Chapter Text
The sun hung low over a sleepy park, its golden light falling in honeyed streaks through the branches.
The world looked almost sacred in that light, as if Heaven itself were watching. And perhaps it was.
He stood where no eyes could see, cloaked in grace so thick even the wind dared not speak his name.
His trench coat swayed in a breeze that ignored every other man-made object, the wind touched him softly and giggled feeling blessed.
To the passersby, there was nothing unusual, but the grass beneath his feet shimmered slightly—lifting like laughter, like the earth itself recognized its caretaker had returned.
The whole place was a little brighter and happier, the people and kids were certainly more relaxed and stress free than ever and even if they didn't know why or how, they relished in it.
He walked in silence, boots not quite touching the ground, floating slightly above, touching yet not trampling and with every step, daffodils bloomed by hedges that hadn't seen color in weeks.
Birds sang louder. The wind calmed, as though listening. Butterflies touched him softly in thanks and flew to the flowers that had bloomed thanks to him.
Children ran, shrieking with joy, playing tag under the oaks. Care free. At home. Feeling more safe and protected than ever.
One little girl stumbled, her shoelace caught under her foot. Her fall should’ve broken her arm—ruining her day and silencing her laughter.
But as she tumbled forward, an unseen force flicked the edge of her shirt midair—so subtle, so fast—and she landed gently on her knees instead. Her laughter never stopped, as if she never noticed how close pain had been.
He tilted his head, watching. There was no pride in his gaze. Only peace. He didn't smile, nor did he frown, he acknowledged their feeling and basked in the kids happiness.
And then he saw him—a small boy in a wheelchair, no older than seven, sitting apart, silent. His eyes were fixed on the children, but they didn't shine with envy. Only longing. Hope.
As an angel he shouldn't do the God's work but he couldn't stop now, at least not today, he muttered an enochian apology to God.
Then walked to him slowly, stepping through sunlight, each blade of grass underfoot shimmering as if in awe.
He knelt beside the boy and, after a moment, placed a gentle hand on the child's shoulder, "Your legs remember," he said softly, words not heard but felt in the boy's bones.
Warmth bloomed like a starburst in the child's spine. Nerve endings fired with celestial command. Muscles awakened like petals kissed by dawn. The boy gasped.
And then—he stood. Tears streamed down his mother's face as she watched, unable to comprehend, only knowing that something holy had passed through her child.
She thanked the miracle and the boy for a flickering second saw the shadow of him and he thanked the angel even though it was for flicker of second the boy saw the shadow.
The angel smiled, for the first time almost imperceptibly, and turned slowly feeling a disturbance in the air.
A shriek sliced through the calm air. Far off, near the street, someone screamed. Sirens were approaching.
Turning toward the sound, a frown creased his brow. Behind him, divine light flickered—wings veiled from mortal eyes—as he stepped forward.
On the corner, an old woman knelt, praying beneath the trembling shadow of a man with a knife. She was calm. Her rosary was clenched tight in her fingers, whispering words meant for Heaven.
She didn't know Heaven was already here.
The man raised his blade—
—and the angel squinted.
The knife flew from the man's hand as a bolt of white-hot lightning split the air and struck his shoulder. He crumpled in a twisted scream, pain paralyzing his arm permanently. The old woman looked up, dazed.
She saw nothing. Only a whisper in the wind that smelled like myrrh and iron, but she knew it was divine intervention and prayed a thanks
Then—his eyes widened. Two voices pierced the veil. Two voices not from the park, but elsewhere, their prayers raw with desperation. Not from fear. From love.
A hospital. He should go. He turned his head in the opposite direction, the summon had come—Dean Winchester, calling his name with Bobby Singer at his side, desperate and confused. The time had come to reveal himself.
But not yet.
He had been wandering the Earth waiting for Dean's call, helping people in the meantime and now it has and yet he couldn't go immediately.
He vanished from the park.
The hospital hallway was cold, sterile, but not quiet. Grief echoed in every corner. Room 212. He entered unseen.
Two people knelt by a hospital bed, hands entwined around the small fingers of a child too young to know suffering. Tubes ran like rivers across the sheets. Monitors beeped weakly. The child's breath was shallow.
They were crying. Not for themselves. For her. Their little girl. Castiel knew he can't interfere with death.
Healing was different but death was natural order and death needs a life for life, but not today. Today the balance could tip a little.
He looked at girl, she was in peace, her only worries were leaving her parents alone and that made Cas' heart waver for the first time.
He saw, standing in the corner was the reaper. Ancient. Kind. Patient. A hand already outstretched, waiting.
The angel stepped into the light. The reaper turned—and froze. "Castiel," she whispered in awe and fear. An Angel has visited the Earth.
He did not speak. He only looked at her. Quietly. Firmly. The reaper hesitated. She had been waiting for this soul. It was time.
But Castiel shook his head once, "No," he said, voice calm but ringing with an authority that the planes where they stood rippled and no reaper could deny.
The reaper bowed her head in acceptance and left. Castiel walked to the little girl and moved his hand and a small shimmering grace fell on her like glitter and she giggled getting energized.
The parents never noticed. But they felt a shift—a breeze through the closed window, a sudden lightness in the air.
The child's eyes opened. And smiled. He was gone before the doctors arrived to learn about the miracle.
Night had begun to fall. The barn was waiting. The sigils had been drawn. Dean was pacing like a storm bottled in a man, furious and afraid.
And then—he appeared.
Wings outstretched. Power humming through the very wood and soil. Dean raised his knife. Bobby reached for holy oil.
They didn't understand. Not yet.
But something in Dean's eyes flickered—recognition, perhaps. Not of the face. But of the soul. Because this wasn't a monster. This was someone who had saved him.
This was someone who had just walked the world, healing its wounds in silence. Someone who made children laugh, and grass grow, and flowers bloom. Someone who looked Death in the eye and said not today.
And now he was here—for Dean.
Late? Perhaps.
But only because the world had cried for him first—and he had answered, in silence.