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.

This story is a set of drabbles set over the summer; it follows "Starbright," and focuses on the evolution of Castiel's feelings as he and Sam grow closer, moment by tiny moment. Rotating perspectives, including Dean's; this story is still technically pre-slash, but getting closer to full slash all the time.

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Sam wasn't really in the habit of stealing things from their hotels. Bars of soap, pens and the little pads of monographed paper didn't really count, and then there were a few specific things that they took when they needed them—towels, bed sheets for bandages and slings, and an honestly embarrassing amount of toilet paper for all the inevitable gas-station-slash-rest-stop-slash-side-of-the-road bathroom breaks that didn't come pre-stocked. But actually stealing things—things that were supposed to stay where they were—was more Dean's department.

Light bulbs, batteries, mirrors small enough to pull off the wall without chipping the tiles—anything silver, anything that looked like it might be a universal remote, and more than one miniature trash can had made its way into the Impala over the years, usually ending up in a park dumpster a few exits down the highway after Dean got whatever he'd wanted from them. On a few occasions, when they hadn't hit a good roadside bar in a while, Dean had even stolen the trifold advertisements for pay-per-view porn—which Sam found both disgusting and a really, really sad commentary on their lives.

In general, if it wasn't nailed down or too big to fit in the car, Sam was willing to bet Dean had stolen it at least once. He did what he could to balance the scales by leaving everything exactly where he'd found it. But he'd had to make an exception, just this once.

It wasn't like the Best Western in Ogallala was going to miss one stainless steel teaspoon. And it wasn't like he and Dean couldn't use a teaspoon now and then—Sam was sure he'd bought a parfait or a jar of peanut butter or something once and not had anything to scoop it out with. And the theft definitely didn't have anything to do with the fact that Cas had dropped in that morning and ended up joining them for a decidedly meager continental breakfast in the hotel lobby, runny eggs and lukewarm OJ and the same crusty pastries that were in every continental breakfast, no matter where in the country they drove, but luckily Castiel's palate didn't seem to be all that discerning—it wasn't like Sam had sat there across the table from him, lost in thought remembering the very first time he'd ever offered the angel a bite of his strawberry waffles, and his fork had sorted of drifted to a stop against his parted lips, his breakfast forgotten on his plate. It wasn't like Castiel had noticed him staring, and paused over his blueberry yogurt, and lifted his own utensil up to mirror him, the dull, dented metal of the spoon just resting against his bottom lip as he said Sam's name and incidentally kissed the back of the curve. And even if that had happened, that wasn't why Sam had stolen it off of the angel's empty plate and wrapped it in a napkin and slipped it into his pocket—because Sam was pretty sure that would make him a stalker, and he really didn't need another strike on his scorecard.

But somehow he couldn't stop himself from slipping his hand down to trace the funny concave lump in his pocket a few times during the day's long drive, and he couldn't stop himself from smiling every time he did. He was just glad Dean was too preoccupied with Metallica to notice.

.x.

Rainwater cascaded down the ledge of the overhang, heavy drops splattering against the sidewalk and rattling in the rusted gutter. In the road beyond, the summer storm was in its rage, transforming the warm afternoon with a white curtain of pounding rain. Castiel turned from the squall to study Sam, standing beside him beneath the shelter of the awning and shivering in his wet jacket, one hand raking damp bangs back out of his face. They had not found cover in time to escape the first wave of the storm.

Sam's eyes were locked on the rain, tracing the pattern of endless descent, and for a long moment Castiel could not look away from him, drawn to the inexplicably soft expression on his face, the tiny smile playing at his lips. He lost track of his right hand and only found it again when it settled against Sam's shoulder, drawing those hazel eyes back to him.

"You are wet," Castiel said, letting his fingers creep up Sam's coat to trace the cold line of the seam. "I will convey you to the hotel." He raised two fingers, but paused as Sam shook his head.

"Not yet." Sam shoved his hands down into his pockets and shifted half a step closer, out of range of the rainwater spraying across his shoes. Castiel's hand slid along his shoulder and came to rest over the fold of his collar, his thumb pressed into the cool skin of Sam's neck. The taller man shrugged. "Just…sometimes it's nice to be out in the rain for a little while."

Castiel felt himself frown. "Dean was angry with me the last time I left you out in the rain," he said slowly, trying to remember why he had ever done that.

Sam's eyes lifted to his, and they were thick with the reflection of the rain, hazel irises all but vanishing under shards of white. Castiel wondered if he had ever seen them so bright. "Are you gonna leave me, Cas?" Sam asked.

"No," Castiel answered, too quickly, and only realized afterward that Sam was smiling. His hand fell away from his companion's shoulder but Sam caught it in the space between them, four light fingers twining into the angel's sleeve.

"Then I'm okay for a while," he said, a little laugh chasing the words as he ducked his head and gave the tan fabric of the trench coat a soft squeeze. "Besides… you're wet, too."

Castiel wondered how that had escaped him.

.x.

"Can you do my back, Cas?"

Castiel paused, scrutinizing the orange plastic of the bottle in his hand and then the man before him, the beach around them riotous with the sound of the ocean and the shouts of children racing across the sand. Sam was facing away from him, presenting the breadth of his tan back, but after a moment the young man craned his head around until he could catch his eyes, one hand trapping his long hair at the nape of his neck.

