his eyes at the ceiling and dropped his head to stare at the far side of their crap room, where Castiel was inspecting the digital alarm clock, turning it over in his hands like a bomb in a bad cop movie. Dean sagged back against the door. "You don't have to change your pants to go on a McDonald's run, Sam," he called back to his brother. "The huge clown with the frizzy red afro doesn't care what you're wearing. And we're using the drive-thru anyway."

Dean wasn't sure how you could hear a look, but Sam was definitely sending him a nasty one through the door, probably for working one of Sam's top-ten childhood nightmares into the conversation. But what kind of a pussy was afraid of clowns anyway?

"I'm not changing my pants because we're going to McDonald's," Sam told him, accompanied by a ping that sounded like his belt buckle smacking the sink. "I'm changing my pants because you tripped me on the stairs outside the lodge and I slid down a snow bank, and I didn't think you wanted me getting mud and slush all over the Impala's driver's seat."

Dean didn't want that, it was true. He didn't want Sam driving his baby at all, really, but he was currently smashed enough that he wasn't going to do it himself—not after the last time. But there were more pressing issues here than admitting Sam was right about something.

"I didn't trip you," Dean called through the door.

He could just hear Sam giving that snippy little head toss. "No, you're right. You pushed me. Right down the stairs."

Dean stared up at the thick rope tracing the rafter logs and wondered if he was supposed to hang himself with it when he couldn't take this conversation anymore. "Well, maybe I wouldn't have if you hadn't been all up in my space." Whenever Dean got hammered, Sam turned into a big, goopy octopus who couldn't keep his hands to himself and wrapped his stretchy Gak limbs all over his brother—which was weird, because Dean was supposed to be the drunk one. Dean banged his head back against the door and regretted it immediately as the impact ping-ponged around in his brain. "You keep your slimy tentacles away from me and we won't have a problem."

There was silence from the john, and then the sound of Sam clearing his throat. "That didn't make as much sense out loud as it did in your head," his brother informed him, sounding just a little too smug. Dean hated that smug bastard sometimes. But not as much as he hated starving to death in a horror-movie excuse for a mountain lodge while his own personal stooge of a guardian angel did God only knew what to the alarm clock. Dean shifted his back against the door and caught Castiel's eye.

"If that goes off tomorrow morning, I'm gonna call you down here and pluck you bare, you turkey," Dean warned, giving Cas a back the hell off nod. Castiel slowly set the alarm clock back on the bedside table.

"What?" Sam shouted at him. Dean rolled his eyes at the whole stupid world.

"Hamburgers, Sammy!" Dean moaned, beating the back of his head against the door. "I'm dying out here!" He got no response at first, so he picked up the pace with his skull, tapping out a Metallica song on the bathroom door. "Sammy…"

"Okay, Dean—I'm coming out, all right? I have my pants on now. Would you get away from the door?"

"Took you long enough," Dean grumbled. But he got out of the way anyway, because the bathroom door had all these sharp coat spikes on the back of it and he really didn't need one of those in the head. He'd already lost his buzz once tonight.

Sam came out looking pissed. Dean hadn't really expected anything else, especially because his octopus brother probably had to do fucking yoga in the miniscule bathroom in order to change his pants, so he just gave Sam a toothy grin and waved him toward the door, using huge gestures so that even Cas would get the message. "Let's get out of here," Dean said, grabbing his leather coat from the bed. "There's a big greasy bag of burgers with our names on it."

Sam wrinkled his nose at that, like he was too good for McDonald's—but he could just suck it, because no one was too good for McDonald's. "Yeah, Dean… I might have some fries or something, but I'm not going to have a burger," Sam told him over one shoulder, bending down to wrestle his boots on. Sam could even make that take eons. Dean tapped his foot and pulled the door open, idly checking the hallway for the short, angry woman who was staying next door and was probably still out for his blood—but the coast was clear, at least for now. Sam shoved his heels down into his boots and straightened back to his ridiculously ridiculous height. "I'm not really that hungry," he finished.

