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.

Note: Sorry for the delay on this one; this chapter gave me a little more trouble than I expected. Hopefully it's a satisfying end to this series of drabbles.

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"How did this happen, Sam?"

Sam's laugh was soft, more breath than sound. "Just one of the hazards of the job, I guess."

Castiel glanced down, all of his senses absorbed, somehow, in the particulars of this moment: the tension of the springs in the mattress beneath him, the rattle of the pipes as the shower whistled through the bathroom door, the lingering scent of sweat and spilled blood that always haunted the Winchesters' hotel room at the end of a hunt. But it was Sam who drew most of his attention—Sam kneeling at his feet beside the bed, his body still warm from his own shower, the skin that showed above the collar of his light blue shirt glowing with a lingering sheen of heat. Sam who had one arm crooked across the angel's knees, his head tipped forward to offer the back of his neck, where a knotted twig was obstinately snarled into his long, dark hair. The tips of his bangs were still damp; they lay heavy against the curve of his cheek as Castiel carded his hand through Sam's hair, testing the tension in each strand.

"Dean got the worst of it," Sam was saying, his voice little more than a murmur against the skin of his arm. "At least the ghost just pushed me into a windbreak—it threw him into the moss-infused stock tank. I promised Bobby I'd take a picture if he's still green when he gets out of the shower." He was silent for a moment as Castiel traced his thumbnail down the length of the twig, feeling for the looser strands of hair that would untangle more easily. Then Sam shifted closer, and Castiel felt the heat of his body pressed against his leg, his dark hair cascading away from the angel's hands as Sam tucked his face into the crease of his elbow. "Thanks for doing this, Cas. I think Dean was about to go for the machete."

The Winchesters had not moved far since his last visit, two days earlier. Castiel had folded his wings and reentered the physical plane in Room 7 of the Timberwolf Inn, Coldwater, Kansas, to find his charges engaged in debate over what should be done about the obstruction in Sam's hair. Dean had not been inclined to explain the details of the hunt, but through the onslaught of complaints and references that held no meaning for him, the angel had come to understand that the corpses they'd been investigating were linked to the spirit of a millworker killed by a cursed object, and that Dean was very tired of Sam struggling with his hair. Dean had stalked off to the shower challenging Castiel to try untangling it—and though angels had more direct ways of doing those sorts of things, Castiel had settled down to do so by hand, as the older Winchester had indicated. He had learned by now that humans were very particular about the way in which things were done.

Beneath him, Sam was infinitely still; only the shallow rise and fall of his chest, barely a quiver in the light fabric of his blue shirt, confirmed that he was breathing. Castiel wondered where Sam had learned such serenity. Perhaps there had been other instances like this one, other fragments of debris left in his hair. Castiel dug his fingers into his soft, damp locks and wondered if Dean had done this for Sam, before him. He found that he could not imagine it. Since the moment he was dragged out of Hell, burning ashes raked up under his thrashing fingernails, there had always been a violence in Dean that Castiel could not dismiss. It was unfathomable that he would have the patience for something like this.

Sam shifted against him, and Castiel paused, his fingertips stilling against the weave of tangled strands. His gaze moved down the loose slope of Sam's body until it settled on his bare feet, tucked up against his folded legs, his pale toes fidgeting in the worn brown carpet. For a long moment Castiel watched them without moving his hand, searching for whispers of pain in the curling and uncurling of ten bare toes.

"Am I hurting you, Sam?" he asked at last.

He had the sense that this was something that could only be done delicately—that he had never needed such gentleness as he did at this moment. But he was only a soldier, had always been a soldier. He was not certain he had enough gentleness in him to give Sam what he needed. Sam chuckled and Castiel felt it through the back of his skull, tickling his fingertips.

"You're fine, Cas."

Castiel had never known much of closeness, or touch. It was as unnatural to angels as breathing in, as the soft, shallow inhale that touched his lungs as his hand began to move once more, weaving softly through the knot. But there was something pleasant about that closeness, when it was Sam he was close to. And there was something he liked very much about this sensation, the feeling of his hand in Sam's hair—the suppleness of the slowly drying strands, the way it parted to let his fingers through. There was something unexpected in the way it yielded—something, in that way, like Sam. He liked the weight of it against his fingertips, and the way Sam looked now, his eyes closed and his lips parted just enough to draw breath. He liked the weight of Sam's head in his lap.

