September 8, 1978.

Lawrence, Kansas.

Mary stared into her dresser mirror, her hands running absentmindedly over the small bump protruding under her nightgown, pushing ever so slightly against light blue chiffon. A few short months ago, her belly had been flat and unblemished. Now it was swollen. So were her breasts-heavy and awkward-her skin marred with an ever increasing number of red-tinted, vein-like stretch marks.

Her body already bore plenty of scars. Thin lines made by silver knives she had always told John were from 'cheerleading camp.' Claw marks from an encounter with a werewolf she said came from a bear on a weekend 'camping trip' with her parents. But these scars she didn't have to lie to John about. These were scars of motherhood, her very first ones, and she treasured them dearly.

A small ripple moved under her fingers as Mary felt a nudge—loving, but powerful—against her belly. Her breath caught in her throat at the feel of it.

She had been feeling movements like that for weeks, first as nearly indescribable flutters. Now they were getting more pronounced. Now, she knew what they were. They were kicks. The baby was kicking her. She had seen the baby do it earlier that day on a brand new ultrasound screen during a checkup and it had moved her to tears.

"So this is the baby?"

Mary turned at John's voice and smiled. "Yup. Twenty-one weeks," she glanced at John who was sitting on his side of the bed, staring intently at the grainy black and white sonogram photo in his hand. "You'll be happy to know that I picked up some blue paint samples for the nursery."

John looked up, an excited smile spreading across his face. "A boy? You must be bummed that we can't name him Deanna. You were so set on it."

Mary smirked as she waddled over to the bed. "No, because we'll be naming him Dean, instead." She slowly sat down on her side of the bed with a groan, her hand pressed against her stomach.

"Dean? What? Like James Dean?"" John smirked. "Didn't you have a picture of him in your locker in high school?"

"No, I was thinking more Dean Moriarty." A coy smile spread across Mary's face.

John stared at her blankly.

"On The Road?" Mary cocked an eyebrow at him.

John shook his head. "Honey, you married a mechanic. Not Ernest Hemingway." He shrugged as he laid down.

Mary laughed. "I know. I still love you." She cuddled up to John as he tossed the comforter around them. She was quiet for a moment as she stared at the photo in his hand, her fingers brushing against the image. "Four months from now we're gonna be parents. His parents," she sighed. There was as much fear as there was excitement in her voice.

John nodded. "Dean Winchester." The words played around in John's mouth as he held the photo up to the light, squinting his eyes at the grainy figure of the infant within it. "I think he's got more Campbell in him though." He grinned as he put the photo on the nightstand. "He looks like you."

Mary chuckled."Oh thanks, I love being compared to a fuzzy blob."She kissed him before she shifted onto her side. John followed suit, wrapping one of his arms protectively around her stomach.

She was awoken a couple of hours later by a strong kick to her ribs.

The baby—Dean—was more active at night than during the day when she would play Beatles records and talk to him. He was mischievous and loved attention. Mary shifted, running a hand across her belly.

"You're cute Dean, but Mommy needs her rest," she mumbled quietly, half-asleep.

It was then that she heard the sound. A sound she hadn't heard before, different from the creaks and groans of the house which she knew well; this one almost sounded like the rustling of wings.

Her eyes snapped open as she sat up, looking around the room. It was empty aside from John and her.

She sat there quietly for a moment, listening. The muffled, faint sound of music could be heard coming from down the hall. From the soon-to-be nursery. Fear filled her instantly.

Mary glanced quickly over at John, fast asleep next to her, before she carefully climbed out of bed. Swallowing hard, she crouched down, pulling a silver knife out from the space between the mattress and box-spring before she left the room. She shut the door behind her, moving as quickly and silently down the hallway as her body would allow.

Her fingers lingered briefly on the door knob before she flung it open, the knife raised defensively as she rushed into the room.

It was empty aside from the crib she and John had put together a week before, the three small cans of blue paint and the radio she had been listening to while testing the paint earlier that afternoon. She could still smell the faint odor of paint as she tiptoed further into the room.

The radio was turned on and playing the 5th Dimension's The Age of Aquarius. Psychedelic, hopeful, joyful, like a New Age gospel song.

