A/N: Hi guys! Thank you to everyone following my stories and me, you should know most things I write are oneshots because my responsibility is as good as my spelling and I would never update a multichapter fic.

Hopefully it will be different with this one. I'm going to listen to a Mumford and Sons song once a day, and write a short fic about it when I get home. It may or may not read as a coherent story, I can't promise anything. It's more of a writing exercise than anything. But I hope you enjoy it!

It started on a Tuesday. Weird shit always happened on Tuesdays; Especially to Dean apparently.

But this was possible the weirdest shit that had happened to him ever, and considering he had been kidnapped by fairies and killed approximately one hundred and four times it was really a momentous title.

Cas started rhyming.

It wasn't emphasised, in fact it seemed that Cas didn't even notice it. He had just stared at Dean his eyes heavy with meaning and intensity as he muttered, "You are not alone in this."

Dean felt the words punch through his chest and burrow into his heart before he could put up his normal thick, brick walls. It nestled there and glowed, warm and content in its new home. Dean's mouth hung open slightly and his eyes didn't leave Castiel's.

Cas then reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, still intense.

Dean realized Cas was talking and Dean took a moment to flip back on what he had said.

"As brothers we will stand, and I'll hold your hand. Because you are not alone in this, Dean."

Dean chuckled and smirked awkwardly, forcing the warmth into his chest rather than it radiating into his cheeks. "The hand holding is really unneeded, Cas."

The way Castiel had said those words was almost lyrical, even with his rough voice. Dean wondered absently how Cas would sound if he read poetry. He'd probably like Wordsworth, Dean thought, snorting internally. All about flowers and clouds and how pretty everything around him was. In all honesty, Dean had a soft spot for Wordsworth, but he really preferred Oscar Wilde to anything else.

Cas looked at him for longer than usual. This also, was saying something. "Whatever you say Dean."

His hand was still gripping him tightly. It wasn't 'The Shoulder'. The one Dean capitalized one day without realizing he had and now couldn't fall out of the habit. He tried to make the mark not mean anything to him. He tried to force the meaning out of it, wring the scar out like a sponge, make it mean the same thing as all his other scars had. A fight he had come back from alive.

But the hand print meant more than that. It meant he deserved to come back at all. And he still wasn't comfortable thinking that.

Cas was still watching him like he could hear all of his thoughts. Dean wished he hadn't told Castiel not to, because sometimes he wanted Cas to understand, and he wouldn't unless he heard it from Dean's point of view in a way he would never voice aloud.

But this… Saying they would fight together. That they were brothers? That Dean was used to. That Dean could deal with.

The thank you was quiet, but it leads to a slight quirk in Castiel's lips, and Dean felt the words in his heart flare again. And this time he let them warm him. Just a little, but also just enough.