A/N: This is the middle part. Not the last one. So even if the end of this one is morbidly depressing, know that there is one more chapter. Also, history buffs, I apologize sincerely for any mistakes you see. I promise I researched the topic, I just fear I didn't learn enough in such a short time. I was really anxious to publish the story.

I do not own Supernatural. I never will, which is a shame because I would fulfill many fangirl fantasies if I was pulling the strings.

June 6, 1944

6:42 a.m.

"The boat is sinking!"

Castiel raised his head to find the soldier who had issued the warning. Andrew, short and thick muscled, his normally brutally serious face panicked.

Andrew stood the best he could in the crowded, rocking boat, clutching at the nearest people for support. His standing provided a space to see the bottom of the boat, which was undoubtedly filling with water at an alarming rate.

"Shit," Castiel cursed, trying to stand to do something, anything. He was not the type to curse, not even on occasion. Even war had been unable to take that moral from him. Until now. Now everything had changed.

"We have to do something! We are too far away to start swimming," he told the men, who nodded in agreement. They needed leaders at the moment, not just Andrew.

Chuck grabbed Castiel's sleeve, stopping him from fully standing up. His face was tinted green and his eyes were stretched wide with terror. Castiel gently pried his fingers off, trying to hold fast to his patience. Greg was motioning for him to come over, his usually anxious eyes holding a pleased expression.

"Chuck, I know you're not feeling well, but we have to figure out what to do."

Charlie, crouching for balance, weaved through the crowd after hearing Castiel's plea. Dean had briefed him on the spat they had, but he knew it was not the time to get into such drama. They had to fight now. Whoever was left after the invasion could work things out.

"I'll sit with him," he offered, face remaining relaxed as Chuck grabbed his arm and moaned as the ship rocked against a wave.

Castiel nodded his thanks, scrambling to keep his balance as he made his way to Greg.

"What is it?"

"Helmets, Castiel! We can use our helmets to scoop the water out!"

Neighboring soldiers beamed at him, clapping him on the shoulder and passing along the word to the fellow brothers. Greg, usually shy, held his chin high and nodded as others gazed at him with newfound respect.

"Good thinking, Greg," Andrew admitted grudgingly. He swept his helmet off, waving it over the crowd.

"Well let's get going!"

The others cheered, tearing off their helmets and dipping them into the steadily growing pool at their feet. They slung the contents out messily at first, but they soon found a rhythm to work by.

Chuck did the best he could; occasionally leaning over the side of the vessel to empty whatever remained in his stomach. Charlie remained close, encouraging him as the beach grew closer. In the plans, it had been labeled as Omaha, one of two beaches that the American divisions would be securing, if possible.

At the moment, the plan was off kilter, not only because of the obviously sinking ship, but because they weren't the only ones with the problem. They could see fellow units struggling with the same sinking vessels, but lacking the same solution. They were too far away to communicate, so Castiel had to pray they could figure it out on their own.

"We have a problem," a voice murmured near Castiel.

He stiffened, knowing immediately who it was, reluctant to face him and angry at his pounding heart for betraying his emotions.

Dean's hands brushed his as he dipped the helmet into the pool that had spread to their side of the boat, causing Castiel to flinch and a flush to spread to his face. Now was not the time to be dramatic, but Dean had angered him, to say the least, and he couldn't forgive him so hastily.

"I'm sorry," Dean said sincerely, keeping his eyes fixated on his helmet.

"Cas…I mean it. I'm not the type of person to apologize, so this is kind of hard for me, okay? But I am sorry. And if by some insane miracle we both make it through this, I'll prove the last few days were real. Please. If we have to die, don't let us go like this."

Near the end of his speech, he sucked up the last bit of courage he possessed and raised his chin, to face Castiel and let him see the honesty, the passion in his eyes. He needed Cas to know how much he meant it, how much he cared for him, and how much it meant for Dean Winchester to actually beg.

"It wasn't just a bet," he added in a gentle whisper.

