Messengers of grace/Messengers of light.
-Angels (Matt Redman)

Dean wanted to go straight home, but Sam convinced him that they should give Castiel a chance to begin recovering before making the long drive north. The motel they were staying in didn't have any other rooms available, so they dropped Cass on what had been Dean's bed and Dean slept on the floor for what little remained of what they were pretending was still night.

Sam tried to sleep, but couldn't.

He kept looking over at Cass in the other bed, worrying about whether or not the Angel was still breathing. He knew that Angels died dramatically, usually flashing with blinding light and burning the shadow of their wings into whatever was behind them when they fell. But Cass was so quiet and still, eyes closed and oblivious to the world, which Sam knew was a bad state for an Angel to be in. He couldn't help but worry. He knew perfectly well that Angels didn't sleep, and even if they were seriously hurt they usually kept their eyes open. Unconsciousness was a profoundly unnatural state for an Angel, even one as different from others of his kind as Cass.

Perhaps selfishly, Sam found himself wondering what might happen to Dean if the Angel died. They had so little and had lost so much, and Dean seldom coped well with loss at the best of times. And Castiel... well Cass wasn't like anyone else, especially not to Dean. Sam had tried, but he'd never been able to entirely fathom the powerful connection between man and Angel, and his own bond with Cass was nowhere near as strong as that which Cass and Dean shared, though he did count the Angel not just as a friend, but as a member of his family.

Even at the start, when Dean had hated and not-so-secretly (at least it hadn't been a secret from Sam) been more than a little afraid of Cass, there had still been something there, a connection that had been forged in the fires of Hell when Castiel first pulled Dean from the torment of the pit, a connection that had only gained depth and complexity over the years.

Sam worried what would become of his brother if the Angel should die.

For no reason Sam could see, Dean had washed the three feathers Cass had shed after they found him, and left them in a row on the nightstand between the beds along with the other feather he'd been carrying around ever since he found it in the Impala.

In the dark, the first feather glowed with light, seemingly possessing an inner fire of its own. But if the other three feathers had any light at all it was drowned out by that of the first feather. It seemed ominous, but Sam didn't actually know why the three feathers didn't glow. Maybe it was the result of their having been ripped out by a spell instead of being shed naturally. Maybe feathers didn't glow in the dark immediately after being shed. Or maybe it was a sign of the health of the Angel at the time it had shed its feathers. The last seemed most likely, but it came with implications Sam feared.

From time to time, unable to stand just lying in bed doing nothing, Sam got up and went to the bathroom, where he'd find himself staring into the mirror -which had candy cane stickers ostentatiously stuck all around it as a festive border- worried and wondering how much farther this could go, how much more they would have to give, how many more friends they would have to bury, how much more they could survive losing. He wondered if there would ever be an end to this road, which had been paved with blood and sacrifice and grief and tears and death. Where was it all headed anyway?

He'd asked the question so many times over the years that he knew better than to expect answers from the man staring back at him in the mirror... or from anyone else for that matter. Even God Himself hadn't been willing -or perhaps able- to tell Sam the answer to that.

Returning to the room, looking at Cass lying partially curled up on his side atop the bedsheets, which Dean had left messy when they had gone out to the farmhouse, Sam also wondered how much more the Angel had left in him. Sam and Dean had been through literal Hell, and everything between there and here, and they were damaged and scarred for it, but still they always came back stronger, smarter, with more experience and knowledge, and more closely bonded as brothers than ever.

The Angel had been there alongside them during the worst days of all, but Cass was undeniably on a downward trend, regardless of how much Sam and Dean tried to deny it to themselves and each other.

Perhaps since before the Fall, but certainly afterword, Castiel's limits had become more marked. He tired more easily, quietly made use of his Angelic powers with decreasing frequency, behaving all the time as though nothing had changed. That had become all the more evident since he'd carried Lucifer, something which Sam had feared might burn him out entirely. Sam knew what it was to have the Devil riding shotgun, though he could not imagine what it must have cost Castiel, who had always practically shuddered in revulsion and poorly concealed fear at the very name of Satan.

Sam and Dean could both be considered damaged, because that's how people got into this life, and this life did still more damage once you were in it, but for them their scars made them strong. For Castiel, each new trauma seemed to take another piece of him, and Sam worried that one day there'd be nothing left of the Angel they knew. And he knew that might be what finally broke Dean.

Much as Dean had loved so many in their surprisingly extended hunter family, there was something deeper than love at work when it came to his attachment to this particular Angel. It was something indefinable, but most assuredly there to be seen and felt by anyone who got close enough.

