The cold seeped up Dean's legs and into every inch of his body as he kneeled on the ground. He had collapsed there with a sob of grief that could rival those of the angels as they watched their brethren fall. He could still feel the warmth of body heat in Cas' trenchcoat from before he had fallen.

Sloppy tears ran down his cheeks, leaving terrible streak marks. He didn't care, for it only put an image to the pain overtaking him.

"No...please, no." Dean muttured, gripping the tan lapels of the familiar jacket adorning his best friend.

"You can't. You can't leave me like this. Not after so long. Not before I could tell you... Cas, you've gotta come back. You mean too much...to me. C'mon, man..." he pleaded, resting his aching head on the angel's chest.

Silence surrounded the pair for what seemed to be an eternity. Dean had been compromised by his grief, heaving sobs wracking his body over and over. It got the the point that he made himself sick, pulling himself across the ground a couple of feet to get it out. It didn't take long for him to find his way back to Cas' body.

Eventually Sam came back to him, resting a large hand on his shoulder.

"We need to go, Dean." his brother said softly.

Dean shook his head, unable to look up.

"Please, Dean, let's just go home." Sam said, heart breaking at the terrible sight.

"I can't leave him." Dean replied finally, hands cradling one of Cas'.

"We'll take him home. Give him a hunter's funeral like he deserves." Sam offered, squeezing Dean's shoulder.

"I can't let him go, Sammy. I gotta find a way..."

Sam patted his face one more time, leaving to pull the Impala around where they could gather both of them and leave. He knew it was useless to fight his brother, because he had seen the way they had cared for each other. One look from his brother and he knew that it was going to be a hard journey from there on out.

Sam drove home for the first time in years. The ride was silent.

Cas' bedroom had always been pristinely spotless. He had few personal belongings, all of which were stacked neatly on his bedside table. Besides these few items, nothing differed his room from the rest of the uninhabited ones. The walls were bare, the sheets clean and white.

The only thing that really drew Dean's attention was the picture propped against the lamp. It was one that had been taken a while back of himself and the angel, probably by Claire. It was impromptu, the two smiling at each other shyly like they always did. It sent Dean into another wave of tears.

Gently, Dean rested Cas' body on his bed, unruffling all of his clothes and crossing his arms. It almost looked like he was sleeping.

"Sleep well, buddy."

The following hours were spent alone, surprisingly without alcohol. Dean didn't want to drink away the pain this time; Cas was worth more than that. Instead, he thumbed through the pictures he'd hidden in his nightstand as they accumulated over the years. Most had been snuck in during their peaceful moments, depicting laughter and forgotten conversations. Others were intentional from when Cas had bought a Polaroid. Dean smiled as he remembered how the over-excited angel had run around for the first couple of days snapping photos, making Dean take picture after picture with him. Dean had grumbled then, but those moments had and still meant the world to him.

Stray tears ran down Dean's cheeks and onto the neckline of his shirt. He fell asleep clutching the pictures to his chest, head tucked into his knees on the hard floor.

Two days passed. Sam had checked on Dean several times, forcing him to eat every now and again. He was pretty distraught, too, for he had lost his best friend. Sam imagined that Dean felt the same way that he had when Jess had died. Judging from his brother's state each time he checked in, he was worse.

Dean was heartbroken. He only ate when he had to and distributed his time based on what he was feeling. He had taken out a sudden outburst of rage in the shooting range, demolishing numerous targets. He had tried to sleep it off only to be awoken by painfully vivid nightmares to the point where he wouldn't allow himself to close his eyes. Mostly, however, he had spent his time in the room where Cas was, holding the fallen angel's hand and proclaiming over and over how sorry he was. He cried over the body, professing his love like he thought he should have done years ago. Then again, hindsight is always 20/20.

The third day came painfully quickly, for it was the day that they were going to bury Cas. Sam had finally talked him into it, saying that he at least deserved a proper burial. Dean had agreed, cringing at the thought of putting his best friend, the man he loved, in the ground.

The older Winchester woke sweating that morning, voice hoarse from screaming. His breathing was heavy and, though he was awake, he could still see the images painfully seered into his mind of the burned outline of wings and final cries of pain. He rested his head in his hands, trying to get a grip on himself. He was never supposed to have to do this. Cas was supposed to outlive him by millenia. Dean wasn't supposed to be grieving over the loss of his mother and his angel at the same time, in different ways. He wasn't supposed to be that kind of angry, at least not yet.