This was what drew Castiel's gaze away from the water, to Dean. The early morning rays were trying to break through the clouds, casting him in the softest frames of gold, illuminating his freckles and turning his eyes to the color of jades. Castiel inhaled sharply, trying to find the words he was about to say, remembering them to be unkind, but they didn't seem to be right to say anymore. Dean really loved him, it seemed, and now they were going to have to parade into the invasion like this; their hearts on their sleeves. A perfect target, a perfect prop for disaster and disappointment.

Just as he opened his mouth to tell Dean it was okay, he was forgiven, though that had not been in the plan, the command came to them.

"29! Let's go!"

And then they were sent into the frigid waters.

As Castiel jumped in, his first thought was that the water should be warm, it being June. The second thing he thought was that he really knew nothing of this country, besides the basic geographical layout. Even then, the map in his mind was riddled with war plans and diagrams of attack.

He didn't realize much else as the shock wore off and the cold waters sank into his uniform, clinging to his pack and weighing him down. Three times he was dragged into the salty waters before he manage to stay afloat, gasping and coughing.

"Keep moving, Cas!" cried Dean. He had landed nearby, but had already managed to get ahead. He was treading water, waiting for Castiel to catch up.

He was clearly a strong swimmer, far stronger than many others who were encountering the same problems as Castiel with the equipment and uniforms.

The tanks began to fire from somewhere behind them, usurping great quantities of sand and blocking their view. A few soldiers had already made it to the beach and had begun scrambling for cover, though there was little to be found right away.

One man who had been swimming in front of Dean finally succumbed to the lapping waves and went under, his hand waving desperately towards the sky. If they were to dive and try to save him, there was no guarantee they themselves would surface again. With that dark thought, Castiel pushed on, pressing himself as close to Dean as he could while still leaving room for arm movement.

A few other soldiers had sank now, though Castiel was relieved to see familiar faces still swimming strongly: Greg, preforming a desperate dog paddle, Chuck splashing along effortlessly, eyes focused on the shore with a determination Cas had never seen before, and Charlie, gliding along like a dolphin, clearly accustomed to a life near water.

"State champ," Dean chuckled as he caught Castiel staring.

"Is now really the time to discuss his life?" he asked irritably, spitting out water. He was losing strength, slowly going under as he legs grew tired.

"Hey! Keep going. We're almost there. All we have to do is get to the beach and we can take shelter behind those boulders. See them, Cas? We are going to have to make a hell of a run for them, but we can make it. We're going to be fine."

Castiel pulled every last scrap of strength from himself. His muscles, the muscles he thought were perfectly toned, were screaming in agony. He felt as if they were on fire, burning away at his endurance and leaving him chin deep in the icy water.

"NO! Castiel! Keep swimming, dammit! We're almost there!"

Just as he said this, Castiel's feet scraped sand, propelling him upwards and leaving him gasping and coughing. Dean was breathing heavily, as well, his face taut with worry that slowly ebbed away as they made it a bit closer to shore.

They had made it a few feet before the firing began again in a merciless wave.

A soldier to their immediate right fell, clutching his chest and screaming before another shot silenced him.

"Move, Cas! MOVE!"

Dean pushed him from behind, propelling him into motion and towards the nearest shelter they had seen.

They dashed, faster than they ever had in training, with bullets flying past them.

It was only sort of in the plans, to run like mad, but Dean never took orders all that well. He had tried to be a hero like his dad wanted, and that meant taking orders, but it was looking like he would ultimately fail him. They had to do what they needed to.

"Are you okay?" he huffed, turning to Castiel, who appeared to be initially shell shocked.

"He'll be fine," a new voice interrupted, seemingly from nowhere.

"Charlie! You made it!"

Dean almost laughed as Charlie emerged from the sand like some kind of horrid monster. It was an accurate description, as the sand and debris clung to his wet uniform stubbornly, though in some places it streamed off.

"Course I did. The enemy is further up, in some kind of cave. They had this place semi-prepared, by the looks of it. They got a mean angle on us, so we should probably head east. Get in their blind spot and start firing."

