Castiel was first aware of the sensation of motion, though he knew that he was lying still. It was whatever he lay on that was moving. The dull roar of a powerful engine filling his ears, the scent of aged leather near his face, provided the answer.

The Impala. He was in the Impala. But he couldn't remember how he got there, and his eyes felt strangely heavy, unwilling to open. He shifted on the seat, hands that felt weak and clumsy grasping at the leather in an attempt to push himself up.

And… that was a mistake.

That slight movement brought back the awareness of pain. Everything hurt – a bone-deep, throbbing pain that seemed to encompass his entire body, though it felt strangely distant. And Castiel couldn't remember why. Had he been injured in battle? Why couldn't he remember? There was the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he'd forgotten something important, that the pain should tell him something he needed to remember. But it was just outside his grasp, fragments of memory floating on the edges of his consciousness – and Castiel lacked both the strength and energy to attempt to pursue them.

And after all… it wasn't really that bad, anyway. He had the sense that it had been a lot worse, but now… now the pain was strangely dull and muted. It was there, and yet didn't quite touch him, almost as if it belonged to someone else, and he was merely observing it from a distance. It was similar to the way that he'd experienced human pain before, when his grace was unfettered.

Wait… before what?

A glimpse of memory here and there floated through the haze, confusing and without context – but with them came an uneasy sensation, building in the back of his mind, something tugging at him to focus, to remember – but he couldn't.

A cold, frightening feeling began to creep over him as the pain slowly began to build, coming back sharp-edged and stronger, as the sound of muffled speech began to drift toward his ears. He couldn't make out the words over the low rumble of the engine and the thick haze that still clouded his senses, but he recognized the voice.

Sam.

An overwhelming sense of relief washed over him, and Castiel relaxed a little again. It was Sam, and Sam being here meant that he was safe. He wasn't sure why he was so sure of that fact; certainly he'd been in enough dangerous situations not only with, but because of the Winchesters. Somehow, he just knew – Sam's voice, hushed and calm and close, meant that Castiel could rest, could stop trying to figure everything out and just drift back into the cloud of sleep that surrounded him… if only the pain would subside again, because it was becoming quite distracting.

A second voice joined the first one… quieter, lower, and just as familiar.

And Castiel's insides seemed to seize up, a sensation like melting ice trickling down his spine, his heart racing. His confusion and alarm was only intensified by his unexpected reaction. He wasn't used to these types of physical reactions in the body that was usually nothing more than a vessel to him. And besides – it wasn't even as if there was anything to worry about.

It was just Dean…

The older Winchester's face suddenly filled Cas's mind – but his eyes, once warm and familiar, seemed to gleam with the fires of Hell, his full lips twisted into a malicious smirk as strong fingers clenched in the feathers of Castiel's wings… savage, wrenching, tearing.

"I could do this all day, Cas," Dean's voice echoed in his mind, taunting, warning. "Only one way to make it stop…"

Castiel shuddered as memory flooded back to him all at once. Trembling, his muscles drew taut with fear, and a fresh onslaught of pain overwhelmed him, arcing down the ridge of his wings, aching, burning like fire. He tried to distance himself from it, tried to push it back. He had to get away, had to fly, but his agonized wings wouldn't move, not even an inch. And that was when the panic set in, stealing his breath, and he pressed back hard against the yielding leather behind him, trying desperately to put whatever distance he could between himself, and the man who'd done this to him. A sharp, searing pain shot through his wings as they were pressed between his body and the seat, and Castiel let out a choked cry.

"Son of a bitch." Dean's voice was harsh and startled, and Castiel flinched away from the sound.

A firm hand connected with Cas's shoulder, and he jerked away instinctively, but it found him again, a warm, strong grip around his upper arm to hold him still.

Gentle. Soothing, a thumb stroking slowly over too-sensitive skin.

A very large thumb. Large hand. Larger than Dean's.

Sam.

The roar of panic in Castiel's ears began to ebb away, and he could hear Sam's voice, soft and even, words fading in and letting him know that Sam had probably already been talking for a while. Castiel opened his eyes to look for Sam; seeing only his silhouette in the darkness, he tried to focus on the sound of Sam's voice instead.

