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"That's not what it looks like," Castiel stated flatly as he studied the flicker of starlight ad clouds floating in the night sky.
"No?" Dean asked sarcastically, sprawling over the cheesy motel bed of the week. "Lemme guess, not enough fluffy clouds and harps?"
The angel rolled his sky blue eyes, the same shade as the heavens he came from, in a not-at-all playful manner.
"Cas, sorry man." The elder Winchester sighed. "You miss it."
Sad crystal eyes turned to Dean, but Castiel didn't speak.
In the silence that passed between them so much was said. Both man and angel keenly aware that there was no going back, no grand return for prodigal sons- alone and together they had seen and felt too much.
Flashes of fire, blood, and screams of agony assaulted Dean's memory and he fumbled for the ever present flask that was now a seemingly permanent part of his wardrobe.
A gentle hand covered the mortal's, "You don't need that."
"Yeah, Cas, I do," pain and recrimination poured off Dean and through his words.
"God knows His plan, Dean. The War is written and for good or ill, you were chosen to lead it." Castiel's voice was gruff like sandpaper on gravel, yet the soft undertones and smooth flow spoke of hope, truth, and belonging. "Have faith, Dean, as we have faith in you," with those words Castiel touched two fingers to their champion's temple.
A calm like Dean had never known enveloped him, and for the first time since his mother's death, Dean Winchester truly relaxed.
"What are you doing?" Dean breathed, his own voice husky in his intensely relaxed state.
"Giving you something I shouldn't."
Dean revelled in the peace his angel offered. "Then why?"
"You need it- I needed... wanted to give it to you."
The mortal managed a questioning look.
"It won't last," Castiel informed him, rubbing his fingers over the man's brow sending Dean into a restful sleep. "Sleep now Dean Winchester," he bent forward placing a chaste kiss on his charge's forehead, "you deserve some peace."