1989

Unlike Dean, Jimmy had never seemed at all interested in being a hunter. Dean didn't get it. His dad was a hero, saving people, killing monsters. Who wouldn't want to be involved in that? Who wouldn't want to be a squire to a knight?

As soon as Dean was old enough that Dad would let him hold a gun, he was out there every chance he got, shooting targets at his father's side. He ate up every lesson in hand-to-hand, tried to pass them on to Sammy, pestered Jimmy to spar with him when Dad wasn't around. He even did his best with the Latin, though he didn't really like it, because someday it was going to be very, very important. Dad said so and Dean believed him. More than anything else in his life, Dean believed in his father.

It wasn't that Jimmy ignored the hunting stuff or didn't take it seriously. He totally did. Jimmy took just about everything seriously, but especially this. It was his job to look out for Dean and Sammy, kinda like it was Dean's job to look for his little brother, only Jimmy was even more intense about it than Dean was. He just...didn't seem to like it. He made faces when he cleaned the guns, as if they smelled bad. Dean beat him more often than not when they were sparring, and he'd finally figured out that Jimmy really wasn't letting him win all the time because he was younger and littler—Jimmy just sucked at hand-to-hand. When Dad let them meet another one of his hunting buddies Jimmy didn't push forward and ask every question he could think of, like Dean did. Instead he stood back and watched the stranger with narrowed eyes, the way someone would watch a snake, expecting it to strike.

Jimmy was weird.

But that night, the night Jimmy somehow killed a monster that had attacked him and Sammy... That night, Dean lay awake, holding Jimmy's hand, watching him sleep. He saw the shadows under his big brother's eyes, the bits of dried blood on his upper lip from where his nose had been bleeding. He thought about the light leaking from Jimmy's eyes and mouth, the flash that had killed the thing attacking him. Was that really all caused by the monster, or was it just something inherently...Jimmy? For the first time, Dean wondered if maybe the hunting stuff wasn't so important to Jimmy not because he didn't care about saving people and hunting things, but because he had something else going on, something else that was more important to him. Some other task or mission or quest.

Hadn't he even said something like that in the past? Dean remembered being a little younger, maybe six or seven. It was a long time ago so he wasn't sure. But he still remembered a time when Jimmy was not his brother, unlike Sammy. He remembered things being different, a house and a garden and a mother with soft hands and long golden hair. Even at the age of six or seven, he was aware that other families weren't like theirs, that the Winchesters had been changed on the night his mommy died, and things would never be the same again.

At the time he had thought, with the reasoning of a little kid, that Jimmy wasn't a Winchester, so his life should be different, too. He should have a mom and a dad and a house and go the same school for years and years. He should have more. And he had asked Jimmy a question which ten-year-old Dean was now aware had been very, very rude.

Jimmy had just looked at him with those serious eyes for a moment, then said slowly, "My place is here, with you and Sam and your father. My job is to take care of you and guide you into the future. I'm a Winchester now." He glanced around and lowered his voice, so only Dean could hear. "And my parents...my parents died, too. A...a monster killed them. We are the same, Dean. We are very much the same."

But they weren't the same, Dean thought now, watching him sleep. Jimmy was weird, and Jimmy was different, and something was going on.

Dean wanted to ask the next day—Dad had said they would talk about it tomorrow—but they were really busy with packing up and heading out. Dad was in a hurry to leave, shaking Dean awake when it was still gray and early to come help him. Usually Jimmy did most of this, organizing and sorting things into all of the correct pockets and compartments, but they let him sleep, curled and still in the warm cocoon Dean was forced to leave behind. Dad even dragged Sammy out, mumbling and rubbing his eyes, to clean up the little box of Legos he'd left scattered in the corner. Sammy wasn't happy about that. Jimmy slept through it all.

Dad still smelled a little bit like fire and salt from last night. Dean knew he must have dragged out the body of that monster and burned it. He had picked up a lot of things about hunting, even though Dad mostly tried to keep him away from it. They ate the last of the cold cereal and dumped out the leftover milk, and it was time to go. Dad went to the bedroom for Jimmy, and Dean took Sammy out to the Impala and made sure he was in there safe before going back. (Sammy rolled his eyes a lot but said, "Yes, Dean, I promise to stay in the car, okay?")