"… better… that's it… easy, Cas, you're okay…" Sam's tone changed only marginally as he said, "Pull over," and then continued, his tone rhythmic and reassuring, as his hand slid gently up from Cas's arm to his strangely bare shoulder. Where were his clothes? "That's better, Cas, it's all right… just calm down…"

The steady motion of the Impala slowed and then stopped with a lurch that made Castiel whimper with pain as it rocked him forward a little into Sam's touch, and he lowered his head to rest against Sam's wrist. The pain was clear and bright and sharp now, centered almost entirely in his wings. He had other injuries; he could feel them now, but they were mild in comparison to the ache of broken bones, the searing burn that consumed Castiel's wings.

And… he remembered now. What had happened.

A high, breathless, keening sound reached Castiel's ears, and he had time to think that he didn't like it, it made him feel small and powerless and afraid, before he realized that he was making the sound. He was… crying.

But… angels didn't cry.

Something was wrong with him, something was seriously wrong… but Castiel couldn't think clearly enough to figure out what it was. And then, Sam was pulling his hand away, and all there was for a moment was blinding panic, as Castiel reached for him, a pathetic little choked sound of protest leaving his lips. Sam just shushed him, and Castiel looked up, blinking through tears until his vision finally came into focus… just in time to see Sam sliding into the Impala's back seat beside him, pulling him up against Sam's side.

"Cas." Sam's voice was gentle but commanding, and Castiel obediently looked up to meet his serious gaze. Sam nodded toward his own upraised hand, and Castiel's mouth went dry a little when he saw the needle there. But – he remembered now. It hadn't hurt, last time. It had made the pain recede and brought on the peaceful haze that he desperately wished would swallow him up again now. "It's hurting again, isn't it?" Sam observed quietly. "Let me help."

Castiel nodded, lowering his head to rest against Sam's shoulder. He didn't even wince at the tiny twinge of pain as the needle slid into his arm, instead feeling a wave of relief at the knowledge that soon, peaceful rest would take him again.

"See, it's all right," Sam whispered, as his long, gentle fingers began to stroke through Cas's hair in a way that made him feel safe and reassured. The sensation was a pleasurable distraction from the pain, which was swiftly fading away again, and suddenly Castiel felt overwhelmingly sleepy. "You're okay," Sam continued softly, his voice sounding strangely far away. "I've got you, and I'm not going anywhere, okay? You're all right… that's it, just go to sleep…"

The thought was appealing – and Castiel felt a vague unease at the realization, at this new piece of evidence that something was very wrong with him.

Angels didn't sleep, either.

But his strange symptoms didn't seem to matter all that much at the moment. Nothing did, really. It didn't hurt so much now, and Sam's body beside him was solid and warm and reassuring, the cotton of his shirt soft and pleasant against Castiel's skin. Castiel closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift away into the haze of peaceful oblivion, lulled by Sam's hushed, steady voice and the motion of the Impala as it started down the road once more.

Twice more the return of pain dragged him from sleep, panicked and shaking and desperate. Twice more the sharp prick of the needle drove it back, allowing him to slip back into the quiet dark.

And during the in-between moments when the drugs were fading, when the quiet voices of the Winchesters drifted to his ears over the roar of the engine, setting his unsettlingly strong emotions at war and filling him with confusion… Castiel dreamed.

He was flying, feeling the rush of the wind against his wings, looking down on the earth from the highest of heights. He glanced back over his shoulder – and shock slammed into him, along with a wave of searing pain.

His wings were on fire, gold and red flames consuming his flesh, feathers reduced to smoldering cinders and falling toward the earth… and then he was falling, crashing with no power to stop himself, no control over the limbs that were now nothing more than useless weight, sending him wheeling and tumbling until he hit the ground in a crumpled, broken heap.

Castiel blinked in the too-bright light, trying to catch his balance as his vision slowly came into focus. He was half-sitting, half-kneeling in the cool, green grass of his favorite heaven. Shame washed over him when he saw that he was surrounded by his brothers and sisters – silent, watching, witness to his destruction. He tried to draw his wings up around him, to hide from their eyes, but there was nothing left of the wings to shield him, only thin, charred bone and feathers that crumbled away into ash at the slightest movement.

A shadow passed over him, and Castiel looked up, his eyes meeting those of his sister, Hester. She stared down at him, her mouth twisted with contempt and disappointment, shaking her head.

