A/N: This originally started off as just little ficlets on tumblr but then I realized that the first two could very well be the same story and thus this was born.

WARNING: SEASON 8 SPOILERS. HOMOSEXUALITY. MALE/MALE. POSSIBLE SEX LATER ON.

Dean doesn't have the time to find Cas. Between caring for the not so little brother and researching how to cure him, Dean barely remembers to feed himself. It doesn't help that Sam's stubborn to boot, well stubborn as he's always been. He refuses to stay put in bed. He'll manage to fight against the covers and lumber up to his feet. Dean finds him leaning in doorways or groping the motel room for his laptop, those long legs of his threatening to buckle under him like he's some kind of stumbling baby giraffe.

Sam's just eager really. Granted, he wasn't at first. At first, he just moped. He moped about not successfully closing the gates to Hell, moped about how he should have sacrificed himself. He was over six feet and so many odd pounds of moping, lying in bed with damp towels on his sweating forehead. It'd been driving Dean crazy but Sam eventually came around. And now he's driving Dean crazy by refusing to lay down and just be sick but then he is a Winchester. Dean really shouldn't have expected anything else.

However, at the moment, the impossible giant is asleep, snoring away in the other room. It's almost peaceful to hear the occasional sound, hear him sleeping like that. Weeks had passed like this and Sam's still alive, not well but not getting worse either. Dean sat on the small overstuffed couch, a laptop on the coffee table in front of him and a pizza to the right of it. He's just no good at this internet intell, never really was. It's Sammy's department but Dean figures the more sleep Sam gets the better. Which makes Dean realize just how tired he really is and he leans back and lets his eyes fall to a close.

But falling asleep has it's own problems.

Because as he rests, his mind wanders. It traverses across his lifetime. A memory here, a memory there. There's Mom...and Dad. Lisa and Ben still framed like some sort of picture perfect greeting card. Oh, and there's young Sammy, younger Sammy, and so on. And then there he is, standing as still and stone faced as he usually is. Dean's mind makes him look up at the holy being, makes him hear his own words ringing on the edge of sleeping like forgotten church bells.

We're family. We need you. I need you.

And it hurt now, the way he begged him then. Even in a dream of the memory. The bruises and bleeding hurts, of course, but the sound of his voice catching on that single syllable name hurts so much more. The way he pleads with him; Cas, Cas no! Because it's not a matter of dying. Not even a matter of Dean dying by the angel's hand.

It hurts because Cas's eyes are all wrong. They're cold, cold and looking at Dean like he's nothing. Dying doesn't look so bad compared to that. And that's why he begs him, because- because Cas just can't look at him like that.

So this is it? E.T goes home.

That had to have been the most calm he'd ever forced himself to be when losing someone but that's only because... he understands.

Cas has a family to fix, mistakes to fix and it's anyone and everyone's right to try and do right by their family. And Cas wouldn't make a fuss if the shoe was on the other foot. Besides…just like E.T, Dean knows that Cas doesn't belong here. The hunter doesn't have any right to ask him to stay. Doesn't even have the right to fool himself into thinking he does so instead he just makes yet another pop culture reference and downs more free beer.

Not that it matters that he asked Cas to stay or not. Because all the angels got the boot anyway, just like Naomi had said. Cas had gone and fucked up again and Dean could just punch him for it. He really could just grab him by the collar and beat some sense into him. Fuck, if Cas would just slow down- if he'd just think!

...but he means well and God did that hurt. That hurt more than all the betrayal and lies all rolled into one.

Dean flinches, creating an odd space of half sleep.

He never really told Cas that trying to do the right thing wasn't an excuse. That is was enough. That'd he'd fully forgiven him. Dean had just kept quite, let the fight simmer out and never really said a damn thing and he wouldn't put it past Cas if his words are echoing in his head right now...and with him having fallen and all. And being alone.