There was a ghost. Maybe a poltergeist.

Mary paused for a moment, wishing now that she had some iron, before she walked over to the radio and shut it off.

The sound of wings rung out again, followed by feet moving on the carpet behind her. "Come on, that's a great jam! Don't be such a square, babe."

Mary turned, her knife pointed at a man dressed in an olive green leisure suit, a Blow Pop hanging out of his mouth. "Who—what—are you and what the hell are you doing in my house?" Mary hissed, glancing at the open nursery door.

The man chuckled as he backed away from her, pulling the Blow Pop out of his mouth. "Easy with the kitchenware, Jill Munroe, I'm not here to hurt you." He gestured nonchalantly to her stomach. "Or him for that matter."

Mary quickly glanced down at her belly. "How do you know that?" Her voice shook with fear and anger.

The man scoffed. "Well, mostly because it's my job to know." He shrugged. "Also, the paint is blue. Ain't exactly rocket science to figure that one out." He glanced over at the neatly painted squares on the nursery wall. "I'd go with the Carolina Blue." he nodded, a grin quirking his lips.

Mary's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?" As quickly and as fluidly as she could manage, she slammed the blade of the knife into the man's chest.

Nothing happened.

"Ya know." The man just rolled his eyes as he placed the lollipop back in his mouth, casually pulling the knife from his chest and dropping it to the floor. "I get that you're hormonal, but take a chill pill. The suit is dry clean only."

Mary backed away from him, her eyes wide with shock. "You're some kind of trickster, aren't you?" She scanned him warily.

The trickster turned his head to the side, studying her. "Michael told me you were perceptive. And normally, yeah, I go by Loki. But today I'm an angel," he deadpanned. "Ya know, of The Lord?"

"That's not possible." Mary shook her head. "Angels don't exist."

The trickster laughed. "Trust me, Mary Campbell, we do." His eyes began to glow as a bright light emanated from him, filling the room. A shadow of wings—large and majestic—appeared behind him just before his eyes and the light faded again. "Earth's just been a no-fly zone for us for the past two millennia because some assholes screwed up. I'm not even supposed to be here, but I went AWOL and into 'Witness Protection' long before that. But duty calls."

Mary froze.

The angel cleared his throat as he sauntered over to her. "The name's Gabriel. Archangel Gabriel. I'm here because you and me gotta have a little chat about that bun in the oven you got there. He's kinda important to the Big Guns Upstairs, if you dig me."

Mary was silent for a long moment. Her eyes then lowered down to her belly before they rose again. She swallowed hard. "…That Archangel Gabriel?"

"Bingo." Gabriel nodded. "And this is exactly what you thinkit is."

"But…" Mary's chest heaved, her voice shaking. "But… how is that even possible? I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not a virgin."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Neither was the other Mary. It's kinda not the point. Mathew just couldn't read Hebrew worth a single crap and Luke was trying to rip off Hercules. The kid's as much His as he's John's."

"You're telling me that my baby's the..." Mary put both her hands over her belly, the words catching in her throat. Tears started to well up in her eyes as she fiddled with her wedding and engagement rings. "I've. I've gotta protect him. I've gotta leave John. What if—"

"No, no." Gabriel placed his hands on her shoulders. "Heaven's watching over him and they got him completely cloaked. As far as anyone or anything else knows, he's just a regular snot-nosed kid and he'll be one until he gets tapped. All you've gotta do is raise him. But, if anything does happen, you'll know how to take care of it."

Mary shook her head. "You don't understand what you're asking of me." She wiped the tears from her eyes. "This is too big."

"I understand better than you think I do, trust me. You're actually handling this better than the first Mary did." Gabriel smiled. "Speaking of which, I almost forgot." He quickly scooted behind her. Reaching around, he placed his hand tenderly against the swell of her belly. A white light emanated from his hand, spreading across her stomach.

The baby kicked again.

Mary pulled away from him, placing her hand protectively where his hand had been. Panic filled her voice, "What did you do?"

