A/N: This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. There is a more detailed note about it on my profile, 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 is set in the fall, and centers around an encounter between Sam and Uriel, who isn't pleased with how close this "abomination" has been growing to Castiel.

Special note: In terms of 'verse chronology, this story is actually set after "Looking for Love in Las Vegas;" though originally a standalone story, "Las Vegas" has now been edited so that it fits into the Other Guardian 'verse. Also, I apologize for posting so late; this story is meant to be set in early October, not November.

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Epilogue

The pancakes had seemed like a good idea when Sam started. He and Dean had decided to spend a few days holed up in a furnished apartment, which meant a furnished kitchen, although in this case Sam felt like the Craigslist ad had oversold it a little—the kid they were subletting from was vacationing in Belize, and apparently he'd needed all his pots and pans, because the only things Sam had found in the classic particleboard cabinets were a stack of disposable party goods, three spatulas and a cast iron skillet that had definitely passed through the Goodwill a few times. But cooking had still seemed easier than shopping, especially with his left arm locked in a lumpy white cast and bound in a sling.

Everything had blown over, sort of. It had been seven days since all his secrets came crashing down—seven days of Dean grumping about angels and crappy extended-stay motels on the I-80 corridor and occasionally spouting off about what he'd do to Uriel, if the angel ever showed his shoplifted face in their neighborhood again. Seven days of Castiel dropping in every night to check on him and staring right through him with those deep blue eyes, and then easing Sam to sleep with two fingers on his temple, that soft contact as he drifted off enough to keep the nightmares away.

Castiel had explained that he couldn't do anything about the mark or the underlying fracture until Uriel's grace had dissipated, but the fact that Sam's arm looked like he'd been assaulted by someone with a griddle for a hand meant the hospitals were out, too—which was how he and Dean had wound up in the office of a kooky veterinarian who agreed to treat him under the table for the right price. Aesthetics aside, she seemed to have done a fine job on the cast, but it was the first time since he was about six that Sam had been asked not to wiggle too much while I put the plaster on, okay, honey? Dean almost plunged them through a guardrail on the way home and killed them both, he was laughing so hard. Sam reached across to slug him with his good hand, but there wasn't much force behind it. It was good to hear Dean laughing again, even if it was at his expense.

Sam had learned long ago that the domesticity of their living arrangements was inversely proportional to the quality of bar Dean sought out in any given city. Bunking one night in an abandoned subdivision? Maybe he and Sam would hit a bar where the lights were bright enough to tell there was nothing biological on the floor, or just grab a six-pack from the closest 7-11 and stay in for once. Four nights in a furnished apartment, on the other hand? Dean had made a beeline for the seediest bar in the township as soon as Sam gave him the green light.

Sam didn't really mind. It was kind of nice to have a few hours without his brother hovering over his shoulder—or that was what he'd thought, until it was time to forage for food. A nearly expired carton of milk and an unopened box of Bisquik in the upper cabinets made the decision easy; the pancakes themselves, however, were putting up a hell of a fight.

Sam wrinkled his nose as he considered the newest disaster, one seared edge flapping as it hung all the way out over the lip of the pan. He'd made it through the batter stage just fine one-handed, but without a second hand to hold the skillet steady for the flip, all he could manage were blackened Frisbees and half-charred pancake tacos with sloppy, uncooked filling. Dean probably wouldn't have cared, but Sam wasn't that desperate yet.

The whisper of wings at his back spun a white Bisquik whirlwind across the kitchen counter. Something instinctive clenched inside of Sam, his adrenaline racing with the memory of fear and pain that seven days had eased but not erased—then he let out a breath, and forced himself to relax, finding his smile again as he turned to meet solemn blue eyes.

"Hi, Cas."

For seven days, every time he said that name it was like breathing a sigh of relief. He could see it in Castiel, too—a slight softening of his shoulders as the angel stepped forward, studying Sam's face like he was memorizing something for future reference. Sam tried not to let that unnerve him too much.

"Sam," the angel greeted.

Sam had never thought his name was anything special. But he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the way Castiel said it: like it was question and answer, request and offer all at once, like even though eleven thousand new people every year were named the exact same thing, those three letters were sacred somehow when they applied to him. Maybe that was just what happened when an angel said your name. Sam rested his spatula on the edge of the skillet so he could tuck his hair behind his ear. "Hey, um—you want to help me with this? Turns out I could use another hand."

"What are you making?" Castiel asked, moving to stand at Sam's shoulder and peering at the mangled heap of dough in the pan. Sam ducked his head as he scraped it out onto a paper plate with the other rejects.

"Pancakes. Allegedly."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "Those do not look like pancakes, Sam," he said, with all the gravity of a surgeon announcing time of death. His serious expression made Sam laugh—or maybe it was the little thrill he got at the realization that Cas knew enough about pancakes to criticize his technique.

"Like I said, I need help. Here—just hold the skillet, okay?"