"I told you," she said softly. "From the moment you touched his soul – that sick, seething thing infected with Hell – you were lost to us. Lost to everything but his will. You gave yourself to him, Castiel. You're not Heaven's anymore, but his." She crouched down in front of him, and her eyes were devoid of sympathy. "And look what he's done with you."

Castiel closed his eyes, his head bowed under the weight of his shame, his face hidden in his hands. She was right. His brothers and sisters had tried to warn him, tried to turn him from this path; he hadn't listened. And now, they held no pity for him. Outcast and bereft, he shivered with the sudden cold. When Castiel opened his eyes again, he was startled to find that the world around him had suddenly gone dark. The angels were gone… Heaven was gone. Everything was darkness and smoke and glowing embers… empty, cold nothingness…

There was only him… towering over Castiel, eyes glowing fiery red, teeth bared and too-bright in his smoke-stained face. He was blood and fire and seething hatred, pouring off of him in waves, as he crouched down to face Castiel. His hands burned where they touched Castiel's chin, forcing his head up, and touched his wing, caressing with a gentleness that made Castiel's skin crawl… but he was powerless to pull away.

"It's your own fault, you know." Dean's voice was soft, secretive, his smile knowing and cruel. "You took too long. You should have gotten me out…" He leaned in close, breath hot and stinging against Castiel's skin. "… before they got in."

When they reached the bunker, Sam was once again assisted by Dean in navigating the stairs – down this time, instead of up, which was a little less exhausting, but quite a bit more awkward and precarious. But Dean carefully avoided any actual contact with Cas himself. Although Cas wasn't as big as Sam, Sam wasn't by any means at his peak strength at the moment. A quiet, guilty part of Sam's mind thought that it would have been useful to have Dean's help carrying Cas inside, and it wouldn't really matter that much, would it? It wasn't as if Cas would even remember that Dean had helped, later.

But deep down, Sam knew that Dean was right about this one. It seemed vitally important to Cas that Dean not touch him again, and he'd more than paid for the right to make that call… paid with his own blood. Sam's convenience wasn't worth taking that right away from him.

During the trip back to the bunker, Sam had taken careful note of how much morphine had had what effect on Cas, and for how long. He took comfort in the knowledge that as long as Jacob's Call remained in effect, nothing could kill Cas except for the angel blade; he didn't have to worry too much about overdoses or negative drug interactions. Still, until he could get a minute to read up on the effects of the various drugs Dean had brought him, he planned to stick with the morphine, since they were at least a little more familiar with its effects at this point.

Keeping Cas medicated enough to remain asleep for the trip home had seemed wise; they didn't want him to suffer any more than he had to. But Sam knew that now, he needed to gradually lessen the dose until he reached a point where the pain was tolerable for Cas, while still allowing him to remain conscious. If they continued using up their supply of morphine at the rate they'd used it on the trip, Sam knew they'd run out long before Cas stopped needing it.

Besides, keeping Cas unconscious indefinitely felt too much like a cop out. And then, there was another, more tangible reason, as well. Sam was very much not looking forward to the conversation, but he needed Cas's input.

He needed to know how to care for Cas's damaged wings.

But for now, Cas remained unconscious, and Sam was on his own when it came to figuring out how to deal with Cas's injuries. Dean had helped Sam get inside and to the bathroom, supplying him with clean towels, antibacterial soap, and several different kinds of medicated creams.

Then, he'd disappeared.

Sam couldn't exactly blame him; in hindsight, he supposed maybe he shouldn't have mentioned aloud his intention to wake Cas up for a while. It was going to be a while before Dean was ready to face Cas – which worked out for the best, Sam supposed. It wasn't like Cas was going to be in any great hurry to find himself face-to-face with Dean again, either.

Sam carefully unwound the bandage that held Cas's wings to his back, but left the bandages that kept the wings folded tightly in on themselves. He laid Cas out in the tub he'd filled with warm water, the joint where the wings were attached to Cas's back resting against the edge of the tub so that Cas's wings remained out of the water for now. As fragile and damaged as they were, Sam didn't want to risk doing anything to them – not until he'd talked to Cas.

For the moment, Cas remained unresponsive; though based on the timing of the last several doses, Sam was pretty sure he was due to come around any time now.

