A/N- I'm not sure about this but hey. I've decided to start again on this (I uploaded yesterday in a rush the wrong thing twice, so I really should just stay away from fanfiction.) I've no idea if it's just 3000 words of bull and strange bits of poorly portrayed problems. I hope not, or else I wouldn't upload. I'm learning slowly though?

I'm just gonna mention Ana Lama by cocorosie since (I think it's about something else, but) the lyrics go to Castiel. Or it might just be I like that song too much.

Warnings- Heavy spoilers for season 8, rated T for language, mentions of suicide and other such themes (don't want to give too much away.) And panic attacks in later chapters. Sorry if I get anything wrong, I'm learning :) Thanks for reading ! This starts directly after the angels fall.

"Come on Sammy, come on." Dean breathed; panicked. "Cas!" He shouted into the night. "Where is that bastard? Castiel!" He shouted for the angel until screaming grated the back of his throat and Sam began to grow still.

"Sammy?" He shook his younger brothers shoulders. He'd be damned if his brother would die despite everything. He was meant to live- he never even completed the trials! "Sammy, come on, talk to me."

"Dean?" Sam looked at his brother through pained eyes. His eyes began to close, though not willingly judging by the way his eye brows knitted together and his head fell back. Dean was left alone with his wheezing, unconscious brother.

"Come on, stay with me- Sammy? I'll get you to the Batcave, fix you up. Please. Sammy."

Dean looked around, hoping there would be something- anything- to help him and Sam. Instead all that was there was a church with the doors half open housing the half-human angsting half-demon that nearly got Sam killed.

They both sank into the cold, dark mud as relentless rain poured down from the heavens. Dean thought it was funny how it wasn't only rain that had poured down from the heavens that evening.

Dean decided once Sam had been fully settled back in his bedroom at the men of letters bunker there wasn't much more for him to do for his younger brother. Here he was again feeling useless when his brother needed him the most.

Kevin was full of questions, but Dean told him to sit down and shut up as Dean helped himself to another beer from the fridge. Nothing like drowning his worry in alcohol.

A nagging voice in the back of his head kept reminding him over and over about Crowley. Something told Dean he should really round that bastard up, if not in case he is needed to make Sam better then so let Dean murder him slowly.

Sometimes people deserve it.

The king of hell was residing in their new home. Dean liked to call it home in his own mind because he needed a sense of security like he hadn't had in a long time.

Bound and fed twice a day, Crowley really had fallen from his once mighty self. Dean would pity him if he deserved it.

Sam was neither improving nor getting worse. He was mostly unconscious in a cold fever. It had been forty-eight hours since the angels fell and Dean stopped Sam from completing the final trial. Forty-eight hours of pain and fear.

Kevin mostly avoided Dean- it made sense to avoid Dean in his current mood. When Sam came around each time he was in too much pain to have a proper conversation- half the time he was delirious and other times he was just down right hallucinating, but if Dean was lucky he'd be responsive.

The days were long and stretched out.

Both Kevin and Dean were looking for a cure, though Dean suspected Kevin was upset they had chosen Sam's life over closing the gates to hell. Guess it didn't bother him too much, having lost his mum and girlfriend.

Dean was angry with Kevin, Dean was angry with Crowley, he was angry with himself and he was angry with Cas for going and getting himself killed.

He wasn't handling that very well either.

They'd assumed that he was dead. The trials to close the gates of hell would have killed Sam had he completed them; makes sense that since assumingly the gates of Heaven are closed, and the trials were completed by Castiel, he must have died.

Though Dean suspected that Cas didn't realise the trials would banish the angels from heaven. Hell, Dean didn't think that would happen either- only adding another reason to why he was so glad Sam never finished shutting the doors to hell.

Dean wasn't sure what was harder: losing Castiel or not accepting that he'd lost Castiel. Because that was hard; not having closure. He could be dead, or he could be somewhere on Earth doing Metatron-knows-what. Maybe Naomi had him.

All Dean knew was that he'd spend hours outside the bunker begging for Cas to come back. It was a good thing the bunker was hidden in the middle of no where.

After that there was a slow decline in his restraint during his prayers- he mostly swore blasphemy at his friend until his throat became too sore and he had to go back inside and pour himself some more whiskey- which didn't do wonders for his throat either.

Screaming and crying himself raw hurt, but by the end he was positive no one could hear him, because all of his friends were dead. And if they weren't, where were they?

Sam had improved slowly, by himself, but Dean wasn't sure if that meant he was actually getting better or putting on a braver face- getting used to pain.