No, Dean doesn't have the time to look for Cas but... that doesn't stop him from thinking about him, from hoping that he'd hear a knock on the door, or that gravelly voice on his phone. It doesn't stop him from taking a little longer to fill the ice bucket and glance down the outdoor walkway just to be sure. It doesn't cease him from suddenly dropping everything he's doing and looking over his shoulder, just expecting Cas to be there, to have appeared out of thin air at his back like he always does, too close and in his personal space. And while Dean would normally glare at him and mutter something about how the angel had goofed things up again, it'd been too many weeks. At this point, if Cas showed up a mile away, just in the distance, Dean would close that space so fast it'd make his head swim. He'd throw both arms around the now fallen angel, grip his torso and breathe him in even if he is dirty. He pictures that; that embrace. He sees himself, arms around shoulder and face buried deep. He visualizes, wants more than anything, to look Cas in the eye, say things that need saying. And he'd kiss him because- because damn it, it's Cas and he's okay and he's here.

Dean jumps a little as he wakes up. His eyes flutter open and a singular tear streaks its way down his cheek. He wipes it off, stares at it in a sort of shock and then it happens. His face stiffens, his teeth are bared and the next thing he knows he's trying to suffocate his sobbing with his palms.

Is it so wrong to want him home? To want his family because that's what Cas is. He's family.

But Dean doesn't know where to find him, doesn't know where to start and what's worse, as he hears Sammy coughing up blood again in the other room, he just doesn't have the time.

Castiel isn't sure why he'd chosen the alley that he had. When he fell, he'd ended up in a forest. Not just any forest, but one very similar to the one he'd found Dean in earlier on the day of his falling. And he still remembers that; the hunter by his Impala, that quiet look of contemplation on his face, the flicker up of eyes far greener than the tall pine trees that circled around them.

Cas remembers their conversation at the bar. He remembers not looking at Dean. He never looks at Dean at least not when he's spoken to. The reaction's sort of humbled behavior. Castiel finds it easier to not challenge those emerald irises when the hunter's mouth is moving. Even when he was an angel, Cas often felt somewhat beneath the righteous man. To be fair, mankind was God's favorite, or so Cas had been taught and on top of it, Dean was simply a better being than Castiel and in so many ways. The fact that Dean was helping him, sitting next to him and drinking a beer (as unwise as it seemed) made Dean quite possibly the most forgiving and loving spirit Cas has ever met in his many, many years of life.

But Cas remembers the sound of Dean's voice. The soft tones with which he spoke to him, gliding over the the wooden bar, floating past light music. He remembers him saying; Talk to me and how rare a phrase was that coming from Dean Winchester. Putting his soul together, seeing his lack of attention toward feelings without copious amounts of pressure and dire consequences...well Castiel knew how far the hunter had come since then.

A swig of beer, the sound of liquid and the soft tink of the bottle.

I mean it's one thing, me and Sammy slamming the gates to the pit but you- you're-

A slight pause and a breath. As if to prepare. It made something in Castiel's stomach move but it was slight and very distant. It barely registered and even if it really did he didn't quite understand how or of what significance it was.

You're boardin' up heaven-

Cas laid his fingers against the coolness of his own beer. He liked drinking. Drinking made him feel calm, a little dizzy, kind of nice. Again, at a distance though. That's what happens when you feel through a vessel, that's what drinking is to an angel in a man's body like a third person effect. But that's also how Dean handles problems; with beer. Women too but for whatever reason Castiel can't bring himself to care enough for the sins of the flesh but he only assumes it's because he hasn't tried it yet.

-and you're lockin' the door behind you.

And that warranted a drink, a decent swig of his own followed by a confirmation of the consequences. Castiel had looked up, skyward at heaven half in thought of the place and half in search of something. He'd wanted Dean to say something but what that something was he couldn't place. When Dean carefully tiptoed around the possibility of the other angels killing Castiel in reprimand, Castiel simply hit the subject full force. He said the word kill, said it might happen, and then looked at Dean, and finally stopped avoiding his face. They lingered, as they often do and in silence as was unspoken tradition.

