For the first couple of weeks, Castiel slept. The soft and quiet confines of his bed had looked so appealing when the world had fallen, quite literally, around him. He had collapsed beneath the covers without hesitance, with only the very distant idea of one day resurfacing. There, under the layers of blankets, with his head buried beneath his pillow, Cas could pretend all was well. In the tranquillity of the bunker, he could almost convince himself that the world outside wasn't in turmoil. Or at the very least that it wasn't his fault.

It was a very short-lived fantasy.

Cas often dreamed, and it wasn't all bad despite what the wrangled state of his sheets the next morning would suggest. The nightmares were consistent—aggressively so—waking him, shaking, and sticky from sweat, his lips and mouth dry. While this happened most nights, the sense of dread never escaped him. He was always alarmed after opening his eyes to the dark, cavernous ceiling above him and thinking it was a tomb. The claustrophobia of it all was enough to deprive him of breath.

But there too came the good dreams. They were few and far between… and they were unwelcome.

Castiel had to question where in his subconscious he believed he had the right to those rare restful nights. How could he possibly grant himself any peace when his brothers and sisters were out there lost and barricaded from Heaven? Whenever a dream was followed by a subsequent nightmare, Cas took the onslaught of panic deservedly—gripping the sheets in trembling hands and allowing the dead weight to fall upon his chest. Though, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep it from alleviating. Eventually, he could breathe again and the heat left his face, and his sweat turned cold. By the time morning came, it had dried, almost as if nothing had ever happened. But of course, the pattern would repeat itself all over again a mere few hours later.

That was until Sam and Dean returned to the bunker, their footfalls heavy in the hallway as they took to tending to their wounds and preparing their used weapons for whatever hunt was to follow. Castiel listened to their movements and pondered what it was they were doing, at least with as little curiosity as he could muster. Truthfully, he stopped listening once he was sure neither of them was especially hurt. Quickly losing interest, Cas turned dismissively on his side with his back to the door and thought briefly that he ought to get up soon and greet them. He thought he would. Soon. Maybe later. Perhaps tomorrow would be better.

But the Winchesters had other ideas.

Dean was the first to venture to his room; Castiel could tell from the sound of his heavy footsteps as he approached, and by the brash way he pushed the door open without knocking first. Sam always knocked. There was a sharp intake of breath and then a disgusted groan. Cas cautiously peered out from his cocoon of blankets and observed Dean who had his mouth and nose covered with his sleeve, his eyes wide in absolute horror.

"Cas, it fucking reeks in here," Dean announced, his voice muffled against his arm, "have you gotten out of bed even once since I left?"

"Yes. To urinate. Amongst other bathroom matters," Castiel answered honestly.

"Well thank god for small mercies," Dean coughed. He tentatively stepped further into the room and approached Castiel with the same wariness he would normally reserve for a rotting corpse. "Have you showered? Eaten?"

"I've slept," Castiel told him plainly. He slipped the blanket back up over the top of his head and shut his tired eyes.

"Right. Well… you can't keep stewing in your own juices," Dean prodded him in the back.

"Says who?" Cas sighed heavily.

"My nose. Seriously, can't you smell that? Doesn't it bother you?"

Castiel hesitated before giving a purposeful sniff. Admittedly, it wasn't pleasant. Actually, it was downright awful. He wrinkled his nose and attempted unsuccessfully to mask his disgust. There wasn't an appropriate argument to offer in his defence. He understood that this wasn't normal, nor was it acceptable. Feeling ashamed, he tried to deny it.

"Not really. It's… manageable," he said finally.

"Manageable my ass." Dean prodded him in the back again. When Cas didn't immediately answer him, Dean ripped the blankets off of him and groaned again at the sudden and intense odour of dry sweat that wafted from the material. "Get up. You can't keep doing this to yourself," Dean ordered.

Cas blinked painfully at the onslaught of light and at the cold that tickled at his exposed skin—his pyjama pants had rolled up at the ankles and he'd opened up the buttons on his shirt, revealing his bare chest. Dean stood over him and waited impatiently for him to get up. Cas still couldn't find it in himself to move beyond what was required to turn from his left side to his right and back again. Even that was sometimes too exhausting. Oftentimes he would remain in the same cramped position for hours on end because it seemed more tiring to move out of it.

