Dean walks back into the room. Castiel doesn't want to look up at first, but when he finally does, he stares and stares and stares. Just to make sure his eyes aren't betraying him. He'd let his heart and grace get fooled once – he vaguely recalls or at least he thinks he does because he isn't sure if it isn't just the nightmare messing with him now. Eyes are even easier to lie to than that. So he gawks shamelessly. Looks at Dean all in this warm, soothing light of the motel room window flowing over him. At Dean holding a glass of water in his hand. At Dean's face falling into a stern grimace of worry. At Dean who's here with him.

"Jesus, Cas. What the hell," Dean mutters, and Castiel flinches. Water forgotten, Dean rushes towards him. "You're shaking."

Castiel looks at himself and confirms. He is, he still is. For no reason at all, wonders if he'd bleed if Dean had in fact stated he bleeds instead. Perhaps. He doesn't comment on it, or on anything for that matter. He doesn't know what to say other that "you're here" and he's fairly certain Dean is aware of being in the room as well. He lets Dean do all the talking. He likes to listen to him speak. He feels like he hasn't heard his voice in years.

"I only left for a moment. What happened?" Dean tries, kind of planting the idea into Castiel's head that his impression is bullshit. If Dean had just left, there's no way his honest, soothing, caring voice is long gone.

"Talk to me," he hears himself beg, his stare clutching at this dim-light whiskey of his eyes, something that's also rarer than it should be.

Dean repeats his name on and on and it's beautiful and soft and his chest is smooth. Castiel's sight isn't flooded by the memory of an ugly gash. There's just skin. He wants to kiss the exact spot where Dean's heart is safe and sound and here. His lips are already there. He doesn't know how. "I had a nightmare," he murmurs against Dean's body, mind supplying something's gone. Missing from the picture. He stares again. It all looks fine, save for the fact that Dean looks even more worried. Or maybe it's not that. Scared? He looks scared?

"We should have you see a doctor about this," he says softly but insistently and he escapes Castiel's sight. Castiel tenses, but eases as fast as he understands it's because Dean's climbing on the bed, embracing him from behind. "You know you're just human now. My presence here might not be enough to stop them from coming. You don't have to suffer like this," he adds, his voice pained, his mouth kissing Castiel's arms so delicately like he's something holy. He's not anymore.

"I dreamed of you, you know," he suddenly decides to tell him.

"Yeah," Dean chuckles unevenly, "you do that."

"You were a demon in that dream."

"I was one. But you fixed me," his tone a solid promise; his palm a needed weight and warmth on his cheek. "Caught me before I fell all the way, didn't you, Cas. Like you always do."

His mouth a paradise on the barren land of his lips. The kiss lingers, each moment more words that Dean could ever say to him to make it better. Shyly, he kisses back. Makes it known this isn't just a touch of comfort, an act after which they still can declare each other brothers. His kiss is needy and human and desperate. Dean gives him what he wants. He doesn't have to worry his lip before his mouth lets him in. And it's good but something's missing.

Castiel sighs tiredly. They part.

"You did it again. You tore out your soul. Did the same with your heart just in case."

"Why would I do that?"

"So I wouldn't shove it back in you. There was nothing I could do about it."

"That why you were shaking?"

"I felt so hopeless. So lost, so angry."

"I get you," Dean offers. There's a dark hum crawling beneath his voice. "Believe me, I get you." Now it's an acidic laughter.

"Dean," he starts concerned, as if he were to approach a wild animal.

There is a screech, and a slap to his face that makes his eyes snap open. Dean, again, being the first word that escapes him as he cries it out. The alarm clock is still wailing. It's 6.30. He breathes in, breathes out. Wants to cry as awareness digs its claws into his heart, into his throat, creating a bile of pain he just can't swallow.

"You sure?" comes a murmur from behind him. "You don't throw the word that lightly."

"Dean's dead," he whispers.

"It's just as true as you want it to be and you know it."

"He's gone."

"Stubborn asshole." Castiel can feel the frustrated groan vibrate on his skin, anger echoing throughout the tight embrace. But there's something missing and finally he knows what he couldn't find. A heartbeat. "You stupid, stupid bitch." The sigh is almost affectionate, but it doesn't matter. There's a kiss to his neck, it leaves sulfur behind. "Then go and rot with him."

Castiel can't. 6.31. He stays how he is.