A/N : Hello there! As season 13 is on the way, I guess we are all wondering what is going to happen next... It's the first time I write something in that fantastic, clever, rich and unique universe - the writers truly are gifted, and the actors even more.

Well, the only thing I'm sure of is... that it probably won't happen the way I wrote it, but hey! I like to try and guess :).
For the faithful readers that know me from my Hobbit stories, thanks for joining me there as well and no, I haven't forgotten Thorin and plan to go back to him as soon as possible. Norma, if you read this, be deeply thanked for introducing me to Supernatural through one of your reviews :).

The title comes from Simon and Garfunkel's beautiful "Kathy's Song".

There But For The Grace Of You, Go I

1.

It's hard to breathe. It's so freaking hard to breathe.

It hurts his chest and it feel so wrong… It feels wrong because Cas lies there and he doesn't breathe, never really needed to actually, but somehow still did. Which is weird because Cas didn't eat and didn't drink – and all Dean can think of now, as he stares up at the clouded sky, and then back at Cas who's lying there so damn still, is that he forgot to ask why angels still need to breathe, and that now he'll never know.

Something hot runs down his cheek and there's a small choking noise that has to come from his chest. His stupid chest that feels all wrong because Lucifer broke his ribs – Dean wonders briefly if it messed up the Enochian warding Cas carved into them… He kept those chest rays, has them somewhere in the bunker, hidden between stuff. It's something from Cas, after all – something that shows just how much Cas knows, about lore and angels and Heaven and God and protection…

Dean has a weak cough and something salty meets his lips. He wipes them and there's red on his wrist – but Dean cannot bring himself to care, all he can do is stare helplessly at the place the rift used to be. Where Lucifer came out to stab Cas… Where Mom pushed him back in and vanished.

He can still see Crowley, glancing back towards them. Bye, boys. And Cas, running toward Lucifer, angel blade in hand. He can still feel Sam's arms around him, pulling him back, and he remembers screaming no, clutching Sam's arm – feeling so helpless and small and broken.

He still does.

Mom is gone. Cas is dead. There's no way to bring them back.

No Darkness. No Reaper. No God.

And it feels like Dean is choking, like everything he is just hurts – because Cas' eyes are closed and they hardly ever are. The guy barely blinks – just gives you his intense angel stare with that funny tilt of the head, the one that makes him what he is, a little bit aloof, that strange, unique mixture of pure warrior and compassionate savior…

And Dean realizes that yes – he never really believed in God. Not even when he met Him. Especially not then – too small, too selfish, too shallow, too helpless… Way too human.

But Dean believed in Cas.

Always did.

All the things written about Jesus and God, about a Savior who willingly died to save every soul… The only one who truly ever did it for Dean was Cas.

I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.

In Hell.

That's why I ran… To keep them away from you.

In Purgatory.

The things we shared together, they have changed me.

And here on Earth. Countless times.

Dean stares at Cas, at this well-known body that is so much more than a vessel, lying there on the ground, slightly curled up – and that is when he sees them, those dark paintbrushes on Cas' sides, almost looking like leaves, feather-light touches of black… The shadows of Castiel's wings.

And that is when Dean's vision blurs, when his body sags slowly forward, when his hand meets Castiel's shoulder and curls around the still warm skin. That is when Dean chokes for real, when the small, strangled noises he makes die in his chest, when all he can do is weep, quietly, while his shoulders shake and his heart stutters in pain.

"Hey. Dean. Hey..."

The voice is soft. It's Sammy's. Dean would recognize it anywhere. Sam always manages to put so much into the way he says his name. Sometimes it slices Dean open, and it often sounds like an annoyed, half-amused sigh, but this time Sam says it like something very fragile, something that has to be shielded.

Warmth wraps itself around Dean's chest, resting softly on his stomach, pulling him gently from Cas, and Dean thinks Sam's arms, don't Sammy, it hurts my ribs hurt I cannot breathe, but he still ends up propped against Sam's chest, with Sammy's chin pressed gently against his hair.

"Dean..."