Dean hoped his massive snort got across exactly how stupid that statement was, but he wasn't sure he managed it. "The hell you aren't," he said as he led his brother and Cas the eternal tagalong out into the hallway. He only smashed into one wall before he found his balance on the springy carpet. "You lost half your dinner to a black hole who didn't even appreciate it. That is not happening again, by the way," Dean added, swinging around to jerk his finger at Sam or Castiel or both, and almost slipping down the flight of stairs to the first floor in the process. At least the railing was sturdy—ought to be, since it was made of whole fucking trees. "No McDonald's for Cas, you hear me? I'm not gonna have you pounding down cheeseburgers like you did Sammy's pasta. They are too precious for that."

Sam looked like he had a smartass comment to make about that—who was surprised—but they were both distracted when suddenly Castiel popped like the fucking weasel, vanishing from the landing with his trademark rustle. Sam blinked and Dean almost toppled down the stairs after all, wondering for a microsecond if Cas had zapped out because he was that offended about the cheeseburger thing—but then he caught a glimpse of tan trench coat one floor below them, and he realized Castiel had just beamed down so he didn't have to wear himself out walking like twelve little stairs. Dean shook his head.

"Dude, if you're gonna start eating, you gotta start walking, too, or you're gonna have to lose that trench coat for a sweaty track suit."

Castiel glanced down at his coat, obviously missing the joke. Sam just rolled his eyes. But Dean knew for a fact that he was hilarious, especially when he was drunk, so he didn't let it get to him. He was still laughing at his own joke when he slipped on the second-to-last step and sort of skidded down to the first floor, grabbing the wall to keep from going ass over ankles and smashing into Cas like a human bowling ball.

In retrospect, the slip was probably the only reason he avoided doing what Sam did three seconds later—racing down the stairs after Dean in his humongous clown shoes, Sam forgot to check for low-hanging logs and slammed his head right into the huge rafter above the very last stair. Dean didn't think the world was really moving in slow motion, but his brain sort of was as Sam windmilled backward and his feet flew out from under him. He took the last few stairs on his back, and Dean barely got out of the way before his brother's long legs came flailing for his knees. Sam hit the wall instead. Then he just sort of lay there as the bang vibrated in Dean's head, making all the alcohol slosh around between his ears.

"Sammy?" Dean asked. He tried to rush back to his brother—but the floor wasn't as stable as it was supposed to be, and he wiped out midway, sliding to his knees and gripping the heavy log railing to keep himself up. Fuck this lodge and its slanted floors. He was starting to think this bunkhouse was actually cursed; if one more bad thing happened, he was gonna salt and burn the whole fucking thing. "Sammy, you okay?" Dean barked, trying to decide if Sam's eyes were open or closed, and which one was better.

This was definitely not supposed to happen to his designated driver.

Dean made a serious effort to get his feet under him, but Cas beat him to it. All of a sudden the angel was kneeling at Sam's side, inspecting the massive goose egg that was already swelling on his forehead; for some reason that pissed Dean off, and he managed to make it back to standing, feeling a little better with his legs under him again.

"I got it, Cas. I can take care of him."

Castiel sent him a look he had definitely copied from Sam—doubtful and critical and bitchy all at the same time. "You cannot," the angel told him, his eyes slipping for a moment to Dean's fingers gripping the railing. "Unless you allow me to heal your liver again." Then he went back to what he was doing, which was mostly just staring at Sam—and Dean could do that drunk or sober, fuck you very much. But it was hard to explain giving up a fifty-dollar spirit buzz when somebody was already on the case, and an angel no less, whether he really deserved that position or not. Dean focused on getting a few steps closer, and at last he was back at the bottom of the stairs, trying to figure out if he could step over Sam's gangly legs without tripping and crushing his unconscious brother. He decided not to risk it.

"Just don't… mess with him, okay?" Dean said, as Castiel put his hands on either side of Sam's neck like he was going to snap it or something. "And don't move him. It's not good to move someone who hit their head."

"I will not move him," Castiel replied, nodding once. Then he put his hand on Sam's temple and the two poofed into thin air, and Dean cursed so loud he actually heard the echo. Because goddamn it if he swore Cas wasn't messing with him on purpose.

"Cas?"

Sam's voice had always been good at getting Dean moving—even if it meant going back up those fucking stairs. By the time Dean made it back to the top and worked off the last crumbs of his tiny frickin' cheeseburger, his AWOL pals had transformed the creepy serial killer common room into a disgustingly sappy scene from one of those made-for-TV romance movies that made Dean want to upchuck the remnants of his garlic fries: Sam lay flat on his back on the floor, and to make up for the missing angle of the stairs Cas had his head in his lap, his hands braced on either side of Sam's neck to keep him from twisting and popping up. Not that Sam looked like he was really in a popping mood.