"This was not how it was planned," Castiel muttered, clasping his gun to hide his shaking hands.

"We weren't expecting this beach to be so guarded, or to lose so many men before we could even come ashore. And look, even more are falling and sinking. Guys, I won't lie. It's looking bad, and this is just the beginning."

"If this is it, we take as many damned Germans as we can," Dean vowed, reaching out to grab Castiel's hand for encouragement. He was happy to find it as Castiel squeezed, almost too tightly. Then again, to wasn't enough. It never would be, Dean realized. The way things were looking, they wouldn't have enough time together.

"Enough of this," Charlie snapped, flexing his fingers. "We need to change positions. I've been firing here for about two minutes. They are going to work it out in another few seconds, I bet."

As he said that, a heavy rain of fire skewered to their direct left, far too close for any of their likings.

"Move!" Charlie roared, prodding them forward.

They leapt up, breaking cover and dashing towards another shelter of rocks a good fifty yard sprint away. Around them, soldiers were falling and screaming, roaring curses and challenges, some advancing and most dropping to the ground, seeping their blood into the sand and the grass.

Dean was the first to make it, falling and rolling into cover just before Castiel skidded next to him. They lay on their sides, locking eyes. They were both incredibly relived and hardly believing their luck. For them both to make it this far was such a miracle.

"Where's Charlie?" Dean huffed, breaking his stare to sit up.

Castiel felt odd for a moment for thinking Dean looked comical, helmet askew and his hair sticking out and coated with sand. This was the last place to stop and acknowledge, and appreciate, something so petty.

"He was right behind us," Castiel answered, shaking his head to clear the thoughts.

"There he is!" Dean cried. Charlie was crouching only about fifteen feet away, stooped over with wide, terrified eyes that were focused on his hands, which clutched at his lower stomach.

The expression struck something in the rational part of Dean's mind, telling him something was not right. Even Charlie would keep his calm here, because he was cool and confident and he would be whatever his fellow soldiers needed. He would not freeze in the middle of the battlefield with such a desperate expression. Unless something was wrong.

"Charlie!" Dean cried, lunging forward. Castiel caught him around his middle, dragging him back behind their cover.

Charlie's eyes darted up to meet Dean's. They gave him the full shock of the horrified expression frozen on his face.

He brought a knee forward, as if he were trying to propel himself forward, but it was useless. He opened his mouth to say something, but as he did, blood flowered out sluggishly, lining the cracks of his teeth.

He fell; face forward, into the sand, fingers twitching for just a few final seconds before he lay still.

"CHARLIE!"

Dean jerked forward, hardly flinching when another wave of fire threw sand around them like some kind of reversed rainfall.

"Dean! He's gone. We have to keep moving."

He relaxed against Castiel's arms, but grief clung to the lines of his face.

"You're right. After we get some hits in here, we need to move further up. Clear?"

"Yes, Dean."

A new fire of determination filled his eyes, as he turned his back to Charlie's body and silently swore revenge.

They took turns standing, propping their guns on the ragged surface of the rocks and firing before ducking down again. The Allied ships were still advancing in the distance, bringing the faintest glimmer of hope. Was it foolish of them to hope the next few waves could finish the Germans? That they could have secured the beachhead before nightfall? It was absolutely foolish, irrational, and very delusional.

But as Dean did his best to avoid looking at his best friend's dead body, so close that he almost thought he could smell the blood, he hoped.

God, he hoped.

"We need to get moving," he told Castiel. They had only been crouching behind this particular shelter for about ten minutes, but it felt like ages.

Their muscles still ached from the vicious swim over, their hearts were pounding too savagely in their heads, and everything was simply too loud. The screams of pain, the death cries, the bullets.

They were making a mad run for another brief shelter when the first land mine went off further ahead, efficiently ending at least three lives and leaving two others to suffer a slower death with what remained of their bodies.