Dean's expression softened and he lowered his sleeve from his nose, remaining apprehensive as he placed a gentle hand on Cas' arm. Gently, he rubbed the length between his shoulder and elbow. "Cas, come on. Just… how bout you get up, take a shower, and I'll get you something to eat? We'll start there, yeah?"

Every part of Cas wanted to say no. To retrieve his blankets and hide beneath them. To be swallowed by the four walls of his room. But he didn't say it. The only thing worse than being granted the peace of dreams was to deny the Winchesters the appreciation they deserved. They had taken him in when all reason dictated that they ought to turn him away. They had given him a room to call his own and had given him free rein to the contents of the bunker, including the food in their fridge and full access to their bathroom. They had given him a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush. Before leaving on their hunt, Sam had moved the television into his room for him, but Cas hadn't so much as turned it on. Sam and Dean had gone beyond what he deserved to make him feel welcome and comfortable, giving him safety when he ought not to take it. After so many mistakes, each one somehow even more treacherous and irreversible than the last, he couldn't begin to fathom what it was that made him forgivable.

"Okay," he said quietly and slowly sat upright. His muscles were tense, and the pain worsened still as he shuffled his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. As he considered it, he realised he couldn't remember how long it had been since he last got out of bed.

"There you go," Dean smiled softly, his green eyes tainted with concern, "feels good to stretch, yeah?"

"Yeah," Cas agreed. He lied. His entire body protested at the effort, but he masked his discomfort with a forced yawn.

"You get in the shower, and I'll make a food run," Dean instructed.

"Okay." Cas was good at giving one-word answers. Since he had first arrived on the Winchesters' doorstep, very weak and very human, the one-word answers had sufficed. He supposed the two of them had made ways to interpret what was being left unsaid.

Dean disappeared from the doorway and Cas eventually followed after him. He trod barefoot down the hallway toward the bathroom, pausing only to retrieve clean towels from the linen closet. As he stopped, he could hear the quiet murmurings of Sam and Dean in the next room. There was the quiet metallic clatter of Dean's keys as he picked them up, and the two thuds of Sam's boots as he kicked them off.

"He's a mess," Dean said, his voice hushed, "I went in there and it smelt like something died."

"Do you think he moved at all?" Sam asked softly.

"Probably not. And I don't think he has eaten in days."

"But you got him up?"

"For now. I convinced him to take a shower. Can you change his sheets? Before he can sink back into the old ones."

"Of course," Sam assured him.

Castiel listened harder and could distantly hear the bunker door opening and closing a few seconds later. He dipped his head and absently tucked the towel under his arm. Sam turned the corner and paused when he saw him, and he quickly offered a kind smile. But it was dipped in pity.

"Hey, Cas. How's it going?" Sam asked, approaching him slowly. As he drew nearer, Cas recognised the exact second Sam caught a whiff of him. He tried to appreciate the effort Sam put into masking his repulsion.

"Fine," Cas answered. One word.

When the pity reached Sam's eyes, Castiel knew he understood that fine meant the exact opposite. Cas was far from fine; maybe even the furthest he had ever been. After the chaos and destruction he had caused in Heaven a few years before, Cas hadn't believed there existed the possibility he could do worse. That there was any more damage to be done. But he had been wrong. The angels had fallen, their wings stripped bare, their entire lives torn apart. Where before he had killed thousands, he may have killed hundreds more and devastated a million others. There was no 'fine' after that. Graceless, he had no hope of rectifying what he had done. And he had no strength left in him to try.

"Good… good," Sam nodded dismally. It was clear he didn't believe Cas even for a second. "You jump in the shower… I'll just, uh, go to my room." Sam slowly angled himself around Cas and took hesitant steps in the opposite direction from his own room, toward Castiel's. Cas nodded after him and wordlessly stepped into the bathroom.

It was clear he didn't believe Sam even for a second.