Dean went back and checked everything one last time, the way they always did, making sure nothing was left behind. He knew Dad had already checked, though. He just wanted to be there when Jimmy woke up. After awhile he quit even pretending to look around and went to lean in the bedroom doorway, watching.

Dad was shaking Jimmy's shoulders, gently but insistently. By the tone of his voice, Dean could tell that he'd been doing it for awhile. "C'mon, Jimmy. C'mon, kiddo. Wake up now. Can you hear me? Wake up. We'll get doughnuts. You like doughnuts. Time to get on the road. Castiel? You in there? C'mon. C'mon. Wake up!"

"Dad?" Dean whispered. His voice echoed strangely, so small and scared. Tiny. You almost couldn't hear it at all. Castiel? Who was that?

Dad heard him, though. He whipped his head around, eyes sharp and hard. "Dean! Shouldn't you be with Sammy?"

"He promised he'd stay in the car." Dean swallowed, his eyes still on his brother. "What's wrong with him? Why won't he wake up?"

Dad sighed, swiped a hand over his face. "He's just tired, Dean. You remember last summer, when you fell out of the tree? This happened then, too."

"It did?" Dean's eyes just about bugged out of his skull.

He barely remembered that day. They had been running around at Uncle Bobby's, messing where they shouldn't have been messing. He'd been excited by the trees at the edge of the property, especially one with a thick, low-hung branch that seemed to beg for a small boy to climb on it. He slung himself up, all but cackling in his delight. Motels almost never had good climbing trees.

He remembered Jimmy's worried voice, below, ordering him to come down. Remembered calling back, telling his brother to come up, instead. Dean climbed into the high branches, relishing in the rough bark scraping his hands and knees and feet, the rustling of green leaves all around, the cool, fresh breeze...

And then there had been a snap, and he fell and fell and hit just about every branch on the way down...

The pain in his leg and head had been blinding, Dean remembered that much. It hurt worse than anything he'd ever felt in his entire life. His vision was almost white, everything in the world turned transparent, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to be burned alive, burned on a ceiling, burned to ashes.

Then Jimmy was there, blue eyes above him like a corner of sky. His face was terrible with fear and concern, almost nothing like Jimmy's face at all. His mouth was moving but Dean heard nothing. Then Jimmy's hands, on his forehead and his chest, two points of soft coolness in the world of fire, and everything went white.

When he woke up it was dark out, and he was in bed. Sammy was sitting there at the foot of his bed, waiting, and when he saw Dean's eyes open he started bouncing up and down, shaking the mattress and yelling, "You're awake, you're awake, you're awake, you're finally awake!" Dean had roused himself enough to shove his little brother off the bed and tell him to shut up, then promptly fell asleep again.

In the morning everything had been back to normal.

Hadn't it?

Dean tilted his head and stared at Jimmy, so pale and still on the crappy motel pillow, and tried to remember. Jimmy had been sick for almost three days after Dean fell out of the tree. He had stayed in bed the whole time, barely waking up long enough for Dad or Uncle Bobby to make him eat and drink, go to the bathroom, brush his teeth. Dean had figured it was the flu or something and was just glad he hadn't caught it, too. He was busy, anyway, trying to keep Sammy happy and out of the sickroom.

Now he looked at his big brother, and he tried to figure it out.

When he woke up the morning after falling out of that tree, he hadn't hurt at all. Not anywhere. He'd felt fantastic. And Jimmy had been so sick, sicker than Dean had ever seen anyone ever before.

"Did he..." Dean stopped, because it just sounded too crazy. "Did he, Dad... Did Jimmy...? Did he heal me?"

Dad was watching him, carefully, his eyes warm and sympathetic. "He didn't want you to know. Not for as long as possible. He just wanted to be your brother."

Dean leaned more heavily on the doorway. "Jimmy has powers? Is he... Is he like Superman?"

Dad chuckled, but it seemed awfully sad for a laugh. "That would be nice, wouldn't it? Not quite. But...something like that, yeah."

Jimmy moaned, rolling his head weakly on the pillow, and Dad turned back to him. "Jimmy? You waking up?"

Dean stepped forward without really thinking about it and climbed up on the bed next to the older boy, watching his eyelids flutter. Dad had a cup of water on the nightstand, one of those plastic cups that came with the room. When Jimmy finally opened his eyes and squinted up at them, face drawing tight in pain, Dad lifted his messy, dark head with one big hand and set the cup to his lips. "C'mon, kiddo. Just a little, then we'll get out of here."