"Chill. I just consecrated him. No biggie." Gabriel shrugged as he took a couple of steps away from her. "If anybody asks, I wasn't here, okay?" He turned around, a serious look appearing on his face as he placed his hand gently against her cheek, his eyes locking on her. "Remember, angels arewatching over him."

The sound of snapping fingers filled Mary's ears just as her eyes opened, finding herself back in bed, early morning light filling the room. She lay there for a moment, her eyes moving around the room, before she sat up.

John was already up and getting dressed. "How are the two of you doing this morning?" He smiled as walked over to her, kissing her gently.

"We're good." Mary nodded as she ran a hand across her belly. "John. Did you… hear anything last night?"

"A windstorm. Other than that, no." John shook his head as he put his work shirt on. "Why?"

Mary paused. "No reason." She shrugged. "I just had some kind of crazy dream, I guess."

"Another one? You've been having them a lot lately." John chuckled. "I'll see you tonight. I gotta go into work. Tom called out. Again. Why they keep that kid is beyond me."

As John left the room, Mary again reached over and stuck her hand in the space between the mattress and box-spring.

The silver knife was still there.


December 6, 2008.

Augusta, Georgia.

Castiel could hear the sound of pained breaths coming from the other side of the motel room as his feet touched down onto the worn carpet. He moved quietly, purposefully, across the darkened room, his eyes locked on the soul sleeping fitfully in one of the room's beds. It was a soul he knew well. He had handled it personally, having fought to take it back from those demons who had stolen it from Heaven. The soul of The Righteous Man. The Messiah.

When Castiel had wrenched it out of the chill and despair of Perdition, Dean's soul was human. It was brilliant, far more pure than it should have been after decades of torture, even with a stain—thick and black like smoke—upon it. The soul now glowed and it was white hot, the heat slowly melting away the black. While the soul was still human, the heat and the glow marked it as something else.

His eyes then focused on the man the soul belonged to: Dean Winchester. A man who thought so little of himself, though he had no cause to. He was a man of great courage, strength, and loyalty, who gave so much of himself and expected nothing in return.

Dean was also a man in pain who had scarcely left his bed for three days. He was barely even able to care for himself. Despite the sacred wounds having closed over into bruises, the bones and tendons in his wrists and ankles were still torn and shattered, rendering both his feet and hands almost useless.

Feet that chased after monsters and demons. Hands that healed the injured and raised the dead. These hands and feet had brought so many salvation and gave so many hope without being pierced. Dean needed his hands. He needed his feet. He needed to continue his work and doing so would be near impossible if he couldn't walk or fight.

Castiel walked to the end of Dean's bed, his gaze focusing on the man's broken feet. Even though they were covered by a blanket, Castiel could see the faint glow of the wounds that marked them. Carefully, he placed his hands over each of the ankles. A light emanated from his hands, soaking through the fabric of the bedspread and into the skin and bone resting just underneath. He then moved over to the side of Dean's bed and did the same to each of Dean's wrists.

Though the wounds still glowed, Castiel watched for a moment as Dean's fingers moved—once again fluid and unbroken—before he disappeared.


December 24, 2008.

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

Christmas was usually just another day for Dean. The previous Christmas, when Sam had tried so hard to make it a good one for him, had been first time he had even bothered with the holiday in years.

As far as Dean knew, last year's Christmas was going to be his last Christmas. His last chance to drink rum-spiked eggnog and watch Sam open half-assed gifts bought at a gas station with a smile on his face. Dean wanted to make it count and he wanted to give Sam something fond to look back on the following years when he was gone, when Sam was alone. Despite the somber cloud hanging over it, Dean enjoyed it.

But Dean wasn't looking forward to Christmas this year. In fact, he was almost dreading it.

Christmas was the Winter Solstice, the festival of the Sun's conquest over winter. Darkness and Death. It was also the feast of the Son and His impending conquest over Darkness and Death. It was the commemoration of the birth of the Christ child, when God was believed to have entered the world, incarnate as a human being. The Spirit and The Flesh, dwelling together as a single entity.

It was what Dean now lived, every moment of every day. Dean could even feelit coursing through his veins every time he placed a hand on an injured person or exorcised a demon. Heat. Sometimes the heat was like fire, slow and burning. Sometimes like lightning, fast and buzzing.

