Disclaimer| I do not own. Obviously. I wish I did though.

A/N| I love supernatural and I love the concept of angels, so I wanted to go a bit deeper into that. This is not a happy story. It's hopeful.

Summary| Angels are a rare species. There's something in their blood the government needs. Castiel is the only one to have survived this long. Dean will do whatever it takes to save him.

Shops were closed down the next day.

So were The Trains.

It was eerily quiet. It was dead.

Dean and Sam didn't return to their apartment. They stayed with Bobby, Ellen coming to check in on Castiel every couple hours. He had been asleep all day. Dean went up there once, early in the morning, to find him dry heaving against the floor. He had helped him clean up, gave him one of his shirts and a pair of old sweat pants, and Castiel had fallen into a fever induced sleep afterwards. They burned his hospital clothes in the small fireplace in Bobby's living room. It was no question how sick Castiel was, and Ellen had said that soup was the only thing his stomach could handle at the moment. They placed a small bucket in his room.

His body was trying to rid itself of the toxins they had placed in his blood. Dean had seen the stitches on his sides, could almost count the man's ribs. Jo, Ellen's daughter had made them enough soup to last the week, and she took to feeding Castiel. She sat with him for long periods of time in the dark, watching, making sure he was breathing normally. Dean wanted to check on the Angel but he didn't. Instead he sat with Bobby and listened to the news, watched as the police scanned the streets, as helicopters and searchlights scoured the area. It was all very surreal. Sam walked Jo home around ten.

Bobby had taken to sitting in one of his armchairs, reading a book about the origins of Angels. Dean, bored and on edge, took to the stairs and made his way into Castiel's small makeshift room, hidden behind the wall of Bobby's own. It was secretive, hidden away. A perfect safe haven for Castiel. Dean opened the door as quietly as he could, incase Castiel had fallen asleep. The Angel looked to be awake, he was sitting against the wall, staring dazed out of the small attic window. He didn't acknowledge Dean's presence, but he didn't seem to mind when Dean sat down a couple feet away from him, following his blue gaze out the window as well.

"I've missed the stars." Castiel whispered suddenly, and Dean stole a glance at his profile, outlined in yellow by the lights of the buildings and apartments outside. They sat in silence for some time, the sounds of a helicopters propeller wheezing overhead. Dean stole a glance at the Angel's arms. They were so beaten. So overused. He flinched just looking at them.

"How long were you in there?" Dean asked, his voice almost too loud in the deathly stillness of the air about them. Castiel shifted, eyes turning away from the window to study Dean with an intensity that was almost uncomfortable.

"Eighteen years." He answered quietly, and Dean felt his breath stutter.

"That's a long time." He whispered, and Castiel nodded.

"Yes. It is." He confirmed, jaw clenching before he turned to look out the window once more. His voice was still rough, still scratchy.

"Sorry we didn't get to you sooner." The Angel shook his head, a subtle movement, barely there, and when he spoke he seemed tired. He looked old.

"I am just grateful that you came at all. I prayed when I first arrived there, every night that I would be saved. I stopped praying after ten years." The silence that fell was heavy, and sad and overbearing, and under any other set of circumstances Dean would feel uncomfortable and leave. Now, he felt compelled to stay. To listen. Because it's not everyday you get to talk to an Angel.

"The night before you came I prayed one last time." There was a faint twitch of Castiel's lips, a fading smile, and Dean wanted to see it again. He wanted to see the softness of the Angel's face. The hard lines didn't suit him.

"I got your name from and Angel who escaped. Didn't get her name though."

"What was her number?"

"399." Castiel seemed to become alert at that, gaze snapping to meet Dean's once more.

"Where is she?" He urged, hope outlining his features and making his eyes shine. Dean swallowed heavily; breaking eye contact, looking at the mud caked into his boots.

"She was shot." He answered eventually, and he couldn't bring himself to meet Castiel's imploring gaze. The Angel before him seemed to deflate at that, eyes become dull and unseeing as he studied the outside world. "Who was she?" Dean asked after some time, and he hated the nosy part of him, the part of his brain that couldn't control his mouth. Castiel didn't seem to mind though.

"My sister. Our uncle dropped us off at the institution when I was eight Anna was ten. We were separated not long after." Dean didn't know what to say. So he remained silent. It was comfortable though this time, and he felt a bit more at ease in the Angel's presence.

"You need anything?" He asked after some time and the blue eyes were on his again. He realized now that they weren't like his mother's; they were lighter around the edges, more clear. More hopeful. They were beautiful.

"Why are you helping me?" The Angel questioned, tilting his head curiously to the left. Dean swallowed then and stood, eyes never leaving Castiel's.

"Goodnight, Castiel. You should get some sleep." The Angel regarded him silently, seemingly judging something for where he was sitting but he nodded, slouching down a bit. He tucked himself up, curled in a fetal position on the small mattress. Absently Dean wondered if he slept like that on instinct, if it was how he learned to protect himself so he could sleep in the institution.