"Maybe Dean's right. Maybe I should just cut it."

The words were barely a sigh; Castiel almost lost them in the rush of the pipes, the pitch of the whistle rising with the water temperature. The angel unwound a looping strand and smoothed it down against the back of Sam's neck.

"Why?" he asked.

Sam shrugged with one shoulder, the motion rocking their bodies gently together; Castiel thought of ships on a calm sea, their sails just brushing. "It's just a hassle sometimes," Sam murmured into his elbow. "With things like this, and…" He paused, and then shook his head, chasing a few strands of hair down into his face. "My hair was always short when I was a kid. My dad just cut mine and Dean's the same way, and we were his boys, so…" Another shrug, so small this time that it was nothing but a ripple in the muscles of Sam's neck, tensing and letting go. "When I decided to come back out on the road with Dean, I just…I don't know. I wanted it to be different somehow. So I just sort of…stopped cutting it."

Of all the things about which Sam did not speak, the absence of John Winchester was the most prominent, marked always by broken sentences and enduring silence. Castiel wondered if Sam would ever speak to him about his father, and what he might say, if he allowed himself to find the words. He did not ask now. He gave the stick a gentle tug and a few more strands of Sam's hair came away, falling soundlessly against his neck.

"Has it been different? Because of your hair?"

Sam gave a soft laugh, muffled against his skin. "I'm not sure that's the reason." The hand that had been resting on Castiel's knee slipped down his leg just a little, just far enough for Sam to curl his fingers into the fabric of his slacks, the dark cloth wrinkling around his coiled hand. "There was no one like you, before. There's never been anyone like you."

Castiel's eyebrows drew together. "There were no angels."

Sam's exhale was warm against his thigh. "Well, yeah. But that's not exactly what I meant."

There was something different about the closeness now. Castiel was not certain what had changed. But there was a tension at the points between them that had not been there before—some feeling of expectation, the potential energy of clouds before a thunderstorm. Castiel brushed Sam's hair back and felt it in his fingertips, and wondered if this was static electricity, some exhilaration of molecules moving from him to Sam. The last of the knot unraveled all at once, and the stick came free on its own, landing silently in Castiel's palm—but though there was no reason to continue, without quite realizing it he found he had set the twig aside and slid his fingers back into Sam's hair, carding his hand through the unobstructed strands. Heaven's will was eternal, its timing absolute, and it was not his place to question, not even to consider—but all the same Castiel wondered who Sam might have been, if an angel had been sent to him sooner.

Castiel knew he would not have been chosen, not as a guardian. He was not at all sure why that thought tensed his fingers in Sam's hair.

"You should not."

Sam's eyes flickered open, his dark lashes hesitating against his cheeks. "What?"

Castiel unclenched his fingers, brushing a soft tangle down into the hollow behind Sam's ear. "It suits you. Hair of this length. You should not cut it."

Sam's lips quirked up in a smile. "Okay. Thanks, Cas."

The last of the tension had vanished from Sam's body; Castiel could feel all of him now, the insignificant weight of a human form, resting fully against him as Sam closed his eyes and tucked his head down once more. In that surrender, Castiel felt somehow that he had been entrusted with something precious, something that made him long to stop breathing, as if the world were too tenuous to sustain one drawn breath. The shower had stopped, and though the city beyond them was infinitely loud, a cacophony of car horns and footsteps and a towel rushing through wet hair, the only sound Castiel could hear was the throbbing in Sam's chest, his heartbeat slow as the last drips of water falling from his hair. Sam settled into him and Castiel's hand stilled once more, hesitating against the slope of his shoulder.

"Sam. The stick…"

Sam let out a soft breath, and Castiel marveled that the world held. "Mm. Take your time."

Castiel was not certain how much time they had. He was not at all sure what he wanted, looking down at Sam with his head in his lap, his features captivating in their tranquility. But perhaps he did not need to know, yet. Perhaps this was only the feeling of something beginning.

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The next story in the Other Guardian 'verse should be coming soon...thanks for all the reviews.