The week
that passed was the most difficult time the angel had ever passed with the
teenager. Dean would not get off the
floor. Finally, the need to relieve
himself became urgent and the boy struggled to rise and attend to his needs.
Castiel
watched over him, but had no way of making him eat. Dean crawled on his bed and huddled
there. The angel stayed close, pouring
out his grace and peace, slowly healing the boy.
‘Father?’
‘Yes, my
Son.’
‘His body
is healing, but how do I heal his mind and spirit?’
‘He will
learn to hide it and go on, my Son.
There is no way to remove it.’
‘You can,
Father.’
‘Yes, but
he has not come to me, Castiel. He does
not believe in me. When he does, it will
be during a time when I cannot help him.
Not in the way he will want.’
‘If we
removed the father and let Bobby Singer have them, it would be better, Father.’
‘Yes, it
would, but it is not allowed, my Son.
Remember free will.’
The angel
bowed his head in confusion and sorrow, but never left his charge.
There were
no calls from John Winchester. Dean was sick
with worry. One week and no one called.
The boy
finally slept from exhaustion and never heard the front door open.
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