It gave him purpose, clarity, confidence, but it lasted only a brief second before it faded again, leaving Dean cold, plagued by his fear, guilt, and self-doubt.

While Dean could do his best not to think about it before, now he was faced with a never-ending barrage of Christmas carols and nativity scenes, constant reminders of the conflict waging beneath his skin.

The Sunday after getting the nail wounds, Dean had woken up to find the bones and tendons in his wrists and ankles completely healed. Though Dean wasn't sure how—he had gone to bed the night before barely able to hold a pen or walk the short distance to the bathroom on his own—he didn't question it. Instead, he used it as an excuse to work cases.

On Christmas Eve, after an eleven hour drive from Savannah to Pennsylvania to check out what Dean was hoping would prove to be demonic activity in Centralia, Sam demanded that they take a break, using the holiday as the perfect excuse for one. They had spent the last three weeks working almost nonstop all along the southern half of the eastern seaboard. Dean had become so engrossed by his quest for hunts that he hadn't even bothered shaving.

There were no vacancies to be found anywhere, aside from a room with a single bed in a hotel that had likely once been a tenement building, just above a dive bar. The Alva Hotel. It was old and cramped, with the lingering stench of cigarette smoke. Lack of cleanliness and having to sleep in an armchair aside, Dean wasn't bothered by it. What bothered him was the painfully obvious irony that he swore had to be some form of bad angelic humor and Sam's jokes about there being 'no room for them in the inn'.

Dean decided to spend the holiday distracted by rum-spiked eggnog and the twenty-four hour marathon of A Christmas Story that played every year without fail.

He was making his way back to the hotel, a grocery bag in hand containing a carton of eggnog, plastic cups, and a fifth of Captain Morgan, when a woman stopped him on the sidewalk.

"Excuse me." She was standing on the sidewalk across the street from the hotel. As she walked over to him, she glanced judgmentally down at the amulet hanging around his neck and the bag in his hand. "Have you thought about how much God loves you today?" In her gloved hands was a small stack of mini New Testament Bibles. She held one out to him.

Dean scoffed, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket. "I think about it all the fu— freakin' time, ma'am, thanks."

She walked into his path, stopping him. "Do you now? Because if you truly did, you would know that he sent his Son so that if you believe in Him, you'll be saved and have eternal life." She looked at his bag again, disgust filling her voice. "You wouldn't need to taint yourself with drink and false gods."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well, if I'm not mistaken, that Son said, 'Judge not, lest ye be judged'. Why don't ya do yourself a favor and take that advice, okay?" He rolled his eyes, nudging against her as he passed.

She stared at Dean for a second. Then she gasped, a cloud of breath bellowing from her mouth. "It's… you."

Dean stopped, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Excuse me?"

"Dean Winchester…" Her voice was filled with awe. "The angels told me I would meet you today."

This kind of thing happened far more often than Dean liked; angels sending overzealous people of faith to him as part of some personal revelation. It started happening soon after he began healing people and it was becoming a frequent occurrence.

"They did, huh?" He smiled at her sarcastically.

She nodded as she scanned him up and down. This time, there was reverence instead of judgment and disgust in her eyes. "They told me that I would know you by the smell of roses about you."

"That so?" Dean shrugged. Annoyance and anger filled his voice. "Well, I see that paid off real well just a minute ago—"

"They told me that you need Faith." Her voice became serious and almost pitying. "All you have is doubt, Dean. You need to accept your mission and trust in the Will of your Father."

Dean's fists clenched. "'My Father'? My father was a mechanic from Lawrence, Kansas. I'm a man and there ain't jack shit that I can do about that. If the angels or 'Dad' or whoever the fuck else doesn't like that, then they can go fuck themselves, okay?"

Dean marched across the street to the hotel and back up to the room, slamming the door behind him. He leaned his back against it briefly before he walked over to the room's small end table where he took the liquor, eggnog, and cups out of the bag and quickly fixed himself a drink.

