They find him in a field. More accurately, Dean finds him. Sam's too busy hating himself and Chuck's too busy being Chuck for either of them to do much more than sit on the porch steps and wait for Dean to come back. The field is totally demolished, with corn stalks bent and broken for miles, and round patches of dead plants every few feet. The wind whips around Dean as he walks forward. At the center of the field sits the angel, knees bent, as though praying. Dean can't see his face, and when he calls out Castiel's name, the angel doesn't turn, doesn't even move.
Dean feels a sudden certainty that the angel is gone, that he's left the empty shell of Jimmy Novak praying in a cornfield in the middle of fucking nowhere, and he picks up his pace, jogging towards the crouched figure.
As he gets closer, another thought strikes him, ripped from the million horror movies he's watched late at night in a million different hotel rooms. He is suddenly sure that, when he reaches Castiel, the angel's face will be twisted inhumanly, into the visage of a monster's.
When he reaches the angel, Dean sees that his second thought is inaccurate; Castiel's face is still as simultaneously heavenly and human as it has always been, blue eyes staring openly and lips parted just slightly. Dean isn't sure if beautiful is the right word to describe an angel, but would have to do. However, despite being wrong about Castiel's face being deformed into a monstrosity, Dean's not sure if he's incorrect on his other feeling. Even as Dean kneels in front of him, the angel does not move or speak. The wind blows around them, and Castiel takes no notice, though it's fast enough to make Dean's eyes water and sting his skin.
"Cas?" Dean says questioningly. The angel doesn't respond. "Castiel?" Dean asks again. "Come on, Cas. I know you're in there. Don't go fucking catatonic on me, just don't. I'm not carrying you all the way back there," he says, gesturing back towards the house where Chuck and Sam still sit, "so you gotta wake up and help me." Castiel doesn't move. "Motherfucker," Dean mutters, pulling on Castiel's coat, attempting to bring him to his feet. The angel doesn't budge.
"Please, Cas," Dean is almost pleading because the world is about to fucking end and the fucking ruler of hell is on his way and Castiel's really their only fucking hope and Dean's trying not to freak out but really, there's only so much he can do. He gets down to the angel's level again, and looks him in the eye. Castiel's stare goes right through him, not seeing Dean, and Dean places a hand on either side of Cas's face, trying to force him to make eye contact. "Come on, Castiel," Dean commands, "Wake up. Wherever you are right now, come the fuck back."
Something works, because suddenly Castiel gasps and coughs, trying to clear his throat as though he's swallowed a mouthful of water. "Hey, hey," Dean says roughly, moving his hands to the angel's shoulders. "You're okay."
"Where are they?" Castiel mumbles, his voice less deep and less rough and less sure than Dean has ever heard it. One hand reaches forward to touch Dean's face, and Dean hesitates, but lets Castiel's long fingers run over his cheeks, to rest on his forehead. The wind blows Castiel's trench coat around him, and Dean realizes how small, at least in his vessel, the angel is. He's shorter than Dean, and less muscular, and even though Dean knows from experience that hitting Cas feels like punching a block of steel, he still seems vulnerable, as though he could break at any moment. "Where are they?" Castiel repeats, eyes wide.
"They're gone," Dean says. And then, "Thank you." Dean's not sure the angel even heard his reply. "What the fuck did they do to you?" Dean murmurs. He doesn't expect an answer, doesn't think the angel's even going to move again. Castiel's eyes have gone hazy, like he's slipped back into whatever fucking state he was in when Dean found him.
But then the angel moves his other hand to join the first, stroking the side of Dean's face, and Castiel says, "And Sam?"
"Sam's alright," Dean says, and then has to shut his eyes as Castiel runs a hand over them. Dean has no idea what the fuck the angel is doing, with his fingers all over Dean's face, but when he slips the index finger of his right hand between Dean's parted lips, Dean doesn't really care about the reason. Castiel runs his other hand through Dean's hair and Dean sighs with contentment, or if he's being completely honest with himself, maybe it's want. Maybe even need.
Castiel's left hand traces along the back of Dean's neck, the fingers of his right still in Dean's mouth, and for a moment, Dean forgets Lucifer, and Chuck, and even Sam, everything becoming secondary to the feel of Castiel's hands on his face. Then the wind blows the stench of death and rotting corn into his nostrils and he realizes they're still in the middle of nowhere in a fucking field and much as he regrets doing it, Dean pushes Castiel's hands away and pulls him upright.
"We have to go," Dean says, and of course Castiel doesn't move. Dean doesn't have time for this, so he grabs Castiel by the hand and pulls, as though he's trying to drag a small child. Unfortunately for Dean, angels are a hell of a lot stronger than small children. Castiel raises a hand toward Dean's face again, and Dean can't help but lean into it, letting Castiel caress his cheek and run a finger along his lips. "Cas," he says, and it's half whisper, half moan.
"Don't," Castiel mutters, and Dean doesn't know if he means don't speak, don't move, don't say his name, but at this point he's ready to do or not do pretty much any fucking thing the angel wants. "Please, Dean," Cas whispers, and the last time Dean heard that much pain in someone's voice, he was being ripped to shreds by hellhounds in front of his brother.
"Don't what?" Dean asks, and if Castiel's voice is less rough and deep than Dean's heard it, Dean's voice is the opposite. Castiel's hand is still on his face, gripping him tightly, tightly enough that Dean can feel the angel's fingernails digging into his skin, but he still doesn't move away.
"Don't leave," Castiel whispers, and Dean barely hears his words before they are caught and flung away on the wind.
Dean almost laughs. Castiel's a goddamn angel; wherever Dean could possibly go, Cas could follow. Dean isn't sure how to respond, so he goes for the standard: "Son of a bitch." Castiel lets his eyelids fall slightly and looks at the ground. Dean recognizes the emotion, the expression on Castiel's face every time the angel doesn't know what to say, or how to say it.
Then Dean looks back towards the edge of the field, back to Sam sitting with his head in his hands and Chuck leaning against the post supporting the porch roof. And Dean knows that Castiel will only follow if Dean wants to lead. Will only go if Dean doesn't want him to stay.
Dean mutters, "I won't leave you." He brings a hand up and places it over the hand touching his face. "I can't," he amends, "leave you." Castiel raises his head and finds Dean's gaze. His expression barely changes, but in his eyes, Dean sees the faintest expression of hope, and for Dean, it is enough.
They walk to the others, Castiel's hand still touching Dean's cheek. And Dean knows that as long as there is an Earth, and as long as he remains on it, Castiel will be there too. Probably with his hands all over Dean's goddamn face, but Dean can deal with that. As long as Cas is there, Dean thinks that there's a good chance he can deal with anything.