It is the last place in the world he would think of looking, so it is the first place he goes. Every instinct in his body says otherwise - Dean? Here? Of all the places he could choose, of all the places he knew no one would look for him, why the Hell would he flee here? - so it makes the most sense to check first.
Big cities are grim places despite the flashy lights, the noise, the traffic. They are a blemish on the face of God's green earth, cesspits for Sin and Ruin in the eyes of some, and in the eyes' of others, they are simply a plea for help. For divine intervention. A place for a new angel to truly gain their wings. Castiel believes the latter rather than the former, because at least from that perspective, people can be saved. Not everything is dismal, not everyone is forsaken. And that's all he wants to do, really. Like all the other angels who give two damns about the other part of their job, Castiel wants to not only be a messenger and a soldier, but a deliverer.
("God forsakes no one," he tells a man seated on the steps of a bank, placing his fingers over a gloved, thin hand. The man's holding a sign, a poorly written plea for help, but it gets its point across. A security guard stands in the doorway of the bank, a watchful overlord of the company the man loiters before. Castiel watches the security guard, feeling almost worse for the man in the porch than the one in the cold. "God forsakes no one who keeps him close, I promise you.")
(The man's eyes light up for a moment and he nods, smiling at Castiel before accepting the scarce bit of change the angel in a taxman's clothing has to offer.)
Castiel spends half the night winding his way through the streets, the back alleys, and the seedier parts of town. The marks on Dean's ribs hide him and he's not answering his phone regardless of who's calling, so Castiel is reduced to a wandering that is nearly nomadic in nature. His fingertips are numb, he cannot feel his toes or the tip of his nose, and there are small flakes of snow falling from the sky and matting in his hair. Steam rises from the blacktop and his shoes slide on the slick surface as he crosses a deserted road to walk up the steps of a church.
And then he's inside, walking down towards the alter. There is no one in sight; he feels the presence of no one but himself. Standing in the center of the church, shoulders slumped, he looks about him, takes in every shadow, every flicker of each illuminated candle before a picture of the Virgin Mary. Lights left in tribute of someone who had passed. From where he is stood, Castiel blesses himself.
And then he is in the church basement, more specifically, the catacombs. He can see his breath before him, but not because of a presence, but because it is as cold in here as it is out there, if not colder. Winter has found its way indoors and it knows no mercy.
Here, in these beautifully decorated catacombs, Castiel can tell he is not alone. But he does not feel threatened. He feels at peace.
"Dean?" he calls. His calling is greeted by his own voice, echoes down a long hallway, repeating his friend's name. "Dean, are you here?"
No one replies. It was what he expected, really.
Castiel shrugs and begins to walk down the corridor, footsteps echoing on the stones the same way his voice had. A sharp tap-tap-tap as he descends the gentle decline. On either wall grows a thin layer of moss, but there are paintings, beautiful paintings. Italian, some of them. There is a copy of Michael fighting Lucifer. Castiel stares at it for longer than he intends on, and after a moment he shakes himself from the stupor he has fallen into and carries on down the hall. This place has been long neglected, as has this church. It is aging, old, decaying from the inside out. The foundation would be the first to go, taking God's home down with it and leaving a visible gap in the community that needed it so much.
He places a hand on the wall, the moss is gone, and it seems a bit brighter than before.
At the end of the hall is a room where some bishops are buried. Opening the door, he finds some candles burning and there is a man seated in the middle of the floor, a gun at his side and a bottle of whisky, nearly drained of its contents, beside the weapon.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
Castiel sighs, feeling a weight lift from his body. He approaches the hunter and stands beside him, placing a broad hand on a broader shoulder. Dean's body is cold to the touch, and he looks drained, like (a dead man walking) it had been a long time since he had slept. "You're freezing," he murmurs, squeezing the hunter's shoulder, secretly afraid his bones have frozen and that too much pressure will cause them to shatter. "How long have you been down here?"
Dean licks his lips, which are purple by now and on their way to turning blue, and he shrugs. "I 'unno, a while, I guess. "How'd you know you'd find me here?"
"I didn't," says Cas. "I just knew this is a place you would choose last, so I chose it first. Bobby and Sam are worried, so I elected myself to search for you."
Bottle to his lips, Dean takes a swig of the whisky before setting it back down. "Good call," he sighs. There is silence for a moment, other than the soft dripping of water from the ceiling and the sound of them breathing, and then: "You don't need to sit on my shoulder, Cas, I'm just having a chat with your Father, that's all."
"Has he replied?"
Dean shuts his eyes as though asking God for all the patience in the world, and then he shakes his head. "Listen, if He had replied, I'd be a snivelling mess on the floor bleeding out my ears. Do you think He's said one damn word to me? No. One-sided conversations are better than nothing, right?" His voice is shaking, and Castiel knows what he's feeling: doubt, and a lot of it.
Prying the bottle from hands that are shaking with the cold, Castiel takes the alcohol from Dean and sets it on the floor, out of his reach. Dean watches him with tired, confused, broken eyes but says nothing. Castiel takes it as an invitation to sit beside him and replaces the bottle with his hand.
For a long moment, what seems like forever and a day, Dean stares at the hand in his. Similar to his, but calloused in a way that's far different. The hands of an angel and the hands of a failure. Castiel watches his face, wants to smooth the sadness from the corners of his eyes, but waits.
Waiting is worth its weight in gold: Dean wraps his fingers around the angel's, gives the floor a smile, and they sit in silence until dawn shows herself through the small crack of a window in the foundation.