After Cas showered, he wrapped himself in a towel and treaded back to his room, only to find his bed made with fresh sheets and blankets, his pillowcases switched out for brand new ones. When he heard the faint rustling of movement, he peeked his head around the corner and witnessed Sam retreating from the bathroom he had just vacated: Cas' dirty clothes clasped in his arms. Cas felt a quick pang of guilt. The boys had been gone for a little over a week, assumedly sleeping for only a couple hours at a time, hunting tirelessly for whichever awful creature had been taunting the town and killing innocent civilians. They had been busy saving lives, and Cas had been moping on his own.

He had offered to join them, watching them when they packed up their duffel bags for a long drive. His heart had yearned to follow them. He always felt happiest at their side, and, honestly, he had been afraid of what he might do when left to his own vices. Cas couldn't trust himself. Particularly as his own humanity was still brand new to him. But they'd insisted he stayed, reminding him of the dangers that lay just beyond the bunker. The angels wanted his head on a pike. And, as a human, he was far more vulnerable to such things. While their point had been valid, and quite reasonable, Cas couldn't help but feel isolated by their departure. Betrayed, almost, when the door had shut behind them and he had been left as the sole occupant of the oversized bunker.

And so it had been too easy to give into the temptation of his bed. And it was there that he had stayed. Until now.

He did feel marginally better now that he had showered. Certainly a lot cleaner and more awake. But it was impossible to know how long the sensation would last. At least he had the sense now not to retreat back to his bed; new sheets or not. It was only a matter of time until Dean returned, and Cas didn't wish to disappoint him by going back to the same pathetic position he had been in before. Sam and Dean deserved better than that. At the very least, he could find a way to be of some use to them. Even if only a little. After dressing in an oversized shirt and a loose pair of jeans, he made his way to the kitchen and peered at the cluttered remnants of what the Winchesters had left behind. Dirty dishes had been left soaking in the sink, most of the water having since evaporated. The benches were littered with crumbs and questionable stains from whatever sauces and drinks had been spilled. And Cas was sure that, were he to investigate further, he would find food turning mouldy or sour in the fridge. He realised he could start here.

It seemed ridiculous to think how far he had fallen: one day spent protecting the brothers from mortal peril and aiding them in their mission to save the world, and the next day spent washing their dishes and emptying the trash. It hardly seemed enough. But what more could be done? What use was he to them? What was he even capable of? He had no answers, and so he took to the domestic duties without complaint. He started by scrubbing the dishes, rinsing and drying them before tucking them away where they belonged. Then he wiped down the countertops and stove top, taking extra care to clear the crusted stains away. Lastly, he emptied the expired contents of their fridge and pantry and disposed of it with the rest of the trash.

"Well look at you, up and about," Dean said proudly from the doorway.

Cas jumped, startled, having missed the sound of Dean returning. Heat crept up into his cheeks and he felt inexplicably embarrassed at being caught. He cleared his throat awkwardly and wiped his hands on his jeans. "I had to do… something," he murmured and shrugged dismissively.

"This is more than something. I was dreading having to clean this mess the whole time I was gone," Dean grinned. He pushed his shoulder off the doorframe and held up two bags of takeout food for Cas to see. "Do you wanna eat in here or the war room?"

"Either is fine," Cas said.

"War room then. Grab us some beers, would you?" Dean called, already heading back the way he had come. As Cas pulled three beers from the fridge, he could hear the distant shout of Dean looking for Sam.

Castiel felt undeniably better at having them home. The bunker didn't feel so empty and suffocating when he didn't have to reside there alone. Hearing their voices in the next room reminded him that not all had perished. While Heaven was in ruins and the angels lost to the confusion of Earth, the Winchesters, for once, were safe and well. And for that, Cas had to be thankful. But there was an underlying and immovable fear that his presence would be their undoing. For whatever good there was in their lives, he somehow had a way of turning it all bad; though he never meant to. His hands seemed to corrupt everything with a single touch—it was only a matter of time.

'When?' instead of 'If?'.