When Dean started to say it was the end, Cas flinched his mouth. It was almost an attempt to smile. He didn't want his rescued hunter to think he was afraid. He didn't want him to see the weakness in his resolution because he himself didn't want to see it. Castiel told himself to continue down the path, to follow faithfully depsite the consequences. And yet, in that little alcoholic alcove, the then angel felt old words tickling his ears.

Sorry, but I'd rather have you, cursed or not.

I'm not leaving here without you, understand?

We're family. We need you. I need you.

But nothing of that sort came out at that moment. No, just some reference that Castiel didn't understand and an eye roll from Dean for Cas not getting it. Either way, Dean looked...comfortable about heaven closing up. There was nothing in him that asked anything of the then angel, just a quiet acceptance.

Maybe that's why Castiel chose not to find Dean. Maybe that's why, after standing with his neck craned up at the falling of hundreds of his brothers and sisters, he took a step forward and then another and another until he found a city and a street and an alley. Dean didn't seem terribly upset to be losing him, probably wouldn't be terribly excited about him coming back and after having made yet another error. After all, Dean had made it quite clear that intentions were not good enough to merit anymore forgiveness.

Castiel decides to bring his knees to his chest. He's glad he has his coat. It's warm and nice to have and the only true selfishness he grants himself. He brings the lapels closer to his face, tries to bury himself in it. He's not a fan of the stubble on his face though or the stink of his body or the hunger in his gut. What an awful thing hunger is, the way it gnaws at his torso and makes his head light and not in the good way that liquor did nor at a distance. Hunger is very present and raw, like some sort of animal inside of him that punishes him for his own emptiness.

Every once in a while a kind, older woman walked by, every other day or so. Her name's Gale and she wears long, colorful skirts and litters her wrists with bracelets. Her grey hair's a tamed mane that settles down her back in a braid. She has a slow way of speaking and when she first saw Castiel, she simply sat down next to him and started talking. The fallen angel didn't say much in response but she entitled herself to ruffle his hair and she took off with a smile. The next day she brought vegan cranberry muffins. Castiel refused the food at the time, said he wasn't worthy of it or her kindness and she just laughed. She'd left the basket and against all guilt, it was empty of muffins by morning.

Castiel doesn't bother to count days. He doesn't even count hours or minutes. He doesn't count. He just stares at the brick wall across from him and wonders how it is he's messed up every single thing he's ever done. Everything he touches turns into a failure and anything he did good was done in atonement. He's wretched and loathsome. He's dishonored his kind, doubted his home, and can't fix a single thing he's done to ruin them. He feels it right that he rot in his stolen vessel, in between buildings and beside the stench of hot, sweet garbage. He only eats to prolong his rotting and only speaks to Gale to give at least something of himself, some sort of good and maybe the last he'll be able to do.

It tears him up beyond tears and despite it all, at the center, is a freckled faced, green eyed righteous man. Of all the shame Castiel has ever felt there's nothing more damning and wounding than the look of disappointment across Dean Winchester's face. Castiel had disappointed his brothers and sisters but their response was always vengeance and penance. Castiel supposed he'd disappointed God but then it was hard to attach the emotion to a face he's never seen. But Dean's expression, yes it was angry but it was broken, a new crack in the body and heart and mind and soul that Castiel had so labored to put back together. Dean was his most honorable mission, his most favored ally, his greatest friend.

Dean had taught Castiel free will and in that free will Castiel had chosen Dean. So to see him like that- to know he cannot forgive yet another transgression...

Yes, Castiel deserves to rot. Right here. Among waste and flies.

There's the crunch of weak plastic against asphalt. The sound of a shopping bag dropping down. It makes the fallen angel look up from his knees and curiously a can of soup rolls up to his shoe, nestles against it like a friendly cat. He picks it up and slowly looks up to see who's had this unfortunate accident. His eyes trail past boots, past fitted jean, a belt buckle, a grey sweater knit shirt, a leather jacket and open, shocked lips until finally they settle on a pair of familiar, dilated irises.