Sam walked out of the bathroom just as Dean was adding the eggnog to his three shots of rum. He chuckled. "You know what's funny, Dean? We're still celebrating Christmas at the wrong time of year. It's only a month off now as opposed to a whole season but—" Sam paused as he leaned against the door frame. "You okay? You know I'm just joking, right?"

Dean sighed. "Peachy. You want a drink Sammy? I'm havin' a drink." Dean knocked the whole thing back before he lowered the glass. "A Christmas Story on yet? I can't wait to see Flick get his tongue stuck to a flagpole."

Sam watched Dean for a moment. "What's going on?" Concern laced Sam's voice as he walked over to him.

"Nothin,' I just really love Bible thumpers. That's all." Dean shrugged. He was quiet for a moment as he stared down at the frothy residue in the bottom of the cup before he placed it onto the table. "I'm goin' out for a while." His voice was blunt and somber.

Sam sighed. "Dude, it's passed six. Every thing is closed by now."

"I'll take a walk, then." Dean breathed heavily as he stepped into the hallway.

Sam grabbed his jacket, following behind. "Dean. It's Christmas Eve," he hissed. "What if your wounds start bleeding?"

"They won't," Dean said bluntly.

"How do you know that?"

"Because they would have started to already. Will you just—" Dean stopped just before he reached the stairs. He turned, facing Sam, frustrated. "Look Sam. The Son of God just needs some alone time, alright?" Without another word, Dean walked briskly down the stairs.

Sam didn't follow him out and he was thankful for that. Dean went back into the street, pulling the hood of the sweatshirt he had under his jacket up over his head to hide and shield himself from the snow that had started to pick up. He headed down the street, his gate determined, but his mind meandering.

He wandered the streets for a while. Eventually he ended up walking past the Cathedral of Saint Patrick. It was white bricked and looked more like the churches of the Southwest—Mission Style—which struck Dean as odd, given that its patron saint was Irish. On the sidewalk, placed above its sign, was a nativity scene. Reluctantly, Dean walked closer. He stood in front of it for a moment; his eyes locked hard the little painted ceramic infant resting within as he listened to the muffled sounds of an organ and choir, the Christmas hymns coming from the church.

Dean paused briefly before he walked up the churches' steps and opened the door. It felt twice as heavy as he thought it should have as he closed it behind him, the smell of burning candles and incense washing over him as he walked through the vestibule and into the nave.

"Oh crap," Dean sighed. The pews were nearly all filled with standing parishioners, the priest having already started Gospel reading. '…and she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn…' The mass was almost half over.

Dean was about to turn around and leave when he caught sight of a Virgin Mary statue set in a nook up by the altar. '…do not be afraid…' He took a deep breath and walked over to the pews.

A few parishioners gave Dean looks as he awkwardly pulled his hood down and scooted himself into the first space he could find, in the back along the main aisle. As Dean stood there, his hands gripped tight on the back of the wooden pew in front of him, he felt a tug on his jacket. He turned to find a little girl staring up at him.

"Mister, you gotta take your hat off," she whispered as though it was some kind of big secret.

Dean was still wearing his beanie. He shot her an awkward smile as he pulled it off, brushing his already matted-down hair over his forehead to cover up the bruises. "Thanks, kid," he whispered back, relieved that that was all she had to say to him.

The girl smiled and nodded just before her mother scolded her, telling her to leave him alone.

The mass went smoothly despite Dean barely knowing when to stand, kneel or sit. That was until the priest started saying the prayers of Holy Communion. As the priest was blessing the wafers and wine, Dean's wrists and ankles began to ache with a sharp pain. Dean quickly pulled one of the sleeves on his jacket up.

The bruises had cracked open into wounds, ever so slightly, and were bleeding.

Dean tried his best to stay calm, folding his arms across his chest, hoping that the bleeding wouldn't get worse. His eyes locked on the statue, whispering the Ave Maria under his breath.

It was the only prayer Dean ever really said. Pastor Jim had taught the prayer to him when he was a little boy and while he didn't say it much, if ever, he knew the words by heart.

