A/N: This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. There's a detailed note about it on my profile page, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.

This story follows "A Change in the Weather," but it's not necessary to read that story first.

Special Note: One challenge of adding a "gap year" between Dean being raised from Hell and most of the events of Season 4 was getting in a few important canon events in a new way. This story surrounds/follows Dean finding out about Sam exorcising demons with his mind while he was in Hell, but since in this 'verse it isn't Castiel but Uriel who tells Dean what Sam was doing with Ruby, we needed a different story to explore that. This story is much darker than the last couple, with equal focus on Sam and Dean and Sam and Castiel.

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Sam leaned against the Impala, resting his arms on the roof over the driver's side door, and considered laying his head down on the slightly warm surface. The car had been parked in the sun for most of the day, and the black paint had managed to soak in a persistent heat, the kind that was highly unpleasant in the summer on the endless roads of Kansas or Oklahoma or anywhere the heat literally rose in waves from the ground, but actually somewhat pleasant in the night air of a Wyoming spring.

Sam was tired, but he kept his head up anyway, his eyes fixed on the bar with the glowing neon sign in the shape of a martini glass, filled with the silhouette of a woman sticking her leg out of the top with an olive on the end of her foot. The place looked like a pretty high level of sleaze even for Dean, and it made Sam doubly glad he had refused his brother's offer to join him for a night out, Sammy! Dean had offered a leery grin, waggling his eyebrows up and down. I'll even let you have our hotel room till morning for whatever you want.

Sam had wanted a shower, and maybe a carton of juice, or possibly just a nap. Sorry, Dean... He had expected the eye roll from his brother as Dean gathered up his keys and jacket; he hadn't expected the disappointment. It was enough to make Sam bite his lip and reconsider, but in the end he hadn't managed to figure out what he was trying to articulate before Dean said goodnight, Grandma, and left spinning his keys around a particular finger.

Sam smiled, shaking his head. The neon sign above the dive Dean had texted him the address for—in case he changed his mind—was on the fritz, making the woman's whole head blink on and off, which left her decapitated in the martini glass at intervals. Sam glanced at his watch, noting that it was fast approaching midnight and really hoping his brother was planning an early night. He had gotten a pretty early start, after all.

Sam didn't remember much about the drive from Montana to Wyoming. Apparently he'd been in and out, but mostly out, for the duration—the lingering effects of the blood loss, which Castiel had been unable to replace. That had left Sam to work on replacing his blood the old-fashioned way, by chugging buckets of juice that had them making pit stops at every gas mart and McDonalds they passed, not to mention a few bushes and even a YMCA. Dean complained endlessly, of course, suggesting everything from adult diapers to the empty beer bottle rolling on the floor in the back as a solution, but he never once asked Sam to hold it, so the tall hunter knew his brother was still worried.

Sam would have known that anyway, because after the drunken yelling and apologies and hugs, followed as they always seemed to be by puking, Dean had been acting contrite for the last couple of days—which meant, in his brother's case, that they were staying at motels without any mold growing in the bathrooms, pulling over before seven p.m., and eating at restaurants that had actual folding menus and no short-order cooks. And Sam did appreciate it, if only for the reason that he still felt shaky if he walked too far and lightheaded and tired by evening, no matter what he had been doing—which wasn't really a surprise. The best thing for Sam would probably have been a transfusion, oxygen, and fresh frozen plasma, but that was the kind of treatment that required a hospital, which was not only expensive and dangerous, but also left awkward questions like how a person could be suffering from blood loss with no external injuries.

The Snackwell cookies and rest option, on the other hand, was cheap and easy, and Sam had almost felt like himself again, just a little more fatigued than usual. And mostly he and Dean were okay; he hesitated to push it any further than that, but their relationship seemed to be mending right along with Sam's hypovolemia.

Which was why it had been so hard to turn down Dean's genuine offer to go out together tonight—but Sam still felt woozy going up flights of stairs, and hadn't relished the thought of thinning out what blood he had managed to replace with copious amounts of alcohol and then bleeding out from a shaving nick or a hangnail.