As Sam watched, Castiel shuddered once, and a feather was suddenly floating down through the air, getting caught in the air conditioner's current, lazily spiraling towards the floor. Sam held out his hand and the feather landed lightly on it. Sam looked at the feather, dark with blood, and acknowledged that the spell might be over, but Cass still seemed to be getting worse.

This was -what?- The fourth or fifth time in the last year that the Angel had not only fought and risked his life, but actually been on the brink of death. One more little push, and Sam felt certain the Angel would go over the edge, and that they might lose him forever.

And, without Cass... Dean might be lost too.

God had spared Castiel before, but He did not seem to be watching now. Would He even care if this sparrow fell once more? When they'd fought the Darkness, especially after she'd torn Lucifer out of Castiel, God had barely looked at or spoken to the Angel whom some called one of His Chosen. Whatever Castiel's life had been worth to God before, it seemed not to have that value anymore.

Out of deference to Dean's earlier demonstrated almost obsessive need to clean the feathers, Sam returned to the bathroom with the one he'd caught and did his best to rinse it off. It was a larger feather, but not huge, possibly a secondary. To Sam's surprise, the shaft of it was split near the end and it was missing almost half its barbs as well as all of the normally very fluffy afterfeather.

Though Cass had shed a lot of feathers from time to time, in the past they had all been intact. This one appeared to have been torn to shreds, as if great claws had raked across it and ripped it out. Going and looking at the other feathers, Sam noted they were in similar condition, though less glaringly so. The feather Dean had found in the Impala was in what Sam had always assumed was good condition.

Sam found himself just staring at the broken feather in his hand, absently brushing its remaining barbs, which were very soft. It struck him oddly, that he'd thought of Castiel as many things over the years, but soft had never been one of those things. Sam had of course held Angel feathers a lot over the years, but he'd never really thought about what they were or where they came from until now.

He felt a little weird about petting the feather when he thought about its source, and decided to put it down with the others. Then he sat on his bed, staring at Cass and wishing there was someone he could pray to for help on the wounded Angel's behalf.

But there was no one out there who would hear him, no one but the two people in this room and the woman in the room next door cared at all whether this particular Angel lived to see the morning. Castiel mattered only to them, to the entire rest of the universe it was all one whether he lived or died. It didn't seem right. After all Cass had done not just for the Winchesters, but humanity, Heaven, even Hell, and the universe itself, it didn't seem right that no one should care if he bled and died.

Sam realized he was more tired than he'd believed to be indulging in these sorts of thoughts. He lay down in bed and tried to go to sleep once more.

This time, finally, he succeeded.

Dean woke to a sound he'd almost forgotten because he hadn't heard it in so very long. It was a high-pitched whine, quiet at first, but rapidly rising in volume and intensity.

The noise built on itself, driving Dean into wakefulness if not alertness, and he found himself grabbing for his gun and looking for the source, even though a part of him knew what it was, knew that no gun (though it was still loaded with Devil's Trap bullets) would do him one damn bit of good against the increasingly disorienting sound.

Sam was also awake now, scrambling to get up, not recognizing the sound as rapidly as Dean had, also futilely grabbing for a weapon, also looking for the source. The noise built itself enough that the mirror in the bathroom cracked and then made a shattering sound. The lamp on the nightstand flickered on and off wildly, and then the bulb exploded. The window near the door erupted outward in a shower of broken glass. Dean and Sam were forced to cover their ears, deafened and agonized by the sound.

"Cass! Cass, stop it!" Dean shouted over the piercing whine.

The sound was that of an Angel's true voice, shattering glass, relentlessly powering any electronics in the immediate vicinity off and on, and exploding light bulbs. Dean had always been convinced that the sound would turn his brain into a liquid if it wasn't stopped, and now was no exception. Certainly it made ears bleed, and he almost wished for the welcoming darkness of unconsciousness or even death just to escape from it. The sound was that overpowering, engendering fear and awe and blank incomprehension as well as intense pain.

Dean fought his way up onto the bed, where Castiel had thrashed to a sitting position, back pressed against the wall behind as if he were trying to phase through it, palms pressed flat to the mattress on either side, eyes bright with Angelic light but obviously not seeing what was in front of him, screaming for all he was worth, in the process reopening the wound in his shoulder. The bed sheets were soaked red with blood, and tufted remnants of feathers were scattered everywhere.

Grabbing the Angel by the shoulders, Dean shook Cass fiercely, commanding, "Stop it, Cass! Shut up! You're safe now, you hear me? I've got you. You're okay. Just shut the hell up!"