It seemed many things weren't supposed to be the way that fate had had it, yet there Dean was with a broken heart because of the way things shouldn't have gone.

It had all happened relatively quickly given the situation, at least that's what he thought. There had been a period of darkness, nothingness almost. Then there had been the all-too-familiar blinding-to-mortals white light flashing before the appearance of an all-too-familiar face. The surroundings were recognizable with green grass and blue skies for miles.

"I don't understand. Why am I here?"

"Lucifer's back, but you already know that. He stabbed you, clean through the chest with an angel blade." Chuck - no, God - answered seriously.

"Am I dead?"

"Technically. Nothing a cosmic Band-Aid can't fix." God said, still straight faced.

He could detect the anger etched into the deity's face.

"What about-"

"They're fine, though shaken and I'd say a little more than pissed. They'll be okay eventually."

"Why am I here?"

"I already explained this. Lucifer. You must stop him." God replied, eyes darkening.

"I-I can try my hardest but - what's happening? The Winchesters must be frantic. How long have I been dead?"

"It's the third and, if everything goes as planned, last day." God explained briefly.

"Why today? Why couldn't you have instantly brought me back? And on an even larger note, why can't you fight Lucifer? It certainly seems within your power to do so. More than that, he's your responsibility. I'm tired of you sending us out to clean up your messes."

"As far as your being deceased, it's all symbolic. Poetic, if you will. That is kind of my style. And Lucifer? You know just as well as I do what our clashing has resulted in in the past. The world can't afford that kind of destruction again."

"The world cannot afford Lucifer's destruction without your input. They need you, Father. We all do now, which brings me back to my original question. Why did you bring me here?"

"To tell you that Lucifer has to be stopped. Spread the word, do whatever you have to, just make sure that he's taken care of. You're going to need help. The blade took your grace. Sam and Dean will be there, I'm sure. Give this to Dean while you're at it. Call it an addition to my poetry."

Before he could squeak out a protest, the darkness was consuming him once again.

Dim light of a familiar lamp met blue eyes as they blinked open. A throbbing sensation - unfamiliar - could be felt in a skull laid under tousled dark hair. More pain and an uncertain soreness was enountered in regions where some didn't know a person could be sore at; nevertheless, the muscles and joints ached.

He raised himself up slowly, groaning quietly at the new pain, still disoriented. His memories were fuzzy. Everything was dark except for a disturbing conversation with God. He was sure it was intended to be that way, to emphasize the moment. The letter God had handed to him was laying on the bedside table. He slipped it into his pocket for when he was reunited with Dean. The actions made it clear just how experienced of a writer his father really was.

As he rose to his feet, he stretched unceremoniously, working out the three day stifness. He noticed that his trenchcoat, jacket, and shoes had been removed, probably by Dean, leaving him in his oversized white button down and slacks. He noticed the dried blood covering most of the battered fabric.

When he raised his arms over his head, he felt a distinct, sharp pain in his shoulder blades. He cried out, immediately retracting the limbs. Slowly, he removed his shirt and moved to the small mirror nailed to the wall. Two gut-wrenching gashes ran from the tips of his shoulders to his mid-back. They were healed, but only just, still raw from the absence of wings. He grimaced, looking away. His father had been right, his grace was gone.

He pushed aside the inevitable hatred that came with the realization and shrugged his shirt back on. Stumbling into the hallway, he ignored the incessant throbbing behind is eyes caused by the lights and headed towards the kitchen. He was almost certain that they would be there for breakfast, and he couldn't push away the feeling of being hungry for the first time in years.

He recognized the familiar frame of the younger Winchester, hunched over a newspaper at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee nearby. He approached him slowly, rounding the front of the table as to not startle him.

"Sam." he said, voice more gravelly than usually and cracking over the single syllable.

Sam's head snapped up, eyes widening and mouth forming an 'O'. He pushed back his chair, pulling out the flask of holy water Dean had impetuously placed there when they first moved in because 'you never know.' Sam splashed the liquid onto the other man's face, waiting for any adverse reactions.

The water splattered over his face. He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face.

"Cas?" Sam asked disbelievingly.

The former angel nodded, bowing his head.

"I'll be damned."

Sam pulled Cas into a bear hug, clapping him on the back quickly before stepping back. He wiped away welling tears, grinning at his revived best friend.