The head of the woman in the cocktail blinked out again, and Sam finally succumbed to the urge to lay his own head against the top of the Impala. The thought of Dean out drinking alone for the third night in a row had started to get to him, flipping through channels in the hotel room, which was crowded with so much furniture the beds were barely twelve inches apart. So Sam had dragged up the text message with the address on it and got the front desk to call him a cab.

He had no intention of going in, but maybe he could at least drive Dean back to the room. That had been his thinking during the taxi ride, stumbling through stilted conversation and trying not to get dizzy from the way the streetlamps and shop lights smeared against the dark glass of the windows. Only it had suddenly seemed so early, when he was finally let out of the cab and stood there in the cooling parking lot with the lights of the city blotting out the stars. It wasn't even midnight. Sam couldn't shake the nagging worry that he was about to be one giant buzzkill just when Dean needed to blow off steam the most.

He wouldn't actually go home with a girl—not while Sam was so far from one hundred percent. His brother was now on high alert with his phone, too, picking up before the first ring had even finished when Sam had called him during an his errand run earlier to remind him to pick up extra water.

So now Sam was stuck—because part of him just wanted to call the cab and go back, but another part of him, a tenacious part he expected was the cause of a lot of his problems, refused to be budged. Dean had done a lot for him in the last few days, and if the increasing volume of his alcohol consumption was anything to go by, he wasn't coping with things nearly as well as he was pretending. The tall hunter shifted his weight, feeling the slightly uncomfortable tightness around his left foot that reminded him he had reason to be worried.

The door to the bar swung open and Sam's head perked up, but only a drunken pair of business men stumbled out, their ties loose and their jackets tucked under their arms as they leaned against each other, weaving toward the other end of the lot. Sam let his head sink down again, and his eyes flickered briefly to the gritty asphalt, wishing he could sit down. As he'd walked the rows, searching for the Impala, he had spotted something on the ground that looked suspiciously like a used condom, though, and Sam had the feeling that in the daylight he would feel like he needed a shower just standing in this lot, so he stayed where he was.

At some point he would call Dean, tell him he'd come to pick him up, make sure he made it home. He hadn't understood all of the apologies and accusations his brother had hurled in rapid succession through drunken tears, but he had gotten the sense that it had all started with Dean too drunk to find his way back.

And that had brought back memories—mostly of the look on Dean's face as a teenager, when he would pick up the phone and just listen with a darkening expression, saying nothing, before locking Sam in his room and leaving with tense shoulders. Because sometimes bartenders had the good sense to confiscate John Winchester's keys, and sometimes he ended up in the drunk tank in small towns, and sometimes he was just sleeping on a park bench somewhere. And he never remembered any of it later.

But that wasn't where he and Dean were headed. A slight ache in Sam's foot sent a jolt through him as he put all his weight on his left side, reminding him with a wince why he was doing this. He just wished he had a spare key to the car. It wouldn't be so bad to wait inside the impala for...what, exactly? Sam wasn't sure anymore—the right time, maybe.

The parking lot was cool, but not cold, and Sam was more than warm enough in his brown coat. There was a faint buzz from the enormous neon sign, but other than that the night was still and quiet, and so the rustle of feathers and the familiar flutter of wings was unmistakable. The martini sign blinked completely off for a moment with a crackle, and then Castiel's back was right in front of Sam, his trench coat flapping as the angel turned around. Sam's head lifted off of the car.

"Cas," he breathed, meeting blue eyes that fixed on him. The angel had a slight frown on his face as he looked Sam up and down critically, and the tall hunter felt a soft smile slipping onto his face. "Checking me out, huh, Cas?" he said quietly. Castiel blinked, not getting the joke.

"Your body is not completely restored yet, Sam," he said. His dark eyes moved away, scanning the empty parking lot and the sign and focusing on the bar so hard Sam wondered if maybe the angel could see Dean right through the walls. Somehow, he didn't want that.