Castiel had always been gentle with him. It was one of the things that Sam had noticed first about him, one of so many that made his heart jump a little in his chest—that even though he filleted monsters for a living, even though he was six-four with broad shoulders and Cas was like a supernova in a paper doll, Castiel's hands were always soft when they reached out for him. But the last seven days, Sam could tell the angel was treating him as if he were literally made of glass—even now, steadying the frying pan with a threadbare potholder and standing so close behind him that Sam's back tingled where their electrons were passing back and forth, Castiel had been careful not to touch him. There was a strange tension between them, like something had been cracked and the pieces that once fit so naturally were just a little misshapen now, the edges aligning differently than they had before.

Sam knew that was his fault, mostly. Even though he knew whose hands they were, that those long, pale fingers would never hurt him, he hadn't been able to stop himself from jerking back when Cas was first inspecting the handprint Uriel had left on his arm. For seven days he'd been trying to find the words to explain that it hadn't really had anything to do with Castiel—it was just too much, too fast, with Dean shouting in his ear and Cas looking up at him like he was blaming himself for so much more than a slight fracture and a reminder that, as usual with the supernatural, it was never as simple as good and evil. But he was starting to worry that he'd never feel the soft slide of those hands again, brushing his arm in passing or just resting on his shoulder, knocking him completely out of his skin with the most casual touch. Sam knew he couldn't give that up, no matter what it cost him.

Slowly, one centimeter at a time so that he didn't startle either of them, Sam leaned back until he could feel the warmth of Castiel's chest against his left side, the elbow that poked out of his sling at an awkward angle pressing softly into the folds of the angel's coat. His body heat rippled through Sam like a wave breaking over the shore. He felt Castiel's gaze on his face, searching for something in his expression—Sam kept his eyes resolutely on the skillet as he flipped the latest pancake, his lips quirking up at the perfect circle of golden brown.

He was scraping the last of the batter into a beat-up measuring cup when Castiel spoke.

"Why didn't you call for me, Sam?"

There was no need to ask what the angel meant; the blackness and the pain were right there, hovering at the back of Sam's mind even through the heady scent of pancakes and the haze of warmth up and down his left arm. Sam tipped the measuring cup out over the pan, spinning a slow circle of batter in the center of the skillet.

"Honestly, I don't know, Cas," he said at last, so quietly he wasn't even sure the angel could hear him over the sizzling pan. "I wanted to. I guess I just…didn't want it to have happened."

Castiel shifted against his back; without looking at him Sam could tell he didn't understand, but he let it be, just one more silly human thing that didn't make sense to angels. He was quiet a long time before he replied.

"But you will call for me next time."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, Cas. Promise," he finished, turning his head to catch those striking blue eyes. Castiel stared back at him and Sam could feel that powerful gaze shooting right through him, turning him inside out and inspecting every bone. His breath caught as the angel's fingers ghosted over his back, wondering if Castiel had finally seen his own name inscribed in Sam's heart.

"I can't stay right now," Castiel told him, as his arm fell back to his side. "There are other matters I have to see to. But I will return tomorrow—and finally repair this," he added, resting a soft hand against the white plaster of the cast. Sam felt the last knot inside of him unraveling as he realized for the first time that Cas would fix everything before the cast came off. He had already seen the dark handprint scorched into his flesh for the last time.

For a second he was transfixed by the image of Cas's hand on his forearm, his pale fingers soft against the uneven plaster—the same place as Uriel, an angel like Uriel, another supernova wheeling overhead. Then he dropped the spatula and covered Cas's left hand with his right, and squeezed.

"Thanks, Cas," he said, and hoped the angel could read all the rest of it in his eyes.

Castiel had released him and was already turning away before Sam realized there was something else he wanted to say.

"Hey, Cas?"

Castiel paused, looking back at him over one shoulder, and from the way his body angled into the motion Sam thought he could almost picture the angel's wings protruding from his back, curved around him to accommodate the kitchen ceiling, one of the radials curled higher as if in question. Sam wiped his free hand down his worn-out jeans, his mouth dry with sudden longing to see them for real.

"Um, I told Bobby Dean and I'd stop by for Thanksgiving—a couple weeks from now. You should drop in, too. It's kind of a family thing," he added, almost without meaning to, and then wondered what Cas would understand from that, and whether this screwed-up half biological family was something the angel would want to be a part of even if he did. But Castiel only nodded, his shoulders relaxing, and for just a second Sam almost believed that the watery glow around the angel wasn't the light from the overhead lamp, but the haze of long feathers as Castiel extended his wings, preparing for flight.

"I would like that, Sam," he said, the shadow of a smile touching his lips. Then the angel was gone, and Sam was left in the cheap kitchen with a plastic plate full of drooping pancakes and the crackle of the aging stove, ducking his head though there was no one left to see his smile.

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I hope everyone enjoyed this. Thanks for all the reviews. There's a big holiday story coming up in the Other Guardian 'verse; look for the Thanksgiving story going up in the next few days.