As they ducked behind another boulder, Dean buried his head in Castiel's shoulder, moaning with what Castiel would only call grief in every form it knew. For family, friendship, for the past, and for the future they could have had. That maybe hurt the worst.

Dean would never admit how queasy the bodies made him, but he didn't need to. Castiel let him hide within the folds of his uniform, though it was soaked and layered with sand. He let him have his moment while he sent a prayer to God above. If there was anything to make you believe, or hope, it was war.

Perhaps because death was suddenly very, tauntingly close. It made one reevaluate their outlook on life, afterlife being included. It was just very difficult to think this was the absolute end that the road dropped off right then into utter darkness.

"We're in the palms of Eve," Castiel muttered bitterly.

Over the general sounds of warfare, Cas did not think that Dean could possibly hear him. However, he raised his head, and asked with a worn curiosity, "What are you talking about?"

It was not the time for an explanation, but Castiel was so tired of fighting already. How long had they been on the beach? Forty-five minutes? An hour? It felt like a lifetime already. If this were to be his eulogy, let Dean hear it, if no one else. Chuck was nowhere to be found, but that was okay. Chuck knew Castiel as well as he knew his fictional characters in his stories, which was saying a lot. Let Dean know what he was, before that ceased to exist.

"Dean, you have told me you go to church, so you should know of Eve."

"Of course I do. She ate the forbidden fruit, right?"

" Yes. Eve betrayed God, as some would say. She was still a part of the beginning though, she still had her place in the world. Maybe we've all done something in our lives that led us here, to the same path Eve treaded. But it's not too late to apologize for our mistakes."

Dean sighed, almost dreamily.

"Cas, I don't know what you are even saying. But I won't ever apologize for the time we had, okay? Is that clear? You weren't a mistake, not ever."'

"Eve made her mistake, an enormous one. We are in her position, but we can still leave our mark on the world."

Dean sat up straighter, letting all the sounds of distress come rushing back to him. His eyes sought out his fallen friend on the beach, further back, but he knew it was him. Something seemed to break as he looked back at Castiel.

"All we are going to get is our names on some kind of a memorial, if that. People won't ever know what we meant to each other, that I had a little brother that I loved more than anything. That you loved your brother and war took him. No, not just him, but all three of your brothers in different ways. They won't know that we had daddy problems. Cas, people are going to see our names, at separate places more than likely, and they will never KNOW. That's why I want to make it back. This can't be it."

Dean grasped at the sides of Dean's face, bringing their lips together with only the slightest interference of their helmets.

"I know, Dean. I know," he whispered, his lips still impossibly close.

Dean pulled away, reluctantly. It was hard to pull away from such a comfort, but they still had to fight. How much longer, they didn't know. Honestly, he doubted any of the remaining soldiers remembered all the operations and tactics they were taught.

Everything was suddenly a general picture: take down the enemy.

The waves behind them seemed to hold formation, but besides that the soldiers were scrambling and ducking being whatever shelter they could find.

"We need to move again. Let's circle back and fire from another direction."

As they moved again, they realized they were stepping over more bodies than before. More and more casualties, more and more lives ending. Dean was thinking to himself about the men who must have children at home, babies who would never know them, when the bullet hit him.

He collapsed before he even had a chance to think of steadying himself, before he could even fully process what had just happened to him. He only felt the searing pain in his stomach, stealing his breath and slowing his pace.

As he fell, face first into the sand, he recalled Charlie's death, which seemed like it happened months and months ago.

'That's what I look like,' he thought, slightly surprised. 'I'm dying.'

The brief shock, wore off rapidly, however, and he was left with the panic as his eyes began to feel heavy and his mind became muddled.

"Cas," he called weakly.

Castiel had made it to the shelter, which was occupied with more men than when they had first started to it. Castiel saw none of them as he turned, expecting Dean to be directly behind him.

He was corrected as he turned and saw Dean attempting to crawl forward, hands shaking wildly as he tried to find some hold in the shifting sands.

"DEAN!"

There was no one to stop him as he had stopped Dean from going for Charlie; he lunged forward, unhesitant, uncaring about the gunfire that was perilously close. All he saw was Dean.