Gently, Sam washed the blood and ash from Cas's body, wincing as the water rinsed away the grime and left only the red, livid wounds in stark contrast to Cas's pale skin. Sam shuddered as the echoes of Cas's screams from that basement room filled his ears, and he wanted to look away from the injuries that had caused those screams. But he didn't let himself. As difficult as it was to face the vicious marks that Dean had carved and seared into Cas's flesh, Sam also had to accept the fact that he'd allowed it, even encouraged it.

Cas's huge blue eyes filled Sam's mind, staring up at him, desperately trusting, and Sam stomach twisted inside him when he thought of how easily he'd agreed to Cas's utter destruction.

I took the angel blade from Dean's hand, and told him that anything else was okay. As long as Cas survived. I told him that… that this was… okay.

He'd just sat there, hiding behind his laptop and his books, trying not to listen as Cas had screamed and cried and begged for mercy. He'd shut his ears, shutting out his friend's agony and occupying his mind with research instead – useless research on a nonexistent Apocalypse, while the real tragedy was taking place just below him. His brother and his friend breaking apart under the force of the same lie – while Sam sat idly by and tried to pretend it wasn't happening.

I should have seen it… should have figured it out. Shouldn't have let it gone this far… Sam swallowed hard, his throat aching, his stomach roiling. I should never have given Dean that spell…

Cas trusted Sam – but he wouldn't if he knew that Sam's research was responsible for the worst of what had been done to him. Cas didn't know that Sam was the one who had made possible the brutalization of his poor, decimated wings.

And he couldn't know. Not if he was going to get through this with any shred of sanity intact. Sam thought of the way Cas had panicked in the car, not once but several times, only calming when Sam touched him, spoke to him, reassured him of his protection. He tried not to think about the look he'd seen in Dean's eyes, in the rearview mirror – the guilt and hurt and resentment all mingled into a confusing mess that all amounted to nothing less than sheer agony.

It wasn't fair. Not for Dean to bear this alone, or for Sam to get away with not bearing any of it at all.

But what was even less fair was taking their friend, innocent, blameless in all of this, reducing him to a traumatized, terrorized shell through hours of brutal torture… and then leaving him to his own devices when it came to recovery, because Sam wasn't capable of a single, simple lie that would spare him further suffering.

Suck it up, Winchester, Sam told himself sternly as he carefully leaned Cas's limp, sleep-heavy body forward onto his arm so that he could reach the wounds on his back, gently arranging the wings so that they didn't come near the water. You saw it in the car. He trusts you. He shouldn't. He shouldn't want you anywhere near him – but he does. He needs you. And that is all that matters right now.

"Hey," Dean said softly, and Sam jumped a little at the unexpected sound of his voice from the doorway. Sam looked up, taking in the weary lines around his brother's eyes, the way his eyes kept shifting guiltily toward the tub, but never quite falling on the unconscious angel there. "Got a room ready, when you are," Dean explained, his voice low and hesitant. "It's all set up so you can… can patch him up in there, and… and then he can rest."

"Okay, thanks," Sam said, keeping his voice low and hushed, as he was much closer to Cas, and not sure how close he was to waking up. "I'm almost ready."

He drained the water, then wrapped the soft towels around Cas's body and lifted him carefully from the tub, before turning toward Dean and nodding. Dean led the way to the room he'd prepared, and Sam was touched when he saw how much effort Dean had put into setting it up so that Cas would be comfortable.

The bed was made with fresh linens and a soft quilt, the covers drawn back and ready. The overhead light was turned off, the room illuminated with the soft, warm glow of the single bedside lamp. On either side of the bed, Dean had placed twin-size mattresses from the extra bedrooms.

"I figured you could… dry him off and stuff there, without getting the bed wet," Dean explained with a self-conscious little shrug, smoothing his shaking hands down the legs of his jeans as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. "And you know… this way he won't hurt himself if he… if he wakes up and doesn't… know where he is. If he's… scared, or…" Dean's voice broke, and he stopped abruptly, turning away.

"Yeah," Sam said softly. "It's a good idea. Thanks, Dean."

Dean didn't respond, and didn't turn around. Sam could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his trembling fists clenched at his sides, and Sam's heart ached to go to him, to offer him some kind of comfort. But Cas would be waking up any moment, and the last thing he needed to wake up to was the sight of Sam and Dean wrapped up in each other's arms.

Not that Dean would have allowed it at the moment, anyway.

