Author's note: So…I have no idea when this would be taking place. I know that's the worst answer ever. Obviously it's sometime after Castiel lost his Grace. Partial fluff, partial angst, Destiel Slash, Hurt!Dean, Worried!Sammy, Human-like!Cas! (I love when Cas starts to act more human.) I do love me some Destiel.

This is my first Fan Fiction, please be gentle.

I do not own Supernatural, nor any of its respective characters here featured…(Dean, Sam, Castiel, and a bit of Bobby as well for good measure)—Oh the things I would do if I did…They belong to Eric Kirpke. The brilliant bastard.

Without further ado…

Irrefutably Human

A Supernatural Fan Fiction by Brooke Benson

Chapter 1: The Effects of Late Night Sitcoms on the Angelic Psyche

In theory, Sam realized that his brother was as hardheaded as they came and understood this. Having had to deal with his brother on a daily basis, he knew Dean's faults better then he knew his own, perhaps out of sheer recognition for these faults, which his brother chose to ignore and regard as nonexistent. So naturally, in theory, the concept of his brother ignoring his connection (burning deeper than mere camaraderie) with the angel Castiel—his angel, Castiel—should neither have shocked nor frustrated him as much as it did. However, nights spent scrolling through webpage after webpage and attempting to ignore the palpable sexual tension between the two as they continued their oh-so-annoying eye sexing were getting rather old. Affirmative action, he decided, was the only way to go. However as it stood he had no concept of how to go about hooking up his stubborn, whorish, and generally difficult brother with a pure, borderline ignorant angel of the Lord, the loss of his Grace notwithstanding.

In reality, Dean had become well aware of the situation at hand. He wasn't sure at what point he had decided he was in love with Castiel—he doubted he had decided at all. He had, for the longest time, been sure of his sexuality and attraction to the female gender and only the female gender. In fact, he wasn't sure that although Castiel was definitely male, whether or not he could regard himself as 'gay'. It wasn't for reasons as shallow as homophobia, but it seemed to Dean that the mundane term 'man' for Castiel was the same sort of understatement one would use 'dog' to describe a hellhound. Dean had never found himself interested in any other 'male', and so it was with a grain of salt he regarded himself in terms of the word 'gay'. Even so, using the term in his own mind was a completely separate thing for admitting it out loud. He knew that Castiel was very likely blissfully unaware of the hunter's current situation. If he was aware, he was certainly very talented at hiding it, or else recognizing it for what it was. Either case, for that grain of angelic innocence Dean was grateful. He was thus free to explore the reaches of his own affections in his own mind, sorting through a sea of conflicting but nonetheless connected emotions. Bothering anyone else with them was beyond him, currently. He wasn't entirely sure what he was to make of the entire situation. It wasn't something as mundane as the soft curve of Castiel's upper lip, or the shockingly blue hue of his eyes that drew Dean to him. These indisputably beautiful features were a complimentary afterthought to Dean. It was Castiel's soul to which he was drawn, and the pure elegant grace of it all. Castiel's need to understand, the sacrifices he'd made, and the commitment he held not just to Dean but to anyone he held dear…all complimented perfectly by the fact that with the loss of his Grace he was becoming distinctively more human. It wasn't as though he was changing, only growing. Therein lay a spark of hope for Dean—a secret wish he dare not dwell on longer than for a few fleeting moments—that one day, perhaps Castiel would reach the point of humanity in which he would find himself not only capable of love (as Dean so thought he was) but open to it. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he could reach that point, there would be no afterthought to them. They would just be. He needn't worry about Castiel's coping with the same confusing realization he had—Castiel often voiced to him that love had no generic types such as 'gay', 'straight', 'lesbian', or 'bisexual'. Love, to Castiel and to the rest of the angels, was just that. Love; indefinable by any human given label. Mostly, Dean realized, it was the way Castiel looked at him. His eyes were quietly searching, though for what Dean was unaware and morbidly curious. His eyes were painfully expressive—always pensive and intrigued. Dean couldn't help but adore and loathe the spark that resided in the long stares the two shared. The connection there was intoxicating to the point of irrationality.