That thought made him sick and he left soon after, closing the door on the Angel and trying not to look back.

Ellen Harvelle didn't know what to expect when Bobby had called her at 4:30 am to tell her that Dean and Sam were on one of their "hunting trips" and she needed to be on hand.

Just in case.

She arrived as soon as she could, sitting down in the living room with Bobby and watching the clock, listening to the world outside. When they heard the sirens they knew the boys had won. This round anyway. She hovered behind Bobby in the small hallway, watched as Dean stumbled in, a thin man with wild hair and striking eyes cradled in his arms. When Ellen saw him she felt something ignite in her chest. Hope maybe. It was a soft kind of warmth and she hadn't felt anything like it in years.

So this was what an Angel looked like.

Her breath left her for a moment and she didn't know what to do with herself. She watched as Dean barely hesitated, didn't even glance her way as he made his way up the stairs, trying to get Castiel to safety as soon and as quickly as possible. The sirens were loud, shrill throughout The City, and Ellen watched warily as Sam stumbled inside. His cheek was bleeding, and his knuckles bruised. He smiled a lopsided grin, eyes sparkling.

"Hey, Ellen." He sounded exhausted but in a wholly satisfying way. Ellen couldn't help the grin that broke her rough exterior. She pulled Sam into a rough hug, fingers digging into the course fabric of his uniform. He smelled like disinfectant and medicine, and she grimaced against the hospital odors.

"You had me scared there for a while." She confessed, tightening her hold on him as she felt his large arms wrap around her in turn.

"Sorry." Was all Sam could think to say. He wasn't really. He was too excited to be sorry. Ellen pulled away, catching Bobby's eyes softly before turning her attention back to Sam.

"Ruby stopped by. She was looking for you." Ellen confessed as she excused herself to head up the stairs. She didn't hear Sam's response. She personally didn't care much for Sam's "girlfriend", if that's what she even was.

Ellen found Dean standing unsure by the Angel and as he brushed by her she could tell he was shaking. When the Angel turned a familiar blue gaze up at her she knew.

He had Mary's eyes.

"How long do you boys plan on staying here?"

Bobby questioned, and Dean shrugged, took another swig from the chilled beer in his hands. He moved his empty plate off the table so he could prop his feet up.

"Dunno. Until Cas gets better I guess." Sam sent Dean a confused stare.

"Cas?"

"Castiel. Cas. The Angel upstairs." Dean huffed, sinking lower into the cushions of the armchair he was seated in. Sam's eyes were still boring into him and it made the irritation creep into his voice involuntarily.

"What?" He snapped and Sam grinned before shrugging, turning to look to Bobby.

"Nothing. You just got a nickname for him already."

"What's wrong with that?" Dean questioned, suddenly embarrassed.

"Don't get attached, boy." It was Bobby who spoke now and Dean turned a heated gaze on him. "He could die any day." Dean wasn't sure why the reality of the situation turned his blood cold. He had already considered this. Hell, he had come to terms with everyone he surrounded himself dying some day. It was only a matter of time after all. But hearing Bobby verbalize it so casually, as though the Angel was nothing more than an object, no, a number, made the anger rush to his head.

"I'm not letting anyone else die. I'm getting him out of here."

"How? On the Train? Do you have any idea how much that's gonna cost–?"

"We've done it before, Bobby. Sam and I. Twice. I know perfectly well what I'm doing so just get off my back." The older man sighed tiredly, meeting Dean's stare with one far wiser.

"You just be careful. He's the last one. It's gonna be harder than the last coupla times." Dean didn't say anything, just finished off his beer and pushed himself out of the armchair.

"You mind if I crash here for the night?" Bobby shrugged, eyeing the couch and then Sam.

"I'm not staying." Sam answered, getting up and stretching with a groan. "I'll head back."

"Ruby call or something?" Sam sent a leveled glare Dean's way, jaw clenching with the distasteful tone his brother had taken.

"Dean, please, don't start this now. I'm too tired." Dean held up his hands in mock surrender, making his way into the small kitchen to dig another beer out of the fridge.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to." Sam retorted before slipping on his jacket and, with one last word to Bobby, slipped out into the night. Dean shook his head and leaned heavily against the counter, popping the cap off the brown bottle with his teeth and watching as it fell to the tiles below his feet with a dull clink. Bobby filled the kitchen's doorway, sighing as he stared at Dean.

"That idjit better be careful out there. It'll look suspicious that he's out so late."

"He hasn't been caught for anything yet. He'll be fine." Bobby considered this for a long moment, and for a while only the hushed voices of the TV and the mocking wail of the Train tearing through the sky was the only noise around.

"I mean it Dean. Don't get attached. He'll probably be dead within the next couple of days." Dean clinched his jaw, eyed the remainder of his beverage before setting the half-full bottle on the counter.

