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xxxxx

Sarah, Angel of the Lord, is not nervous when she goes back to heaven.

She has never been nervous in her home, and refuses to start now. But it is not only her strong will that has her nodding smoothly at her brothers and sisters as she goes down the hall to her first and only friend's cell.

It is righteousness.

Sarah did not realize until she was assigned to guard Y/N that heaven had gone so far off the mark. There are some angels, of course, who are still doing what they were made to do. They take care of humans, particularly guardian angels, but even they have lost the zeal for it.

Sarah is now of the opinion that angels should never have stopped walking the earth. It lets them be separate from humans, and it's easy to start feeling disdain for something you're separate from.

But being with Y/N, and even seeing the Winchesters' influence on the famous Castiel (who makes her heart beat hard and her wings flutter and twitch), those things have convinced her that when they turned from humanity, they turned away from their rightful purpose. The purpose that their Father laid down for them.

She gets to Y/N's cell, and is grateful to see her human friend up and painting instead of staring at the wall catatonically. She transports herself into the cell and clears her throat softly, causing Y/N to turn and smile.

You look tired. "You look well, Y/N."

The human snorts. "Liar. I look like shit." A smile softens her words. "But you're sweet for saying so." Her eyes travel down to the package on Sarah's hands. "What's that?"

Sarah holds it out, waiting patiently while Y/N puts down her brush and palette, then hands it to her. "Clothing," she says simply. "The garb you have on now is very loose, I thought you might like something that… Fits a little better."

Y/N's eyes flick to Sarah's for the barest of moments, responding to the very slight hesitation in her words. Sarah is grateful, again, that Y/N is so smart, because she caught the implication immediately, acknowledged it silently and quickly, then is back to smiling.

"Thanks, Sar," she says, going over to the bed and opening the parcel. "It'll be nice to have pants on again, as weird as that sounds."

Belatedly, Sarah realizes she should have gotten clothes for her friend much sooner than this. She winces. "I am sorry I did not see your discomfort before, Y/N."

The human turns and smiles. "No worries. It happens, plus, I wasn't complaining a whole lot." She turns back to the bed and mutters, but Sarah hears her clearly. "I haven't really been a position to know that I haven't been comfortable, anyway."

Sarah knows much about depression and anxiety, and she worries for Y/N. These ailments are things that Sarah is uncertain that she can fix. They are not like a knife wound or a brain tumor. She could heal those things with the touch of a finger.

But the thoughts and insecurities that plague Y/N, the mental illnesses, they are much more intricate. It is not the damaging of tissue, it is the alteration of brain chemistry. Sarah would hesitate to try it on the best of days, and these are certainly not the best of days.

So she just watches her friend get dressed, then gives her a small smile when she turns and holds her arms out. "What do you think?"

"You look lovely, Y/N."

Her human friend laughs. "Liar."

xxxxx

Eremiel is a messenger, a lower class of angel. He has only been to earth twice in the last several thousand years, once to deliver a foreboding feeling a prostitute (who would give birth to a child who would cure a deadly disease) who was going to go down a dark alley where a man was lying in wait to murder her. The other was to encourage a man to leave his abusive boyfriend.

Both times left Eremiel with a strange feeling about earth. He isn't sure if he likes it, or if he particularly likes humans. This opinion is shared by every brother and sister he's talked to about it.

But when he went down the hallway where the Artist is kept, and he saw the giant portrait of her canine, something in him changed. The love radiating off of the canvas, the kindness shining on the dog's eyes, it made something in Eremiel change. He spoke with his sister, Sarah, and she said she saw no harm in him taking the portrait, as it was finished.

Now it hangs in his home, and gives him a new purpose. Since he took the portrait, he has been to earth almost every day, interacting with humans, talking to them, warning them, encouraging them. He takes pride in his work that he did not before.

He is their shepherd.

Which is why, on the day that Sarah gives the signal, he pulls the alarm without remorse, sending a sharp wailing throughout the halls.

xxxxx

Sachiel has a portrait of Dean smiling over his shoulder in her home. It makes her feel warm, it makes her yearn to make others feel the same. She has attacked her job as a Cupid with much more fervor since she took it.

She is their shepherd.

She chooses a name at random (she decides on Y/N, it seems fitting), and begins to open the doors to heavens. The wailing of the alarms rouses the humans, making them swarm the white halls. She slips between them easily, smiling a just a little, and then goes down a second hall to do the same to it.

xxxxx

Nithael is their shepherd.

He dims the white glow that surrounds all of them, so heaven is plunged into semi-darkness. As he does it, he thinks of the portrait he saw of Dean and Sam Winchester, laughing, and how it reminded him that his job is to protect humanity.

xxxxx

On and on and on, dozens of angels, their lives forever altered by the human known to most of heavenkind as the Artist, deliberately (and some with great glee) throw the heavens into chaos.

xxxxx

When the alarms start going off, adrenaline hits you in the belly like a hammer. You try to keep that tension off of your face and just settle for a frown as you stand up.

Two angels run by, totally ignoring you, which is par for the course. "Hello?" you call anyway, mostly to give yourself the appearance of not knowing what's going on.