Now the subject of Castiel's most intense look of curiosity was gazing back up at him—eyes just as round and curious looking. The kitten let out a soft meow, as though attaching a question mark to the end. Slightly startled at the response, Castiel tilted his head a bit more and scrutinized the little thing with much more focus, as though fearing some oncoming retaliation or outburst.

"It's not going to burst into song, Cas," Dean droned from the bed he was sprawled so indignantly upon. Castiel shifted his gaze to Dean. "And I told you not to look at me like that unless you were going to screw me."

There was a very long silence in which Dean mulled over the stupidity of his phrasing, Sam shifted uncomfortably and debated between making a comment and running screaming from the room for the brain bleach, and Castiel pondered the implications behind that.

"You know what I mean. Not like that. I didn't mean…Christ," Dean sighed, blushing bright red in a most uncharacteristic way that convinced Sam it would be best not to comment.

"Where'd you find it, anyways?" Sam asked, fishing the carton of milk from the depths of the grocery bag he'd been carrying. Dean stared at it as though it were some strange, foreign substance. He tended to do that around even somewhat healthy food. And because Sam could find nothing in their supplies or the cupboards more useful, he flipped over the ash tray on the nightstand, tipped out the contents (collected dust but nothing more), and poured as much milk into it as he could, setting it down on the table beside the kitten. Castiel watched it drink in silence.

"I was about to take a bus ride…" Cas's usual mask of nonchalance shifted to one of distain. 'They're noisy, and they reek of misery and human excrement' he'd explained once. "And it was sitting in a box on the curb alone. The man suggested that I take it home with me. It would die otherwise."

"Who said to take it home?" Dean frowned.

"Does it matter? What's that look for, Dean? I don't think it's something intrinsically evil. It's a kitten," Sam rolled his eyes at the borderline distrustful look Dean was giving it.

"Yeah, okay. I'm getting the Holy water anyways," Dean growled and dug through the duffel bag for the bottle, setting it beside him on the bed. Just in case.

"Is it not customary to name an animal companion?" Castiel asked.

Sam hesitated in answering. "A pet? Yes…"

"We're naming it now? Jeez…" Dean rolled over and buried his face in the pillow. He knew it wasn't likely now that they would be getting rid of it any time soon.

"Chandler," Castiel stated after an elongated pause.

"Chandler?" Sam burst into a fit of hysteric giggles. Castiel nodded. "Dean has you watching late night TV, doesn't he?"

"Could've been worse. He could have said Doctor Sexy," Dean replied, smirking a little at the idea. Castiel smiled too, for once understanding the reference. He remembered many a night walking in on Dean watching the infective soap before he flipped the channel with a manly grunt of feigned dismissal. It hadn't been long before he'd admitted defeat and confessed his guilty infatuation with the cleverly-named show. Castiel reached over to pet the cat, which half rolled half flopped submissively onto its side, grabbing his index finger between his paws.

"It scratches," Castiel observed.

"Freakin' cats," Dean muttered, with much the same tone as though he were regarding some dangerous disease.

"What is your issue, Dean?" Sam demanded, a little incredulous. "It's a kitten." So saying, he reached for the little cat. Castiel offered it to him willingly, and the positively tiny cat traded hands, remaining in an awkwardly splayed out sort of position, as though reaching for a monstrous bear hug. Sam strode across the cramped hotel room and set the kitten down on Dean's chest. The two stared at each other for a long moment before the kitten let out a surprisingly loud 'meow' and padded towards the hunter's face.

"That's cute, guys, really," he groaned and sat up. Chandler slid halfway down his torso before latching his tiny claws into Dean's shirt, skidding to a halt. Dean removed the claws from his shirt and reached for his father's journal, flipping through the pages. "But we were here for a reason."

"Wendingo. Right," Sam sighed. Chandler meowed in agreement, which sent Sam into a fit of near hysterics and coaxed a grin from Castiel.