A/N: Thank you Guest, Cruelest Sea, and Lychee for your reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story!

Chapter 3

Sam jogged into the kitchen with his laptop, browser opened to a news article. "Hey, I found us a case."

Dean looked up from the monstrosity he was putting together at the counter.

Sam groaned. "The Elvis again, really?"

"Don't be a hater." Dean licked bacon grease off his fingers before setting the last donut on top of the cheeseburger. "And what are you doing looking for a case? We're supposed to be taking some time off."

"Yeah, I know, but…" Sam sighed, and put his laptop on the island counter. "It's been a few days and…look, we're hunters. It's what we do. Just because there's no big apocalypse doesn't mean there aren't still monsters out there. And, actually, I think getting back to basics will be nice."

Dean threw him a wry look as he picked up the disgusting burger and shoved it into his mouth. Sam grimaced.

"It's only a few hours away, victims with their hearts missing. Werewolf job. Easy."

Dean shrugged in agreement. "A'right," he mumbled around a full mouth before actually swallowing. "Guess there's only so many times I can clean and polish my guns."

"You think?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Where's Cas?"

"I don't know, I think down in the archives again."

Dean shook his head in exasperation. "Only a nerd would count cataloging ancient crap as R&R."

Sam shot him a bitch-face. "Yeah, but there's some dangerous stuff in that wing. You know he got burned by some charmed object that went off when he touched it?"

That hadn't been fun for Sam to walk in on—an explosion of light that reminded him too much of an angel dying, and then finding a smoking relic and Cas clutching a burned hand to his chest and just staring at the thing as though it had somehow offended him.

"Like our lives aren't dangerous enough," Dean muttered. "We're pretty much bunking in a supernatural missile silo." He flicked a wary look at Sam. "Cas is okay, though, right? He seemed fine."

"Yeah…"

Cas hadn't said anything when Sam cleaned and bandaged his hand. Actually, Cas had been oddly quiet the past few days, ever since he'd been brought back without Lucifer possessing him. Sam had tried talking to him again, thinking maybe Cas needed to process what he'd gone through as a condom for his psychotic brother. But Cas hadn't reciprocated. So getting out would probably do them all some good.

Leaving Dean to finish his Elvis burger, Sam headed down to the archives in search of their wayward angel. Sure enough, Cas was in one of the storage rooms that was marked 'hazardous.' Sam drew to a stop, frowning at Cas's lax posture. He had one hand resting on top of a crate, but was actually staring at the wall.

"Uh, Cas?"

There was a delayed moment before the angel flinched and turned to look over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Sam entered cautiously, careful not to accidentally bump any of the boxes stacked up around them. "Dude, why are you spending so much time in here?"

Cas turned away with a shrug. "You and Dean should know what resources are available to you."

"Yeah, but, if half of these are as dangerous as they sound, we probably shouldn't go anywhere near them." He'd meant it kind of as a half-joke, though it hadn't really come out that way.

Cas's hand on top of the crate furled into a fist. "I'm sorry, I should have realized…you don't want me to accidentally release something."

Sam blinked in bewilderment. "What? No, that's not what I was thinking at all. I just meant that maybe you should take some extra precautions to protect yourself. We don't need a repeat of two days ago." He lowered a pointed look at Cas's other hand, still wrapped in bandages. Sam had checked it yesterday, and it was healing faster than a human would, but not as quickly as angelic healing had once granted Cas. Maybe because it was a magical injury.

Sam waited for Cas to say something in turn, but as the angel was often doing lately, Cas stayed silent. Sam shook his head. "Anyway, I found us a case nearby. Probably a werewolf. You should come with."

Cas glanced up sharply, brow furrowing as though he had to give it deep, serious thought. Which, really? Sam frowned as he watched Cas fidget.

"Alright," Cas finally said. "When do we leave?"

Something about this whole exchange was striking Sam as weird, but he didn't exactly know how to broach it. "Half an hour."

Cas nodded, and stepped away from the artifacts, walking past Sam and into the corridor.

Shaking his head, Sam closed up the storage room and then went to pack his go-bag. Once done, he stopped by the kitchen to eat an apple before they hit the road. Dean had finished his colossal burger, thank goodness, and was probably getting his own stuff together.

Sam headed for the stairs, duffel slung over one shoulder, and slowed to a stop when he spotted Cas at the base of the staircase, one hand on the rail, the other wrapped around his stomach. His shoulders were rising and falling as though he were having trouble breathing.

"Cas?" Sam hurried forward, dropping his bag on the floor with a thump.

Cas actually jolted, and he shot a startled look over his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked worriedly.

Cas straightened. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." Sam narrowed his gaze at the angel's pale complexion and the sweat beading along his hairline. Could Cas be coming down with a bug? He'd said his grace was weakened, but hadn't really explained what all that entailed.

"I'll tell Dean to call another hunter to look into the case," Sam said.

"No," Cas bit out. "It's fine, Sam."

