Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I wish I did, but I don't.
Summary: When it comes to Dean, Castiel isn't like the other angels.
Notes: The title comes from "Away in a Manger."

The day Dean Winchester was born, hosts of angels gathered 'round and crowded one against the other, wings folded in and crushed between them, merely for the chance to see.

It wasn't a barn and there was no star, and not even a single wise man, but there were a mother and father who loved him dearly, and a soul that shone brilliantly from the tips of curling baby toes and leaked radiance from under long lashes resting quietly on smooth cheeks. Here was someone special, destined for great deeds and good purposes, and all there knew it without word ever being decreed.

And Castiel was there, pressed in amongst the throng and marveling silently alongside all his brethren.

The day Dean Winchester died, all the angels save one turned their backs and flew away, their heads lowered and disappointment warring with disgust in their hearts.

It wasn't a noble death, resulting, as it did, from consorting with demons, and it wasn't a good death, falling prey to the savage teeth of the hounds of hell. And he had dealt with demons, and the stench was with him still. His fate was of his own choosing, and paved with good intentions or not, his road led downward all the same-a product of his own free will.

But Castiel was there, standing in the corner, alone and unseen, bearing witness through it all.

He saw the blood and heard the screams and clenched his fists in useless, helpless rage, and when it was over, he watched Sam cry over the body for hours before spreading his wings and ascending to the heavens to make the first of countless intercessions for the soul of one good man.

And the day Dean Winchester was gripped tight and raised from perdition, flights of angels gathered 'round once more to watch, as Castiel dove into the depths and battled demons for the soul to which he clung with an unrelenting grasp and tore free from the ravening hoards, leaving in his wake a dripping trail of soul-deep pain and heavenly sorrow.

It wasn't clean, nor was it easy, and it wasn't without cost to both of them, but Castiel would have done it over again without a moment's hesitation or reluctance-again and again and again, there and back again no matter what should bar his path.

So when Dean clawed up and out of his grave, Castiel was there, too, and as he watched, a smile began to grace the features of his face such as had not been seen in untold years.

And he saw that it was good.