"Gabriel's uhh... he's dead."

It was then, like a blow to the stomach, that Castiel couldn't draw a breath. His intake was impeded by his closing throat, his body betraying him, his chest rising and falling so frequently that it threatened even the angel's homeostasis. Each gasp was accompanied by inhuman sounds, strangled tones and wheezes. Was he dying? He didn't know what was wrong with his vessel, only that he could not continue this way for much longer. His eyes were watering from the pain and something was squeezing him, not only the ligature of his own throat or the burning of his chest but a vice-like grip on his shoulders. What glassy, bokeh shapes he could discern were constantly moving back and forth. Sound was muffled into soothing dips and bends, though a hint of strain followed suit; this single reverberating voice penetrated his fading conscience. As if he were in a lightless, expansive cavern, the voice echoed, distant yet deafening, forcing him to focus with its quiet commanding yet gentle gestures. What was it saying?

The voice grew in a crescendo of clarity with each drawn-out tone, a swell of indecipherable, augmented sound, like he figured Enochian must have sounded to the mortal brothers. "..aaa... Caaaaas... Casss... Cas!"

He sucked in an air of breath, the clutch of his throat releasing. Within two seconds, his eyes had been brought into focus. Dean was not two inches away from him, roughly shaking his shoulders, a rare crack in his wall of emotional repression to reveal concern.

"Cas! Are you with me?" He looked into his eyes expectantly, the eyes which just a moment before has ceased to glow. It was then Castiel realized that Dean was the one pressing his hands firmly into his shoulders.

His head was swimming, as if he had just sustained a serious injury, and his knees were shaking. Castiel wondered briefly if this was one of those trick questions that didn't require an answer. Just in case, he nodded, briefly making eye contact with the seasoned hunter.

But before Dean could say anything else, he grabbed Castiel, whose knees had buckled as he withered to the floor. He propped the shocked angel up against the leg of a table and studied his ghostly pale face.

"C'mon, man, you gotta calm down," pleaded Dean, sympathetic and paternal over both his friend's inability to regain control of himself and the fact that he had no idea why this human bodily reaction had occurred. "Here, breath with me." With the grave confidence and patience of a doctor, the hunter took Cas' hand and placed it on his chest, exaggerating the rise and fall for his friend's benefit.

It took three minutes of straight breathing before most of the colour returned to Cas' face.

"Do you want to sit?" He pointed to the chair next to Castiel, who slowly nodded, his eyes fixed to the other corner of the room.

Dean helped him into the chair, Cas sitting on it sideways so his legs weren't under the table. He kneeled next to his angel companion, who was attempting and failing to don his stone-faced, emotionless mask. It may have been the saddest thing Dean had ever witnessed, resonating deep within him to all the times he had done the same.

Then he did something he thought he would never do. He leaned up, still on his knees, and pulled Castiel into a comforting embrace.

"Dean...?" Castiel initiated, his arms straight down at his sides.

"Yes?" He asked, still hugging him.

"What about personal space?" Asked the angel, clueless.

Dean almost laughed, which sounded like a small sob. "Fuck personal space, Cas."

Hesitantly, the angel's hands reciprocated the movement, closing around the bottom of Dean's ribcage.

It was to Dean's surprise that after he went to pull away, Castiel's hands remained where they were, his left hand balled in a fist while the other dug his fingers into Dean's back like an infant would when taken from their parent. His body shook in tiny, spastic motions.

No, Dean thought, this is the saddest thing I've ever witnessed.

His hands returned to Cas' back, lying flat as he rubbed soothing circles into his companion's trenchcoat. "It's okay," Dean lied. "It's okay. I'm here."

Dean reflected back to the first time he told the lie. It was with Sam in the early morning hours after Jess had died. Despite Sam's reluctance, he knew that Dean was right to get the hell away from their house (now a crime scene. How many times had they created crime scenes, ganked a monster and didn't give a rat's ass about who would have to clean it up, or live with those stains under their carpet for the rest of their lives? How was this, looking back, the first time that they had been on the receiving end (and had been old enough to remember it?))

That night, Dean had sat opposite his baby brother on the tired floral comforter of their $60 room in Hawthorne, Nevada, and, for the first time ever, did not know what to say. He just, for the life of him, wanted to see his Sammy smile again. Only six hours after the event and Dean could see his sorrow radiating from him like the smoke of an extinguished candle.

And what did humans do when they wanted something really, really bad? They lied.

Dean patted Cas' back once more, now realizing there was no more grasp on his back.

"Cas...?" addressed Dean, pulling him back. Cas' head lolled forward in what seemed like a peaceful slumber. Dean supposed it was the angel's way of shutting down, a defense mechanism of sorts.

Cautiously, Dean took Cas' right arm and stretched it across his back, his left hand under his side as he lifted the limp body. Dean heard a few mumbles as Cas' head stirred. "Shhh... It's okay, Cas. Go back to sleep," as he kicked the door of Bobby's spare bedroom open.

"Angelssdon'..." Cas slurred before he was deposited onto the squishy futon. Dean draped the elaborate, Middle Eastern throw over Castiel and stood over the angel, smiling slightly.

It would be a tough road, and yet it was a road that he unfortunately knew all too well. With time, Cas would come around, and Dean would be there for him every step of the way, because that's what friends were for.