By the third day he improved enough to talk Dean into letting him get out of bed, though he did fall to his knees before he could make it out of his bedroom.

"Careful there." Dean said as he swung his brother back onto his bed. He understood why Crowley called his brother 'Moose' all of a sudden.

"Where's Crowley?" Sam panted. Dean sat on the side of bed and looked at his brother.

"Dungeon." Dean replied.

"What's he like?"

"A bastard." Dean muttered, but looked at Sam's face and decided to elaborate. "But I'd say he's pretty fucked up right now." There it was, all of their lives summed up eloquently.

Sam looked up. "Where's Cas?"

Dean was silent as he looked at Sam with sad eyes for what seemed like hours, but could really have only been seconds. "Sorry." Was all he said. It was all he could say.

"Oh." Sam looked down at his bed and picked at his bed covers. "Do you know what happened?"

"There aren't exactly many people left to tell us what's going on." Dean paused. "But I have a pretty good idea."

"Yeah." Sam looked down at the bed wearing his 'kicked' expression.

"Come on." Dean replied as he wrapped Sam's arm around his neck. The kid had to pee, strength or no strength.

Sam was banned from leaving his bed after one or two attempts that always ended badly. He was only allowed to get out if Dean was around to help. The last thing Dean wanted was his younger brother exacerbating his 'condition'.

Dean brought him his laptop and ate all of his meals with him. It seemed to help.

"I think I found a hunt a few towns over." Sam said between mouthfuls.

"You're not even allowed to piss unattended; you're not going on a hunt, sleeping beauty." Dean replied.

"Check it out," Sam continued like Dean hadn't said anything. "Four people all killed in separate freak chicken attacks. Witnesses say-"

"Sam." Dean said sternly. "Sit this one out."

"You can't just keep me locked up here forever."

"Drop it Sammy." And he did. But he couldn't stay like this forever and they both knew it.

It was nice when Castiel wasn't dead. It was kind of nice to find a warrior of God leaning heavily against the wall next to the Impala, just days after the angels fell.

Nice in an angry way, where he barely held his fists down.

He'd have done it, had he not already looked like someone had driven their own knuckles into that stupidly alive face.

Dean had finished feeding Sam and had gone to get some books for him out the trunk of his car which was parked just outside. He hadn't expected his 'dead' angel friend to be alive but not quite so well looking at him like he'd just found God.

"You look like shit buddy." Dean said slightly jokingly, despite his anger. Cas hadn't bothered to even reply to their prayers and say what happened, but suddenly he doesn't feel 'too good' and suddenly he's all mister angel friend. When he didn't reply Dean tried a slightly more forward approach. "What the hell happened?"

As in, why do you look so terrible, why are you here, and why have all the angels fallen?

He looked up, his eyes red rimmed his face beaten and bruised and said nothing. His eyes looked like they were trying to say something, but Dean couldn't read eyes that well. Castiel looked like he was trying to string a sentence together the way he was staring.

"Well? Say something dude. You had us all worried for a moment there."

"Why?" Was the first thing he'd chosen to say to Dean. About right, that it would be a question when Dean had so many. He'd almost whispered- his voice sounded unused- like he hadn't bothered using it in a long time. And he probably hadn't.

Who was there to speak to if no angel wanted to speak to him, and if Dean was an angel, he wouldn't. He was, of course, working on the assumption Cas had closed the gates of heaven. It made sense.

"You have a habit if dying." It wasn't funny- not even intended as a joke, but Castiel laughed this morbidly sad laugh.

"Are you drunk?" Dean took a closer look at his friends face; trying not to admit to himself that he was actually worried. It might not necessarily have been alcohol that got his friend intoxicated and Dean really wasn't emotionally equipped to handle anymore shit around the bunker.

Dean stood close in front of Castiel, trying to make eye contact. Castiel's eyes refused, and instead just looked down.

Cas was his friend and Dean really needed things to be okay. But whatever happened, it made his friend hurt, and that wasn't okay.

"Cas?" Dean looked at the mess that was his friend; totally uncertain as to what to do. He lowered his head down, to see Castiel from a level angle- like it would help him figure out what was wrong.

"Metatron." Dean almost didn't hear anything at all, and a moment later, when Cas hadn't said anything more, Dean was worried he just made it all up.

"What?" Dean asked and tried to make eye contact with his friend. Castiel smiled slightly.