Jimmy seemed too tired to even flinch the way he usually did when their father touched him. He just let Dad take care of him. He was as floppy as a baby, every muscle loose and uncontrolled, and Dean knew that all he wanted to do was go back to sleep. Jimmy tried to keep his eyes open, though, tried to keep an eye on them. After the water, Dad flipped the blanket off him, only his boxers and t-shirt protecting him from the cool air, and Jimmy shivered and woke up a little more. He still couldn't really do anything for himself, though.

Dad handed Dean a pair of Jimmy's socks. "Get these on him. I forgot to leave his shoes out." He went out to the car while Dean knelt at Jimmy's feet and pulled thick cotton over bony heels and protruding toes, white and cold as fish bellies.

Jimmy watched him from the pillow, eyes half-open and glassy with exhaustion. "Y'r hands're warm," he slurred. "S'nice."

Dean gave him a hesitant smile and held those cold feet in his lap, waiting for Dad to come back. "Jimmy?" he asked carefully. "Or...or are you Castiel?"

A shrug and a long, slow blink. "Cas...Cast'l's real tired. Real, real tired, so tired it's makin' me tired too. Took him months to get back that much energy, conce...concentratin' alla time, n' then he blew it all in one shot." He snuggled his head back into the pillow and flopped his arms over his chest, too exhausted even to hug himself. "Mmm. S'comfy."

"Who is Castiel, Jimmy? Alien, ghost? What is he?" Dean kept his voice soft and gentle. He wasn't good at that, but he could do it, for his brothers.

Jimmy stared back at him a little more lucidly. His eyes were as serious as ever, though. He was thinking about it, deciding whether or not to tell him the truth.

Dean all but held his breath.

"Angel," Jimmy said. "Castiel is an angel. He's...inside me, but not me. I'm Jimmy. You know us both."

Dean nodded, rubbed Jimmy's feet. "You're my brother."

And that was all the energy Jimmy had. Dad got back just in time to watch his eyes slip shut again. The man cursed, but there was no heat in it.

He wasn't carrying Jimmy's shoes after all, just a pair of sweats. Dad sighed. "Come on, Dean, help me dress him."

It was both harder and easier than dressing Sammy when he was a baby. Easier because Jimmy wasn't wiggling all over the place and trying to get away so he could go play, harder because he was bigger than Dean and even kind of a handful for Dad—not heavy or anything, just long-limbed and gawky. When they were done Dad scooped Jimmy up with one arm under his knees and the other around his upper back, and Dean opened and closed doors on the way out to the car.

Sammy was kneeling on the backseat, staring out the window and watching them come. He threw open the door before Dean got there, scrambling out to hover around Dad, watching Jimmy with wide, worried eyes. "Is Jimmy okay? What's wrong? Wouldn't he wake up? When will he wake up? What are we gonna do without him? What if he never wakes up? I want him to wake up!"

"He's fine," Dean and Dad said almost exactly at the same time and with the same exasperated tone. Dad shook his head and went to lay Jimmy down in the back while Dean grabbed Sammy's shoulders to keep him from getting underfoot.

"Jimmy's okay. He's just really sleepy, so we gotta let him sleep, okay? He woke up for a while already, and he'll wake up again. We won't have to figure out how to get along without him because he's fine. Okay?"

Sammy's head was on a swivel, switching between staring at Dean and staring at Jimmy and Dad. "You sure?" he asked in a small voice.

"I'm sure." Dean looked over, too, watching Dad leaning all the way into the car, lowering Jimmy's head, held cradled securely in one hand. "Hey, Sammy, you want to sit in front today?"

The little boy's eyes widened. Dean never let Sammy sit in the front when it was his turn. He nodded, little face lighting up with easy joy.

Dean was glad it was so easy to make Sammy happy. He hoped that never changed.

Once Dad got out of the way, Dean got in the back with Jimmy.

X

Now that Dean knew the big secret, he couldn't stop wondering if there were more.

The next time Jimmy woke up was at a rest stop in central Illinois. He'd been working up to it for about ten minutes, making little shifts and moans in his sleep, and by the time his eyes finally slipped open, Dean was ready for it. He had squeezed himself into the footwell by Jimmy's head, rubber sneaker soles squeaking in the perpetual grit that littered the floor, and was staring into his eyes from only inches away, patiently waiting for the first sliver of blue to be revealed. Dad and Sammy were getting snacks from the vending machines, so it was a perfect opportunity.