Cas, though.

"Cas," Dean snapped, throwing his arms out in your basic what the hell as Castiel's eyes flickered up to him. "The fuck did I just say, man?"

Castiel seemed to be ignoring him, the sonofabitch. He was tempted to go over there and sock Cas in the face, just to show him who was what, because what was the point of having an angel if it did whatever the hell it felt like; the only thing that stopped him was that Sam's eyes were open now, blinking slowly up at Cas as he raised one hand and massaged it over his forehead.

"Ow… my back," he said, wincing like the word itself was setting him off.

Castiel frowned. "You hit your head," he said—a little slowly, like he thought Sam might be working with only half a box of crayons right now. Dean decided half a box of crayons was a good description of Castiel basically all the time.

Sam breathed out hard, the sound tinged like he was trying to laugh. "No, I dragged my back down like five different steps. That was way worse. I've hit my head so many times I barely felt that part."

Dean sagged back against the railing. If Sam was making jokes, he couldn't be in that bad shape—and suddenly Dean wasn't sure why he'd been worried at all, because angels could fix anything anyway. Now that he thought about it, the whole thing was kind of funny, Sam's flailing arms and his big, wide eyes as he thumped down the stairs like one of those America's Funniest Home Videos—and then Dean was laughing, shaking his head as Sam's eyes lifted to find his.

"Dude, you remember Bambi slipping on the icy pond and sliding into the bushes?" Dean asked. "Well, if you were a baby deer instead of a huge fucking moose, you still would've been only about half that graceful."

Sam blinked at him. "Man, what is with you and kids' movies today?" he asked through a grimace.

Dean shrugged. "I stand by it." Then he realized that Cas still wasn't doing anything but staring at the red patch on his brother's forehead, and that if he let the lovebirds do this in their own time, there was a good chance he was going to miss his McDonald's feast, even though they stayed open till two. He gave a sharp whistle, not surprised that Castiel looked up like a dog. "Yo, Cas—you wanna get on with it? Use your freaky angel mojo and fix him already. I need my designated driver like now."

Castiel narrowed his eyes at that, his typical I'm not here to fulfill your petty human concerns glare out in full force—but what was he here for, if he wasn't going to repair people who bit it on the stairs? Cas didn't actually say anything to him, though, probably because Sam reached up and grabbed the angel's sleeve with one hand, shifting his head against Castiel's thigh.

Dean was too drunk to be sick about that right now. He had a feeling it was going to sneak up on him later, though.

"Cas, you don't have to," Sam was saying—which was such a stupid Sam thing to say, even though he was wincing after every third word. "It's not that bad. I can… I'll be fine in a minute."

Castiel turned deliberately back to the figure in his lap, giving Dean a dirty look in the process—but Dean was long immune to dirty looks, thanks to the younger brother currently splayed out on his guardian angel. "I have no qualms about healing you, Sam," Castiel said. Dean felt like there was an unspoken there, something about people he did have qualms healing. He had no time to be pissed about that now, though. There were hamburgers at stake.

"Bravo," Dean called. "I'm touched. Get to it, Clarence—chop chop."

Now it was Sam giving him the bitchy look. Cas was ignoring him again, but at least he was moving, sliding his hands up to Sam's face and pressing two fingertips to each of his temples. "Relax," the angel said, and Sam obediently tipped his head back, closing his eyes.

Dean expected it to be over in an instant—a quick jab that felt like getting punched in the head by a bolt of lightning, a little roaring in the ears, and presto, all better. But somehow it wasn't. Ten seconds later, Cas was still just sitting there cradling his brother's head, and Sam's face was totally chill, like he was getting a massage instead of getting his skull split in half by Castiel's two-finger death punch. Dean blinked a couple times to make sure he hadn't slipped into an alcoholic coma and was dreaming the whole damn thing—but nope, they were still there, lost in their own little world that couldn't have been any smarmier with a chorus of violins. Then the swelling disappeared from Sam's enormous forehead and he opened his eyes, and when he smiled up at the angel Dean knew for a fact that Cas had been gentler with Sam than he'd ever been with him, because Dean could never find it in him to smile for at least a minute and a half after Cas microwaved his brain. Dean leaned back on the railing and crossed his arms.