"How many drinks did you have?" Dean asked as he pulled on Castiel's arm, having to steady him as he left the balance of the wall he was leaning on. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover tomorrow." Dean looped one of Castiel's arms around him- like that would make everything better. After a painfully long silence Dean spoke. "Guess you'll be staying with us for a while."

"What happened?" Sam asked as Dean dragged Castiel into the Batcave. Sam was always brave in the face of death, or in this case life. Because Castiel was alive.

"No idea, Metatron and a bit of the old Jack I assume." Dean looked up to see Sam leaning heavily on a table looking about as bad as he did at his height of sickness before the final trail. Which was pretty damn bad. "You should be in your room."

"He okay?"" Sam ignored Dean's attempt to get him back to his room. There was no way he was going to be sent back to bed by his older brother at his age. He was fine anyway.

"Looks fine to me." Castiel recognised this as sarcasm.

Castiel stumbled around where Dean led him, not questioning him or even looking up. It was like he was a robot, which wouldn't be surprising after all his years being heaven's bitch. Following orders for many thousands of years gives people a tendency to obey.

"We'll patch him up." Dean told Sam as he passed him, looking at his brother, checking for any sign of illness that warrant bed arrest. He was kind of pissed when there was nothing to send his younger brother away with. He just wanted Sam to be better, and as far as he was concerned, that involved him lying in bed.

He just had a few bruises- they all looked like bruises he could have gotten on a train- not like an epic fight, so they weren't too worried. Sam insisted on checking for a concussion, since bruises do not simply appear on foreheads without some sort of cause.

But it had them wondering: if Cas still had his grace, then surely the bruises would have healed themselves? He must have fallen with the rest of the angels- lost his mojo too.

"Anywhere else?" Sam asked; hoping Castiel would be able to point to any other injuries.

Cas shook his head and looked up slightly, to better meet Sam's eyes.

"Metatron," Castiel looked shocked to hear his own voice- like he was surprised it was actually working. "He used a spell," Before Sam could say anything he continued. "Took my grace."

"You didn't close the gates of heaven?" Dean asked and both brothers watched as he shook his head with eyes downcast and shoulders hunched behind him.

They'd trusted Metatron, just like they always trust the wrong people. Dean hit his fist lightly on the table, barely hard enough to cause ripples in the surface of the glass of water Sam had retrieved for the fallen angel. The slapping noise as it hit the table caused Castiel to jump and look at the two brothers with betrayed looking eyes.

"Sorry Cas."

Castiel nodded. Dean took it as a thank you.

Cas was being quiet. It was probably just the shock of being human, Dean told himself quite convincingly.

"You look like you just drink another liquor store." Sam commented.

"I find alcohol to 'have more of a kick' now I have lost my grace." No one was entirely sure who Cas was quoting, but they seemed content with his answer. A sudden smile crossed Castiel's face; much like the one a child gets when it does something right. "It was very helpful."

Sam shot a bitch face at Dean, like Dean was responsible for the social learning that had gone on, before turning his attention back to Castiel, who was putting a stretchy material plaster on his left index finger. It wasn't cut, but since they had the first aid kit out, why not?

"It's not healthy."

"It was better than the other options I learnt from watching humanity." Castiel admired the finished plaster on the end of his finger, flexing it as if to test out the durability of the new item.

The Winchesters knew more than others the sorts of things Cas could have fallen into- the habits, the rituals, the mistakes. They'd seen hunters fall apart- the ones who had seen too much and done too much

"I guess you picked the lesser of the evils." Dean said to Cas slightly too loudly. "Guess you shouldn't put alcohol down like that Sammy."

"Shut up Dean."

And just like that all they were all trying to put this batch of crap onto the shelf of denial- because if you forget something well enough it stops existing and the problem goes away.

Dinner felt odd. Like something significant has changed again. It made everyone feel much more at home- change was on the contract.

Dean wore his usual clothes and sat with his usual Dean like posture.

Castiel wore an old bathrobe with random initials sown in- his clothes were in the wash. He sat without his usual 'grace' Dean felt. He nearly cracked up laughing at how sad his own pun was, but he wasn't going to go down that slippery road.

And Sam just looked like post-uncompleted-trials-Sam.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asked the million dollar question between mouthfuls of the chicken soup Dean had decided he should have. Because even though he was capable of keeping down more filling solids, he was unwell and that meant all he was allowed was soup.

There was an unbroken silence around the table- no one had an answer, no one really wanted an answer either. It was hardly a dinner table discussion anyway.

Castiel seemed to be struggling with the cook-in-the-oven pie Dean had served them both- Dean thought cooking things at home would be more home like, even if their home was a secret underground bunker.