Cas paused just beyond the doorway to the war room as he heard Sam and Dean talking quietly amongst themselves. There was the rustling of paper as one or both of them cleared the table and began depositing the food onto it.

"He cleaned the kitchen. Nicely dressed and everything. Maybe he's all right?" Dean said.

"You really believe that?" Sam asked doubtfully.

There was a brief pause before Dean sighed. "Not at all. He's gone off the deep end. But I don't know how to help him."

"I don't know either," Sam admitted. "And this isn't something that's just gonna pass on its own. The only thing we can do is keep looking for a way to send the angels back to Heaven."

"Oh yeah, that's all," Dean scoffed, "give me a real challenge. Like… blow up the moon or hook up with Scarlett Johansson."

"We'll find a way," Sam decided, determined as ever.

"And Cas? We try to ship the god squad back upstairs, and what do we do with him?" Dean asked tentatively.

"He has to stay here. The bunker is the safest place for him."

There were some illegible murmurings which Cas couldn't understand, though he got the sense that Dean agreed. They had already decided that Cas couldn't be trusted to rectify the mess he had made. He dipped his head in shame, the internal guilt intensifying. His mistakes had become their burden, and he wished only to take it from them. He never expected or wanted them to suffer the consequences of his actions.

"Hey, Cas, what's the holdup?!" Dean called.

Cas immediately stepped around the corner and placed the beers down onto the table, and then sat down opposite them. He crossed his ankles and sipped timidly at his beer, acutely aware of the uncomfortable silence. Looking up, he realised he was under their scrutiny. Sam and Dean threw purposeful glances between each other and Cas, Dean clearly nagging Sam with his eyes to say something. Cas furrowed his brow in confusion.

"You heard everything, didn't you?" Sam asked gently.

"No," Castiel answered far too quickly, again offering just the one word. Sam shifted awkwardly in his chair and ran a disgruntled hand through his hair.

"You're a shit liar," Dean sniffed, unimpressed, and unwrapped his burger.

"Dean—" Sam nudged Dean's arm, casting a glare at him.

"I am," Cas agreed with Dean. It often felt easier to agree rather than argue, even if he felt worse for it. It wasn't as if there wasn't any validity to Dean's comment. Lying didn't come naturally to him, and he was slow to learn at the best of times. Now, with his mind elsewhere, all previous teachings had been forgotten.

Dean bit into his burger and spoke to Cas with his mouth full, "Ha angs foolin wahant or foot."

"Pardon?" Cas hadn't understood.

"The angels falling wasn't your fault," Sam translated easily, much to Castiel's surprise.

"You understood that?"

"You get used to it. Unfortunately," Sam explained and wrinkled his nose.

"Fook oof," Dean said around his food, wet flecks of spit and bread flying from his mouth. Cas absently wiped the table clean with a napkin. This time even he understood, and tried not to smile at the vulgar language.

"Dean, you're disgusting," Sam shook his head disapprovingly.

"I wouldn't say that," Cas disagreed, tilting his head to the side in mild amusement.

"Then what would you say?" Sam blinked in surprise. Both that Cas disagreed, but also at hearing him utter more than three words at a time.

"That it's disgusting behaviour. Dean himself is relatively more agreeable. He has superb manners whenever he wishes to use them, which, admittedly, isn't as often as it should be."

Dean grinned smugly, his cheeks full and puffed out like a chipmunk's. His eyes seemed to light up and crinkled slightly at the edges. Cas smiled fondly and averted his eyes, turning his attention to his own burger before it could get cold. While Dean could eat almost anything at any time, Cas was put off by anything that sat out long enough to get cold or soggy.

"You two—" Sam muttered under his breath and allowed his sentence to trail off unfinished. Neither Cas nor Dean bothered to pursue the end of it. Perhaps neither of them needed to.

Dean forced himself to swallow before he finished chewing, and coughed, "shut up and eat your rabbit food." He gestured at Sam's salad, his expression disgruntled as he eyed the plastic container of greens. "If you can. If you ask me, that's not food." Dean looked to Cas expectantly, his piercing gaze conveying that he ought to agree. "Cas, would you call that food?"