Dean knew better than to pull this kind of crap on his dad—he was likely to get a hasty swat and a torrent of cuss words for something so stupid—but Jimmy just blinked at him, unmoving and calm. Of course, that could have had something to do with how utterly exhausted he still was, too. The older boy's eyelids were heavy, constantly sinking and rising again as he tried to meet Dean's gaze.

"Are you Jimmy?"

His big brother nodded, slow and steady, and Dean tried to believe him. It was hard.

"Were you an angel all along?" he asked. "This whole entire time?"

Jimmy didn't even blink, didn't even shift his body on the seat. "Since we've been brothers, yes. Castiel has been here since I was ten years old. He saved me."

Dean didn't have to ask what Jimmy had been saved from. "And he's always there, inside you? All the time?"

"All the time. But he doesn't force me, Dean. He's not a demon. I'm not locked up in here. I can take control of this body whenever I want. In fact sometimes I take over even when I don't mean to, if I get scared or startled."

Dean's fists were clenched at his side. He looked back on five years of memories, playing with his big brother, talking to him, learning from him. How many of those conversations had been with Castiel, not Jimmy? How many of them were lies?

"Would he leave? If you asked him to, would he leave?" If he wouldn't, Jimmy was still a prisoner, no matter how well he was treated by his captor. Dean wondered if any of the exorcism rituals in Dad's journal would work on an angel.

Jimmy watched him carefully, his eyes understanding and sad. "Dean... He can't."

"He can't leave? Why not? Doesn't he want to? What if he has to?"

"He can't leave my body. He's..." Jimmy yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking one. The bags around his eyes seemed even bigger, darker, and Dean was sorry, but he had to know, he had to understand. "He's hurt, he... He's weak. He's been trying to heal but it takes such a long time, and then he has to use his grace to heal you, or save Sammy, or check on Dad when he's gone too long, or put a little power in the warding symbols, and it just... It's too much, Dean. It's too much..."

Jimmy's voice faded a little more with each tiny tidbit of information, and then his eyes fell shut and he was sleeping again.

Dean huffed out a frustrated breath and tried to make his fists let go. By the time he managed it, Sammy was running back to the car, grinning ear to ear and waving a package of Snowballs in a triumphant fist, and Dad followed behind him with peanut butter crackers and Mountain Dew. Dean got back up on the seat, pulled Jimmy's shoulders into his lap, and ate his snacks, still listing question after question in his head.

The next time Jimmy woke up was at another motel, and it was only because Dad had spent five minutes shaking him. He made Jimmy drink some apple juice and eat a few crackers, and then Jimmy was asleep again and Dean didn't get to ask any more questions. They just kept building up in his mind, though, an avalanche ready to fall if someone just whispered too loud. He could feel it looming over him, heavy and hushed. He didn't want to get buried.

Sammy pestered him to play Tic Tac Toe with him until Dean snapped and yelled at him to leave him alone, scaring the kid so much that he burst into tears. He felt bad then, spent the rest of the evening trying to make it up to him. But all the time he was thinking about Jimmy, and Castiel, and everything he had figured out about possession by eavesdropping or poking until someone answered. He remembered more and more times when Jimmy went weird, when he tilted his head like a bird and used big words that most kids didn't know. Other times when he relaxed and smiled and acted like a kid again. Around and around like a merry-go-round that never stopped, and Dean's brain couldn't stop spinning, either.

He didn't even know why he was mad. He just was. He really, really was.

The next day Dad had to go get supplies, and Dean volunteered for apple-juice-and-cracker duty. He sat next to Jimmy on the double bed, back straight against the headboard, watching him sleep yet again. He hoped that Jimmy would wake up then, without Dean having to do anything, just because Dean wanted him to. It would be like Jimmy to do that—he was always very accommodating and often did exactly what Dean wanted. Not always, though.

Not this time.

"Hey, Sammy! Bring me some ice from the bucket!"

Sammy grumbled, but did as requested before going back to his morning cartoons. Most days Dean would be right there with him, but something more important was going on today.

A piece of ice held against warm, sleep-toasty toes was a powerful thing. Jimmy groaned and curled his feet away, pulling them toward his body and drawing his body into a tight ball wrapped around his pillow. Dean chased him, relentless. "C'mon, Jimmy. C'mon, big brother. Time to wake up."