Castiel had not seen Chuck, crouching behind the shelter with a pitied look. His friend did not move to stop him from retrieving Dean though; he knew it wouldn't do any good.

Castiel dived, grasping Dean under the arms and dragging him back as gently as he could under the fire. He wanted to pick him up, to carry him back, but that would only make them both more obvious targets.

His gut told him that the fact that Dean hardly protested was an ill omen, but he ignored everything his mind told him.

"He's hurt," he told the small group of soldiers gathered, becoming annoyed when they made no move to help. He was injured, right? He would get better, if they stopped the bleeding. Right?

"Cas," Chuck whispered, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

"Dean. Dean, come on, we have to keep going. Open your eyes, please. Dean? DEAN!"

Chuck backed away, motioning to the other soldiers.

"Give him some privacy," he murmured to them.

"Privacy? What are you suggesting, we turn our backs and start humming?" Andrew snapped. His face was coated in mud and blood, from whom no one dared to ask.

Chuck shrugged, hardly knowing what to do with the situation. He knew Castiel had to say goodbye, though, and what he needed to say was private.

"Let's just move off a little bit. Please, guys."

They grumbled angrily, but obeyed. The main target didn't seem to be their small retreat anyway, so they were bit more unperturbed with moving over a few feet.

Castiel didn't notice when they left. He only noticed the face that Dean's eyes were weakly fluttering open, and the way he was breathing shallowly.

He didn't like any of the signs, but Dean couldn't die. He couldn't leave him here, just like another body, the way they left Charlie behind, close to the lapping waves.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice was so soft, Castiel almost believed he had been imagining it.

"Cas. The necklace. Take it to Sammy. You promised."

There was no doubt this time; Dean had spoken. Castiel did not sob as he hooked his fingers under the thread and withdrew the necklace from the folds of Dean's clothes. He hesitated once it was in his hand, the motion seeming so final that he didn't want to proceed further.

"You can take it to him. Just hold on a bit longer, Dean. They have to send some nurses up here eventually. We can still make it. I know we wouldn't be accepted out there, but we can travel around. No one has to know. We can see the world, all the good in it. There's still some, you know. This isn't it, Dean."

Dean smiled as Castiel rambled on, his blue eyes wide and almost childish with sincerity. He meant it. And that's why Dean was sad.

"Cas. That bet," he began, but was forced to stop as coughing fit racked his body. A warm, sticky liquid shot up his throat. He knew it was blood.

"It's okay, Dean. You don't have to speak."

"No, you need to know. I thought I was getting you to fall in love with me in only a week. I thought I could, because I'm a jerk sometimes, I'll admit it. But I was the one who fell in love. You're better at this than me. It only took you three days."

Dean reached up, trying to brush away the frown that adorned Castiel's face, but found that he had no energy to get that far.

"You're my angel, Cas. You were always good enough."

Castiel felt a sob choke him as he tried to find something to say, something reassuring. What did you tell someone before they died?

"Castiel! You have to move now! They have grenades."

Chuck rushed over to him, grabbing his arm and jerking him into a standing position.

"Chuck, I can't leave him! What would he think of me?"

Dean winked halfheartedly, and then closed his eyes.

"We need to get farther up, now. It was looking bad before, but I think the tide is starting to turn a little. But we have to move out, now."

Chuck sighed, his own heart breaking as Castiel refused to tear his eyes away from Dean.

"He's gone, Cas. There isn't anything we can do about it."

With that, he forcibly drug Castiel with him, away from the fallen soldier, for his own safety. If he were to leave him there, he would have been shot. He couldn't let this grief lead to his death,

The necklace swung from side to side in Castiel's grip, mocking him, throwing his failure in his face. He numbly gripped it, his last ink to Dean, the last reminder of what they had.

As they were moving closer to edge of the beach, closer to the trees, a bullet found Castiel. It was not a fatal area, but it was enough to bring Castiel to the ground, gripping his leg and gritting his teeth with pain. The necklace fell in the sand, disappearing as another round of fire kicked up earth and buried it.

