A/N: Hello, everyone! This is going to be another serious one-shot, this time featuring Cas. Even though I really enjoy writing the humorous, socially awkward side of Cas, there is another part of him I love: the part of him that takes his role as an angel seriously and wants nothing more than to help humanity.

Furthermore, this one-shot goes all the way back to the Season One episode "Faith." For those who may not remember, it is the episode where reapers are introduced ("Don't Fear the Reaper", anyone?) and involves a woman named Layla Rourke dying from cancer. Consider this a follow-up to the episode and a miracle on her behalf.

Remember: always keep fighting.

Like a Prayer

"I'm going to pray for you."

"Now that is a miracle."

After Layla Rourke closed the door behind her, Dean perched on the edge of the bed, staring after her with a hollow ache in his chest. Somehow, he felt like he had failed her, because he hadn't done enough to save her. Sure, that reaper was no longer bound against its will and forced to trade one life for another by means of a faith healer, but Layla was still dying from a brain tumor. It could be a year from now, it could be six months…hell, it could be tomorrow that her ticket was punched.

The entire case had felt wrong to him-the faith healer, the reaper, the fact that there were actual people out there convinced they were doing God's work when in reality they were hurting others that didn't deserve that kind of suffering. Even he should have died from that heart attack instead of a healthy, young athlete who had been unfortunately chosen to take his place.

Maybe his vote didn't count for much, but Layla Rourke didn't deserve to die. Not that way.

He meant what he said to her. Even if his faith in all things holy was practically nonexistent, he would do his best to pray for her in the small hope that some divine miracle spared her from such a cruel fate. At least he would feel like he was doing something to help her, not hurt her.

If only he knew how.

He was never the praying type, not anymore, though he had a funny feeling that Sam was.

It had been a long time since he got down on his knees to say bedtime prayers. The last time he could remember had been with his mother, when he was just four years old. She always believed in the power of prayer, miracles, and angels that were watching over them. In fact, she had prayed with him the same night the demon set her ablaze above Sam's crib.

Maybe that's why he wasn't the praying type.

Better now than never, while Sam was gone getting his "soda." How did he even get started? Did he really have to get down on his knees or could he just...call out? At the least, he touched his finger to his brow, making the sign of the cross. He felt foolish, and at the same time paranoid, like he was being watched as he sat there, gazing up at the ceiling, wondering if anyone was listening to his most private thoughts.

"He-hem...so, um..." he mumbled and then cleared his throat again.

The heat of his humiliation crawled up the back of his neck. This is stupid, he thought, debating whether to even go through with it. On the heels of that, he reminded himself, this is for Layla. He was willing to try for her sake.

"Testing, one, two, three. O-kay. My name is Dean Winchester. You probably already know that. Or you should, if you're really up there, sitting on some throne made of fluffy white clouds. I haven't done this in a while, so bear with me. I'm not praying for a happy ending, because I know there's no such thing. Not for people like me. I'm not praying for fame or riches or even my own Playboy Mansion..."

He smirked as he began to fantasize. That had been on his Christmas list ever since he was thirteen. Reluctantly, he shook away the fantasy and refocused on the matter at hand.

"Anyway, I'm praying to anyone who's got their ears on up there...I wanted to save this one girl, Layla Rourke, but it's out of my hands. She's terminally ill and she's been praying to you for months on end. I was ready to trade my life for hers because she deserves to live, far more than I do. I don't really know if I believe in miracles, but...if you are out there...you'll help her. I never ask for anything. Save her the way that I couldn't. If not...then nothing will come out of this babbling and at least I can say I tried. Dean Winchester, signing off."

Not the most graceful end, but how was he supposed to close these prayers? Sincerely yours, Dean Winchester? From Dean, with love?

He stopped talking and listened to the creaking of the bed under his weight. He didn't know what he expected-a blinding white light from above, the whisper of God in his ear, a miniature angel on his shoulder-but the world didn't exactly feel any different. Suddenly, Dean felt even more foolish than before.

"Never mind," he sighed. So much for miracles. The moment was lost as the door opened and Sam waltzed in, carrying a can of soda in his hand. He drained the last of it and tossed it in the trash. "How was your soda?" Dean asked, if only to get his mind off of what he just did.

Sam gave him that cinched-brow look that warned him that he was acting strange. If only he knew.

"Fine. It tasted like soda, which is more than I can say for most of the motels we've stayed in." Sam scanned the room, as though searching for something and frowned when he wasn't able to find it. "Did Layla leave? I could have sworn I still heard voices coming from the room."

"Yeah, she left. I was..." Dean thought for a minute while Sam studied him, waiting for an answer, but he couldn't come up with a good lie. Certainly not one that Sam would believe. "Look, I was praying, alright?"

Dean might as well have self-destructed in front of Sam, given how wide his eyes flew and how his mouth dropped open.

"You're gonna swallow a fly, Sam," Dean deadpanned. Sam closed his mouth.

"You? Were praying?"