Castiel considered it and looked to Sam apologetically. "It's, uh… edible. But I wouldn't choose to make it a staple of my diet." He decided that was a sufficient answer that would have to appease the both of them. Quickly, he resumed drinking his beer and then bit into his burger. With his mouth full, he hoped neither of them would attempt to ask any more questions.

Dean straightened his back and sat more upright in his chair, seemingly satisfied with Castiel's response. Sam rolled his eyes and pointedly dug into his salad with vigour, eating it happily just to spite Dean. Not that Dean seemed to notice—his attention was already elsewhere.

"So what did you do while we were gone?" Dean asked curiously, "Netflix? Reading? ... Porn?"

"Dean—" Sam started, correcting him on his manners. But by the disinterest in his eyes, it was apparent that his heart simply wasn't in it. He knew by now that Dean would persist, no matter if he was told not to.

"Hey, I'm not judging. It's what I would do," Dean said and raised his hands in a display of self-defence.

"We know," Cas and Sam said in sync with the same monotonous tone.

"So? You must have done something?" Dean continued without pause, his eyes pointed and eager. He clearly wanted to his suspicions to be proven wrong. He wanted his worries to be relieved—to hear that there wasn't anything broken here to fix; because he didn't know how. Cas realised that Dean was desperate to know that everything would be okay.

"I, uh, slept mostly," Cas admitted reluctantly. "But I watched a lot of Netflix too." He quickly tacked on the lie and hoped it was more convincing than the last.

Dean glanced at Sam who shook his head. Cas remembered that the cord to the television was still coiled on the floor, unplugged. Sam must have seen it earlier when he went into his room to change the sheets. Dean's hope died in an instant and he picked at his burger, his appetite diminished.

"Shit liar," Dean repeated. He picked up his beer and drank half of it in a few quick swigs.

Sam shifted in his chair, most likely kicking Dean's foot under the table. Cas propped his elbow on the table and pressed his cheek against his open palm. It seemed that no matter whether he lied or told the truth, he would always disappoint them. He wished to do better. To be better. But he didn't know how. He couldn't think where to begin. Despite this, he was determined to try.

"Sorry," he sighed dejectedly.

"It's okay, Cas," Sam assured him quickly, "we get it. Things are hard right now… just take your time."

"I don't really need time," he said carefully, "I'm managing. I cleaned the kitchen."

"You didn't have to do that," Sam said.

"It kept me busy," Castiel explained. "Busy is good."

"And the kitchen looks great," Dean interjected appreciatively. Glancing over, Cas saw that Dean had almost finished eating already, whereas he had barely even begun.

Eating seemed like an exhausting effort to Cas. He hadn't expected the pangs of hunger to find him so frequently, or the satisfaction that came from eating to be so short-lived. He hadn't understood just how extensive the variety of options were—and they were all at his disposal. The choices had overwhelmed him right from the beginning. Honestly, he was rather bothered by the whole ordeal. And the bathroom requirements that followed were even more frustrating and tedious. He still didn't know how humans withstood all these daily needs. It left him feeling vulnerable. And vulnerability, whilst nothing new, still didn't come easily to him.

Though that wasn't to say there wasn't any joy in it. There was flavour. To everything. While he had certainly come across some he never wished to encounter again, he had similarly found many he enjoyed. PB&J sandwiches still claimed rights as his favourite—jelly, not jam (he found jam unsettling, and believed it had something to do with the texture); grape, not raspberry or strawberry or apricot; and crunchy peanut butter, not smooth. Dean had learned this early on and had often made it for him before he and Sam had left on their hunt. And Dean knew exactly how he liked it, without Cas ever having to say.

There was something especially gratifying in that, that made food not only manageable but also pleasant. Almost worthwhile, even.

He, too, found more appreciation for coffee. His usual black coffee was now doused with milk and sugar—two sugars to be exact—which was another preference Dean had come to learn within the first couple days of Cas taking residence in the bunker. Each morning before they had left, Cas had woken up and gone to the kitchen to find a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him, and it was always just right.