Still… Sam had to try. "Dean," he began softly. "You're – you're doing all you can, I know. And I appreciate it. And… I know it's bad, but… he's going to be all right. He is."

"We don't know that." Dean bit off the words, sharp and angry.

Sam had to admit that he had his doubts as well; it was true that most of Cas's wounds were at a surface level – cuts and burns that would heal, given enough time and the return of his grace. But Sam didn't know anything about angel wings, and had no way of knowing how much damage was too much to be repaired, or if the injury to his wings might have any other negative effects on Cas.

Still… he wasn't about to say so to Dean.

"As soon as we can remove the bond, Cas will start getting better. He's been hurt worse than this before…"

Sam wasn't completely sure it was true – not that it seemed to matter to Dean.

Dean's voice was low and trembling, so raw and painful that it tore at Sam's heart and brought tears to his eyes.

"You know that's not what I mean."

And… Sam did. Cas had been tortured in Heaven, as punishment. He'd died twice, and come back from it. He'd defied Heaven's orders again and again, choosing instead to love and fight for humanity as he believed his Father had intended since their creation – and as absent as God had seemed to be in it all, Sam thought Cas's efforts must have been appreciated at least a little, if his repeated resurrections were anything to go by.

But it was his very love for humanity that, in part, made this so much worse than anything Castiel had experienced before. He'd broken Heaven's rules, he'd gone against Lucifer himself; he had to have expected the consequences that had followed, and he'd borne them bravely and kept on fighting.

But this time – this time he'd done nothing to merit the suffering he'd received – at the hands of the one human he valued above all others, the one person for whom he'd been willing to turn his back on every other notion of "family" he'd ever known. He'd trusted Dean enough to rebel against Heaven, enough to fall – and he'd trusted Dean to teach him how to navigate the confusing world of humanity.

He'd trusted Dean with the innocence of a child, clinging to the only source of security and leadership left to him – and Dean had shattered that trust in a few brief hours of betrayal.

Cas's physical wounds might heal completely; but it was an agonizing possibility – no, a certainty, though Sam didn't really want to consider it – that Cas would never actually be the same again.

Sam had no reassuring words to offer his brother… but he had to try anyway, to hold onto Dean, to keep him from spiraling down into his own guilt as much as possible – and the most important part of that, Sam knew, was keeping Dean from isolating himself.

"Dean…" he began softly, deliberately putting a pleading note into his voice, well aware that it'd be harder for Dean to ignore him if he thought Sam really needed him. "Don't walk away. Please."

Just then, Cas began to shift on the soft mattress where Sam had laid him. Dean turned slightly, glancing toward Cas with an expression that hurt to look at – tenderness and affection mingled with regret and resentment. Dean's hand clenched and opened again at his side, and Sam knew that Dean literally didn't know what to do with himself. Sam knew his brother, and he knew that Dean wanted nothing more than to be the one taking care of Cas in this moment, as impossible a hope as that was.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean replied softly, his smile bitter. "Looks like I have to."

And Dean didn't give Sam a chance to say anything else before he abruptly walked out the bedroom door, closing it firmly behind him.

Sam wanted to go after him, but Cas was stirring, a low moan escaping his lips, and Sam knew that he'd be in pain and scared and disoriented – and as much as he longed to, as frustrating as it was to just allow Dean to escape into his own misery – Sam couldn't go after his brother. Not right now.

"Sam?" Cas's voice was weak and hoarse, and he blinked blearily in the dim light from the bedside lamp. "Wh-where are we?"

"A safe place," Sam assured him, gently pushing Cas back down as he tried to rise. "You're okay. Take it easy, all right?"

Cas nodded, eyes sliding closed again, one hand reaching out blindly to rest on Sam's arm. The simple trust in the gesture – the sense that Cas felt safe with Sam touching him – it made Sam's guilt nearly overwhelming. It was awkward and shameful and it hurt – but Sam forced back his own feelings for the moment.

Self-pity was something to which he had no right at the moment.

The effects of the last morphine dose were fading slowly, but thankfully, Cas was still only semi-conscious, and barely aware of what Sam was doing. Still, Sam took his time, slowly and painstakingly shifting Cas's body with great care to avoid moving his wings as much as possible as he dried Cas off with the towels, then applied the creams Dean had provided to his burns and cuts, covering each one with a clean, white bandage. When he couldn't avoid it any longer, Sam turned his attention to the last, worst wound – the one from which they'd taken the tablet.