"So, what, you're playing favorites now?"

Dean didn't get an answer to that question. Just as Sam and Cas turned to give him equally blank, innocent stares, there was a bang down the hallway toward their room, followed by the pounding of someone double-timing it their way. There were other doors down there, and it should have been anybody else—but Dean knew all about Winchester luck, and he just wasn't the least bit surprised when the short, angry woman appeared in the doorway to the common room a second later, dogged by the tall, glasses-wearing geek who might have been her husband. The angry woman took one look at Sam and Cas and her hands snapped into place on her hips, and Dean suddenly got the sense that this was somebody's mother, and he couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor bastard.

"This common room is for everyone," the short, angry woman said, turning to glare daggers at Dean, too, even though he wasn't getting all mushy on the floor. Then she set off down the stairs at a full gallop, apparently in too much of a hurry even to stick around and yell at them properly.

Yep. The second they made it back with his burgers, Dean was definitely setting the deadbolt.

.x.

Castiel did not like the car. He found it disconcerting to be encased in a metal box that moved under its own power, even if it was ultimately under Sam's control, and he disliked the vibrations that rattled up to him through the seat, each one tenuous and taut as Sam's fingers gripping the steering wheel. Castiel hadn't intended to enter the car at all, had only followed them to the vehicle in the same idle way he'd followed them through the lodge earlier that evening—but Sam had opened a door for him and then fastened him into the backseat, and Castiel hadn't been sure anymore if it was acceptable to leave, since human restraints, however feeble, probably meant his presence was requested.

He had put up with the Impala for as long as he could stand—still, when Dean turned up the stereo to pound through the shell of the car and Sam slid on the icy road and nearly hit a mailbox, Castiel unfurled his wings and disappeared. He had more pressing duties than being shaken around inside a metal cage. It had been hours since he'd reported in at the garrison, after all, the longest he had ever been absent from his post. He wondered if Uriel had brought it to anyone's attention.

Castiel didn't intend to go back. He had no reason to. The Winchesters were not on a case, and he had not been called, and Heaven's business was, as always, not urgent but never-ending. But even intangible, Castiel couldn't turn his thoughts from the Impala swerving on icy asphalt and Sam's white-knuckled grip on the wheel—and almost without feeling his wings unfold, he found himself once again in the Winchesters' darkened room, seeking out two silent figures: one sprawled out under his covers, the window behind him open partway to admit the whistle of a cold wind; the other sitting up on the edge of the second bed, his features sharp under the blue glow of the computer screen, the only light in the room. Castiel was quiet for a moment before he remembered himself.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam glanced up from the bright screen and squinted in Castiel's direction, fighting the contrast to find him in the darkness. Castiel stepped forward into the center of the room and watched the surprise drift away from Sam's face, replaced by the small, flickering smile that was so familiar on him. Castiel wondered what it meant.

"Hey, Cas," Sam greeted. His voice was soft and low, and without looking at him Castiel was sure Dean must be asleep, because he had heard that timbre in Sam's voice before—in a sunny yellow room over a scatter of Latin texts while Dean fought a fever in the nearby bed, his head buried in the pillows. Sam brushed his hair behind his ear and leaned one hand back on the mattress. "We weren't sure where you went before… did you get called back to Heaven?"

The rattle of the car intruded on his memory, and Castiel frowned. "No," he said. Sam blinked at his answer, but then lifted his eyebrows as if he had understood something, and suddenly Castiel found himself uncertain, shifting his black shoes against the thick carpet. "Was I needed?" he asked, wondering why a little laugh leapt from Sam's lips at the question.

"Uh… no, Cas," Sam assured him, reaching up to scratch his ear. "Dean's pretty good at ordering cheeseburgers all by himself."

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the other bed, and Castiel followed his gaze, noticing for the first time the five white and red wrappers thrown down in crumpled balls into the space between Dean's bed and Sam's, and that Dean had a smear of yellow, perhaps mustard, around the corners of his mouth, as if he had dropped into sleep the instant he finished eating. A heavy woven blanket had been slung over his legs, to ward off the chill from the window; Castiel imagined that was Sam's doing, like the darkened lights and the large plastic cup on the nightstand that had been placed just out of reach of Dean's careless elbow. Castiel turned back to Sam and the young man shrugged, his socked toes twitching idly against the floor.

