I wrote this story out of a need for fluff and comfort. I thought to myself, 'I want the saddest, wettest, miserablest little angel and then I want Dean to rescue him.' So, there is some basis in canon - when poor Cas is sitting on the street in the rain - but apart from that I've just set canon aside so that I can have what I want. This first chapter is from Cas's POV. The rest is Dean's and most of it's already written, so I'm going to post at random intervals over the weekend - chapter two will probably come later today, barring the dreaded Real Life getting in the way. I hope you enjoy it!

(The title sprang to mind because of a local charity, Gillingham Street Angels, who help the homeless.)

Chapter 1

Dean had once said to him, "So what's it like - being an Angel of the freaking Lord?"

He'd been cleaning his weapons, squinting down the barrel of one of them, jabbing a stick with a bit of rag on the end down inside it, focussed on his work - and yet with thoughts to spare that he chose to direct at Castiel, albeit laced with typical disrespect.

At that time the ebb and flow of casual human interaction had eluded Castiel almost completely. For his part, he could have stood motionless in the centre of the motel room in neutral stillness until Dean and Sam's needs for rest and recuperation had been met, whether that was, as usual, just a few short hours, or really any length of time. He'd stood and simply watched the world turn and life evolve for aeons, after all.

But humans, it seemed, had a need to fill silences, to ask questions, to be constantly using the spare capacity of their minds, perhaps because their individual lives were so fleeting - they had to make the most of their time.

The question, however, dropped so casually from Dean's lips, had not been a simple one at all. How could Castiel possibly explain the vastness and magnitude of his existence to this small, human soul? Angels didn't even have souls, or physical bodies unless they borrowed them. So he had used a human device and turned the question back on Dean.

"What is it like being human, Dean? Could you explain that to me?"

If he had expected any slight embarrassment, he would have been disappointed. But, at that stage, both the snort and smirk were unsurprising.

Dean paused and laid the weapon down across one thigh. He stared at the ceiling and his face twisted in mock concentration. "Well," he said eventually, "it ain't all cherry pie and beer - but it's okay."

Castiel had surprised himself at that point by emitting his own snort - already Dean's influence had been having an effect. "Thank you for that enlightening summary."

Dean had smirked again, but hadn't pursued his own question.

Now, however, sitting on a hard, cold step in a dirty, rain-slick, oil-slick, trash-stinking alley, with nowhere to go and no grace to take him there, Castiel considered the question again. What had it been like - being an Angel of the Lord?

He had been prideful of himself in his true form - a vast, complex being, created by the hand of God to be one of the guardians and shapers of the universe; and, when this particular world had become populated by humanity, to watch over and guide these small, teeming lives that had become his Father's favourites. Obedience in this matter had not come easily to some of his brothers and sisters - why should they look after these herds of dirty, earth-bound creatures, when they themselves were entities of glorious light and power? But Castiel had been content to do his God's bidding and watch and help the tiny mortals where he could.

He had thought them simple, though - their lives, bound by birth and death, marked by joy and grief, strife and play, never reaching the heights of angelic mystery, staying in the firm physical world of need and want. They were little, many, appealing - but interested only in themselves and the way they saw the world. Castiel was compassionate toward them - but they were beneath him.

Beneath him - when all that was beneath him now was the cold, damp step of a boarded-up entrance, barely overhung by a lintel that gave virtually no protection from the driving rain. Castiel shivered and drew his thin layers closer about his body. As an Angel, he had been aware of temperature fluctuations, but they had been of no relevance to his wellbeing. Now, he shivered and shook with cold and longed for more layers of clothing to protect his vulnerable body. And actual warmth and shelter were distant dreams.

He had fallen so far. So far from that pivotal moment when he, Castiel, had been the great, shining, wrathful beacon in the darkness and had blistered the walls of a foul, noisome corner of Hell with the light of his grace. And he had found the Righteous Man's soul and gripped it tight and raised it up.

Castiel, who now drew up his knees even more tightly against the cold and curled his arms around them and winced at the pain in his wounded shoulder - he had raised Dean Winchester from the pit and had rebuilt his fragile human body atom by atom. He had used his grace to shape and mould the stuff of life - delicately, painstakingly, to hold and shelter the bright, ragged streamers of Dean Winchester's damaged soul.

And in reshaping Dean, it seemed he had changed himself. Because, to focus on just this one soul and its mortal shell, to use all the angelic skill and knowledge he had gathered over the whole of human history, to pour all of that watchful intensity into this one precious task - the deep, grace-to-soul intimacy had formed an attachment to humanity that Castiel had never experienced before.

He had been fascinated, staggered, shaken to the centre of his power. He didn't understand why. But his Father had a plan and Castiel trusted that this was just another part of it.

Where was his Father's plan now? His cry would echo off the walls of the alley if he raised his voice to ask - but there would be no other response. Where was God, when Castiel's human stomach twisted and growled with a roiling mixture of sickness and hunger? Where was the help he needed when the cold shivered across his skin, but his pumping, churning blood was burning with a false, dry heat spreading from his injuries?

He would cry out into the night for help. But none would come. God wouldn't help him.

Castiel's head sagged forward and rainwater trickled under the back of his collar and down his spine. He had saved the Righteous Man. Now, his heels hurt because his shoes were too small and all of his toes had blisters.

Clothes had been irrelevant to Castiel when he had taken Jimmy Novak as a vessel and entered into direct interaction with Dean and his brother and his friends. But, as time went on, Castiel had considered himself a worldly angel - one of those rare beings who develop a deeper understanding of the human condition through appearing as one, on Earth, in the flesh.

He laughed bitterly into the tight curl of his body. He had appeared human, but he hadn't been. He'd talked with them, sat down in companionship with them, fought alongside them, argued with them, even attempted to make jokes with them. And he'd thought he'd understood them, or was approaching some kind of understanding of what it was to be human.

How wrong he'd been. How sadly blinkered he'd been to what it actually felt like to be human. How blind he'd been to the constant play of need and discomfort and outright pain which motivated people to maintain their fragile forms.

Castiel had effortlessly maintained his human vessel through the power of his grace. Now he knew what it was to ache with hunger, to be parched with thirst. He knew the pressure and the heaviness which meant he needed to urinate or defecate. His body sweated to cool and it shivered in a vain attempt to warm himself.

And his body's reactions were meshed and tangled with his mind too, so that when he was scared his heart would quicken and his chest would tighten and his limbs would fizz with the chemicals of fight and flight. And out here, alone, he was always scared.

A door opened and light spilled out. Castiel twitched and froze and huddled further into the doorway. Mumbled speech filtered through the white noise of the rain. The light disappeared. Footsteps headed away from him. And he didn't know whether to be glad or to be even more desperate.

He needed help.

He should get up and go and look for someone to help. There were people out there - kind people, people who would give him what he needed, or at least do what they could in terms of a couple of coins to buy a hot drink. Castiel was surrounded by people. All these buildings rising up and around him - they were filled with people going about their lives - talking, eating, watching TV, having sex. Looking down on them from the waves of light and energy, it had seemed as if they were all motivated by the same things and had the same goals - that occasionally they'd mass into separate conflicting groups, but mostly they were together, equal in their human needs and desires.

But now, Castiel was one of those little specks and, yes, he was surrounded by other little specks.

But he had never felt so very, very alone.

Poor sad, wet, miserable Cas! (Rubs hands together.) Now, onto the dramatic rescue and comfort and fluff!