Dean drives the whole day, only stopping for gas and to stock up on caffeine and food. He told Sam that he was leaving, and Sam understood. He would come too if he could, but the Trials had left him sick and he was still recovering. He was doing well, actually, and might actually be able to hunt again in a few days if things kept the rate they were going.

By the time Dean reaches Achille, Oklahoma, it's raining. He's also tired as hell, running on only around five and a half hours of sleep that he's gotten in the past four days.

Absently he goes over the events of the day in his head, trying to tell himself that he's got to stay awake even though he's dead tired. He needs more motivation. Just a little bit more incentive instead of falling asleep at the wheel.

Dean sits alone in the library of the Bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, staring at the phone. He didn't really mean to do it; it wasn't really a conscious decision. But when he woke up in the morning, he got dressed, ate breakfast, and then wandered into the library to sit at a table and stare at his cell phone. He did this for quite a while, sometimes for hours at a time without moving. Sam often asked him if he was okay, but received no reply.

He was waiting for the call from Castiel. Though Dean and Cas hadn't really parted on the best of terms, he still needed to know if Cas was okay. Cas had just wanted to help. But, like everyone else in this petty game, Cas had not realized who was really holding all the cards.

The phone on the table in front of him buzzed for the first time in four days, since the fall of the angels. The news reporters were still pretty confused on the events of that night, but the word among hunters was clear: that was a day we will never forget. Ever.

Dean seized the phone in front of him, glancing at the caller ID first. It was a number he didn't recognize, but he answered it anyway.

"Hello?" Dean says hesitantly.

"Dean," a familiar, gravelly voice says.

"Cas," Dean says, his whole body filled with relief. "Cas, where are you? Are you alright?"

"I think—I think I'm in Oklahoma," Castiel says. "Yes. Achille, Oklahoma."

"I'm on my way," Dean says, standing up from his spot at the library table.

"Okay," Cas says. "And Dean—"

"What?"

"I'm sor—" he starts, his voice small. He sounded simply broken.

"Yeah," Dean interrupts, and hangs up.

Dean suppresses a yawn and continues looking for that godforsaken angel.

He was, for lack of a better term, fucking pissed. He was pissed off at the angels, who had freely started parading around the earth like humans. He was pissed at Crowley, who Dean didn't trust in the least, not yet. And he was pissed at the world, at God, and at Metatron. He wanted to murder the lying bastard.

But he was also pissed at Cas. He was mad at him because, even if Cas' plan to lock all the angels in Heaven hadn't been compromised by Metatron, Cas would have locked himself away in Heaven for all eternity. Even if Castiel somehow survived the wrath of his family, Dean would never have seen him again either way. Doesn't Cas understand how much Dean needs him? Dean would do anything for Cas. Though he might be angry with Castiel, he's family. And Dean loves him. But sometimes Cas hurt him so much.

He found Castiel sitting on a street corner, his head between his knees as if trying to hide his face. The rain is coming down in sheets, and Dean stops the car on the other side of the street and runs out in the rain, his whole body soaked in a matter of seconds.

"Cas!" he calls, approaching the crouching trench-coated figure.

Cas looks up when he hears his name, and the sight of his face nearly causes Dean to cringe. His face is covered with cuts and gashes that needed tending about two days ago. His face is covered with a thin layer of stubble, but not yet at the level of the memorable Purgatory-scruff. But Dean still can't help but feel his heart skip a beat in his chest.

Oh, God, no chick flick moments, Dean tells himself. Control yourself, dammit.

But the thought is just a fleeting whisper, and before he knows it, he's helping Castiel to his feet and enveloping him in a tight hug.

Cas sucks in a sharp breath, as if in pain, and pulls away from Dean nearly instantly.

"You alright, Cas?" Dean asks in a troubled tone.

"Yes, fine," Castiel says, not convincingly.

Dean looks Cas up and down—the trench coat is as dirty as it was in Purgatory, and it's only been four days. His suit and tie are dirty, and the suit pants are torn and frayed. There's no saving any of the clothes that Cas has on, except for maybe the coat and tie. But Cas looks okay, for the most part. Dean knows he'll heal.

Instead of trying to drive back home, they book a room with two twin beds in a motel on the outskirts of town. Dean knows that Castiel hasn't learned how to drive yet, and Dean is definitely not teaching Cas how to drive Baby. Hell no.

Upon entering the motel room, Castiel flops into bed almost gracefully, fully clothed, and downright dirty. He falls asleep almost instantly, not saying another word. Dean wonders how housekeeping would react when they see how the white comforter had fared after Dean and Cas left tomorrow morning. Dean rolls his eyes and takes a shower, afterwards getting dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

It was strange seeing him sleep. Usually it was the other way around, with Dean waking up to find Cas staring at Dean in some creepy yet somehow endearing way. The former angel slept on his stomach, with his lips slightly parted, snoring softly. It hurt a little to see such a powerful creature, a man that had (more than once) beaten the shit out of Dean, reduced to something so… so innocently human.

Of course it also made Dean feel a lot better. This time, Dean could keep an eye on Cas instead of him popping in and out whenever he felt like it. Cas was family now, and it would stay that way. No more deceiving, no more lies or trickery. They could get past that now.

Cas' hands suddenly gripped the white sheets of his bed, grabbing fistfuls of the white comforter. Dean saw his teeth grit and a strange noise was emitted from deep in his chest. It was almost like growling. A nightmare. Cas was having a nightmare.

But he wasn't screaming or crying or fighting for consciousness. He looked, among other things, really fucking pissed. Dean had to wake him up. Nightmares are no walk in the park, but when you've just fallen to earth and regained humanity after losing your angel status, nightmares are, presumably, a little bitch.

But just when Dean was going to shake Cas awake, he noticed something new.