"He never sleeps better than with a full stomach," Sam told him. Then he tipped his head back to look up at Castiel, and the glow of the computer caught his eyes, making them shimmer in white and blue. "I thought maybe you'd taken off for the night."

It wasn't a question, or an accusation, but Castiel somehow felt it wasn't a statement either—nothing so simple, because Sam was never simple. Castiel glanced at Dean again, and then back to Sam, and out the window at the road, quiet and glistening under the snow and the light of the crescent moon, the wind whispering in the curtains like a beckoning voice. Then he pressed his lips together and turned from the window, ignoring the chorus of angels that was ever in the back of his mind.

"Soon," he said. He took another step toward Sam and raised one hand, touching his fingertips gingerly to the back of the computer. "Are you researching, Sam?"

Castiel didn't understand why Sam ducked his head at the question, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "I wouldn't call it that," Sam replied. His voice was light, almost careless, but there was an undercurrent of something else to it as he raised one hand and rubbed the back of his neck, blinking at the black and white keys. "More like, since we're here—just dotting the i's, crossing the t's, you know." Castiel felt his eyebrows draw together, and Sam looked up at him with an apologetic smile, squinting through the fall of his dark bangs. "Actually, you probably don't know. Probably have no idea what I just said."

Human communication was a convoluted medium. Castiel suspected Sam made it even more so than it needed to be. He considered the young man for a moment, one hand on his neck and the other tracing abstract circles on the black touchpad; then he stepped around to the end of the bed and peered at the computer screen, studying the cascade of white boxes marked with text and images. The largest box featured the words "Search for the Truth" in blinking red letters, with a picture of a shaggy brown creature beneath it, out of focus between the trunks of pine trees. Sam sighed and let his head dip forward.

"I'm just rechecking some of the local lore about… that case," Sam said, his hand flickering up in a vague gesture.

Castiel frowned. "The case you don't believe exists, because there is no…" He glanced at the words beneath the blurry picture for confirmation. "Bigfoot."

Sam tipped his head in a half nod. "Right, no, I mean… there's not, is there?" he asked suddenly, his gaze lifting to Castiel. The angel felt his eyes narrow, and immediately Sam's darted away again, refocusing on the computer as he shook his head hard. "Sorry. Stupid question. Um…" Sam leaned back to stare at the ceiling, and then closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he looked away from Castiel, his shoulders relaxing as he rubbed one hand against his face. "I'm just being thorough, that's all."

Castiel considered that, and the evasiveness of the young man's expression. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the bed by the window, watched as Dean burrowed into the mattress with a grunt, his legs jerking under the thick woven blanket. When he turned back to Sam, the puzzlement had left his face.

"You are doing this for Dean," he said.

Sam opened his mouth and held it that way, his tongue fiddling with the edges of his teeth. "No," he replied first, but paused, pressing his lips together. "Well…" Then Sam sighed through his mouth and rolled his eyes, a tiny smile tugging at his expression. "Probably. Yes." Castiel frowned at the contradictory answer, and Sam braced his arms behind him on the bed so he could lean back on his hands, his head flopping back and his hair brushing his shoulders. "It's his thing, you know," he said, finally catching Castiel's eyes as he shrugged once more. "He gets so excited. But all this has only made me more sure that this was a hoax, so…"

Castiel did not reply. He was preoccupied with the memory of other moments like this—of the hotel with yellow bedspreads, the furnace creaking under the pulse of building heat; Sam standing in the rain and asking for a reprieve for his brother, safety from nightmares of spilling blood in Hell; Sam sitting in a wicker chair and listening to Dean's drunken laughter one floor below, supporting his brother as he stumbled down icy steps back to the car—all of the things Sam had done for Dean, in the short time since Castiel had first shaken his hand. In the other bed, Dean snorted and dug his face into the pillows, and Castiel glanced at the heavy blanket draped over him, the cheeseburger wrappers on the floor. The winter wind whipped into the curtains, undulating the thick fabric against the glass; Castiel turned back to Sam in time to see him shiver and rub his feet together in his mismatched socks, one red and the other dark blue. For the first time since he had tucked his wings away, he wondered if the room was cold, and why Sam had so many differently colored socks. The first question seemed more important.

"Is the window open for Dean as well?" Castiel asked as he caught Sam's eyes, their color reduced to black in the dim light.

