The house shifted against the wind, deflating onto the soil with a hefty sigh. It whined under the wear of the weather, successfully startling Dean Winchester into consciousness for the fourth time that night. Like the three times before it, when he opened his eyes, his bedroom was lit only by the dulled glow of street lamps outside. His gaze shifted from the empty chair in front of his desk to the digital clock on his bedside table. Red numbers blared 05:43.

He flipped over on his back just as the wind howled again. It created the same horror movie sound effects that woke him up in the first place. This time Dean settled along with the house, sinking deep into the soft memory foam underneath him. Slowly, he allowed his eyes to fall shut.

For the fourth time that night, Dean was able to convince his brain to shut down and fall asleep. But for the first time that night, the floorboards just outside of his bedroom creaked, groaning under a heavy pressure. Shoe-clad feet scuffled down the stairs.

He urged his eyes back open to peer through the bedroom door. There were no lights shining up from downstairs. The house was smothered in darkness. Still and silent. He blinked once... twice... five times until deciding that there was no way he could keep his eyes open. They were stinging in his sockets; throbbing with every beat of his heart.

Dean gave in. He shut his eyes and turned his back to the doorway, letting exhaustion take over from there. He figured that the noise had probably just been Sammy going out for his early morning run. The guy was a freak that way. And with that thought, he was able to lull himself into a sense of security.

All was calm for about twenty seconds.

Adrenaline threw Dean out of his bed, stuck a shotgun in his hand, and shoved him to the stairs, reminding him that Sam's gone you idjit. Don't you remember him leaving for law school just the other day? And he's too busy listening for movement downstairs to wonder why his adrenaline fueled conscience sounds a lot like his surrogate father, Bobby.

He wasn't sure how much time passed, but his skipping heart started to walk again and his breathing had evened itself out, and by then he was ninety-nine percent sure that he just missed his baby brother too much for his own good. Carefully, without making much noise or turning the light on, Dean crept down to the first floor. The wood was ice against the pads of his feet, and it was hard to avoid the squeak that went along with every other stair (the condominium itself is old), but he managed to keep it at a low volume. Even if he wanted to get down there as quickly as possible.

At the bottom of the steps, his toes sunk into carpeted floors. For a moment he stayed standing between the wall and staircase, gliding his eyes through the entirety of the bottom floor. It would be hard for anyone to hide down there; it was an open-concept area with little furniture and a half bathroom. Regardless, there was no way he was about to go back to bed when there was still potential for being murdered in his sleep.

With both hands clutching the gun, he searched the downstairs area three times. He checked the hall closet, kitchen/dining room, living room, behind the couch, behind the television, the bathroom, his tiny backyard... No one was there. He realized it couldn't have been someone in his house. There was no way they passed him and ran back up the stairs while he was still looking around. So then his mind jumped to ghost, and for a few seconds he wondered if there were any other supernatural beings it could have been.

He stood there for a while, in the middle of the hallway with his back to the closet, and just thought about the hunting life. A part of him had been glad that he abandoned it for a normal lifestyle... A larger part of him almost missed the whole thing. It was a weird mixture of knowing that being a hunter was a miserable life choice, and not knowing what to do with himself otherwise.

Wind smacked the glass of his windows again, bringing him back into reality. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes, trying to push the drowsiness out of them as he headed back for the stairs. He wiped his face and let his hand fall back to his side, climbing the steps.

The second story was just as dark and quiet as he'd left it. His body slacked as he trudged toward his room. He was physically drained but mentally alert, and all he really wanted to do was go back to bed. Although he doubted ten more minutes of sleep was going to do him much good.

He entered his bedroom, gun hanging loosely from his right hand. The unnatural lighting from outside illuminated bits and pieces of his room. He looked toward the comfort of his mattress, only to have something catch his eye at the foot of his bed.

Black dress shoes, black slacks, tan trench coat...

In an instant, Dean lifted the gun to point at the shadowy figure of a man. This stranger – this perpetrator – didn't even flinch at the sight of his weapon. He just stood there, unmoving.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean's voice was embarrassingly hoarse from sleep. He tried to sound intimidating nonetheless.