As soon as the communion prayers ended, the bleeding stopped, but the ache continued. Dean remained seated through the rest of the mass and he stayed seated even after the church had cleared out, waiting for the ache to stop, his mind focused on a mantra of Latin.

A question finally broke Dean's concentration. "You've got a strong devotion to The Blessed Mother?"

Dean looked up, his eyes settling on an elderly priest, the one who had the said the mass. He strolled up the main center aisle, slowly, stopping at the pew in front of Dean.

"Yeah." Dean cleared his throat as he leaned back in the pew. "I guess you could say that."

The priest nodded. "It's a good one to have." He watched Dean carefully. "You know, I've been serving this parish for fifty years. I don't think I've seen you here before."

"I'm more of a… 'Christmas and Easter' kinda guy." Dean smiled awkwardly. Then he remembered that he had taken his hat off. He was quiet for a moment before he locked eyes with the priest. "You know, don't you?"

"The church doesn't usually smell of roses." The priest sat down in the pew, turning to the side. "And you have the look of a man who has the world resting upon his shoulders."

Dean chuckled morosely. He was quiet for a second. "So, did the angels tell you I was here?"

The priest shook his head. "The angels don't speak to me. I'm just more aware of things than most people."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "So you're a hunter?"

"No. What I am died out decades ago. I'm a scholar of the world unseen." The priest paused. "I take it that you're a hunter though."

"Well, I was," Dean sighed. "Tell you the truth, I'm not really sure what I am anymore. Sometimes I think I know, but then—" Dean shook his head as he rubbed his eyes.

"Humanity has spent the last two thousand years trying to answer that very question. That's why there are so many gospels. All the writers were all trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. It's no less difficult for you," he mused sincerely as a worried sigh left his mouth. "A terrible darkness is on its way. If you're anything, you're a light in that darkness. A Sign that even though The End is coming, there's still hope."

A sad smile spread across Dean's face. "Thanks, Padre." His eyes drifted down to his wrists before he raised them again, glancing around the church as he pulled his jacket off. "I haven't shown these to too many people." He took a deep breath as he pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up, the scarlet almost dried over the bruises in small but thick blotches in the centers of both sides of his wrists. Dean held them out, placing them over the back of the pew the priest was sitting in.

The priest crossed himself at the sight of the wounds. He hesitated before he touched Dean's hands, turning each of them over as he inspected them. "You poor boy," he sighed, remorse tingeing his words as he let go of them.

"It ain't so bad." Dean shrugged as he pulled his arms back and lowered his sleeves. "I've been through worse."

The sound of the door closing followed by footsteps filled the church.

They were footsteps Dean knew all too well. "Hey Sammy." Dean turned around, his gaze following Sam as he walked the short distance down the aisle.

As Sam walked over to them, he gave the priest a quick nod. "I got your text," Sam lied.

Despite that, Dean nodded. "Right." He quickly shook the priest's hand as he threw his jacket on and stood up, wincing sharply as he limped his way out of the pew.

Sam placed his hands on Dean's shoulders, walking him slowly out of the church. "You know Dean, I get that you were having an existential crisis, but it wouldn't kill you to answer your phone. I tried calling you three times."

"Sorry Gigantor, I was a little preoccupied." Dean winced as they walked down the steps of the church and over to a parking space where the Imapla was parked. "How the hell did you find me anyway?" He winced again as he climbed into the front passenger seat.

"Cas showed up." Sam's voice was as blunt as it was awkward as he climbed into the driver's seat. "He said you were 'participating in the Lord's Supper'." A little chuckle left Sam's mouth as he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled Dean's silver flask out, handing it to him. "I don't know what's more shocking, you going to church willingly or an angel suddenly appearing in front of me."

Dean took a quick pull from the flask, the taste of wine and blood washing over his tongue as the ache began to fade away. His eyes turned back to the church briefly before they set on the nativity scene he had been looking at before. He focused on the star made out of white Christmas lights set above it, shining brightly in the night and haze of snow. "Maybe it shouldn't be shocking," Dean said simply, closing the flask and shoving into his jacket. "Maybe I should start goin' to church."

"Really, Dean?" Sam blinked. "Are you serious?"