"Hold on, Castiel. We got you," Chuck called, sounding far away, though his face was close to Cas's. His world rocked, and then everything was black.

When he woke up, he was concerned that he had died and Dean had not immediately come to greet him, for the view he saw was too magnificent to belong to mortal life, the sky was too breathtaking to be anchored to a trivial place like earth. The stars seemed to be spinning, dancing in a thousand shades of deep purples, lined with black.

"You're awake," a cheerful voice said from somewhere nearby.

"Am I dead?" Castiel asked, regretting talking instantly. His mouth felt like sandpaper.

"Fraid not, Cas. But there is good news. Andrew-"

"Hey, Chuck! Medics came in. They said most of the men are dead, save for the ones you saw making a break for the trees. And us, of course."

Greg.

The conscious part of Castiel was relieved Greg had made it. Between the treacherous swim, the beaching, and the heavy fire-and apparently grenades-Dean had doubted he would make it far. He was glad he was alive, and apparently well.

"That's fantastic. Castiel needs one for his leg," Chuck replied in a hushed tone.

Castiel blinked, focusing on the sky.

"How long have I been out?" he asked

"You won't like this, Cas," Chuck chuckled, removing his helmet to run a hand through his hair.

"Almost twelve hours," Greg answered brightly.

"Twelve?" Castiel exclaimed, trying to sit up and flopping back down as his head began to spin.

"Relax. And yes, twelve. You must have been exhausted."

Castiel hardly heard them, his mind drifting and wondering where Dean was now. Had someone removed his body yet? Had he wondered where Castiel had gone? Did he think that he left him there, alone?

He threw an arm over his eyes, trying to block out any thoughts of Dean; they were too painful and he really needed to be strong at the moment.

"We have to move," another soldier snapped, moving towards them. "Half of us can go west, the other half east. We can leave the injured here. They will probably be safer, honestly."

Andrew. Bossy as ever.

"Yeah, okay, SIR. Hey, Cas. It got really rough for a while. General Bradley almost ordered a retreat, but we held our ground! Everyone will be so proud of us when we get home."

"You dragged me with you for twelve hours?" Castiel asked, not really hearing what he had said.

"Of course, Cas. I knew you were alive. I couldn't just leave you alone. But I guess I do now. Look, I'll be back. Mike and Timothy are here, also recovering. We WILL come back for, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel said, letting his head fall back against the soft earth.

"Ready?" Andrew called. "Chuck, you and the remaining soldiers of the 116th unit come with me. The rest of you, get ready to move west, clear?"

The soldiers nodded, eager to be moving again. They had basically become sitting ducks out here, so they were sure to be safer moving. How wrong they were.

Castiel did not see what happened; all he knew was that Andrew's soldiers moved out with Chuck in the lead, and then a good forty seconds later, a landmine went off, impossibly close and extraordinarily loud. The remaining soldiers around him yelped and scrambled back, expressions filled with disbelief.

The screaming began, of the soldiers who had survived, The blasts were doomed.

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching in his throat as he recognized a solitary scream of agony that seemed to exceed all the others. He felt a tear roll down his face, involuntarily of course. But maybe it was okay to cry for once.

"Chuck," he whispered to the stars.

"We need to move," the other soldiers muttered uneasily. "They are going to know our position."

They agreed, bustling off, Greg lagging behind.

"Listen, Cas. We are going to come back. Don't you worry about a thing."

His tone had a forced brightness to it, for the first time since Castiel had known him.

They made it only about fifteen seconds away when the other land mine went off.

This one was so close, the heat scorched his face, clogging his ears and stinging his eyes. He heard no screaming this time. In fact, he heard absolutely nothing.

The world has simply turned mute, all with a single step of a wayward soldier.

A star winked above his head, then vanished. They all began to blur and swim together until only blackness pressed against his tired eyes.

And at last, the utter silence was matched by sheer blackness.