"...Cas?"

Dean has groceries in one hand and a fistful of trench coat in the other. Both are weighted but one drags more than the other and the most infuriatingly uncarin way. As the hunter approaches the motel door, he shifts the plastic bag further down his wrist and digs the key out of his back pocket. It might have been easier to simply let go of Cas's shoulder but there's no way in hell Dean's going to do that.

The hunter pushes the door open with the toe of his biker boot and it squeaks in response. With unnecessary force, he shoves the fallen angel inside and closes the door behind them. Meanwhile Sam groans in the other room, something sleepy and unintelligible (probably just him complaining).

They're lucky to have gotten the room they have, or rather the small temporary home. It's a tiny apartment really, a sitting room with a small kitchen, two beds and a bath. It looks like it might have been a live in residence once, sort of off to the side from the normal rows of single rooms. Yeah, the Winchester brothers are lucky as hell to have this little mini casa and all for the flat rate rent of a normal room.

But really, Dean owes that favor to the owner, a feeble, elderly man. The sort that probably just really wants someone to play cards with him or something. That little old grandpa took one look at sick Sam, muttered something sort of sympathetic sounding in a language that Dean couldn't place and the next thing he knew Dean had a key in his hand for one kick ass room, gently placed there by lukewarm, leathery fingers. Whoever the small apartment housed before, it sure isn't the old man, at least not anymore and Dean couldn't be more grateful but he has a feeling that oldster is the type to humbly shoo off much more than a thank you.

Now though, the small apartment feels too big, the way it simultaneously tries to expand around and swallow up a forlorn looking Cas. The former holy being stares down at the soup can he'd first picked up and still held and had been staring down at it since the moment he'd looked up in that alley and saw Dean staring at him.

Dean points with a stern finger down the hall despite the fact that the gesture's wasted on the can concerned Cas.

"You get in there, and you clean yourself up," Dean commands firmly, not knowing how else to talk to him at this point.

After Cas had tried to convince Dean to leave him in the alley, after Dean's persistence and the ex angel's continued apathy, Dean just plain got fed up and dragged Castiel over to the Impala. He practically threw him in the car, Cas still clutching the can meant for Sam's tomato rice soup. After some silence, Dean tried to be softer, tried to be kind and get Cas to talk but to no avail.

After another moment of non response, Dean walks up and grabs the can out of Cas's hand. He leans in close.

"Damn it, Cas!" he growls, "Look at me!"

He pauses, examining the dirt and scruff on the other man's face and for the first time Dean realizes that that's what Cas is now; a man. Not an angel, not a celestial being but a mere man. He can see it in the smudges of dark color on his face, in that his body seemed smaller, in the way that brokenness radiates off his very eyes and lips and fingers so much heavier than it's ever been before. It reminds him of when he'd taken his trip to the future, of a Cas just as broken but cynically assimilated to it. And the thought of that makes Dean terrified.

The hunter's voice softens, still heavy but spread out with a whisper across his tongue.

"Look at me, Cas."

"...I told you to leave me."

It's a response. It isn't a great one but it is still a response and Dean can work with that.

"You tried that line in purgatory," he says quickly, "Didn't happen then, not going to happen now and don't think for one second you're going to let go this time."

"This is different," Cas responds quickly and his eyes flicker up for a brief second, "I was serving my penance, Dean."

"Your penance?"

And then Cas really looks up, full blues and whites reddened by lack of sleep. There were purple rings under his eyes, how had Dean not seen that before?

"I was going to rot."