Not that you do know what's going on, in the strictest sense. But you suspect that this is it, this will be your rescue. You're so nervous you could puke, so nervous that you can't even think about being excited or relieved. You're just… Scared out of your mind.

And because your anxiety already has you running through a list of worst case scenarios, you aren't even surprised when Michael appears in your cell.

"This is because of you," he says softly. The lack of emotion in his voice scares you more than anger could have.

"What?" you ask, letting your frown stay and making sure to keep your hands tucked behind you. "What's because of me? The alarms? I didn't do anything."

He just stares at you, and you fight your urge to fill the silence with nervous babble. Talking will get you in trouble faster than silence will, so you stay quiet, wide eyes on the archangel.

He turns to look at your latest painting, one of Dean and Winch lying in your bed. Dean's face is turned away, his body is tangled in the sheets. Winch is lying next to him, his head resting on the man's shins, big brown eyes looking up at you in adoration.

Michael runs a finger along the dry paint as he speaks. "I suspect I should have known you'd rally them to fight."

You blink and frown for real this time. "Rally who to what now?"

He doesn't look at you. "I tried to be a good son. I did what my Father told me to do. He told me that I had to meet Lucifer on the battlefield, and I did, though it pained me."

You're not sure what to say to that, but you find yourself feeling… Sorry for Michael.

"You are a good son," you say softly, taking a hesitant step forward. "You just didn't… Have clear direction."

He turns to look at you, and there's a rawness in his eyes that speaks to you. "What am I supposed to do now? Just keep… Running heaven?"

You nod encouragingly. "Yes. Keep running heaven, just keep… Keeping on, I guess."

He looks back at the painting. There's a long, long silence, and you almost think you can relax before he speaks again.

"No."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

He looks at you again. "No, I don't think so. I have been thinking about it since you interrupted the destined battle, and I have decided that it must go on." He turns to fully face you again. "I will release Lucifer again, and we will fight."

You're wide-eyed and horrified as you stare at him. "But… I mean, it's going to decimate half of the planet."

He shrugs. "The humans will come to heaven or hell, whichever they deserve. And then we shall see who wins."

His words seem to strike a wrong note within you, and you tilt your head and stare at him as you consider them. "You… You don't want to win."

He turns to frown at you. "What?"

You take a step back. "You don't want to win. Or, I guess, you don't care who wins, as long as you die."

He just stares back at you, and you take another step back. "I'm right, aren't I?" you ask softly. "You don't want to be around anymore. You're tired of it all."

He just tilts his head at you, you take another step back and keep talking. "God left, and you had to keep going. Then Lucifer fell, and Gabriel left, and Raphael became some sort of… Fanatic, and it all fell to you." You feel sympathy well up in you for the being in front of you. "You're just tired," you whisper, meeting his eyes. "Michael, I know you're tired, but what you're thinking of is no solution."

His face hardens dangerously. "You cannot fathom what I am thinking of."

You take the last step back to your destination. "I'm sorry," you say softly, and slam your hand onto the banishing symbol you painted on your bathroom wall, in blood, in a place that it would be hidden from sight.

There's barely time for his fury to register on his face before he's exploding in light. You flinch and look away, and when you turn back, there's nothing.

You take in a shaky, deep breath. "Well, fuck."

xxxxx

It's another fifteen minutes of hiding in the bathroom (just in case your little stunt pissed someone off) before you hear someone else in your cell.

"Y/N?"

"Sarah!" You scramble to your feet and run out of the bathroom. The cell door is open, and your friend is standing there, an angel blade in her hand that is thankfully free of blood. "Are you all right?" you ask, hurrying toward her.

She nods and holds her hand out. "Come, we do not have much time."

You slip your hand into hers, and you both sprint down the hall.

Your dream is pounding in your head, and you tell yourself desperately that everything is different. For one, the alarms are blaring, and there are quite a few random angels running in random directions, apparently trying to put the fires out.

You come to the corner from your dream, and you almost pull Sarah to a complete stop, so ready to see Dean that you can barely stand it.

Ever since she told you that she was going to rescue you, a fire lit in your heart for him. You want him back, his sharp jaw and his green eyes and his strong hands and his everything. You need him, it's a thoughtless need, like you need water or air.

So it takes all of the fight and will out of you when you turn the corner and he's not even there.

Sarah's hand squeezes yours immediately. You turn to look at her, your heart heavy in your chest.

"He's waiting for you, Y/N," she says softly. "We just have to get out of here."

xxxxx

Dean is pacing in front of the house, trying to outwalk his worries and fears. Winch walks next to him, whining. Bobby and Sam are standing on the front porch, just watching and waiting.

-everything's gone wrong they're not gonna make it it went wrong I should have gone god dammit why didn't I go with them I should have gone-

Rapidfire self-recrimination and all-out fear are racing through his head, making it hard to breathe. He's completely terrified.