"Cas," Sam repeated, drawing the angel's attention back to him. "You came at the perfect time. Could you get us into the Impala—I mean, without breaking it?" He waved his hands over the locked car, and tried to give Cas a hopeful smile.

He wasn't sure how well he succeeded, judging by the way the frown lines only grew more severe on the angel's face, but Castiel turned to study the car for a moment, and then closed the distance between them in two steps and reached out toward Sam. There was the familiar rush of movement, and then suddenly Sam was cramped, his body pinched in an awkward position. As the white spots cleared from his eyes, he realized that he was crushed partway into the steering wheel, with his legs extended awkwardly into the gas and brake pedal and his neck bent at an bad angle—but technically he was in the Impala.

Sam shook away his disorientation, uncurling until he could sit comfortably, and looking over to Castiel who was now seated stiffly in the passenger seat beside him. Sam couldn't say he really understood all of the angel's expressions yet, but this one seemed gentler than most, and a shiver ran through him at the thought of the last time he had seen the angel—their half-remembered conversation that sounded more like water than words in his head, and the warmth that had overtaken him, and mostly Castiel, kneeling with him, a warm, solid presence—the most solid thing Sam had ever held onto.

Castiel caught him looking, and turned to face him. "Hello, Sam," he said solemnly—the greeting he always seemed to practice now, although sometimes, like in this case, rather belatedly. Sam smiled.

"Hey, Cas," he responded. He already felt better just being able to sit down. "I'm just waiting for Dean." Castiel's brow contorted, and Sam suddenly felt the need to justify, for his brother's sake or his own, he wasn't sure. "He doesn't know I'm here—I came by myself. I'm just…waiting." The repeated word hung clumsily in the air, and Sam shifted, self-conscious under those piercing blue eyes, but after a long moment the angel just turned his stare on the bar again.

"You should be resting, Sam."

Cas's voice was always soft—just one more way he was holding back for their sakes, probably—but somehow it sounded different tonight, more careful. More worried. Sam wondered what an angel would have to be worried about. Without thought, he found his hands had drifted up to rest on the steering wheel; he didn't even have the keys, but the position was almost instinct.

"That's why I'm lucky you showed up," Sam said finally, relaxing his weight back against the wide seat. "Now I can rest—in the Impala. Thanks." He shot the angel another smile, and while the strange look Sam couldn't quite place remained on the other man's face, his frown lines finally smoothed out.

Staring back into those tireless eyes, so deep and focused they always made Sam feel like someone was looking straight into his soul and examining it one inch at a time, Sam suddenly couldn't remember whether he'd ever thanked Castiel, in the midst of his haze. He remembered the blood, the apologies, the feeling of his body being lifted into arms that didn't even bend under his weight, but he couldn't remember thank you. Sam's hands tightened around the wheel, tracing the soft pebbles of the worn leather with his fingertips.

"You know, you saved me, Cas." Sam left his hands locked around the wheel, because he wasn't sure exactly what would happen if he let go. All the same his head tipped toward Castiel, something in him craving that warmth and steadiness again. In the long silence he watched a tiny crease blossom on Cas's brow.

"You were not in any particular danger outside of the vehicle," the angel said slowly. Sam exhaled into a sigh that was somehow exasperated and familiar, and rolled his head back against the seat until he was staring up at the roof of the car, the threads of the black upholstery glinting in the night lights.

"I meant when you saved my life," Sam amended, a little smile tugging at his lips. "No one else could have done what you did for me. I just…thank you." He shifted just a little, just far enough to catch Castiel out of the corner of his eye, but the movement scared his left shoe against the brake pedal and Sam couldn't fight a small wince as pain echoed up from the sole of his foot. Castiel's hand was suddenly on his arm, the grip surprisingly tight.

"Sam?" the angel asked. Sam looked back over at him, forcing another quick smile.

"It's nothing, Cas," he said. "Just a little cut I got tripping over something. Clumsy, right?" Sam let his hands fall away from the steering wheel, leaning forward awkwardly in the small space to pull off his shoe.

Nothing he'd said to the angel had been a lie. And really, as soon as the side of his shoe wasn't rubbing against the bandage, Sam knew he would forget the injury was even there.