Sammy's crying. Dean knows the noises. And usually he'd say something. Do something. Cause Sam doesn't cry easily – lately even less. They barely ever hug, save when Mom's around – and now Mom's gone too. And that's why Dean just sits there, his body limp in Sam's arms, feeling cold and small and useless.

There's something black on his fingertips – it looks like soot. But it's not, it's spread on the hand that clutched Cas' shoulder, and Dean knows it's whatever is left of Cas' wings, and that thought is so unbearable he has to gag, doubling over Sam's arm, and whatever comes out of his mouth is painful and red, leaving him trembling and weak, staring at the ground where his best friend died.

"It's okay. It's okay, Dean, it's okay..."

Sam's hands are gentle as he turns to face Dean, keeping him up, kneeling in front of him, fingers hooked under his armpits – Sam's eyes are red and shining, and full of fear Dean cannot bring himself to feel.

"Just hold on a little more, man, we're going to fix you."

Dean coughs, weakly, and his fingers curl around Sam's flannel because it hurts – and because he doesn't know about the we Sam's mentioning. He doesn't feel like he's whole anymore, doesn't feel really there – I'm tired, Sammy, I'm empty I'm bleeding out I'm so sorry…

"Jack. Please."

Who's Jack ? Dean doesn't know Jack. Now that's a pun that would have made him smile, snigger even. Before this. Because it's true.

And what's also true is that Dean doesn't know that shiny, strange creature that hovers over Sam, suddenly, with gleaming eyes that freak him out, causing Dean to wrap his fingers tighter around Sam's shirt, forcing his beat and battered body to move and shield his baby brother, like he's supposed to, like he always has.

"Hey hey hey, take it easy, Dean, it's okay..."

It's not. It's that freaking Nephilim who caused all this, all grown-up and dangerous and sly – and Dean trembles with the effort it takes him to keep upright, frantically searching the earth for a knife, a blade, anything…

"He's so weak."

The voice is unpleasant. Not loud, but not defined either. There's not an inch of emotion in it, nothing human – the guy is supposed to be half-Archangel after all, and Lucifer's son, so hey…

"He's hurt, Jack. We need your help."

But Jack just raises his eyebrows and that's when his gleaming, nonhuman eyes find Cas. That's when that thin, almost-human-like body tenses and when something close to anger clouds his face, and Dean can feel the power radiating from his bare feet, right through the earth where Dean's still kneeling, sipping through the fabric of his jeans.

"What happened to him ?"

Sam's hands tighten around Dean's waist. He's right behind Dean, and he's not shielded. He's the one wrapping Dean up in his embrace – because Dean is frail and small and useless now, while Sam found the strength to go into that house and find out the creature's name.

"He died. Lucifer stabbed him."

And Sam's voice doesn't waver, but his fingers spread across Dean's stomach and somehow Dean knows Sammy's got him – Sammy knows how much these words hurt and is trying to soften the blow, and Dean wonders why this makes it even harder for him to breathe.

There are small black spots crowding his vision, and Dean's fingers are getting icy. That is why what happens next feels unclear – sound has gone for a few seconds, and Dean thinks he blacked out, because there's a white flash causing him to blink, sinking even further into Sam's arms.

"Dean? Hey..."

Sam's hand palms his forehead, wiping away sweat, and Dean thinks that if this is what Archangel's grace feels like, then it sucks because he still feels weak, with a messed-up chest and a weight in his stomach that makes him want to puke.

"Jack!"

Dean does puke. All over himself – and Sam's hand. It's red and smells of blood. It doesn't hurt, not really, it just feels funny, makes Dean feel strangely light, like he's about to fly, swept up by the wind causing the lake to ripple and the leaves to rustle…

"Dean."

Now that voice cannot be.

That voice was stabbed. That voice is just in Dean's head, like that face is, like that hand is – that hand cradling his face, wiping his lips and chin like he's a small kid… Dean stares at eyes that are as blue and intense as he remembers, and then there are fingers against his forehead, a palm against his chest and a warmth spreading there, cleansing healing appeasing…

And then Dean's eyes roll back, and close, and his body sags against Sam's with a shudder as darkness takes him.