"I just…I have to do this, Bobby. You know I have to do this." The older man regarded him silently for a moment before striding forward, standing before Dean and the counter.

"You gotta stop blaming yourself, son." He whispered, and his words pulled on the cords of Dean's heart. He couldn't handle this speech right now. Not when he had had such a good day.

"Bobby–"

"Her death wasn't your fault. It's theirs. They're the ones that pulled the trigger, not you an' not Sam." When Dean didn't respond Bobby placed a rough hand on his shoulder, his blunt nails digging into the skin of his neck. "Ya hearing me?"

"Yeah, Bobby, I know. I get it."

"I don't think you do."

"I'm not having this conversation now. Not now." And he shrugged out of Bobby's hold, side stepping him to the couch once more. He sat down heavily, purposefully avoiding Bobby's gaze as he turned up the volume on the TV. A man's face was filling the screen. He wore a suit, a tie, and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He made Dean's blood boil. Dick Roman. He founded the institutions about twenty-five years ago. Dean didn't really focus on what he was saying. It didn't matter. Dick didn't matter. All that mattered was the Angel upstairs, and getting him out of here. He heard Bobby grunt out a not-too-subtle "idjit" before he climbed the stairs, no doubt heading into the hidden room to check on Castiel. To make sure he was still breathing. Dean had a feeling he was.

Dick was still speaking when Dean threw the remote. It hit the TV, cracked the corner of the screen and Dick buzzed and blurred on impact. Dean remembered Roman. He remembered him holding a gun. He remembered him pulling the trigger. He remembered his mother breaking on the ground.

And he remembered their house going up in flames.

Castiel wasn't used to sleeping so soundly.

He awoke in a cold sweat, his eyes seeing well in the dark and for a moment he forgot where he was. Then he recalled green eyes and warm hands and kind words and he felt himself relax, felt the tension roll from his shoulders and he sighed. His head was pounding and it was strange to have food near him. A bowel of soup placed gently by his head. It was cold now, but when Jo had brought it up to him it had been warm. Castiel already missed the brash girl's presence. She had reminded him of Anna. And he wanted to talk more with the man–Dean wasn't it?–who had saved him.

He tried sitting up. His arms shook and his head swam but he managed to stand nonetheless. It felt strange. His knees were trembling violently but he tried to ignore them in favor of walking around the small room he was in. The sweatpants they had let him wear hung low, so he fumbled with the elastic straps some, pulling the material tighter and higher up on his waist.

He shivered, cold again with the draft and the still air. He was still not used to how this place could smell so clean, without the hint of medicine or needles or morphine he had grown so accustomed to smelling.

His legs felt a bit stronger, and he was not as dizzy as he opened the door and peeked out into the adjoining room. The man with the beard was asleep on a small bed, one arm dangling off, fingers brushing against the hilt of what Castiel could only assume was a gun. It looked to be the same dark object that the tall male was carrying earlier on. Sam wasn't it? Wasn't that what Dean had called him? His feet were light and silent against the wooden floorboards, he didn't make a sound as he descended the stairs, carefully avoiding the steps that seem to stick up near the ends. The hallway he landed in was dark; there was barely any light. The only source seemed to be coming from the gaps in a group of curtains covering a window past the kitchen.

There was a figure draped across the expanse of the couch, and as Castiel made his way over he could make out Dean's face in the shadows. Distantly, he could hear sirens. Guilt washed over him as he studied Dean's features, softened in the depths of sleep.

He was putting them all in danger staying here, and they've all been so kind. Too kind. He didn't know how to repay them. But he did know how to keep them from harm. These humans. He couldn't leave yet, not with the way his legs had begun to tingle and his breathing had already started to grow heavier. He would have to stay here for a while yet, just until his strength had returned. He sat himself down, not being able to keep himself upright for much longer. It was shameful, how weak he had become over the years.

Shameful.

He studied Dean, watched as his chest rose and fell with each intake and exhale, how he would stir occasionally and his fingers would twitch on the light blanket covering him. Castiel didn't know how he could possibly repay him. He would, he was sure, in time. Castiel wasn't aware he had fallen asleep. Not until he had felt hands scoop him up in a familiar hold and he was being moved through the dark floors of the house. He jolted awake, alert, scared, blue eyes impossibly wide in the dark.

"Calm down, it's me. What the hell were you thinking, getting out of bed? Seriously, Cas, do you wanna get caught?" Castiel blinked, the voice making him calm and he shook his head although he knew Dean couldn't see.

"I needed to move. I haven't…been able to walk freely in years…"

"Yeah, okay. Just don't come downstairs. They can see you through the windows." Castiel leaned his head against Dean's chest, listening to his heart. It was calming, relaxing, and he barely realized when Dean lowered him back onto his mattress. "Go to sleep, Cas. No more wandering."

Castiel slept with the stars above his head and warmth in his heart.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! And so is constructive criticism! Thank you for reading!