He could feel Castiel's eyes on his white sock as he pushed the brown shoe away with his other foot. There was a slight lump under the material, where a thick bandage covered a thin cut that ran up Sam's foot from the soft center of his sole to the hard bone of his ankle. It wasn't deep at all, and it had stopped bleeding before Sam had even limped into the bathroom the night before.

It was so dark in the Impala that Sam wasn't even sure what Castiel could possibly be looking at so intently. But something in the angel's gaze as his eyes met Sam's once more said he knew something. Or just suspected something, maybe. Sam sighed and pushed a hand back through his hair.

"It was just an accident, Cas," he said, feeling suddenly weary again.

Dean had been out late somewhere the night before; Sam had sacked out early, collapsing on his double bed with the drone of the TV still buzzing in the background. He'd been so deeply asleep he hadn't heard his brother come back in the early hours of the morning, apparently tottering and juggling a beer and a small bottle of complimentary something from the hotel room of wherever he'd been. Then Dean must have passed out.

Sam only knew Dean had been carrying these things because when he had stumbled out of bed sweating and shaking, struggling to turn off the too-loud infomercials, something had bitten into his foot, surprising a gasp out of him in the complete darkness and sending him lurching toward the bathroom to guzzle down water from the sink. He'd honestly thought it was the nightmare at first, and his sleep-addled brain had been utterly thrown by the stinging line of red his foot left against the white tiles.

It was a shallow but painful cut, from a piece of glass, a shard from the bottles that had broken against each other or the TV stand or something else entirely. After bandaging his foot, the tall hunter had flicked the light on to reveal the scene: the glass, the stain of alcohol on the reddish-brown carpet, his brother facedown on top of the duvet, with one muddy shoe hanging over the side. Sam had cleaned up—the room and his brother. Dean hadn't remembered anything in the morning, and Sam couldn't seem to find a way to tell him.

Such a long silence had hung in the car that Sam was sure if it had been anyone but Castiel, the other person would have left by now—given up on him. Cas was still just sitting there, his soft eyes fixed on Sam.

"I can return you to your hotel," he said, when Sam looked up at him again. The angel lifted his hand and let his fingers hover beside Sam's temples, but he made no attempt to complete the motion, obviously waiting for an answer.

Sam looked away, staring at the headless woman in the cocktail glass, waiting for her head to blink back on. His hands curled around the wheel again, and he imagined for just a moment what it would be like to drive away like this, just him and Cas. His heart leapt a little strangely in his chest. In the distance, the door to the bar banged open again. A whole stream of younger men spilled out in a dissonance of shouts and laughter, but none of them were Dean.

"Maybe just stay with me instead?" Sam found himself asking as he turned to Castiel once more, something magnetic and inevitable in the way their eyes came back together. "Just for a while?"

Castiel tipped his head slightly, that little motion that always made Sam want to smile because it was half confused and half assent and most of all because it meant Castiel was looking right at him, and there was something in him that sort of wanted that. Maybe more than he should. "I will not leave you, Sam," the angel said, and Sam ducked his head, remembering those words all too clearly from another time and place, disoriented and shaky in snarled sheets—the words that had made him feel, for a second, like maybe angels were watching over him, too. He tightened his hands around the steering wheel.

"Yeah. I mean…thanks, Cas."

Cas gave a slow nod, his hand settling in the space between them on the seat, and Sam surrendered his weight to the familiar seat, feeling a little lighter, a little safer, and maybe a little happier. He kept his hands on the rim even as he felt his eyelids getting heavy, the world fuzzier every time he blinked, and the feeling made him smile—because Sam had a feeling he would fall asleep like this, but he thought maybe he would have a different kind of dream tonight, one without shadows or ringing phones or blood. Maybe a sunny road with an angel in the passenger seat.

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Thanks, everyone, for reading this story. This chapter marks the end of "Blood and Broken Glass"; the next story in the Other Guardian 'verse, "What the Heart Wants," will appear soon. Thanks for all the reviews and encouragement.