#a prayer

So you do the only thing your body seems to know how to do.

“Cas.”

It comes out as a whisper — broken, unsure — but it’s enough.

The air shifts. A low hum fills the room, warm and soft, and then he’s there. The familiar flutter of wings fading into silence as he steps closer.

“Y/N?” His voice is quiet, careful, threaded with that deep calm that always finds you no matter how far gone you are. “What happened?”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. You’re still half in the dream, the edges of it clinging like smoke.

“Bad dream,” you manage finally. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Call for me?” He tilts his head. “You always can.”

He says it like a promise. Like the kind of truth that could hold the world together if it had to.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your face. “It was stupid.”

“Nightmares are never stupid.” He kneels beside the bed, trench coat brushing the floor, blue eyes catching the dim lamplight. “You were frightened.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You always make it sound so simple.”

He studies you for a long moment, then reaches out — hesitant, waiting for permission. When you don’t pull away, his fingers brush your temple, a quiet hum of grace steadying your pulse. The warmth sinks deep, washing away the last of the fear.

Your breath stutters. “How do you do that?”

“Grace responds to need,” he says softly. “And you called my name.”

You smile faintly, even as your eyes sting. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

He tilts his head again, like he’s listening to something distant. “You’ve done it before. In your sleep.”

You blink. “What?”

“Sometimes,” he says gently, “when you dream, you whisper my name. I come, but you’re always safe. So I stay unseen.”

There’s something so heartbreakingly tender in the way he says it that your throat closes up. “You— you come every time?”

“Every time,” he says simply. “I will always answer when you call.”

You look at him then — really look. The exhaustion under his eyes, the faint glow of his grace pulsing behind the vessel’s stillness. He’s been fighting wars for longer than you’ve been alive, and still, he comes when you whisper his name in the dark.

You reach for his hand. His fingers are warm — impossibly, humanly warm — when they close around yours.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He squeezes your hand lightly. “You don’t need to thank me. You’re—” He hesitates, searching for the word. “Important to me.”

Your heart stumbles at that. “You mean that?”

“I wouldn’t lie,” he says, and you know it’s true.

Silence settles again, but this time it’s gentle — the kind of quiet that feels safe. You shift under the blanket, tugging him closer. “Will you stay? Just for a bit?”

He nods, slipping off his coat, sitting on the edge of the bed. When you rest your head on his shoulder, he goes still for a moment, then relaxes — his hand coming to rest lightly over yours.

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep watch.”

And when you drift back into dreams, you don’t see blood or monsters this time — only the sound of wings, soft and steady, and the echo of a voice that always answers when you call.