But the man wasn't perturbed by his attempted forcefulness. Instead of fidgeting or showing any signs of fear, this guy actually took a damn step toward him.

"My name is Castiel," the man said.

From what he could see, Castiel's hair was a dark, lopsided mess on the top of his head. With the room unlit, his stubble looked thicker, more coarse than it actually was. The coat and suit he was wearing looked expensive, albeit wrinkled and unwashed, and his tie – the color of which he couldn't quite tell because of such dull lighting – was crooked. It only added to the disheveled look he had going on,which bordered between creepy and straight up hot.

"Well that solves everything," Dean said wryly. "Welcome to my humble abode, Castiel."

"Thank you."

Dean raised his eyebrows, his steady hold on the gun faltering while his arms dipped downward. "That was..." he trailed off, and then shook his head. His eyes narrowed, aiming the barrel back to the middle of Castiel's chest, his forefinger pointing forward rather than resting on the trigger. "All right, so what's Amelia Bedelia doing standing in the middle of my room like some creep?"

Castiel tilted his head. "My name is Castiel," he repeated.

"I get that. It's just a..." He lifted his gaze up to Castiel's face, and they make eye contact through the suddenly unwelcome, inky atmosphere of Dean's bedroom. "Never mind," he said. "Why'd you break into my house?"

Castiel squinted at him as if Dean were some newly discovered species that no one's ever seen before. "You really don't know why I'm here?"

"Sorry," Dean scoffed. "Did we have some sort of appointment? A meeting I wasn't aware of?"

"Yes." Castiel took another step forward.

Dean's finger came to rest on the trigger. "Whoa there, buddy," he said, tightening his grip. "Don't come any closer. In fact, why don't you get out 'fore I shoot you?"

Castiel froze, seemingly unsure of what he wanted to do. "We..." He narrowed his eyes, "have a long overdue meeting." Ducking his head slightly, Castiel didn't even glance over at the gun. "When you first prayed to me, nothing had been going right."

"Hold up – I didn't quite catch that." Dean threw mental daggers at the man through his glare. "Prayed?"

Castiel nodded his head, apparently unaware of the mix of confusion and hatred seeping through Dean's skin. "Eleven years ago you prayed for someone to help you with your younger brother." He looked away from him, scanning the rest of the room. After taking a moment to himself, he looked back at Dean. "I am here now to fulfill your wishes."

"Get the hell out of here," Dean said. "That never happened."

"Yes it did," he stated. "You were sixteen. It was just after your father went on another hunting trip."

Dean frowned, his glare losing a little bit of its hostility. He looked more suspicious than angry by that point. "How do you know about that?"

"I am an Angel of the Lord," he told him. "God sent me to help you. I apologize for coming so late."

Dean eyed Castiel, looking him up and down before his gaze locked back onto his chest. He pulled the trigger.

Shoot first, ask questions later. Safety is more important than curiosity.

But Castiel was completely unharmed. The son of a bitch didn't even stumble backwards upon impact. He just stood there with his stupid furrowed eyebrows, staring at Dean with those stupidly intense eyes, taking a bullet through the chest as if it were a tap on the shoulder.

This angel stepped closer to Dean, who replaced his gun with the Demon-Killing knife that sat idly at his desk. Castiel advanced on him, stopping the second that Dean plunged the knife into where his heart should have been.

Steadily, he moved his gaze from Dean's eyes down to the handle of the blade. He stared at it a moment, then reached his hand up and wiggled it out of his vessel. It dropped to the floor, and Castiel's eyes – which Dean could now tell were blue – connected with his own.

He stumbled back, having to catch himself on the door frame because this guy just pulled a knife out of his chest like he was peeling off a fucking sticker.

"What are you?"

Castiel narrowed his eyes. "I told you," he said. "I'm an Angel."

"There's no such thing."

Castiel lifted his chin, staring at him with an unreadable expression. "This is your problem, Dean." He ducked his head back down, still watching him with an intensity that Dean didn't think he'd ever be able to forget. "You've lost all your faith."