"Not all the time. But if we're passing through someplace and a service is going on?" Dean shrugged "Wouldn't hurt, right?"

"What brought this on?" Sam cocked an eyebrow. "I mean, you hate it when the people who hand out 'Smile, Jesus Loves You' pamphlets even acknowledge you."

Dean leaned back in the seat. "I just think it might be a good idea, all things considered." Dean broke his gaze away from the nativity scene, setting it on Castiel who was sitting on one of the churches' side steps.

He was sitting there when they came out of the church.

Sam didn't—or couldn't—see him.


Castiel watched the reflection of the Christmas lights in the black door of the Impala as Sam helped Dean into the passenger seat. This Christmas was icy and he knew that if was he able to feel the cold as his vessel did, he would be freezing in the night air and snow with just his trench coat. He remembered the first Christmas and he couldn't help but compare it to this one, the first he'd experienced on Earth in two thousand years.

It, too, happened on a cold night, though shortly after the feast of Purim instead of around the Winter Solstice as humanity now commemorated it. Castiel was stationed around the hills around Bethlehem with Uriel, Rachel, Inias, Hester, and Balthazar. At Anna's command, they appeared before a small group of shepherds to use them as vessels. Though they were frightened, the shepherds readily consented. While angels could manifest on Earth whenever they chose, few humans outside of prophets or possible vessels rarely ever saw them, but they nevertheless had great respect for and fear of them.

The angels had been sent down to protect the child being born as much they were sent to adore him. They found him in a cave just outside the town; it was being used as stable, dark and filled with the stench of animals. The child's mother was peasant a girl. She was young, a teenager, little more than a child herself. She was scared, but strong. She needed to be for the life that awaited her and her child.

His siblings thought it an insult to the Son for him to be born in such a place and to such a low station. After all, their Father, His Father, was the Lord of Universe and His one temple was grand and majestic, like a palace.

Castiel, however, thought it very fitting. The child was to be, after all, the Savior of humanity. He was human and he needed to be as most humans were. Poor and obscure. Nameless. It was far more of a miracle for the son of a poor carpenter to bring salvation than the Emperor Augustus.

Castiel stood from his perch on the steps and walked inside the church, the fading scent of roses mixing with the smell of burning incense and candles as he wandered down the main aisle, gazing at the stained glass and frescos. Though Dean's prayers weren't directed at him, he was drawn to the church by them. He wondered how many—if any—of the parishioners knew whose prayers had joined theirs, if they knew of the sacred mystery that had been sitting amongst them.

Eventually, Castiel's musings were broken by the sound of flapping wings. "First you heal him, and then you allow The Abomination to take him away when he's supposed to be seeking atonement?" Uriel walked over to him, frustration tingeing his words. "Our mission is to watch over Dean Winchester. We're only supposed to interfere when it's absolutely necessary."

Castiel stopped just before he reached the altar. "Our mission is to help Dean with his mission." He faced Uriel. "I've done what's necessary."

Uriel scoffed. "Dean's mission is to suffer and atone so he can be purified. So he can be of use to Heaven. In case you haven't noticed, almost half of the Seals have been broken. We're losing and we're going to lose far more if our field general isn't ready for battle."

"Dean's mission is to work miracles so that people may bear witness to him and know that he walks among them. So that they will still have faith when it is most tried." Castiel's words brimmed with conviction. "Victory is worth nothing if the flock is led astray."

Uriel chuckled. "You said the same thing two thousand years ago. You've learned nothing." His words were blunt. "These humans are cynical and barbaric. They'll kill Dean just as they killed The Nazarene, just as they killed His cousin, The Baptist, before Him. Just as they've killed every single prophet we've ever sent them."

"I've learned more than enough." Castiel looked up at the crucifix hanging up behind the altar. He glared. "Not every prophet was slain by their hands."

"We are agents of Our Father's wrath and justice. Of fate," Uriel hissed. "We do as we must. No one is above that." With that, Uriel disappeared.

Castiel turned his gaze slowly to the Virgin Mary statue right next to the crucifix.

The statue that had begun to weep.

He watched it for moment before he made his way back down the aisle.