Chapter 1

Helpless. The worst feeling in the universe and impossible to describe. Castiel thought he was stronger than this, but the spell changed him in ways he couldn't begin to understand. Was he an angel? Most definitely. Even so, Castiel felt as though he may explode from the pain he was experiencing.

He sat huddled underneath the blanket Dean had returned to him, studying the pattern of wood in the floor. If he stared long enough, Castiel could just make out the mangled image of a leviathan opening its mouth to reveal a monstrous face. His mind drifted to purgatory and the horrors he faced while trapped there. Castiel winced. Just another reminder of failure. He couldn't fix Heaven. He couldn't fix the earth. Hell, of course, was an abomination.

Even when Castiel tried to help Dean by leading the leviathans away from him in purgatory, he did nothing but disappoint. One bad decision after another and there was nothing he could do about those actions now. If only he'd listened to his friends. Deals with demons, betrayal, and deceit? They were all lies for what he was really hiding. Castiel would go to the ends of the earth to protect Dean Winchester, and every evil thing out there knew just where to hit the chink in his armor.

The physical pain was at a tolerable level—possibly a three on those charts that humans use from one to ten—but thinking was the most dangerous of all. With a running list of everything gone wrong in his life, Castiel's mind couldn't help but wander to the most recent events. Not stopping Dean from getting the Mark of Cain. Not stopping Sam from working with Rowena to remove the Mark. Being too trusting with Rowena and allowing something as simple and stupid as an attack dog spell past his guard. Then there was the incident in the alleyway… He truly didn't mean to hurt Dean, but every bone in Castiel's body was screaming at him to fight.

When he stared at Dean, bruised and bloody, Castiel felt nothing but instant regret as Rowena's spell lifted. The guilt of what he had done swallowed him up, and all he wanted was the chance to heal Dean. The very thing—no, the very person—Castiel had sworn to protect all those eons ago lied beaten and battered in front of him.

The worst part? Dean didn't even blame him. He checked to see if there were any lasting physical effects of the spell, but afterward, Dean had refused to let Castiel heal him. He insisted on letting his wounds naturally right themselves. Castiel wasn't sure if this was out of stubbornness or if he had lost Dean's trust entirely. Either conclusion was infuriating, and he was completely and utterly helpless.

There was a distant tapping noise, and Castiel was quickly shaken out of his thoughts by Sam standing in the doorframe of the immense library. "Hey, Cas, just checking in," Sam said. "We have some leftovers from dinner. Believe it or not, Dean can actually cook, so you're welcome to whatever's in the fridge."

"That's very kind of you, Sam," Castiel replied stoically, "but I don't eat. I'm still an angel, though a poor excuse for one."

Sam winced at his words. His face softened in sympathy as he replied, "Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

"Alright," Castiel agreed.

Sam began to head back to the kitchen, but stopped himself to say something else. "Hey, Cas?" he asked.

"Yes?" Castiel replied patiently.

"You know you've been sitting in that chair for the last three days, right?" Sam questioned. "I mean, Dean's sulking, but he's fine. I just wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm… better than I was," Castiel conceded.

Sam nodded his understanding and said, "Okay… Whenever you're ready to talk, we're here for you, man."

Castiel shifted uncomfortably and burrowed deeper into his blanket, and Sam excused himself from the room. He didn't want pity from anyone. He only wanted to be understood. What kind of punishment was this?

A few weeks later, Castiel decided to make amends with his situation the only way he knew how: talking to Dean. In his experience, Dean's pep talks consisted of self-deprecating statements, Zeppelin quotes, and a beer or two for good measure. Why should this one be any different?

Castiel wasn't sure why he felt such a compelling urge to apologize again. It's not like he hadn't tried to reason with Dean before. Nevertheless, Castiel had to try mending his friendship.

After spending the last few weeks with the Winchesters, Castiel knew Dean spent most of his time in either the bunker's kitchen or garage. Considering lunchtime wasn't for a couple of hours, Castiel soundlessly padded down to the garage. He had long since mastered the art of quietly observing from afar. The ability required little save a soft tread and a silent mouth.