"Cas?"

"I don't understand the difference," Castiel told him, though this only made Sam blink.

"What?"

"Twelve days ago," Castiel replied, "I offered to apply ointment to your back. You refused. I don't understand how this situation differs."

Sam hunched his back, and Castiel was distracted for a moment by the play of sunlight across the planes of his shoulder blades, how much better it looked without the taint of dark bruises singeing his spine. He had not known he was capable of such preference. Sam's laugh seemed slightly forced.

"Uh…yeah, sorry about that. It's just…I mean, I'd just stepped out of the shower, Cas, and um…I was in my boxers," Sam said, the last of the explanation exhaled in a rush. "But this is a swimsuit, so…it's different."

Human conventions about nudity were needlessly complex, Castiel had observed. He wondered what it was in themselves they sought to temper by drawing these lines that seemed utterly arbitrary. Castiel tilted his head, then glanced down at the elastic band of Sam's stiff blue shorts, the color sharp against the warm skin of his waist. "The area of skin obscured in the same," he said. But nonetheless he opened the top of the orange bottle and squeezed the white cream labeled sunscreen into his palm.

Sam tensed at the first touch of the cold lotion, but in a moment it had warmed against his skin and he was leaning back into Castiel's hand, dropping his head forward to expose the back of his neck. Castiel had watched Sam use the lotion first, rubbing it into his face and chest until it disappeared; he splayed his fingers through the cream and felt Sam's muscles shifting beneath his skin, tiny flickers of movement like ripples in still water as he rubbed white circles across his wide back.

"You're really good at that, Cas."

The words were so soft Castiel nearly lost them in the ambience of other sound. But his ears were attuned to Sam's voice now, heard it above all others, and he leaned forward on his knees in the sand, the heel of his hand dragging up the dip of Sam's spine.

"What does that mean?" he asked.

Sam gave a small laugh, his body rising to meet Castiel's palms as the angel smoothed sunscreen over the curve of his shoulders. "Nothing, just…your hands. Most people just sort of slap it on, but…it just feels different, I guess, the way you do it."

Castiel's hands slowed against Sam's back, one thumb resting against the nub of bone at the base of his neck. "Am I hurting you, Sam?" It was never his intention to be rough with these delicate beings, with Sam most of all, whom he sometimes felt needed to be handled far more gently than even Dean realized—but Sam only laughed again, and shook his head, a few wisps of hair escaping his restraining fingers to brush the back of Castiel's hand.

"No. It's fine, Cas. Actually, it kind of feels like a massage."

Castiel smoothed his thumb tentatively up the line of Sam's neck. "And that is a…good feeling?" he inquired after a moment. Sam made a surprised sound in the back of his throat and Castiel felt it in his hands, the vibration racing through the small finger bones like static. He had a sense that Sam did not want sunscreen in his hair, but he could not stop himself from tracing his fingertips up to the dark hairline, pressing deep into the knots beneath the skin.

"Oh—you've probably never had a massage, huh," Sam murmured, his head rolling back against the angel's hands. "Yeah, they're nice. I'll give you one sometime."

Castiel did not take issue with the suggestion—but apparently Sam did, because all at once he had pulled away and turned around to face the angel, his mouth opening and closing around syllables Castiel struggled to understand.

"Uh—I mean, not like…I mean, you probably don't even…um…" Sam scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving a crust of sand at the edge of his hair. "You know what—never mind, Cas. You probably don't need a massage anyway, since you're an angel and…" Something in his own words seemed to distress Sam even more, and he inched back again, one hand raised between them as if to pacify him. Castiel thought Sam was the one who needed calming. "Just know I didn't mean anything by it, okay?" Sam finished, offering a smile that morphed into a wince.

Castiel frowned, tilting his head slightly as he pondered his companion. "You no longer wish to give me a massage?" he asked, just to be certain.

Sam breathed in deeply, as if both lungs were suddenly empty of air. Then he ducked his head and gave a laugh that was unmistakably breathless nonetheless. "Uh…" Sam whispered, brushing a lock of hair back so Castiel could just catch a glimpse of his rueful smile. "You're really not trying to make this easy for me, are you, Cas?"

Castiel leaned forward to get a better sense of his expression, until Sam's tongue darted out to wet his lips, the nervous gesture stopping the angel where he was. "Your face is red, Sam," he said, considering the flush across his cheekbones and along the curve of each ear. "Do you need more sunscreen?"

Sam pressed his palms into the sand, his fingers spread as if searching for purpose in the slippery grains. "I don't think sunscreen's going to help," he replied, so softly the words must have been for himself. Then he pushed to his feet and cocked his head toward the water, a wisp of warm sea air sliding in between them. "Come on. Let's go see what Dean's gotten into—I don't really trust him around so many bikinis."

Castiel rose fluidly and followed him away from the towels, wondering what Sam thought Dean might do with the bikinis in question. But as they meandered side by side toward the last bastion of shore, the gulls wheeling over their heads in a great arc of angry gray wings, he found himself wondering instead what Sam's hands would feel like against the slope of his back, and why that was such a distracting thought.