Jimmy turned his head toward the sound of Dean's voice and slowly, slowly opened his eyes. "Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean plopped down on the bed beside him, making the mattress bounce with the creak of springs and foof of cloth. "You gotta eat something. Do you need the bathroom?"

Jimmy sighed and stared at the ceiling. "Yes. And you have more questions, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"Let's get those out of the way first. I don't want you to bang my head on the wall accidentally on purpose."

Dean huffed. "I wouldn't hurt you."

"You're upset, Deaners. You don't always act the way you mean to when you're upset."

Dean gave him a sideways stare. That was Jimmy's favorite nickname for him, but he didn't use it all that often. His voice was full of understanding and affection, and it sort of pricked a hole in Dean's balloon of indignation. "You can tell I'm upset?"

"I can always tell when you're upset. I know you, little bro."

Dean bumped his head back against the headboard, staring across at Sammy, who was completely oblivious. "I don't know why."

"Mmm." Jimmy hummed thoughtfully, blinking slowly as he stared at the ceiling. His movements were still sluggish and weak, but his voice was clear and sharp. "You feel betrayed. You feel like Dad and me didn't trust you, not telling you something this important."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's part of it." Dean's fist thumped down on the mattress between them, making Jimmy jump slightly, and he felt bad for that. "I just... Jimmy, how can I know it's really you? If this...this angel was inside you the whole time, how'm I supposed to know when it's my brother talking to me and not some supernatural freak? How do I know it's really you here right now? What if this Castiel is trying to fool me? How can I...how can I believe anything you say?"

"Dean...you've always been able to tell." Jimmy reached over, slow and careful, laid a gentle hand on Dean's knee. Gentle, Jimmy was always so gentle. And when he wasn't... "I've always seen you looking back at me, and I know you could always tell. You knew there was something weird about me, but you didn't mind, because you loved me all along. Me, and Castiel, too. You did, Dean, you always did. Whether it's me talking to you right now, or Castiel, it doesn't really matter. We're the same Jimmy you've known all along, and you've never hated us before. Please don't start now."

When he wasn't, that was Castiel. Dean pressed his head back against the hard surface, felt the little pain in his scalp, and squeezed his eyes shut to deny the tears. "But why didn't you tell me? Why didn't he tell me? If you knew I could tell, why not trust me all the way?"

Jimmy sighed. "Castiel... He brings enormous burdens with him. Knowledge of the future. Terrible things. He didn't want to have to tell you. He wanted you to grow up as innocent as possible for as long as you could."

"Oh." Dean opened his eyes. He saw Sammy across the room, watching his cartoons, oblivious. Jimmy...and Castiel...they had wanted to protect him the way he wanted to protect Sammy. He couldn't blame them for that.

"He really is an angel? Castiel?"

His voice sounded very small.

Jimmy just nodded, gave Dean's knee a little squeeze. His eyes were drifting again, and he was almost out of energy. Dean shouldn't have wasted so much time with his questions, should have taken care of him first. But this had been important, he knew that now.

He wouldn't let Jimmy's head bang on any walls.

"My mom used to say that angels were watching over me. And then, after... I didn't believe. I didn't want to believe. It hurt too bad."

"I know," Jimmy whispered. "It's okay."

Dean watched Sammy watching his cartoons, and he firmed his jaw in determination. "We're going to have tell him. We have to tell him everything. I don't want him to be mad at us, too."

Jimmy hummed a gentle agreement and turned his head to get a glimpse of their little brother without lifting his head. "Yes. But not today."

"Not today."

The time would come soon enough. If Sammy started asking questions, Dean would tell him the truth.

~*~

1984

A sunny June day, and the Winchesters were at a playground somewhere in Oklahoma. John sat at a picnic table, keeping an eye on Dean and Sammy as they kicked across the red-brown dirt toward the kiddy slides, Dean holding his baby brother's hands, helping him walk. The baby gurgled laughter, and Dean's tiny chuckle rang out, too. It was beautiful; everything was beautiful.

Across from him at the picnic table sat Jimmy Novak, Castiel the angel, busily licking an ice cream cone with a wet, pink tongue. As John watched, he turned the cone in his hand to lick up a trickle of melted white running down the side, capturing it before it hit his fingers with a happy smack of the lips. Dean and Sammy had already finished off their shared sundae, leaving behind a paper bowl on its side, smears of chocolate and butterscotch on the warped wood and sticky fingers that would need to be washed, and John worked steadily on his own cup of chocolate ice cream. Jimmy kicked his feet under the table, as childlike and carefree as John had ever seen him.