Sam laughed under his breath. "Actually, that was for me," he admitted. "Dean always gets double onions, and—I had to get the burger smell out of here. But I think I can close it now."

Sam pulled the top of the computer toward him and folded it closed, and the room was suddenly dark, the distant reflection of moonlight on snow the only illumination. Castiel watched his silhouette slide the laptop into his bag. He was a fluid shape in the shadows, bending to tuck the backpack under the edge of his bed, then standing up from the mattress and stretching over his head, his fingertips almost brushing the ceiling. As he moved around the angel toward the window, stepping carefully over every cheeseburger wrapper, Castiel wondered why Sam was embarrassed of his selflessness, when it was perhaps the aspect of man closest to the divine.

The frame of the window was made of heavy, stainless wood, and barely creaked when Sam pushed down on it with both palms, the window stuck in its track. Castiel watched as Sam braced his arm along the crosspiece and pushed down with his shoulder, the glass shuddering under the force—then suddenly his impressions of Sam were all awash with pain, a spike of adrenaline, a gasp of drawn breath. Sam jerked back from the window and stepped badly, his feet catching on Dean's discarded boots.

The bed was behind him, a soft enough landing except for the slumped form of his brother. It would be a trivial fall. But as Sam lost his footing and tipped back, his equilibrium broken, Castiel couldn't help thinking of another trivial fall, only a few hours earlier—how few steps had been left between Sam and the bottom of the stairs, how heavy his head had been on Castiel's thigh. He couldn't see the fear in Sam's eyes this time, because his back was turned, but he could see it in the lines of his shoulders, wound tight with the vertigo, braced for the fall. Castiel opened his wings. Then he was behind Sam, arms around his waist, disrupting the momentum with his physical form. Sam lurched against his chest and grabbed his sleeve and stopped, and all of a sudden everything was still again, and no one was falling.

"Cas," Sam breathed.

Castiel said nothing. He was distracted by the thrum of Sam's heartbeat, thudding against him at every point of contact—his whole body quivering with it, the adrenaline and the pain. He knew Sam's heartbeat already, so well, was aware of it always when in his presence, just one of so many things he watched over. But it felt different like this, hammering against him, so urgent and tenuous, like it was a hummingbird and not a muscle fluttering in his chest. Sam fisted his hand in the sleeve of Castiel's coat, and then let go with a hiss, drawing his hand back and staring at it through the darkness.

"Oh, shi—mm." Sam cut himself off by biting his lip, and shook his fingers. "Flip, that stings."

Castiel considered the swell of flesh along the heel of his hand, felt the blood rushing up into Sam's wrist, already seeking out the damage. "You are not badly hurt," he said.

Sam shook his head. "No, I just—pinched it in the frame. But it'll be fine. It just…" He flexed his wrist and grimaced, the expression starker for the shadows on his face. Sam exhaled through his teeth. "It'll be fine," he repeated.

Castiel knew that. Already the pain was losing its imperative, Sam's shoulders relaxing against the angel, his shock lessening with each breath in and out. But his heartbeat wasn't slowing down, still pounding strong enough that Castiel felt it on his arms as Sam lowered his hand and looked over his shoulder, studied the angel's face, looked away. Castiel found it disconcerting.

Sam's weight was as nothing against him, but his heartbeat had presence, and urgency; and even though it was meaningless, already fading, Castiel found himself fighting the instinct to take the pain from Sam's hand, to erase that slightest of wounds, just to bring his heartbeat down. The angel tipped his head far enough to stare into Sam's eyes and wondered if this was what humans felt when caring for one another—the immediacy, the closeness, the solidity of pain and comfort. The sheer physicality of their broken pieces brushing up against each other.

Sam glanced at Castiel's arms around him and cleared his throat. "The latch," he stumbled. "I didn't, um—I didn't get the latch. The window. It's not latched."

Castiel frowned. But he drew away and pushed the window all the way down, sliding the latch closed on the crossbar—when he turned around, Sam had retreated to his bed, and was seated on the far edge, his head turned to meet Castiel's gaze. Castiel reached out with his grace to find Sam's pulse slowing down at last, the tremors fading from the cage around his beating heart. Sam smiled at him, but the expression seemed shallow, distracted.

"Thanks, Cas," he said, running a hand through his hair.

Castiel glanced at the window and felt his brows furrow. "It wasn't difficult," he said.