"It's not that big a deal. I regret the fact that there are some things we can't change, like Layla's cancer. So I gave a shot at divine intervention. Guess what? The world's still screwed up as ever." The teasing evaporated from Sam's face, replaced with something closer to admiration.

"You have a good heart, Dean, but I suppose we can't save everyone. All we can do is keep fighting."

It was one of the hardest lessons for any hunter to learn on the job. Even Dad warned them about it from time to time-you can't save everyone, but you fight tooth and nail to save as many lives as you could. It always left Dean wishing there was more that he could have done.

Sam stroked his jaw and that goofy smile returned.

"You know, I never thought I'd see the day when Dean Winchester prayed."

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not a chance."

...

As cliché as it might sound, nearly every night Layla Rourke dreamed that she was rid of her illness. No strings attached, a miraculous recovery, the works. For the first time in a long time, within the blissful illusion of that dream world, she would feel so free, happy, and healthy. Her subconscious would entertain her with fantasies of all of the things she could do, with the promise of a bright future...

Every morning she would wake up and she would feel that sickness festering inside her like a foreign creature slumbering, slowly but surely sucking away her energy and draining her life force. It would continue to do so until nothing remained. She would remember that there was no miraculous recovery. There never would be, if she was finally being honest with herself.

It had been a long battle already, and she wasn't nearly done fighting…but, oh, it was exhausting.

This dream was not like the other dreams she had. For one thing, when she dreamed these days, it was usually set in a hospital with her mother's arms suffocating her like a security blanket while a too-cheerful doctor announced that she had made a miraculous recovery. Sometimes the lingering odor of medicine burned her nose, a scent that was more familiar to her lately than the smell of her own home.

In this case, she inhaled only fresh air. Sunshine, grass, and the sweetness of apples. At first, pure white light blinded her and she held up her hand to shield her eyes. When it dimmed, she realized she was seated on a stone bench in the middle of a radiant garden. The golden sun blazed high in the clear blue sky above her head, the rays warming her pale skin. Flowers of all kinds and colors blossomed around her bare feet, tickling her with their leaves and petals. Somewhere in the towering trees, birds sang sweet melodies. From the leaves dangled an assortment of tempting red and green fruit, and she might have accepted one, if they were not beyond her reach.

It was too good to be true, and so she had no doubt that it was a dream this time. It reminded her of paintings she had seen of the Garden of Eden, of a sprawling paradise she would only see after she was finished with life on earth.

It was peaceful and quiet, with only the sound of her frail heartbeat in her ears. There was no sense of time. She was alone to take solace in the garden's beauty, or so she thought, until she sensed a presence sharing that bench with her.

How long he had been there with her, she did not know. It was not someone she recognized, and yet she felt no rush of fear. Even if she had always been on the shy side, strangers were not so much a threat as they once appeared to her. He would not harm her, definitely not any worse than the tumor in her brain. For some reason, she trusted him and did not shy away from his presence.

It was the beauty of this garden, she realized. Surely, no evil force could be so comfortable in such a place.

"There is something infinitely special about a midsummer afternoon in a garden such as this," he said without meeting her eye. It seemed he was lost in his admiration for the natural beauty that surrounded them. Or perhaps he did not wish to spook her. His voice was deep and yet gentle at the same time. Soothing. It reminded her of the lull of a river. The water would hum as it flowed and sparkle when the sunlight kissed it. Come to think of it, that was the exact color of his eyes-the crystal blue of the river's running water, glowing with some magnificent light. Those were the kind of eyes that held sadness as well, eyes that were wise because they had seen too much.

She wondered if he was waiting for an answer.

"It's peaceful and beautiful," she agreed, sitting up straighter as she found her voice. She winced when she heard how breathless she sounded, and not simply out of awe. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him dip his head in the manner of prayer.

There were dozens of questions in her mind, racing to her parted lips all at once-who are you? where are we? is this real?-but she dared not disturb him if he was in the middle of prayer. Every one counted, she believed. She was patient; she didn't feel the need to hurry, like she often felt when reminded that she only had six months left to live. Since the news of her brain tumor, she felt like there simply wasn't enough time, that every second was precious.

Here, in this enchanting place, she felt calm. Here she had all the time in the world.

So she waited patiently for him to lift his head again to admire the garden. Only then did she wring her hands together and dare to let those questions flood forward as water rushes from a broken dam.

"Who...who are you? You're not...God?"

He chuckled softly, as though she told an amusing joke.

"That would be quite the compliment, but no, I am not God. My name is Castiel. Know that I am an Angel of the Lord and that I am here to aid you."

At the sound of his celestial title, she gasped and panicked, her heart hammering in her chest. If he was an angel, then this must be her time to go. This was the end. She felt both afraid and relieved. The battle was finally over, wasn't it?

"Contrary to popular belief," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "I am not the kind of being that will lead you to Heaven when the time comes. I can heal you."

Her breath caught in her throat. It was everything she had ever hoped for, and yet her lips formed a frown instead of a smile. Her fingers gripped the cool edge of the bench, her stomach flipping, and she waited to see if she would be sick, like she sometimes was when she woke during the night.