The bruises were gone, the cuts faded to faint red. John didn't know if the flinch would ever leave, though. Some scars didn't heal.

Out of respect for the wounded boy, John had put his questions off for as long as he could, but they burned inside him, hotter and more painful for every hour of delay. Now, though, all three children were as content and happy as they could be, and John could wait no longer. He had to know.

"Jimmy. Castiel."

The boy looked up at him sharply, blue eyes bright and steady. His face was calm and controlled, a sudden mask. Castiel. A rivulet of melted ice cream trailed down the cone, reached his fingers and crossed all four in a rippled stream of white. He didn't react. "Yes, Mr. Winchester?"

John drew a deep breath. "I need you to tell me what killed my wife."

Castiel nodded solemnly. "I will tell you. But you have to make a promise first."

"What sort of promise?"

Castiel turned sideways on the bench to look behind himself at Sammy and Dean. They were climbing up the ladder to one of the plastic slides, Dean behind his brother, guiding his steps and protecting him from any fall. "Your sons have to come first."

"What?" John's fingers froze around his bowl. He didn't know whether to be offended or infuriated or simply flabbergasted at the implication. "Why the hell wouldn't they?"

"I know that revenge is a strong motivator." Those blue, blue eyes caught John's and held them steady. "Once you know who is responsible for the death of Mary Winchester, you will want to pursue that entity to the ends of the earth, even at the cost of everything else that you hold dear. You must not."

John just stared. Yeah, definitely leaning toward offended. "What kind of father do you think I am?"

"A good one," Castiel said earnestly. "Truly, you are a very good father. But you must not let that change. As you travel on down this path, as you become a hunter and begin to face monstrous creatures of all kinds, your priorities will be challenged many times. But I tell you now, nothing on earth is more important than your sons. Dean and Sam are...they are the most important pair of brothers in ten millennia, and nothing is more important than keeping them safe and strong and free from all taints. Nothing. And so you must promise that they will always be first to you. You must guard not only their bodies but their souls as well."

The intensity in that young-old gaze raised goosebumps on John's neck and shoulders. He sat back, trying to meet this strange boy's gaze, and he couldn't manage it. Eventually he looked away, found his sons again. They sat together at the top of the slide, Sammy between Dean's legs, four little hands gripping the sides of the slide. Then Dean pushed them off and they slid down, shrieking their delight.

He felt the weight of this precious burden like a lodestone in his chest. Surely he could never lose his way. But the way Castiel spoke, the things he had seen... Something must have gone wrong in the future that he had come from. How was John to prevent that, alone and hapless as he was? He didn't even know how to fight a ghost, for God's sake, let alone whatever threats Castiel saw coming that made him speak so powerfully and sternly.

"I'll help you."

The young voice was quiet now, pleading. John looked back to him, caught off-guard by this new softness. Still the ancient face of Castiel, the angel of the Lord, but his face was soft with longing.

"I don't have much to offer...I am wounded and weary and far from the powerful ally I should be. But everything I have, I will give to you and your boys. My life is yours."

His spread his hands, one sticky with ice cream, both young and small and helpless. It should have been a ridiculous gesture, worthy only of scorn or pity and careful refusal, but John felt the prick of unexpected tears. He could not reject this heartfelt plea.

He nodded, a swift jerk of the head. "I promise."

Castiel lowered his head, chest heaving with a deep sigh. "Then I will tell you everything."

John looked down at his cup, stirred the chocolate soup around, and took another bite. "Eat your ice cream."

The angel-boy stared curiously at the cone in his hand, then raised it to his mouth, sniffed it, licked the melting trickle across his fingers. John stifled a snort at the look of shocked delight, the spark in his eyes and sudden, startled smile. So Jimmy and Castiel didn't experience everything as one being, and it seemed that the angel had never tasted this treat before. He seemed to like it.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad.

"I have much to teach you. I'll do my best to give you all the tools you need." Castiel looked to the playground, watching Dean and Sammy walk around the slide to climb the ladder again. "The creature that killed your wife is a demon of the highest order, Azazel, a son of Lucifer..."

John ate his ice cream and listened to every word.

End of Book One