The noise abruptly stopped as though it had been cut off and the bright light in his eyes faded and went out, though Castiel continued to cry out in the voice of his vessel, fighting to escape Dean's grasp, an action that ended up hurling both of them to the floor on the opposite side of the bed from where Dean had started. Sheer panic governed the Angel's action as he threw out a hand to defend himself at what he clearly imagined was an assailant.

Dean was flung back, slammed against the far wall with bruising force, pinned there, the breath knocked out of him. Irrelevantly, he found himself wondering why it felt different to be pinned by an Angel than a Demon, considering that the end result was the same.

Cass sat on the floor, knees drawn up, hand out-flung, looking at Dean as if he were a complete stranger, and a terrifying one at that. He shuddered with either pain or fear, and a couple of blood drenched, downy feathers rippled to the floor.

A banging started up outside the room, and Mom's voice came through the door, "Dean! Sam!"

Cass had sensed her approach, and changed his focus to keeping the door closed against Mom's attempts to shoulder it open. However, the distraction caused him to lose his hold on Dean, who dropped at once to the floor, gasping for the air that had been knocked out of him.

"Easy, Cass," Sam began in reasonable tones, his hands open and lowered in front of him in a pacifying way, "It's us. Sam," he gestured to himself, then to his brother, "Dean. You know us, don't you?"

Rolling his eyes in Sam's direction, Cass' expression seemed to indicate that the sharp claws of terror had dug in so deeply that he was incapable of recognizing anyone or anything as benign. There was a dull flicker of recognition in his gaze, but the fear was too great for him to overcome.

Despite the nearly complete lack of positive response, Sam continued to ease his way cautiously around the end of the bed, every movement slow and smooth, his eyes locked on Cass's, all his focus on not provoking a second attack from the lost and panicky Angel.

Dean was getting his breath back, but he wasn't yet able to speak or get up, so he crouched where he was, trying to cough quietly and not draw attention to himself. He figured that if he started moving around again while Sam was trying to get Cass's attention, the attempt to keep track of the both of them might trigger another defensive reaction from the Angel, and that wouldn't be good for anybody.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam said in the soothing tones one might use to try and quiet a riled up lion, "But I need you to let go of the door. Let it go. Cass, please, let us help you."

Castiel blinked at the last sentence. He obviously recognized something about it, or perhaps the tone in which it was delivered. Hesitantly, he lowered the hand which had been telekinetically holding the door closed, and allowed Mom to burst in noisily, in the process breaking the flimsy lock which had been providing the illusion of security.

Mom staggered into the room, looking around frantically for the source of the commotion, but Dean held up a hand to stay her and she stopped, looking worried and perplexed.

Clearly still confused and afraid, Cass looked briefly from Mom to Sam, but then turned to Dean as if for reassurance, though the Angel did not seem to fully recognize him.

Slowly, without standing up, Dean made his way over to Cass. He started to reach towards the trembling Angel, and Cass flinched visibly when he raised his hand, but held eye contact with him. Unwilling to let that daunt him, Dean placed his hand on Cass's shoulder, watching the Angel's face for any signs of regression back into the violent fugue which had possessed him on waking.

"It's okay, buddy," Dean knew it didn't really matter what he said, so long as the Angel heard him and was reassured by the sound of his voice, "We've got you. You're gonna be okay. We're gonna take care of you. You're gonna be fine. I'm here now, buddy."

A soft whimper attempted to escape, but Cass choked it back.

Dean took that as his cue to scoot close enough that he could pull Cass into a hug. After a moment of rigid inaction, Cass responded in kind, though it was more like a shipwrecked man clinging to a single piece of driftwood to avoid drowning as sharks circled below than it was a hug.

"You're gonna be alright," Dean repeated in a quiet voice, which caused the Angel to whimper again, "It's over, buddy. It's over now. We're gonna take you home. You're gonna be okay."

Cass shuddered and clung more tightly with each word, until Dean was half-convinced the Angel was going to crush him; he could feel the turmoil of terror and relief crashing together and coming off Castiel in waves. Cass had never seemed more scared in all the years Dean had known him, making Dean afraid that if he let go the Angel's fear would simply implode in on itself, taking Castiel with it.

Not letting go, Dean looked over his shoulder at Mom and Sam, both standing in silence, then at the bed, covered in rent feathers soaked with blood, wondering if the worst was over or yet to come, wanting to help, but not knowing what to do and so doing nothing.

"It's over now," Dean repeated emphatically, hoping to God he wasn't lying, "You're gonna be okay."