A/N: It all belongs to Kripke...

"Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."

I don't often think Dean is wrong. I recognize that the mix of lingering hero worship and my current state of all-encompassing love affects my ability to criticize, but I'm not stupid. I know he isn't infallible, but usually we end up on the same side of an argument. We may disagree on details, but we're in sync on big-picture stuff. This time, though, I don't know. Suddenly I feel like he's got this wrong. Suddenly this doesn't feel right. Suddenly I believe I am standing in the presence of an angel.

"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

Dean's face is stoic, strong, set, and stern. That face he shows every adversary brave or stupid enough to challenge him. His breathing is even. But his heart. His heart is beating at a pace sure to cause pain. He tried to have faith. He sought out every opportunity, and each time he walked through an open door, he came out more damaged than when he went in. He wanted to have faith. He now doubts the possibility. He knows he has none.

Thunder crashes through the silence created by Castiel's admonishment, and light with no origin shines, bringing with it a shadow. Of wings.

"Wings! Those are wings! Dean, he's got wings!" I grip his arm so tightly that surely it must hurt even him. I'm shaking so hard that he has to hold me up with an arm around my waist. I heard Castiel's words. I believed him. But seeing the wings… How can a person be prepared for that? I wish Bobby would wake up. He needs to see this.

"Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes." Dean's anger at the being with us in this barn only intensifies.

"I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be overwhelming to humans. And so can my real voice. But you already knew that."

"You mean the gas station and the motel? That was you talking?"

The angel nods.

"Buddy, next time lower the volume."

"I was wrong."

Just like that, my awe turns to anger.

"You were wrong?" I shout as I take a step closer to that angel. Dean tightens his grip on me as I vent my fear. "You were wrong?! You could have killed him! You knew after the first time what it did to him. Why'd you go after him again?" The memory of Dean on the floor of the motel, covered in glass, has me seething.

"That was my mistake. Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought, given the chance, he would be one of them." He speaks calmly, that angel, soothingly in an attempt to calm me down. My reaction is panicked, even though we are well after the fact, but why would he bother explaining to me?

Dean picks up on the meaning behind those words and asks, "And what visage are you in now, huh? Holy tax accountant?"

"This?" Castiel muses as he looks himself over. "This is a vessel."

"You're possessing some poor bastard?"

"He's a devout man. He actually prayed for this."

And that is enough to convince Dean. Angel or not, demon or saint, possession is his line. Taking someone over, circumventing the thoughts and desires that belong to the body, the total disregard for the free will of the host: it 's the line Dean can't cross. His mind will not be changed by anything this being says now. Castiel is well and truly suspect.

"Look, pal, I'm not buying what you're selling. So who are you, really?"

"I told you."

"Right. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?"

"Good things do happen, Dean."

And though he clings to me, pulls me close, and squeezes me tightly, he says, "Not in my experience." It breaks my heart. He is always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Confused, the angel looks deeply into Dean's eyes, as if trying to find the answer there. "What's the matter? You don't think you deserve to be saved."

There it is. The crux of the matter. It's why he believed all of John's criticism and accepted every burden he was given. It's why he can't understand why he was returned from Hell. It's why he thought Hell was an acceptable solution in the first place. He could never please John, he had earned whatever horrors haunted him of Hell, better it be him that died rather than Sammy.

He doesn't believe. Least of all in himself.

He can't see that he deserves so much better. He deserves the love I offer, the trust Bobby has in him, the hero's pedestal on which Sam has forever placed him. He can't see himself. If only he could see the man he is through our eyes. And I'm ashamed that I can't make him.

"Why'd you do it?"

"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."

I am afraid of that answer. It seems so unfair. He's worked so hard already, given so much of his young life to the protection of others. But it fills me with pride to know that something bigger than us all understands Dean's worth, even if he refuses that truth himself. I wrap my arms around him, placing my head over his heart, turning my back on Castiel. I know Dean will protect me. The boy in that picture grew to be our protector, our defense against all comers. He was young and happy but already willing to give all he had for us. A man who has the capacity for love that Dean has, surely has room for faith. Until he finds that faith, I'll have enough for us both.

A/N: That's it. I hope you enjoyed reading my take on "Lazraus Rising" as much as I enjoyed writing it.