The way he looks, the way he holds himself, like something paper thin and barely standing, makes Dean just want to hold him up. He longs to slip his fingers into the stink hidden under that long coat, feel what's left of a warm body and hold it close until it the broken heart inside of it syncs up to the beating of his own. From his half sleep from just the day before, he clearly remembers the image of pushing his lips against Cas's, nothing heavily sexual, not even romantic. Just an expression of happiness, of reunion. Because sometimes there isn't anything strong enough but a kiss, gay or not gay. Or at least that's how he's come to explain it to himself.

But with Cas in the room, finally here, Dean wants more to wrap his arms around him. He wants to feel Castiel coddled in his biceps and forearms and pressed against his chest. He wishes to keep Cas there, present and real. And he's afraid. Afraid that Cas is going to fall apart. Afraid he's going to disappear. So the hunter compromises with himself, puts a hand on the now human's shoulder.

"Yeah well," Dean says, "I was supposed to rot in hell but that's not happening either. If I can get a free pass, so can you."

"But Dean, I-"

"You made mistakes, Cas. We all make mistakes. You want to start making it up? Then start with me," Dean continues, keeping a lock on those blues he's missed more than he'll admit, "and you can start with a shower. We clear?"

Castiel's silent but he stares back at Dean. The stern hunter finds himself fighting to hold his ground, to try not to melt under the resolute pain in the other man's face. There's a twitch in his arm, running down the length of it and trying to put it up and around Cas's back.

It wouldn't be so bad would it? Just to hold him? It's just holding right? He's not going to do the whole dream kissing thing because that's just nuts but a hug won't be the death of him.

But just as he starts to go for it, right as he begins the slightest movements of muscle, Cas speaks;

"...yes, Dean. We're 'clear.'"

And then the new human turns away and it makes something awful ache in Dean's chest. The hunter's mouth hangs open, something caught on his tongue. He drops his hands fully to his side and looks away from the door Cas just closed behind him.

There's always this sense of something unsaid, something undone when Dean has conversations with Castiel. Dean never feels like he's said enough and he wonders if Cas knows that, if it infuriates him just as much as it does Dean. Because Dean can't place what it is he's not saying but then...maybe he's not ready to.

Cas fingers the collar of Dean's sweater. He finds it odd, that way it lays around the neck as oppose to hugging it. The former angel's so accustomed to a high collar and the grip of a tie that the nakedness of his neck almost feels uncomfortable. What felt more uncomfortable though is being in Dean's clothes.

Cas would have been fine in his own garments, in fact had he known any better he would have insisted on wearing them despite their obvious odor and grime. However, the hunter must have sneaked into the bathroom and taken the beloved coat and other pieces hostage. In their place was a rather pristine stack of clothing that included a black cotton based sweater, a pair of dark denim jeans, and a pair of gray-white socks. Cas didn't necessarily want to put them on but he had little other choice and he felt as if he had no place to argue with Dean had done either so he pulled on the given clothes.

The fallen man stares at his reflection for a moment, right into his own blue eyes because, yes, they were truly his now. Jimmy Novak's soul had left this body some time ago, left it vacant and unused. Now that Castiel has had his grace torn out of him, he has no power to leave this body and since no one else lives in it then it is indeed his.

Castiel blinks and the next thing he knows his knuckles hurt and there's a crack in the mirror. His hand pulses, the bony edges throbbing back a message of negativity to his senses but the man himself makes no vocal reponse to the pain. Instead he continues to glare at his reflection, the image of what is now his eyes and his face disrupted by broken lines in a silver sea.

"Cas!" Dean's voice calls out and suddenly the former angel looks at the broken mirror with alarm, "Cas are you all right!?"

The hunter throws open the door without hesitation and stands there, his body tensed and with concern etched into the wrinkles of his face. Castiel simply takes to staring at the floor, avoiding the unearned worry Dean's giving him.

"I- I didn't mean to-" Castiel says quietly.