Sam's next smile was more genuine, though he ducked his head as if to keep it to himself, rubbing his right hand with careful fingers. "Depends who you ask," he said. Then Sam shrugged and looked up at him again, his features bright with reflected moonlight. "But I sort of meant about…" When the words came to nothing, Castiel stepped forward to the foot of the bed, and Sam shook his head, the movement tossing shadows over his face. "You know, for hanging out with us today. It was fun."

"You said that earlier," Castiel told him. "Above the restaurant."

Sam had a strange expression on his face, one the angel didn't recognize. Perhaps bemused. Sam raised his eyebrows as he traced a pattern into the sheets with one fingertip. "Okay. Then I guess I'll just say thanks for coming back to say goodnight."

Castiel frowned. "Why would I say that?" he asked.

Sam gave a short laugh—the one that was barely a breath, that always tipped his chin down and quirked his lips up at the corners, just enough to show the white of his teeth. Castiel wasn't sure when he'd learned to recognize that laugh. "It's just something people say to each other before they go to bed," Sam explained, his voice light, little more than a murmur. Castiel watched his silhouette reach up to scratch his neck. "Just custom, I guess."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, regarding the dark features of the young man before him. "It's a greeting," he tried. "Like good morning."

Sam laughed again, even more quietly, a quick exhale through his nose. "It's more like a goodbye. Or like a… a blessing, maybe. Like wishing someone sweet dreams."

"I did not come to say that," Castiel admitted.

Sam flopped back onto the bed and the moonlight cut across his face, illuminating his smile. "Yeah, I got that, Cas."

He didn't say anything else for a moment as he nudged his way to the top of the bed and slid under the covers, shivering at the touch of white sheets on the bare skin of his arms; Castiel decided the room must be cold after all, and wondered if it were so hard for all humans to stay warm, or if Sam struggled with that more than most. Sam's head fell back onto the pillows and the angel considered taking flight, if he was no longer wanted here—but then Sam rolled over onto one hip, staring at him through the darkness, and his injured hand crawled out from under the covers to curl in the pillow next to his head, each long finger tentative as a held breath.

"Hey, Castiel?"

The tone was soft, each syllable uncertain—but it was the use of his full name that caught the angel's attention, and then he wondered when he had gotten so used to the nickname that he expected it instead. Castiel moved around the edge of bed to stand beside him and looked down at the moonlight glowing in the shell of Sam's ear.

"Yes, Sam?" he asked.

Sam shifted against the pillow, his body changing shape under the blankets; Castiel wondered if he was kicking his feet, red and blue socks meeting under his covers. "Wherever you rest, I hope it's… nice."

Castiel tilted his head, regarding the dark planes of Sam's face against the white pillow. "Heaven often is."

Sam laughed under his breath. "Yeah. Sorry. I just…" The words trailed off, one more of Sam's unfinished thoughts, one more space Castiel ought to understand how to fill in on his own. Then Sam breathed out and curled his hand into his pillow, and looked up into Castiel's eyes, his lips hinting at a smile. "I had a good time tonight. With you."

"Oh, fuck it all, Sammy. Cas, would you just kiss him and get out of here already?"

The sleepy groan was Dean's. Castiel was sure a moment later when a pillow flew from the other bed to hit Sam in the head, and the younger Winchester made a startled noise, hurling the pillow back into his brother's face with remarkable aim. Dean grunted and wrapped an arm around it, but that was his only reaction, other than to turn over and face the window. Castiel wondered if the mustard smudge was on his pillows now.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's back. Then his gaze returned to Castiel, and he shook his head, his hair spreading out in a dark tangle across the pillowcase. "Sorry. He doesn't mean… never mind. Goodnight, Cas."

Castiel opened his wings. "Goodnight, Sam," he said.

Goodnight was a goodbye—that much Castiel had understood. Dean's remark had been convoluted, but the dismissal was clear. And Castiel had no reason to stay. All the same he stood for a long time with his wings poised at his back, unmoving, invisible, listening as Sam's breathing became softer and slower with every inhale. Then he reached out and took the last tingling pain from Sam's hand, and pushed it back under the covers—because even trivial things could be mended, and goodnight was also a blessing, and Sam had been cold long enough.

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Only the epilogue to go now. Thanks, everyone, for reading and sending all the great reviews.