Notes: This takes place near the end of season 8, while Sam is doing the trials. Thanks for reading. :)

Castiel had been dealing with the Winchesters long enough to know when something was wrong. Granted with the Winchesters, most things were, more often than not, going wrong in some way or the other. But when his angel radio got a little quieter than the usual, he started to get anxious. His brothers and sisters would hide information from him, keeping their conversations small and rare. When he stopped hearing the word 'Winchester' cross his path, Castiel knew something was up.

Even more so, when he couldn't hear Dean's voice in his mind, like a pleasant and constant hum. When that comforting purr in the back of his mind disappeared, Castiel started to panic. His first thought was always something along the lines of, "He's dead again, and there's no promising I can bring him back this time." He'd pause, stopping whatever he was doing, and focus hard, thinking maybe he just lost Dean's voice. Perhaps it wasn't gone, but just misplaced.

And when he still couldn't hear him… Well…

That was the situation Castiel was in now. He had spent a while searching his mind for the familiar hum of Dean's thoughts, but he hadn't found a trace of it. That either meant something had happened to the Winchester, or he was purposefully keeping his thoughts under check.

So Castiel found himself at the Winchester's bunker, knocking on the door as if it was it was any other house, and it was any other situation. He waited, albeit impatiently, for the door to open. When it didn't, he let himself in via angel transportation. He normally didn't like to intrude on them without warning like that, but he was becoming increasingly distressed.

He checked the kitchen. Nothing.

He checked the bedrooms. Nothing.

He checked every single space available. Nothing.

Castiel, feeling more panicked than before, took desperate measures. He sent out a message to his brothers and sisters, asking— pleading— for everyone to help him find Dean Winchester. When no answer came right away, he covered his face with his hands, fearing the worst. No angel could find him because he was unreachable. Dean had been dragged into Hell again, where his soul would go through more than it could handle. Castiel could try to break through and retrieve his soul, but there was a slim chance it would even work. He could try to bring Dean back up from Hell for eternity, and he might not succeed. And by the time he did, anyway, Dean's soul would be beyond repair. It would be mangled and broken, torn to shreds. Castiel wasn't sure he could handle seeing that.

He waited and waited, and finally there was a faint push on his mind. There were no words, but it was as if he had suddenly been pointed in the right direction by someone. Without hesitation, Castiel followed the new path, going faster than he thought he possibly could. Even so, he didn't think he could get there fast enough.

He ended up outside of a shabby motel. Typical. Castiel would have found it humorous if he wasn't so nervous. He was standing right outside the door, and he still couldn't hear Dean's voice. There was still no hum to sooth his nerves.

He didn't knock this time, but just appeared inside the motel room. There was a shower on in the bathroom, and the TV was blaring to his right. The lights were off, and there was a figure on the bed, hidden from sight in the shadows. The faint light coming from the TV only lit up the end of the bed.

"Cas…? What the Hell?"

Castiel nearly collapsed to his knees in relief. He hadn't thought he could feel such a rush of emotions, but apparently he could. His tongue felt like swelling up and his throat burned, but he wanted to smile more than anything.

It was Dean.

Suddenly he was being herded outside the motel, followed closely by Dean. He was so overcome with sheer relief, he didn't even find it odd that Dean had wanted to speak outside. He was so distracted by the fact that Dean was alive, he didn't notice that there still wasn't any pleasant hum in the back of his mind.

"What are you doing here?" Dean sounded irritated, and he was looking inside the motel room window, watching for something.

"I…" Couldn't hear you in my mind anymore? Noticed you stopped praying to me? Was infinitely worried you had gone and gotten yourself killed? "I was just visiting," he said simply, hoping he sounded casual.

"You never 'just visit.'" He was still turned away, looking in through the window. That wasn't the biggest problem, though. Castiel could handle Dean being turned away; he had faced that many times. It was the silence that was getting to him. The only time he could hear Dean was when he opened his mouth and spoke. There was nothing in between, and it bothered him immensely.

"What's going on?" he finally asked, taking a step forward. Dean tensed, inching away minutely, which only made his anxiety spike.

"What do you mean?" He was still turned away. If anything, Dean's whole body turned away as well.

"Why won't you look at me?" Castiel took another step forward, waiting. When there was no response, he reached forward, touching Dean lightly on the shoulder. It was tense beneath his fingers, the muscle tight underneath the fabric.