A lump had formed in Dean's throat, and he forced it down, trying to get a hold of himself. "Well," he started out, pausing to wet his lips. "When it takes eleven freaking years for an angel to respond, tends to make a guy reconsider his beliefs." He clenched and relaxed his fists. Clench, relax. Clench, relax. He finally settled on crossing his arms over his chest.

"For that I apologize," Castiel said. He bowed his head, looking to the floor for something unseen. Then he raised his chin again – a little less condescending this time – to stare directly at Dean. "Heaven wasn't stable at the time of your prayer. But things have since calmed down, and I've been given the word to come down here. To help you, Dean."

He shook his head in disbelief. "Help me," he repeated, breathing out a short chuckle. Hesitantly, he uncrossed his arms to rub at his tired eyes, and then looked back at Castiel. "I don't need help," he said, shaking his hands for emphasis. "That was eleven years ago. I'm not even sure I really know what you're talking about when you said I prayed. That's – it's just weird." He ran his hands down his face. "And Sam's in law school now. So you can just go sprout your little wings and head on back to your golden cloud. Learn a couple new songs on your harp or something, alright? I don't need you."

Castiel didn't move. He just stood there, staring at Dean with unwavering eyes... It didn't even look like the guy was breathing. He resembled a wax sculpture.

One very long minute passed by before Dean raised his eyebrows. "Well?"

"I..." Castiel paused, taking a moment to just look into Dean's eyes again. He tightened his jaw then, somehow looking more confident than before. "I can't leave."

"What do you mean you can't leave?"

"Just as I said. "

"The door's downstairs. You have legs. Walk down there, open the door, and step out. I'll even escort you."

Castiel shook his head in defiance.

Dean rubbed his jaw, fingers gliding over the stubble on his own chin. He drew his eyebrows in, creating creases in his forehead. "What, is there some invisible force field around my house now?"

"Before I am allowed to leave your side," he said, "I must fulfill a wish of yours. I have failed to give you what you initially wanted, and now I must repay you."

This time it was Dean's turn to shake his head. He walked across the room, pushing past Castiel, to sit at the edge of his bed. His eyes flickered over to his clock. "I don't have any wishes," he said, rubbing at his forehead.

"There must be something," the angel said. He turned to look down at Dean. "I wouldn't be here if you desired nothing."

Wearily, Dean looked up at him. "Dude, I'm not going to talk about this mushy kind of crap with you," he said. "So Daddy won't let you back home until you've done something useful, that's your problem. Buy him a '#1 Dad' mug. Go talk it out with him. Hell, try and bribe him to get back into Heaven – I don't care. Just get out of my house."

"I can't."

"Sure you can."

Castiel walked closer to the bed, stopping an inch away from Dean's sitting figure. Their eyes met.

"You don't understand," Castiel told him. "God has stepped down from his throne. He no longer claims authority over whether or not I am allowed back in Heaven unless I do as I was told."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"Heaven..." Castiel closed his mouth, standing quiet for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and spoke again. "Heaven has been in a state of anarchy for a long while now." He looked back down to Dean.

"So, you have no idea where God is?"

Castiel nodded.

Dean narrowed his eyes, rising to his feet. Their noses almost bumped when he steadied himself. Dean opened his mouth, then closed it to lick his lips. "Dude..."

Castiel tilted his head. "Yes?"

"There's this thing that people do out of respect for others," he said, his eyes raking over Castiel's face. "They pretend that there's a bubble around someone, and they're not allowed to go through it, or even so much as touch it."

Castiel squinted at him.

Dean looked back to his eyes. "It's called personal space, and right now you're invading mine."

Castiel still looked confused. He stood there for a couple seconds longer, and then turned his eyes to the floor. "I understand." He stepped back a couple of paces, allowing him to breathe again.

It took Dean a moment to regain his composure, but then he crossed his arms over his chest and let out a heavy sigh. "Alright," he said, "how do you know that God is... Well, still alive?"

Castiel raised his eyes. "Trust me," he said. "If He ceased to exist, we'd all know."

"Right," Dean scoffed. "What was I thinking?"

"You don't believe in God."