"Why are you all wet? Cas, you're supposed to dry off before you put the clothes on. You're gonna-"

The hunter lingers presumably because he sees the damage. Castiel tugs at the sweater a little at it's bottom. The clothes cling to him, wet spots formed here and there. In retrospect, he supposed it did make sense to dry the body before dressing it. Not that it mattered how he cares for himself now. With this mistake added on, Dean's sure to get rid of him and allow him to return to his penance.

Footsteps. Angry footsepts. Cas moves aside as Dean walked in to further investigate the damage. His a damp shoulder leans against the wall and Cas feels much too heavy.

"You did this?" Dean says, his anger brimming, "Damn it, Cas, now why would you hit the mirror for!?"

"I told you, I didn't mean to," Cas dares to look up, meeting the fury of green eyes that are really much too pleasant a color to ever be so angry.

"Is that your excuse for everything?" Dean demands.

Castiel says nothing because the hunter's right. Castiel always leans on the crutch of his intentions. He swears up and down that he meant to do what was right and meant to do it well but how many times has he done the opposite of his goal? Even Castiel himself is getting ill of hearing that phrase once again slip out from his lips. Equally shameful is just how much he has said he's sorry and the former angel's sure that Dean doesn't want to hear that again either so Cas stays quiet, staring at the floor and bracing himself for his more than deserved verbal punishment.

His eyes immediately flash up when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He sees nothing but the lashes of Dean's eyes, which are down turned. They don't need to be. If anything they should be digging into Cas right now, still the shade of anger that's so unsuited to them but instead they show shame.

"Jesus, Cas, I didn't mean that," he apologizes softly before meeting Castiel's gaze, "Look, we'll talk to the old man about the damage. Let him know it was an accident or something. It's not a big deal."

He's being... kind. It's not outside of his nature to do so but Castiel was sure that he had more than pushed his limits. The gentle tones, the slight physical affection, they're enough to make Castiel sick he feels so undeserving. Is that what being human meant? Not just feeling guilt or shame but being sick with it? Feeling it turn about it one's torso and scraping the throat and burning the eyes? What hellish sort of existence is this?

But then, Castiel supposes he'd earned all that, hadn't he? And probably more.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks Dean.

The other man blinks a few times in confusion and pauses, his mouth open as he tries to figure out how to respond.

"Doing what?"

"Being this kind to me," Castiel expands, a sort of anger to his voice, "don't you realize what I did? Everything I've done?"

Dean's hand falls from his shoulder with a sigh. This is it, there's nothing the hunter could say to justify the history. Nothing that can explain all this. Because there's nothing to explain. Dean is just being too kind, and to someone who hasn't earned any of it.

"Yeah," he admits, forcing the whirlwind of physical emotions to strengthen in Castiel, "Yeah I realize everything you've done...but the old stuff's in the past and as far as the angels falling; well you didn't keep me out of my home so why should I be mad?"

Castiel can't describe it properly but the closest approximation he can make is that of a very real weight rising off of his chest. He breathes in, a motion which now comes with considerably more ease. This is relief, he knows that, but he'd never felt it like that, so literal. Still, there's an underlying unease it but it lies at Castiel's base, quiet if for the moment.

"Besides," Dean clears his throat and changes his stance, "Sammy's still coughing up red and it's not like I can lug him around to find a cure. I'm going to need all the help I can get."

"...may I see him?" Castiel asks cautiously.

Dean smiles that wonderfully big and full smile of his and Castiel feels... heat. No, not heat but warmth. It's in the chest, what seems to be the center of so many materialized emotions. It's pleasant though. Troubling in the sense that it cannot be defined but pleasant enough for Castiel not to worry all that much about it.

"Yeah, Cas," Dean laughs a little, "Believe it or not, he hasn't shut up about seeing you since I told him I found you."

Dean reaches behind Cas, pulls a towel off of the rack on the wall and drops it on top of the ex angel's wet curls. When Cas flusters out from under he hears Dean's laughter and sees him gesture to follow. Without meaning to, Castiel's lip curls upwards slightly and for the first time ever, Castiel's glad that he's doing something he hadn't intended.