"Don't," he warned, but Castiel pressed on, tugging his shoulder back a little so he would turn. Dean was reluctant, but after a moment he caved and faced around. The angel's heart dropped, and he stumbled backwards a few feet.

The light above their heads from a fluorescent bulb was weak, but Castiel could still clearly see Dean and what was all over his face. Looking as if it had been carved in his skin with a scalpel were ancient inscriptions, running from the top of his scalp to his fingertips. Castiel could imagine the symbols were scattered all over his body beneath his clothes as well. They were carved into his eyelids and lips, and in the dip below his ears. It looked painful, even though Castiel knew Dean couldn't feel it. He knew exactly what it was and where it came from, which probably made it worse.

Dean had made a demon deal, and the contract was engraved into his skin.

Dean looked down as if he was ashamed, and Castiel wanted to engulf him in his arms and erase every mark from his skin. The words were ugly and harsh, not at all worthy of being on his skin.

"Dean… Why?" Castiel moved closer, inspecting the wording and trying to decipher it. He could only understand snippets. Things like death and Hellhounds in particular stuck out to him, making him feel sick.

"I'm sorry," he choked, turning away again. His voice was strained and tight. "I had to make sure Sam would be okay after these trials. I couldn't risk it. I just couldn't…"

Castiel felt a rush of anger at this. He gripped Dean's shoulder where his handprint had been seared years ago, and pulled him roughly to face around again. "So you sell your soul away? You're unsure about your brother's fate and you kill yourself?" Castiel was raising his voice; he knew that, he just couldn't stop. "When people are unsure they ask questions, Dean. But not you. No, you summon a demon and damn yourself to Hell. Do you know how big of a slap in the face that it to me?"

"I'm sorry—"

"That's not enough," he shouted. "I have spent years keeping you safe, Dean. I pulled you out of Hell, and you're just going to walk right back in there. There's no promise I can get you out again. You might be in there for good this time. Did you think about that?"

"I didn't expect you to get me out, Cas," Dean replied, his voice quiet. That made the angel freeze, and his face dropped. Of course Dean didn't expect to get saved again. He had doubted he should have been saved the first time. Dean didn't expect anything from anyone. He didn't think he was worthy of it.

"I'll try," he said, his tone softer than before.

"You don't have to do that."

"Yes I do." At that, Dean looked up at him, his eyes wide and innocent, and Castiel felt like this was the first time the hunter understood that Castiel wasn't going to save him because someone told him to. He was going to save Dean Winchester because he couldn't live with himself if he didn't. He couldn't live without Dean.

They were quiet a moment more, simply watching each other. Castiel tried hard not to stare at the wording all over Dean's skin. It was horrid and ugly, but he knew that beneath it was Dean, which made it less revolting somehow. The words were less damning and more admirable with Dean as the canvas.

"Dean," he started, suddenly aware of the gaping silence that still filled his mind, "why can't I hear you in my mind anymore?"

Dean furrowed his brow for a moment before realizing what he was asking. He held out his palm and looked down, ashamed. "I had Crowley add this." Castiel looked at his palm that was held out like a confession, sighing when he saw what was scratched in carelessly, obviously added last minute. A sigil, albeit a sloppy one, for keeping angels from finding someone was carved in deeply.

"I didn't want you to find out. I heard that angels can see the contract, and I just…" Dean swallowed hard before continuing. "I just didn't want you to know."

Wordlessly, Castiel reached forward and took Dean's hand in his own. He closed his eyes and, with much more effort than he wanted Dean to know, erased that section of the contract. He kept hold of the hand, somewhat for balance while he regained his composure, but mostly because he was tired of letting go.

At once, a familiar and calming hum was back inside Castiel's mind, filling the empty space it had left behind. Castiel tugged Dean toward his body, engulfing him in a hug that was as comforting as the pleasant drone in the back of his mind. The embrace was returned tightly, with Dean's arms wrapping around his body as much as they possibly could.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered thickly into his shoulder, his eyes shut tightly and his jaw clenched. Castiel closed his own eyes out of resignation and rested his forehead on Dean's temple.

"I'll come for you," he muttered, unable to promise he would get him out. He would try, though. He'd never stop trying.