But when Dean had left, all these things had left with him, and Cas could never accurately replicate it. Something was always wrong, and he still didn't understand what it was or why. He silently hoped that with Dean's return all these comforts would come back to him too.

Dean caught Castiel staring at him and smiled awkwardly, his green eyes searching Cas' blue ones for the reason behind his intrigue, but it was impossible to tell. Even Cas wasn't entirely sure why. It had been so long since he had seen him last, and he supposed he was looking to see if anything had changed. But no. There remained the familiar stubble on Dean's chin and the faint freckles across his nose and the pale flecks of gold around the dark pupils of his eyes; even his hair was just as dishevelled as ever, if not more so since he hadn't yet showered since coming home.

"Cas?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Hmm," Castiel hummed distractedly. His burger had been left forgotten and the remainder of his beer sat untouched.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," Dean laughed.

"I don't understand," Cas said, confused. Sam chuckled and gathered all the empty containers, wrappers, and his beer bottle, and disappeared down the hall towards the kitchen.

"Why are you staring? Did you miss me or something?" Dean asked, half teasingly.

"A little," Cas admitted, lying only about the amount. He always missed Sam and Dean whenever they were apart. But, since losing his grace, he felt more aggrieved by the distance. By the utter isolation. He found he didn't like to be alone. Since they'd left, Cas sometimes caught himself thinking of Dean and missing him. It had been difficult to ignore his absence.

"You could have called… you know, if you wanted," Dean said, his voice going quiet. He started fiddling with his beer bottle, peeling off the label slowly and crumpling it into a small ball.

"I didn't want to disturb you," Cas told him, "you and Sam were busy. I had no right nor reason to interfere."

"Don't be ridiculous. You think I don't get bored out there? All the mind numbing research before the action?" Dean said, "That and being in such close quarters with Sam for so long… like, I'm used to it, but I'll always welcome hearing another friendly voice."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Cas promised. He was honestly relieved. As he'd had nothing but time to dwell and sink further into his grief, a minute to call Sam and/or Dean would have been a welcome escape. He'd actually hoped that either one of them might have called to ask for his assistance: to pick his brains for answers, or to have him sift through one or more thick tomes from the shelves for information. But they either hadn't needed him or had sought another source as not to bother him.

"I missed you too, you know," Dean admitted, looking away.

"Really?" Cas asked in disbelief.

"Well, you know, I was worried. I mean… you showed up here without your grace, all dinged up and exhausted. Then we take off barely a week later. Kinda felt like an ass for leaving you alone," Dean explained quickly. He cleared his throat uncomfortably and kicked his feet up onto the table. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the seat, crossing his arms over his chest. As Dean moved, his shirt slipped to reveal dried blood across his collarbone. Cas quickly stood up to investigate.

"You're hurt," Cas stated. He knelt down at Dean's side and took his arm into his hands, manoeuvring him gently so he could get a better look at his collarbone. Dean's eyes flew open and he looked at him, surprised. Cas pulled the material of Dean's shirt down slightly and prodded carefully around the wound. From what he could tell, it wasn't bad at all, but he knew humans were prone to infection and didn't dare risk it. "How'd this happen?" he asked.

Dean shrugged noncommittedly, "I dunno. Teeth or nails. It's usually one or the other."

"You should be taking better care of yourself," Castiel lectured. He pulled at Dean's arm and gestured for the hunter to follow him. He needed to clean the crusted blood away so he could get a proper look.

Dean rolled his eyes but didn't argue and stood to follow him. Cas led him to the bathroom and forced him to sit down on the edge of the bathtub before looking for a clean towel he could use. He had to duck out to the linen closet and took a short detour to find bandages before returning. Cas was pleased to see that Dean had stayed where he'd left him.

"Shirt off, please," Castiel instructed.

"I'm good, but thanks," Dean protested stubbornly. He shifted awkwardly, his cheeks flushing a little red.

Cas turned to the sink and glared at him over his shoulder. "Don't be petulant."

"I'm not. You're just making a big deal out of nothing."