This could not be real. It was impossible and she would not get her hopes up only to be disappointed again.

At last, he turned his dark head to look her way, his eyes clouded with confusion.

"I thought you would be happy."

"Oh, I am," she insisted, her voice soaring several notches. She hoped she did not appear ungrateful to him, or make him change his mind about helping her, though she could not deny the truth that had long ago sunk into her heart. "Or...I would be happy, if...This can't be real." He tilted his head.

"Why do you say that?" Layla looked from the so-called angel sitting beside her to the endless paradise that stretched beneath her feet. With every cell in her being, she wanted to believe that this was true.

"An angel visiting me in my sleep...it's almost like an answer to my prayers. Somehow, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm waiting to wake up and realize it was all just a dream." It was tempting to close her eyes and test it, but she was afraid she would not open them again. Or worse, that she would open them to the darkness of her bedroom and the stirring of that poison in her brain.

"This is real, I assure you, but then only you can decide to believe it." Layla folded her clammy hands in her lap and stared down at them rather than the angel.

"There is no cure for cancer," she whispered, more to herself than the angel.

"It is true that humans have not yet located the cure for cancer, but I can ease your suffering. May I?" He shifted closer to her and stretched an arm toward her head. It wasn't until she gave in with a small nod that he touched her forehead. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel, but in less than a heartbeat, he took his hand away. She was afraid to ask if it had worked, afraid to hear any more disappointment and apology. "It is done. When you wake up, you'll be well again."

Layla brushed her fingers over her forehead, where he had touched. Her heart began to swell with hope and the warmth of tears stung her eyelids.

"If it's true? How can I thank you?" She earned a brief, light touch on the shoulder.

"You've accepted your fate once before, you've kept faith in the darkest of your days, and you have cherished the miracles bestowed on others even while you waited for your turn. Now cherish this miracle. Never take your life for granted again."

"I won't," she promised. He removed his hand from her shoulder and she sensed that their time was coming to an end, that he was ready to leave her. She caught his sleeve and he glanced back in surprise. Was she not supposed to touch an angel? "Wait. Please. My mother and I have prayed for months on end. I'm not complaining, not after what you've done, but I am curious...why now?"

"I was rather curious myself," he admitted to her, still eyeing the hand that had grasped his arm. She let go. "Dean Winchester prayed for you. I have not heard him pray, truly pray, since he was four years old."

Dean, she thought, and she could see his face, so heavy and pained with regret and desperation as he told her that he would pray for her. No doubt he had carried some of the blame for not being able to do the impossible and save her.

She had so many more questions for the angel, but she heard a soft flap of wings. The next time she looked up, he was gone.

...

Bzzz...Bzzz...Bzzz...

The phone rattled across the bedside table, dragging Dean out of his uneasy second hour of sleep. Without unfurling his arm from his eyes, he fumbled blindly for the phone. Only when it was in his hand did he pull himself up on his elbow and squint to make out the letters swimming on the glowing screen.

Five in the morning. Wonderful.

If it weren't for the name, he might have tossed the phone away and gone back to sleep. Layla...He had given her his number and told her to keep him informed on her health, even as it declined. Now his pulse raced and his fingers tightened around the phone. What if this was it? What if something happened to her, mere hours after they'd last spoken?

There was nothing worse than not knowing. So he answered.

It was a text message, and a short one at that. Dean, thank you for the prayer. He bolted up to full-sitting position in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Then he read the message again.

Only a few short hours ago, he had a moment of weakness and had prayed for her to be saved.

Was this a sign?

"No way," he muttered, tapping the phone closed with his lip. Beating the phone gently against his furrowed brow, he struggled to find some reasonable explanation. Maybe it was a miraculous recovery. People did that, right? Bounced back one fine day and defeated their sickness, even for a little while? Maybe someone had sold their soul to save her, like his father had done for him the time he was dying in the hospital, or like he had done for Sam. Her mother definitely seemed one step shy of such a desperate act.

There was no cure for cancer; Layla Rourke was doomed to die.

Or was she?

Could it be...?

"Nah." He dropped the phone on the table again and curled up in the fetal position, intent on catching even one more hour of sleep. He rolled onto his stomach and punched the pillow. Flipped onto his back and stared up at the off-white ceiling.

Normally, he never liked to sleep on his back in fear of waking up and seeing his loved ones pinned above his head, engulfed in flames. Now he did not see the ceiling at all, too lost in thought. For once, he didn't have any definitive answers and that bothered him.

If Layla's cancer was cured, if she was going to live longer than six months, then it was by definition a miracle. To harbor even a shred of faith was to admit that there was a higher power out there, up there, somewhere, circling invisible above their heads. A higher power that had chosen to let Layla Rourke live and Mary Winchester die brutally at the hands of a demon.

Dean didn't get another wink of sleep.

...

As always, I want to take this moment to thank those that have read and reviewed lately: thank you I-Heart-Star-Trek and Grace Motley. I appreciate all the support and the encouragement to keep writing.