A cold knot in Sam's throat made it difficult to swallow, and his eyes burned as he carefully repaired the stitches that had been viciously torn out. Cas whimpered and reached toward the source of the pain with an unsteady hand, a pained frown creasing his brow; Sam gently took his hand and pulled it away, his throat feeling thick and sore as he spoke mindless, soothing words and brushed his free hand through Cas's damp hair until Cas went still again.

When he was finished with the stitches, Sam gently taped a fresh bandage into place over the wound. He allowed his touch to linger there for a moment, his vision blurred with tears, taking comfort in the steady rise and fall of Cas's chest under his hand. His hands trembled, remembering how it'd felt when he'd cut into Cas's chest, spilling his blood and taking something out of him, something he'd hidden close to his heart.

I just hope it's something we can get back…

Finally, tenderly, Sam lifted Cas into his arms again to place him in the bed. Cas startled a little, clinging to Sam with a weak, pitiful cry.

"Shhh," Sam soothed him with a hand behind his head as he laid Cas down. "I know it hurts… I know. I'm gonna give you some more morphine in a minute, okay?"

Cas nodded his acceptance, but his hands caught in Sam's shirt, not letting go when Sam tried to straighten up. Sam pulled the blankets up over Cas's body, hesitating when he came to Cas's wings. "Do you… do you want them covered, Cas?"

A shiver passed through the half-conscious angel, and he nodded more emphatically, eyes closed against the pillow. "Yes," he whispered. "Please. Please."

The quiet desperation in Cas's voice made Sam's chest clench, a vaguely uneasy feeling creeping over him. But he complied, carefully drawing the blankets up over Cas's wings, then gently disentangling his shirt from Cas's grasp. Cas whimpered and reached blindly for him, so Sam just held onto his hand, using his free hand to take the needle with Cas's next dose of pain medication from the place where Dean had left it ready, on the nightstand. Cas barely winced when Sam gave him the injection.

But when Sam let go of Cas's hand, intending to leave the room and leave Cas to his rest, Cas reached out, clutching at Sam's sleeve and clinging to it, pulling him back down. His eyes were too bright, glassy and unfocused, but they were filled with tears, and there was desperation in his halting words.

"Don't," he said softly. "Please, Sam… please stay…"

Sam knelt down beside the bed, grateful for the soft mattress Dean had placed there. "You're safe here, Cas," he said, lowering his head so that he was face to face with the trembling, frightened angel. "I promise. You just need to get some rest, okay? And I have a ton of research I need to be doing…"

"Please," Cas whispered, just holding on tighter, and Sam was alarmed at the way he was shaking, his wings rustling slightly despite the bindings that should have kept them still. His voice rose with panic as he continued, almost frantic, "Please… don't leave… don't…"

"Okay," Sam quickly relented. "Okay, Cas, I'm sorry… okay, I'm right here… just a second…"

Sam carefully scooted Cas over a little on the bed, sliding under the covers and wrapping a cautious arm around Cas's shoulders so that his hand could rest at the back of Cas's neck, gently stroking in a motion that he had already learned seemed to calm Cas down most quickly. Cas immediately settled in close, one hand on Sam's waist, his head lowered to rest against Sam's chest. His breath was shaky and rapid with relief, the release of the unsettlingly intense fear he'd obviously held at the idea of being left alone.

"I've got you," Sam said softly, his voice low and soothing. "It's all right… I've got you, Cas…"

Cas didn't reply, and Sam was relieved when the shaking of his body under Sam's hands began to slowly subside. The drugs were taking effect, Sam knew, and he'd just have to wait a little while longer, to allow Cas to fall completely asleep, before he could slip out and do the things he needed to do. But as Cas's trembling faded away, his breathing slowing down into a steady, soothing rhythm, Sam found that suddenly, he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open as well.

He hadn't realized how exhausted he really was from the traumatic events of the day, and the stress of taking care of Cas after the fact, all while keeping the secret that he knew he'd be keeping for the foreseeable future.

But not forever, he told himself firmly. It's not right… not fair to him to keep this from him. He has the right to know. It's… it's just for now, just until he's well enough to… to handle it… until he doesn't need someone, so badly…

And he scarcely had time to finish that thought before he was out, too – the angel who'd once been his brother's fast asleep in his arms.