You never thought you’d know what fear tasted like.

As an angel—a younger, lesser sister to Castiel—you had always viewed the world through a veil of divine detachment.

Hell, even Heaven hadn’t stirred much in you. Orders were followed. Missions fulfilled. The Winchesters were odd to you at first—especially Dean. Loud, brash, reckless, yet somehow... radiant. His soul burned with a stubborn, golden light that no amount of darkness could fully snuff out. You watched him from the edges of battles, from the quiet corners of motel rooms where he sat sharpening blades or drinking cheap whiskey, humming classic rock under his breath.

Castiel vouched for you when he brought you to them. Not easily, not without debate among the garrison, but he insisted. She is loyal. She has heart. And so, after centuries of silence, you stepped into the chaotic orbit of the Winchesters.

For months, you fought beside them—subtle at first. Healing Sam’s fractured ribs after a wendigo tossed him into a wall. Patching up Dean’s bruised knuckles after he punched through a spirit’s chest. Small things. Manageable. Your grace, though dimmer than Castiel’s, was still enough for minor miracles. But healing a mortal life-threatening wound? That was different. That would cost you everything.

You didn’t think about the cost that night. Not until the knife slid in.

It was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn. A corrupt sheriff from the 1800s, buried in an unmarked grave beneath an overgrown churchyard. But the veil was thin, and something else got pulled back with him—a high-ranking demon, ancient and cunning, drawn by the scent of blood magic. It ambushed you in the crumbling sacristy, black eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

You remember the flash of silver. The scream. Not yours at first—Dean’s. A guttural cry as the blade pierced him just below the ribcage, twisting deep. He staggered, clutching his side, blood already slick between his fingers. Sam roared, charging forward with Ruby’s knife, but the demon was fast—too fast.

And you?

You froze.

For the first time in your existence, you felt—a cold, crushing weight in your vessel’s chest, a trembling in your hands. Your breath came fast, shallow. Fear. Raw, unfiltered terror.

Because it wasn’t just that Dean was hurt.

It was the way his face paled. The way his knees buckled. The way his green eyes, usually so sharp and alive, dimmed with pain.

You loved him.

Not in the way angels love humanity—distant, dutiful, abstract. But loved him. The way he laughed at his own dumb jokes. The way he’d tuck his little brother’s blanket tighter when Sam was sick. The way he’d look at you sometimes, like you were more than just another soldier, like you were seen.

You didn’t have time to process it.

The demon raised the knife again.

And you moved.

You stepped between Dean and the blade, arms outstretched, grace flaring in your chest like a dying star. A pulse of light erupted from your palms, slamming the demon into the far wall with a crack of stone. It snarled, scrambling up—but you didn’t care. You dropped to your knees beside Dean, hands pressing against the wound.

Blood poured, hot and relentless, staining your sleeves, your skin, the floor beneath you.

“No, no, no,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Dean, stay with me.”

His breath was ragged. “Hey… don’t make that face,” he managed, jaw clenched. “I’ve had worse.”

“You haven’t,” you snapped, tears burning behind your eyes. “Shut up and let me help you.”

You closed your eyes. Reached deep—deeper than you ever had. Into the core of your grace, the silent, humming light that bound you to Heaven, to your purpose, to existence. You felt the warmth of your power leaving you, like sand slipping through fingers.

The wound closed.

Dean gasped, color flooding back into his face as he sucked in breath after breath. He stared at you, dazed. “What… what did you do?”