"If it's nothing then you'll just let me slap a band-aid on it so we can be done with it," Cas was determined. Dean rolled his eyes and pouted his lips slightly, but finally did as he was told and tugged his shirt off. He dropped it on the floor and then rested his elbows on his thighs.

Cas nodded approvingly. He rinsed the towel under the tap and tended to Dean's injury with care, ignoring Dean's illegible mumblings all the while. Once it was clean, he could see for sure that it was nothing to worry about, but he was still careful to bandage it nonetheless.

"You and Sam… both hopeless with injuries," Castiel sighed dismally.

"We're still alive, aren't we?" Dean pointed out.

"By some miracle," Cas sniffed. He glared up at Dean when he purposely began to move away. "If you won't take care of yourself then I'll have to do it for you."

"That's real rich coming from you," Dean muttered, then immediately looked guilty for saying it.

"Meaning?" Cas asked, taking advantage of Dean's sudden motionless and resumed his work. The collarbone was a difficult position to work with, and the cut was long and jagged, but he did what he could. Cas slowly finished applying the bandage and inspected his work, deciding whether he was satisfied with it or not.

"Nothing," Dean dismissed. He again shifted and scratched absently at his chin, averting his eyes from Castiel's as the ex-angel looked him up and down in case there were any injuries he had missed.

"Dean—" Castiel persisted. Dean sighed, stood up, and flexed his arms carefully, testing the flexibility of the bandage and apparently feeling satisfied that it wouldn't hinder him in any way.

"Look, it's just that you weren't exactly looking after yourself. So don't you think lecturing me is a bit hypocritical?"

"I was in the safe confines of the bunker. What was the danger in that?"

"Not eating, for one thing," Dean bent down and retrieved his discarded shirt and roughly pulled it back on.

"I ate a little." Castiel tried hopelessly to appease him.

"Not enough," Dean argued. Much to Cas' surprise, Dean ran his hands up along his sides—starting just above his hips and stopping at his armpits. "You're skinnier already. You keep going on that way, you'll be nothing but skin and bones."

"I don't understand. Isn't that something humans aspire to?" Cas asked, thinking back to some of the magazines he had briefly flipped through on occasion; and the billboards and commercials he had seen on his journeys; and even some of the television shows and films he had watched in the last year or so—though they were few and far between. He'd been around long enough to know humans had a tendency to starve themselves or strictly tether themselves to a limited diet of some kind. Not that he fully grasped why that was.

"Sometimes. But they shouldn't," Dean told him, "and it's not something you should care about."

"I don't," Cas said.

"Good. Let's keep it that way," Dean squeezed Cas' shoulder gently. "You've got to treat yourself better. This whole thing with the angels… we'll work it out."

Cas nodded faintly, but he wasn't at all convinced or reassured. He couldn't see how something so dire could ever have a fair resolution. This wasn't some harmless mistake he could be forgiven for. After this, there was no returning to Heaven, no companionship with any of his brothers and sisters, and no healing of broken wings.

"We've overcome worse," Dean said.

"Worse?"

"The Apocalypse and the Leviathans and—"

"And me," Cas finished for him, "I've been the problem. More than once. And I'm the one thing that we've never overcome—not really."

Dean blinked, apparently startled and overwhelmed. But there flickered the acknowledgment that maybe Castiel was right. It was there in his eyes, and in the discernible flinch in his demeanour. Dean opened his mouth to protest. To lie. But then Sam peered around the open doorway, his brow furrowed.

"Uh, what are you guys doing in here?" He asked, catching on too late that he had interrupted something.

"Talking," Castiel said.

At the same time, Dean said, "nothing."

Sam looked between them and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He shoved his hands into his pockets and swayed back and forth on his heels, "Sure. As you do… in the bathroom."

"You need it or something?" Dean asked, already making his escape for the door.

"Yeah," Sam nodded.

When Cas didn't move on his own accord, Dean gestured for him to follow. He reluctantly went after him and murmured a quiet apology to Sam as he passed. When they reached the hall, Castiel kept going, leaving Dean behind in his wake. And Dean made no attempt to stop him.