-Cas-
The first time I tried to take ibruprofen, I nearly gave Dean a heart attack.
We were sitting in the impala on a stakeout when I began to complain about my aching head.
"Here, take some advil," Dean told me, digging a small blue bottle from the glove compartment.
I accepted the bottle and poured a few of the little white pills into my palm. They seemed harmless at the time; compressed mixtures of chemicals specially formulated to reduce the swelling in my brain that was most likely my headache.
I lifted my palm to my mouth, exactly as I'd seen humans do it, but before I could throw my head back, Dean grabbed my wrist and yanked it, sending the pills flying.
"Are you crazy?" Dean yelled, "That's way too many!"
I froze, frightened. "I-I've seen you take many more than that, Dean. It was only five."
"Dude! That stuff can kill you if you take too much!"
"I thought they were supposed to help me."
"You only need one or two, okay?"
Dean turned back to watching the house, and his voice was soft when he said, "Too much of a good thing is a bad thing, Cas."
I selected a single pill from the blue bottle and placed it on my tongue.
Swallowing grimly, I tried not to think about what Dean had said. He, of all people, should know.
Unfortunately, this story is only the first of many. As I became more and more human, I fell deeper and deeper into despair. Poor Dean was left to pick up the pieces.
-Dean-
"All clear!" I tell the man relieving me on the watch. We salute each other halfheartedly and I jog off gratefully back to the common room and out of the cold.
I walk into the large cabin, swinging the strap of my gun over my head and kicking the snow off my boots at the door.
"Hey, Cas," I call out, from sheer routine.
"Hello, Dean," Castiel says, with the same dry disinterest I've come to expect from the haggard, unshaven version of the man who was once an angel. He doesn't look up from staring at the floor, and I don't look at him for too long, either.
It hurts too much.
No one else is in the cabin-after all, it must be after midnight-but Cas and I don't care. We're used to being the night owls around here, used to being the already screwed-up ones. Every one of the others will eventually have the same non-existent sleep pattern that we do, but for now we relish the silence.
Popping the top of a Pepsi can (we don't even have good cola around here), I settle on the couch next to him and turn on the only working tv in camp. We have pirated cable, but barely any channels are broadcasting anymore, so I just turn it off after a few minutes of useless channel-surfing.
The static from the tv dies down and I look over at Cas, who's still staring down at his hands.
"Cas," I say quietly, "is there something you want to talk about?"
"I'm fine, Dean," he replies, even though we both know that's a lie.
Something is up with Cas, but I don't know what. He's never spent so many hours staring down at his hands or off into space as he has in the past few days.
I hope it's just a mopey, self-centered stage. And a short one.
For my sake, his own, and the good of the group, I hope he'll be ready to fight when we need him.
When I get up in the morning, the first thing I do is head to common room to talk to Cas. It's what I've done every morning since we moved into camp.
This morning, however, is the third morning I've arrived at the cabin to find that Cas isn't there.
I decide to take matters into my own hands, and jog over to his cabin to see what's up.
When I knock on the door, Cas doesn't respond.
"Hey, Cas," I say, breath fogging in the chilly air, "let me in."
When there's still nothing, I pound on the door. "Open up, Cas!"
I check the handle; it's locked. I can feel a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Has something happened to him? Why can't Cas just come to the stupid door?
"Cas, I swear, if you don't open up this door right now, I'm busting it down."
I listen, holding my breath. Nothing.
One, two, three-the sole of my boot slams into the door and I rush after it into the small front room, swinging my gun around and shouting for Cas.
There's nothing suspicious in the cabin until I get to his bedroom.
He is sitting in the chair next to the bed, eyes half-closed, staring out the window.
"Cas?" I say quietly, wondering what might have happened as I creep slowly towards him.
He doesn't make any movement or noise to indicate that he knows I'm there, and the sinking feeling is quickly rising up into panic.
"Hey, buddy, say something!" I wave my hand in front of his face.
He doesn't blink.
"CAS!" I take a deep breath, draw my hand back, and slap him across the cheek.
That brings some response.
Cas turns his head and looks at me, his eyes widening in terror but not focused on any one point. "Dean, are you there?"
"Cas, what on earth did you do?" I drop onto my knees on the floor, grabbing one of Castiel's hands.
"I'm sorry, Dean, this is...this is too strong for me."
"Don't tell me you got into drugs again, I thought we talked about this," I manage, voice breaking. No response.
I reach for the orange bottle on his bedside table. "What did Earl give you this time?"
The label reads 'Methamphetamine'.
Crap.
"Cas, come on," I whisper, "I trusted you. I trusted you not to go there."
A tear slips down Castiel's cheek. "I didn't mean to."
I swallow hard. I'll never get used to seeing the angel man cry. "Listen, this stuff can more than trip you out. It can kill you, okay?"
"I know."
"Then why'd you do it?"
"What if I don't care anymore?"
He holds my gaze when he says it, his spacey blue eyes staring straight into mine and his jaw clenched tight.
I resist the urge to lose it, to slap him again, to lash out and scream and swear. None of that gets through to Castiel now. I'm not sure if anything does, to be honest.
"Well," I breathe out, defeated, "Let's get you some water and ride this thing out."