He gives his quarter to the old woman on the street. She can probably use it, whereas he can't. He learnt pretty quickly that you can't buy anything useful with a quarter. It's not even enough to call Dean, and even if it was he can't because he doesn't have Dean's number. The old woman has a cup full of quarters so she can probably make use of it. He hopes so. She looks hungry and cold and exhausted. Castiel is hungry and cold and exhausted too, but he's younger and fitter. Or at least his body is. Jimmy's body; his now.
-l-
The night temperature drops. Castiel can't tell exactly how cold it is. He used to have an inbuilt thermometer but not anymore. Still, it feels cold and he shivers. It's not freezing though so he should probably stop complaining. Dean would tell him he's a baby, whining about nothing.
The pants he's wearing are too thin for the weather. He pulls the hood of his sweater up over his head and tucks his hands into the sleeves. It helps a bit but it's too cold to sleep and the night is interminably long.
-l-
He can't abide the odour his body gives out. He washes in a stream and although the water is so cold it stings, he feels better. He sniffs his clothes and they smell too. He can't afford a Laundromat (he learnt that the hard way) so he washes his clothes in the stream but he hadn't thought this through. Having no way to dry the clothes, he has to put them on wet. He shudders through the rest of the day and never warms up.
That night he curls into the tightest ball he can manage in the doorway of a closed shop. He doesn't sleep. He's seen Dean and Sam go for a couple of days without sleep before so he doesn't complain.
-l-
He's walked about ten kilometres since it got light, give or take; he's not sure exactly, but not far in any case. He's heading towards Kansas; it's the only place on Earth right now that he'd feel safe. He's not sure he'll be welcomed but he's sure he won't be refused. Kansas isn't a long way in geographical terms, but it's a long way on foot and his head and his chest ache and he keeps feeling hot, and then cold, and then hot again. He's so grateful when the pickup truck pulls over and offers him a ride. Not so much when the three men in it beat him just for the fun of it and leave him in the ditch by the side of the road.
He waits until it gets dark and then he stumbles along the road and when he finds a small lake, not more than a pond really, he stops to wash the blood and dust and sweat off his skin. He doesn't wash his clothes and the smell offends him, but he's worked out that he's getting sick and he can't afford to get sicker. He's not sure if he should drink the water, but he does because there's nothing else. He still has a long way to go. Later that night, he finds a barn filled with hay and cattle and he curls up amongst the warmth of the animals. At least the smell of the cattle masks his own smell.
-l-
He finds another quarter. It still doesn't buy anything. He gives it to a child in the next small town. The child's mother drags her away from him but the child looks over her shoulder and mouths 'thank you' and Castiel is momentarily overwhelmed by the gesture.
Walking is slower. He thinks his ribs are broken. People are crossing the road to avoid him. It's either the bruises on his face or the smell. Maybe both. This town has facilities where he can shower, a shelter for homeless people. He hasn't thought of himself as homeless until now, though he doesn't know if he'll have a home with Dean when he gets to Kansas, so he probably is.
He cleans himself up, and he washes his clothes again too. He sits for a while, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, waiting for his clothes to dry enough to leave and they give him some soup. He picks at it; it's hard to breathe and eat at the same time.
Someone comes and talks to him. A social worker. She asks him his name and he tells her it's Dean Winchester. Never give your real name, Dean's advice comes back. She's worried because he's sick and he's hurt and she wants to help. Castiel thinks she'll delay him from getting to Kansas. He leaves the center as soon as her attention is pulled elsewhere.
-l-
A truck slows down next to him while he's walking and the passenger leans out of the window and asks him if he needs a ride. There's only two men in the truck and if he wasn't sick and already injured he'd be confident in a fight, but not like this, so he turns and flees into the barren field that lies alongside the road. The man in the truck hollers once in surprise but then it drives off. Castiel keeps running until he can't see the road any longer. Then he collapses into the muddy furrows holding his ribs, coughing and choking up bloody phlegm. He stays there all night.
-l-
He's very sick. He stumbles along the road but he's not getting very far very fast. He's past caring. He's hot and in pain and he's sweating uncomfortably. His head spins and every footstep jolts through every aching joint in his body. He sits down – falls down, rather – and wonders if he's actually dying. That would be ironic – survive the apocalypse and die of a cold. He curls into a tight ball by the side of the road and waits for his body to stop trembling. It doesn't so he gets up and starts walking again.
-l-
He comes to the conclusion that he might not make it to Kansas. He can't walk any further. His skin has a bluish tinge under his nails and in his lips and his breath wheezes and rattles.
There's a small community soup kitchen in this town. He asks to borrow a pen and some paper and refuses the soup when they offer it to him. They're staring at him strangely, but that's nothing new. Dean's done that for years.
He writes a note, in scrawled, tired writing. 'Dean. I'm sorry. I tried to come home.' He scribbles 'Dean Winchester' clearly on the other side of the paper, folds it and gives it to one of the people serving soup. "Please," he begs, and the server takes it and nods. Castiel nods his thanks, slides awkwardly and helplessly to the floor, closes his eyes.
-l-
He thinks he can hear Dean and Sam's voices. He knows it's an hallucination. He keeps his eyes screwed tightly shut – if it's not real, he doesn't want to know.
-l-
Dean's voice sounds tired, but not as tired as Castiel feels. Castiel opens his eyes but it's impossibly dark and he can't see anything. He's in a bed and he doesn't smell. If this is an hallucination, it's a nice, warm one. "Dean," he mumbles before he passes out again.
-l-
He opens his eyes with a start. The room's lighter. There's a make-do intravenous drip in one arm and Dean snoring in the chair by his other arm. He reaches out and pinches the back of Dean's hand to see if he's real.
Dean jumps and his eyes fly open.
"Cas," Dean murmurs coming closer when he's recovered from the fright Castiel gave him.
"I'm sorry," Cas says earnestly.
"I know." Dean smiles. "I got your note," Dean takes Castiel's hand, wrapping cool fingers around Castiel's warmer palm. "Welcome home."