Tears.

Cas was crying.

"No, no, no," Dean whispers. He kneels down next to Castiel's bed, putting one hand gently on his shoulder. "Cas, wake up."

Cas jerks awake at the sudden touch, as if someone just stabbed him into consciousness. Tear trails cut through the grime on his face.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks.

Castiel stares back, a blank look in his eyes.

"Okay, fine," Dean says, annoyed and slightly angry. "Get up."

Cas throws the covers off himself silently and obediently, while Dean goes to his duffle bag, searching for a first aid kit. Cas' behavior is almost like he's ashamed, but Dean pretends not to notice when he pulls up a chair. Cas sits upright on the edge of his bed, his hands folded in his lap and his hair sticking up at odd angles.

Dean grabs a washcloth from the bathroom and rinses it under cold water and then ringing it out slightly. He sits down in the chair that he pulled up to where Cas sits on the bed. Cas looks down, not meeting Dean's eyes. Dean starts to wipe the grime off of Cas' face.

"Dean—" Cas starts.

"Shut up," Dean says bluntly. "I know you're human, Cas, but you can't just not take care of yourself. That's not right, man."

He cleans as much dirt and dust off of Cas' face as he can.

He pulls out a cotton ball and applies iodine to it. "This won't hurt," Dean says. Cas lets out a yelp of pain when Dean touches it to the largest gash in his forehead.

"I lied," he remarks flatly. He doesn't sound regretful.

Once the cuts are clean, Dean stands. None of the wounds on Cas' face needed stitches, which Dean was grateful for. Sam was better at giving stitches, and Dean also didn't know how Cas would react to Dean sticking a sharp needle in his face with dental floss attached. It probably wouldn't be a pleasant experience for either of them.

"Okay," Dean says, standing from his chair. "Take off the trench coat."

"What?" Cas says, shocked and confused.

"I'm not an idiot, Cas," Dean says, irritated. "I know there's something wrong with your back. I gave you a hug, and you flinch. I barely touch your back to wake you up, it's like someone's touched you with molten metal. Now take off the trench coat, suit jacket, and shirt before I do it all for you. And I'm not going to be nearly as kind as you'll want me to be."

Dean wants to blush at the way that statement sounded, but he keeps a straight face. With difficulty.

Castiel stares at Dean before standing and walking to the open floor at the foot of Dean's bed. He turns, shrugs off his coat, a grimace clouding his face, his blue eyes troubled like the ocean before a hurricane. Next off comes the suit jacket. Dean is suddenly struck with fear when he notices that Cas' white dress shirt has two large circles of blood in the back, right between his shoulder blades. Cas unbuttons the shirt and then pulls it off with a grunt of pain.

Dean is speechless when he sees Castiel's back. In between his shoulder blades are two wide gashes, about four inches long and caked with scabs. It looks like someone cut into Cas' skin using a blunt knife. Some areas of the wounds still bleed, small tears of blood running down Cas' spine. Around the wounds are bruises, all in different stages of healing. Some are greenish-yellow, some are dark, dark purple, some are different shades of red and brown.

He lets out a slow, shaky breath.

Dean approaches Cas slowly, not wanting to see but unable to look away.

"Cas," Dean says, breathless with some emotion that resembled horror. "What—"

"Metatron took my grace," Cas says, completely empty. "These are where my wings were."

He turns around. Dean looks up to meet Cas' steady yet fractured gaze. There was so much pain, so much frustration, guilt, and sadness in that gaze that Dean almost felt like he was back in Hell, torturing souls. Yet Cas didn't cry this time.

"It's completely symbolic, I didn't really have wings. But the wounds are very real," he says, grimacing with pain.

"I—there's not much I can do to help you, Cas," Dean says softly. "These are way beyond stitching with dental floss, man."

"I've figured."

Dean's gaze softened. "Cas, I'm sor—" Dean starts.

"It wasn't your fault. Why are you apologizing?"

"It kind of is," Dean says. "I got you into this mess in the first place. I made you rebel in the first place."

"I rebelled because I wanted to, Dean. I did it because you were my friend."

"But you did—"

"I may have done it for you, Dean. But that doesn't make it your fault."

Dean drops his gaze, trying to focus on anything but Cas' injured face, beaten-up body or the defeated way he stands.

"Don't you believe that?" Cas asks him softly.

The hunter takes a breath and looks back up, but averting his gaze. He was about to lie, but Cas would know.

"Dean…" he murmurs. "If it means anything to you, I know how you feel. But it's not your fault. I've seen your soul. It stood out from the others so much in Hell. It was the brightest, and it… was damaged. It got more damaged over the years. But it never lost its light, Dean."

Dean looks back at the former angel, finally meeting his level gaze. "Cas, I'm not… you deserve better than this. I make too many mistakes, I've hurt too many people."

"Don't try to contradict me, Dean," Cas says, taking a step closer. But Dean doesn't flinch, or push him away.

"I've seen your soul," Cas continues, his voice low and intense and angry. "I fell for you, I rebelled for you, I raised you from perdition. I did all of that for you. You, Dean, and you alone. And now you're trying to tell me, all of that, every single moment—all of that was for nothing?"

"Dammit, Cas," Dean mutters, frantically grasping the back of Cas' neck, pulling him in and sealing their lips together. Cas seemed to melt against Dean, grabbing fistfuls of his t-shirt.

All the pain, all the anger, all the confusion, sorrow and desperation that filled the last few days, the last few years, all of that was shared and understood and forgiven in that moment. He had a feeling that this should have been done a long time ago, but when he finally pulled away to look at Castiel, he knew for sure.

"Castiel…" Dean whispers. It's only a 7-letter word, but it meant everything to him at that moment.

And that's really all that mattered.