A very sudden noise interrupted Dean just as he was about to respond. Instruments clashed about, and words strung together to create the chorus of 'Rag Doll.'' For a moment, Dean just stood there. He just watched Castiel watch him until he couldn't take it anymore. He momentarily shut his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. When he opened them again, Castiel had tilted his head and narrowed his eyes.

"You do not like this band," Castiel stated.

Dean furrowed his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"Or is it just this song in particular you are not fond of?"

He uncrossed his arms, giving Castiel an odd look before going over to the radio to shut it off. "They're no Zeppelin..." he said in a slow, careful voice. "But they're okay." He turned back to him, narrowing his eyes. "You could tell that by watching me stand there?"

"Well, I've noted that humans tend to show their thoughts through body language," Castiel explained. Dean pointedly raised his eyebrows. Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line, watching him a moment. "I am also able to discern what it is that you're thinking," he admitted.

"Should've seen that one coming," Dean muttered, walking over to his closet. He grabbed his Biggerson's T-shirt off the hanger, picking up a pair of jeans that he had left on the floor the other day. All the while he could feel Castiel's eyes on him. "Man," he said, turning to him, "get outta here."

Castiel frowned. "I have nowhere to go."

The clothes in Dean's hands wrinkled and twisted under his clenched fists. He had been, for the most part, content with the life he lived beforehand. Giving up the hunt was never easy; certain things follow you until after your death, haunting you until the moment you completely fade away. But Dean had managed it. Right up until the point it pushed itself into his life again.

Dean turned away from him. What could he say that would make this guy leave already? Nothing, as far as he could come up with.

Castiel followed Dean out of his bedroom, into the dark hallway. He stepped into the bathroom. Castiel was standing under the door frame when he turned around to shut it. He raised his eyebrows at the angel, who responded by taking a step back.

Unable to resist the urge to roll his eyes, Dean slammed the door and turned the lock.

Castiel listened to the squeak of the shower knob turning. He listened to the water thud against tile and flesh, tumbling down by the handful. He stood there as the sound of flying water droplets ceased and heard the scratch of metal against metal as Dean ripped the towel from the curtain rail and then pushed the curtains aside. He heard rustling, shifting, and then the faucet being turned on.

After Dean had finished brushing his teeth, he felt more prepared than anything. Refreshed was what he wanted to feel, but not exactly what he got. He turned to the door, inhaling deeply, and unlocked it.

Sure enough, when he pulled it open, Castiel was standing exactly where he had left him. The guy probably hadn't even moved a centimeter. Dean raised his eyebrows at him, causing the angel to reluctantly step aside. He pushed past him and headed for the staircase.On the first floor he nearly bumped into the angel, who seemed to materialize from thin air. So he could read minds and teleport. Fan-freaking-tastic.

Dean had to take a step back to get away from their uncomfortable proximity. He huffed at him. "Dude."

"Where are you going?"

Narrowing his eyes, Dean walked around him. He paused at the dining room table to grab his phone, wallet, and keys. "To work," he said as he slipped them into his pocket.

"I'll go with you," Castiel suggested, stepping up to him.

"No." Dean faced Castiel, who had stopped immediately after hearing Dean's voice. He shook his head, pointing at the angel. "You are not coming to work with me." Then he made a vague gesture towards Castiel's attire. "Especially not in your torn up suit!"

Castiel looked down at himself. "I can fix that."

"What?" Dean blinked and suddenly the outfit was free of any bullet wounds or blade tears. He shook his head. "The answer's still no."

"What do you suppose I do then?"

"I don't know, man – maybe you could try going home?" He grabbed the pair of socks and shoes that stood by the front door. He sat down on the couch to pull them on.

Castiel frowned. He followed him into the living room and stood stiff by the sofa. "I can't leave until I've-"

"Granted my wish. Yeah, I got that, Genie." Dean looked up while tying his shoes. "So, what if my wish now is to get rid of you?" He stood up. "Oh well, sounds like you need to leave. And so do I. Nice meeting you, hope to see you soon."

"No you don't."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Goodbye, Castiel."

The door whacked shut on his way out.