Every now and then Cas would bow his head with a mouthful of food for a long moment before looking up and swallowing loudly.

Then he'd looked pained and drink some water.

"Too hot there Cas?" Dean asked.

Castiel just nodded. Dean thought this was funny, because his own pie had gone cold.

Dean took two more unhealthy swig-fulls of the unidentifiable alcohol he found in the drinks holder of his car, (probably something he brought a few months earlier and forgot about.) Team Fuck-up was back.

It was later, when they were Dean and Cas were gathered around the TV that refused to work and Sam had gone outside to check the satellite wasn't being attacked by vengeful fallen angels, that Dean decided it was time for a quick word.

"So, what happened?" Dean asked. The question had already been asked, but somehow he felt like he was still completely in the dark.

"Metatron used my soul to complete a spell to banish all the angels." Cas sounded like he was sick of singing the same god-damn tune. "There were no trials."

That cleared things up. Kind of.

"Anything else?" Dean looked at Castiel who's face betrayed the fact he was threatening to say something already obvious- like 'then I walked to the bunker and now I'm telling you what happened', so Dean spoke again, before Cas got the chance. "That I don't already know?"

Sam entered the room silently and glided to his usual seat, Dean and Cas didn't either bother to look up, they could see him in their peripheral vision and that was good enough.

"Metatron killed Naomi." He offered.

"How about that paint job?" Sam asked and nodded his head towards Castiel bruised face, which was looking much better now it was clean and had been taped up good as new.

"It was very difficult terrain to navigate on in the darkness." Was Castiel's simple reply. Sam thought deeply about what he said though, because it was kind of poetic. Castiel was simply thrown into being a human blindly.

The world would have been unknown. Castiel didn't mean this, but it was unintentionally beautiful.

Or ugly.

Dean didn't reply. What else could he say? Castiel's role in everything wouldn't make him popular amongst other angels, even if it was all unintentional so he couldn't take comfort in them- and he couldn't lie and say they'd help restore his grace after this was all over, because they wouldn't.

Probably couldn't, but that was no comfort either.

They didn't say anything else. They'd said all that needed to be said and asked all that should be asked. It seemed that their friend had everything that could go wrong, go wrong.

The T.V was switched to the history channel; Castiel found it was one of the only things that he could actually find amusing at that point.

"Your rooms next to mine." Dean switched off the T.V. Sam had gone to bed hours before hand, and even Dean's eye lids felt too heavy to keep open. Castiel just looked the same as he always had- if Dean didn't know better he'd say he was still an angel.

Though the depressed sag of a human kept looking up to the ceiling and zoning out, which was another give away.

Castiel nodded in reply.

"I've got some clothes for you to sleep in." Dean added as he stood and waited for Cas. He just sat and stared blankly forwards, as if he had no idea he was meant to be stood up and heading for bed.

Dean hoped offering a hand out to him would be a giveaway, but Castiel just looked at the offending hand as if was just randomly being placed in front of him and had no relevance to his own life what so ever.

"Cas, stand up." Dean instructed after he was done giving hints to his human-friend.

"I'm contemplating my options." Castiel spoke as he stood to his feet, swaying slightly as though it was too much effort to keep his balance, let alone stand up.

"What options?" Dean asked.

"Whether to kill myself or not."

Dean was taken aback. He wasn't sure what he must have looked like- not sure if he looked slapped or numb. He tried to open his mouth to say something, but he didn't know what.

"It seems counterproductive." Cas finished, like it was the normal argument against suicide. Counterproductive. Bull shit.

"Just your period talking." Dean grabbed Cas' arms like it was all a joke. It had to be right? Cas would just immerse himself in 'women and decadence'. It was another future, but a future all the same. And Dean had seen a future. "Come on."

It wasn't a long way to drag his friend to his room.

"Dean…" Cas just sounded ruined. Like someone had killed his puppy and made him spend Christmas in a crappy motel.

"Look, you feel like anything," Dean looked him in the eye, "You come to me. Understand?"

Cas nodded and his take-no-shit-command, but Dean didn't let go of his arm; just kept looking into his glazed eyes.

"I understand."

Dean didn't sleep that night- just stayed awake not blinking until his already much too dry eyes filled with dust. He'd blink and slurp at whatever he felt like drinking- like it could wash away his problems, rather than wash away his feelings.

The morning came and everything was the same- the same stale Batcave with the same people who still carried their fair bus load of shit on their shoulders.