"How? You've been gone for three days and you're just now waking u..." the hunter trailed off, piecing together his words. "Hell, three days, huh?"

"Yes. God - he thinks it's poetic." Cas said, smiling uncomedically.

"God brought you back? He's off the map for this whole fiasco and then pops back up once it's almost over?"

"I know. I confronted him but he claimed it would be too catastrophic for the world if he returned. It sounded like an excuse. That and the fact that he didn't return my grace, though he said it was gone."

"You're grace is gone? I guess that's expected with the angel blade and all that. It doesn't matter. I'm just glad you're back."

"Thank you. What about Dean? Is he alright?" Cas asked concernedly, eager to see him.

"He's been a wreck since you died, man. I've had to force him to eat and, judging from the nightmares, he ain't sleeping much either. He's in his room. I'm sure he'd be over the moon to see you." Sam said grimly at first, thinking of how bad a shape his brother had been in.

The sinking feeling was incomparable to any of the other pain he was feeling. He had done this to Dean.

Cas nodded his gratitude to Sam, steps towards what he felt would be a shaky and uncertain reunion.

Dean was curled on his bed, head buried in his hands still. He wasn't ready to face the inevitable.

A faint knock roused him, causing him to pull his head up.

"Go away, Sam." he said to the door, not wanting the disguised sympathy from his brother.

He heard the knock again and got off the bed, going to open the door. Maybe if he talked to him Sam would leave him be the rest of the morning.

"What, Sammy?" Dean asked as he turned the knob.

His moose of a brother wasn't behind the door. Instead, Dean was met with familiar blue eyes. He instantly reached for his nearby pistol, holding it level with the other man's forehead.

"Who are you and what kind of sick joke is this?" Dean asked harshly, finger inching ever so slightly towards the trigger.

"I'm me, Dean." Cas replied, raising his hands in surrender.

"Yeah? Prove it."

"Sam!" Cas yelled down the hallway, hoping the younger Winchester knew his brother well enough to answer correctly.

"It's really him, Dean! I already tried it all!" Sam shouted back, voice muffled and somewhat amused.

Dean clicked the safety onto the gun, letting it clatter to the floor. He stared at Cas for what felt like ages, drinking in the sight of him being alive.

Before the other man knew what was happening, Dean was pulling him into his room, slamming the door, and embracing him in a hug warmer than he knew he was capable of giving. He held Cas as close to him as he possibly could, resting one hand on his back and the other in his hair. His eyes filled with tears, and he didn't care if he was crying like a child because everything, at least for then, was okay again.  He lost all self-control when Cas gripped him back, and soon Dean was pressing him against the door, crashing their lips together sweetly.

Dean was gentle, hesitant, as they kissed at first, though still overwhelmingly desperate to do what he had told Cas' dead body he should have ages ago.

Cas kissed back each time their lips met, just as eager as Dean though still surprised.

"You're alive." Dean whispered tearfully between kisses. " Oh, thank God you're alive."

Cas laughed, tears of his own remaining unshed.

Dean finally pulled away, resting both of his hands on either side of Cas' face.

"I'm so sorry." he said, hanging his head. "I should've stopped him when I could have."

"You're not to blame for what I did. It doesn't matter now. It's over." Cas said forgivingly, never once laying his blame upon Dean.

"H-How are you here?" Dean asked unbelievably. "I just saw your corpse last night. I knew you were a goner, Cas."

Dean listened intently as Cas explained his conversation with Chuck, never not touching him. When he finished speaking, Dean sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the new information  before pulling Cas into another kiss. He realized how damn close he was to never seeing his angel again.

"God, I love you, Cas." Dean said, lips brushing Cas' as he spoke.

Cas smiled weakly, "I love you, too, Dean."

They stayed in each other's arms for a long time, Dean holding Cas like he was going to lose him again any minute.

He pondered Chuck's words, trying to figure out why he couldn't get off his ass and actually help them for once. It didn't occur to him until later when he asked Cas about the letter he'd been told to give the hunter, that maybe Chuck had helped, just in a different way.

"Hey, Cas?" Dean asked as they made their way to the kitchen for a way-too-late breakfast, hands entertwined.

"Hmm?"

"What about Chuck's letter?"

Cas dug through his pocket, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper.

Dean unfolded it hesitantly, wary of what it said. Much to his surprise, it held few words, all in all caps:

IT'S A GIFT. YOU KEEP THOSE!