Chapter Text
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While a mournful Castiel was watching his brethren being ejected from Heaven, Dean was observing the same phenomenon, his dying brother in his arms.
So Dean had prayed for Castiel, not knowing that his friend had been stripped of his grace, desperately calling and cursing as to why the one who promised he’d always be there suddenly wasn’t coming to him.
Maybe the angel was now stuck in Heaven.
Maybe he had fallen and died like countless others.
But with Sammy dying, he couldn’t spend much time thinking about all the possibilities. So he loaded the now unconscious Winchester in the Impala and drove as fast as possible to the nearest hospital.
Sam was comatose for about four days. Castiel was able to call Dean’s cell phone on the second day and made it to the hospital on the third. And when Sam came to, it took another three weeks for him to be able to leave the hospital he was in such a bad shape.
Well…
He wasn’t so much allowed to leave as the three men decided it was time to go back to the bunker. To make Sam’s return home even more special, Castiel’s first driving experience was with a small van packed with borrowed medical equipment and supplies. Which, ironically enough, became one of Castiel’s proudest human moments to date.
It had been a slow recovery for Sam. The trials had left him skeletal, his rosy skin now sallow. Not being able to keep any food down was certainly not helping him get some meat back on his bones. So for more than a month he had to sustain himself on protein shakes and other types of liquid food.
It had been like taking care of a baby, introducing not solid foods but puréed offerings, which Sam would often chuck back up. But they kept trying, adding powdered proteins to help rebuild his muscle mass, making him walk and exercise as much as he was able.
After two and a half months, Sam was almost back to normal. Almost.
He was still having problems keeping food down but he was getting better everyday. He was also more and more solid on his feet, capable of having a mostly normal day of moving around in the bunker.
While Sam was getting better under Kevin’s watchful eye, Dean had started bringing Castiel on hunts because, of course, everything was still the same out there. There were still monsters and now there were also angels to look out for. They had been lucky enough not to encounter any of them so far but they knew it would have to happen at some point.
It took eleven weeks for the first angel to make himself known to them. It was late in the evening, Dean and Cas had just come back from a hunt, and they were sitting in the library with Kevin. Even Sam had wanted to get up and join them, arguing he didn’t want to get bedsores.
Then Kevin, ever so helpful, went to get beers for everyone. And a cup of tea for Sam since alcohol didn’t mix well with his meds. So basically, it was a night like any other night.
That was until they heard Kevin’s scream and the bottles he was transporting crash on the floor. There was also a second crashing sound, a different one, most probably caused by Sam’s ceramic mug. Then followed a muffled thump which had to have been the prophet’s own body.
Castiel was the first one to get to their friend, sword in hand. Over Kevin’s lifeless body stood a scrawny stranger, also armed with an angel sword. Expertly and without a second thought, Castiel was able to stab the angel in his chest. While the murderous angel agonized, his grace seeping out of his wound, Dean and Sam collapsed on the floor next to Kevin and desperately tried to wake him up.
“Kevin… Kevin… Kevin,” both brothers were calling to him, to no avail.
“I am so sorry…” Castiel could only say, falling beside them and softly brushing the prophet’s hair away from his burnt eye sockets.
“But… how? How did that angel get in here?” Sam croaked, tears falling down his cheeks.
“Didn’t you ward the bunker, Cas? Tell me you didn’t forget! Please,” Dean pleaded before wiping the tears from his own face.
“No, of course not, but Metatron must have ways… he was clearly able to send the angel here,” Castiel had to admit, his own eyes shining with tears. “I… I should have known… he’s too powerful,” he finally said, unable to keep the tears from spilling.
They stayed on the floor with the prophet, mourning the loss of him, before going outside to erect a pyre. They owed it to the young man to give him a proper hunter’s funeral.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t ask Castiel to pronounce any kind of blessing.
What they did was to retreat inside their own minds and send their personal goodbyes out to their friend. Both as prayers and promises.
They should have known this was only the beginning…