Castiel stepped into the doorframe to observe his surroundings. As expected, Dean was washing cars. What Castiel couldn't have predicted was the attire Dean had chosen. For someone typically clothed in multiple layers of flannel, his shorts were the equivalent to a cheerleader at a car wash fundraiser, complete with the mindless song and dance.

The newly installed radio speakers blasted the guitar riff of an old tune as Dean hummed along. He dipped the soapy rag into the bucket of water and wrung it out.

"It's nobody's fault but mine!" Dean shouted off-key, followed by an acapella guitar riff. Castiel froze in the doorframe. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all... Dean was enjoying himself since the first time in forever, and bringing up the last few days would just dampen his mood. Castiel slowly backed away from the scene and trudged down the hall. There was no point apologizing again. Dean would still think poorly of him, and it wouldn't help their situation at all.

Since having the curse removed, Castiel had learned tricks to keep the traumatic memories away, and recently, he began to use a distraction method. Pacing the halls was a good way to pass the time. Walking was better than thinking. Anything to keep from dwelling on the past. After wandering about the bunker for several hours, Castiel walked through a frequented path when he saw a yellow paper posted to the door of a room. The short letter was scrawled in all caps and was unmistakably Dean's handwriting.

Cas,

Cabin fever's a bitch. We're on a case in OR. Don't worry about us. Get better.

Dean

There was that phrase again—that phrase used so often to describe what Castiel was going through. Get better. As if there were something wrong with him. He felt absolutely fine. The physical pain had long since left his body, and Castiel was beginning to understand the term cabin fever from a personal standpoint.

An angel could apparate anywhere they wanted to go in an instant. So why didn't he? Castiel mulled this question over several times in his head, debating the possible answers. One was to avoid dealing with people. The other was out of fear that he would harm someone again beyond repair. Dean pretended he was unaffected by Castiel's actions under the influence of the spell, but he knew there was more to the story. Watching someone you care about spiral out of control is never easy—especially when that someone is an angel who maintains his composure in almost any situation.

Castiel shook himself back into consciousness and took a deep breath. Think, he urged himself. The only thing that made sense was to research. He instantly headed for the library where Castiel knew he would find a spare laptop.

In the last few years, Castiel had become more accustomed to human technology, though it took him several tries to boot the computer to the home screen on his own. He stared at the screen in puzzlement. The picture seemed to be that of a moose in the wild. Dean's idea of a joke most likely. Castiel shrugged and began his search. If he was going to prove himself, he needed more useful information than the state population. Castiel filtered through the strange, unexplainable cases in Oregon.

When he felt he had narrowed down the cases far enough, Castiel reached in his coat pocket to procure a cell phone. Another new device to him, yet as long as the number was saved under contacts, Castiel was fairly competent in its use.

"Hey, Cas," Sam answered after a few moments had passed. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Castiel replied. "I was just reading up about the other cases in the area that you're headed to. I haven't found anything yet that matches."

Dean's voice suddenly grumbled a response through the phone. "Cas, you've got one job to do and that's to heal," he instructed. "You understand?"

Of course he understood. Dean wanted to protect him for as long as possible, but as long as Castiel was cooped up in the bunker, he couldn't heal mentally. "I can help," Castiel offered. If he had something to keep him occupied, he could feel useful for once.

"Yeah, of course you can, Cas, but right now is the time for you to focus on getting better," Sam explained. That didn't make Castiel feel any more capable, but at least the case wouldn't take long. "This is just a milk run. We got it. So… Try and relax."

"Alright," Castiel answered.

"Read a book, watch some Netflix," Sam suggested.

Castiel paused with uncertainty. "What's a "Netflix"?" he asked inquisitively.

"Go to my room, turn on the TV," Sam instructed. "You'll figure it out."

"Alright," Castiel agreed. "Just call if you need anything."

"Got it, Cas," Dean replied. "Thanks."

The call disconnected, leaving Castiel awkwardly pressing the cellphone against his ear. He slowly lowered it to the table with a defeated expression of helplessness. Definitely the worst feeling imaginable.