He's stopped in his tracks when they appear a few feet in front of him.

xxxxx

You appear with Sarah in Bobby's front yard, and for a second, you're just so relieved to be breathing real air out in the night with real ground beneath your bare feet (Sarah didn't bring you shoes) that you don't even think about anything but the sensations of being free.

Then your eyes land on Dean.

Oh, God.

He does look thinner, like he hasn't been eating well. He looks haggard, and though he's still handsome, there are dark circles beneath his eyes, like he hasn't been getting enough sleep.

You're frozen in shock, and anxiety wraps itself around you like a too tight coat. I probably look awful, oh God, he doesn't want me, just look at him-

Before your thoughts can go much farther, he's taken two long strides and sweeps you into his arms.

You whimper and wrap your arms around his neck, bury your face in the warm skin there, and just breathe him in. He smells like warmth and whiskey and gunpowder, and something deep inside you, something that has been tense and wrought with fear for over three months, relaxes completely.

His face is buried in your hair, then he moves to whisper in your ear. "Fuck, I can't believe you're here, princess, we're a wreck without you. Jesus Christ, I'm so glad you're alive, fuck, baby, what did they do to you, fuck-"

He goes on like that, just comforting words in his deep, rough voice, trembling with emotion. It's incredibly soothing. His arms are like iron around you, leaving no space between the two of you. When his hands move down to grip your hips, you don't even have to think about what he wants when you lift your legs to wrap around his waist tightly. His hands slide down under your thighs to support your weight. He walks the two of you to the house, never stopping his stream of loving, reassuring words in your ear.

You hear Winch whine, and you lift your head just enough to smile at him. You crook a finger at him, his hand gesture for "come here," and he bounds after you and Dean. When you hear his nails clicking on the front porch, you bury your face in Dean's neck again and just breathe him in some more, letting the reality of him sink in for you.

Once you're in the house, he beelines up the stairs and to your bedroom, Winch following closely behind. He shuts the three of you in, and just sits on the bed with you still wrapped around him, holding you tight. He puts his arms around you again and crushes you to him.

And that's when your tears start.

xxxxx

Sam watches his brother carry his soulmate up the stairs, frowning when they go by without a word. Once they're inside, he turns to Bobby. "What the-"

"Shut up, Sam," Bobby says. Though the words are familiar, his tone is kinder than it has been since Y/N was taken, so Sam lets it go.

Sarah is still standing there, looking up at them. "We do have additional work that needs to be done."

Sam turns to look at her. "All right. Like what?"

Before she can respond, another angel appears beside her. Sarah turns and smiles. "Eremiel, you are safe."

The man nods. "Yes, but some fighting has broken out. Nithael is badly injured."

Sarah nods, suddenly all business. "Very well, lead me to him." She turns back to Sam and Bobby. "We will be back." Then they disappear.

Sam turns to hold the door open for Bobby as the two of them go back inside. "What do we do now, Bobby? Should we go get Dean and Y/N?"

Bobby shakes his head. "No, we'll let them take tonight. Everything else'll keep till morning."

xxxxx

Dean holds her, savoring the way she's soft against him, the way she molds herself to him and stays there. She has lost a lot of weight, but he genuinely couldn't care less. She's here, with him, and that's enough.

He rocks her gently as she cries, keeping up soothing nonsense in her ear for a long time, until she's down to shuddering sighs and sniffles. When she's come down a little, he gently stands and tugs her until she lets her legs drop to the floor with a tired, dissatisfied noise. A genuine smile, the first in over three months, touches his lips at her irritation, and he presses a kiss to her temple. "Shh, let's go to bed, sweetheart."

She just stands and looks at him while he undresses her, and he frowns when he realizes that he doesn't recognize the clothes she's wearing. But it's just a t-shirt and leggings, so he strips them off of her quickly, then reaches behind his head to pull his own shirt off.

Her soft hand on his chest stops him, and when she takes them hem of his shirt into her hands, he gets the message. He just lifts his arms and lets her peel it off of him, then watches as she undoes his buckle and slides his jeans down his legs.

Once they're both undressed, he pulls out two of his old t-shirts, drops one over her head gently, then pulls the other one on himself. He guides her to the bed, then arranges the two of them so she's on the inside, closest to the wall, and he's shielding her from the door, and everything else.

Winch jumps onto the bed on her other side, heaves a deep groan, and lies down with his nose pressed against her shoulder. She whimpers and turn to wrap her arms around the big dog, burying her face in his fur. Dean smiles a little, wraps his arm around her waist, and molds himself to her back, holding her fiercely. He presses a kiss to her shoulder, then takes a deep, deep breath, because he can now.

She's here, he can breathe again.

xxxxx

They're both asleep in less than two minutes, and for the first time in just over fifteen weeks, Dean and Y/N both sleep dreamlessly.

xxxxx

Hi, beautiful readers! Here are my notes:
I don't own Supernatural or any of the characters. (heartbroken)
Reviews, comments, and kudos give me life and keep me going.
And, as always, thank you for reading, you beautiful, beautiful people.
**Phew. She's back. 3 Things are just gonna get worse from here.
**I cannot believe how off script I've gotten. None of this is was in the plan for this fic, guys.