"Dude, if you're getting sick—"

"I'm not. My grace isn't that weakened."

Sam frowned, crossing his arms. "Okay, then what's going on? Did you come across another spelled object in the archives?"

Cas's jaw ticked. "No." He sucked in a sharp breath and started up the stairs without another word.

Sam stared after him, completely baffled. What the hell was that?

Dean shuffled past him a minute later. "Earth to Sam…thought you were jonesing for this hunt?"

"Yeah, no," Sam stammered, scooping up his gear. "Let's go."

He followed Dean upstairs to the garage where Cas was waiting by the Impala. The angel avoided looking at either him or Dean as he climbed into the backseat—or maybe Sam was just imagining it.

They spent most of the drive in silence, save for the classic rock playing through the speakers. It wasn't exactly comfortable, though. Sam caught Dean throwing surreptitious glances at Cas through the rearview mirror. So his brother had also noticed something was up with the angel. They should probably discuss it when they finished with this case.

It was a typical hunt. After some questions to local authorities and getting a geographic read of the area, they'd tracked the werewolf into the woods. And okay, 'typical' Winchester hunt meant something had to go to shit, and that something was getting ambushed by a werewolf pack. A pack of pure-bloods who brought out the partially shifted claws and teeth the moment the hunters attacked.

Sam fired a silver bullet that scored a gash across one werewolf's shoulder, but it didn't slow the guy down. His finger squeezed the trigger again, just as a flash of tan leaped into the charging werewolf's path. The report cracked the air like thunder, stopping Sam's heart. Shit!

The bullet splintered the side of a tree trunk inches from Cas's head. The angel didn't even react as he swiped his angel blade at the werewolf. For that split second, Sam couldn't breathe, blood roaring in his ears as the shock of almost shooting Cas slammed into him. He didn't see the werewolf coming at him from the side until it snarled right before pouncing.

Sam twisted out of the way instinctively, losing his balance and careening to the ground. Claws raked across his upper arm, which erupted with fire. He tightened his grip on his gun as he hit the dirt and rolled, landing on his back and aiming up. He shot the werewolf right between the eyes, and its body thudded to the ground.

Sam whipped his head around, spotting Dean in close combat with another werewolf. He'd had to switch to his silver knife, dodging claws and fangs as he tried to get a good strike in. Cas was several feet away, fighting the last two werewolves. For a moment, Sam couldn't understand what he was seeing—Cas was attacking with his angel blade, but he wasn't even trying to dodge the blows the werewolves threw at him. It even looked as though Cas stepped into the path of a werewolf's claws. The angel barely made a sound as razor talons slashed down his chest, and he drove his blade into the monster's sternum, but the move left his back exposed to the last wolf.

Sam lifted his gun, and was horrified by how shaky his aim was. But Cas wasn't turning around as the last wolf lunged, and Sam forced himself to pull the trigger. The bullet ripped through the beast's heart, driving him backward against a tree where he slumped to the forest floor.

Silence fell over the woods, until it was broken by Dean shouting Sam's name.

"Sam!" Dean dropped to his knees beside him and did a quick scan for injuries.

Sam ignored him, pushing himself to his feet and staggering toward Cas. "What the hell was that?" he demanded.

Cas looked over, face expressionless. "What was what?"

"I almost shot you!" Dammit, his hands were still shaking. Sam shoved his gun into his waistband.

Cas continued to stare at him blankly. "The werewolf could have hurt you."

"I had time to get off another round. And you should know better than to jump into my line of fire!"

Dean was throwing bewildered looks between them. "What?" He turned a sharp glare on Cas. "What's he talking about?"

Cas didn't answer. He was being strangely calm and disinterested about the whole thing, which just pissed Sam off more.

"I had that one, Cas. Why didn't you take the one that was coming up behind me?" He gestured to his bleeding arm.

That finally got a reaction, and Cas's face pinched as he narrowed his eyes on the wound. The angel glanced around at the werewolf bodies, brow furrowed as though he were replaying the scene and trying to piece it together.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice strained. He lifted his arm, hand outstretched to Sam's shoulder. There was a small, brief sputter of golden light, and the pain disappeared. Sam glanced down at healed flesh showing through a tear in his jacket and shirt sleeve.

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "I should've known you weren't ready."

Cas took a step back, looking devastated. Sam frowned. Cas's reactions weren't right—understated when they shouldn't be and more extreme where it wasn't warranted.

Then he noticed the growing red stain on the angel's torso.

"Shit." Sam surged into Cas's personal space and pulled aside the trench coat, revealing several jagged tears in his suit jacket and shirt that were seeping crimson.

"Can you heal that?" Dean asked worriedly.

Cas glanced down at the wounds, expression detached in a way that frightened Sam, though he couldn't say why.

"Cas, you're losing too much blood." Sam gave him a small shake, trying to snap him out of this strange stupor.

Cas wrenched away from him, squinted hard, and in the next instant, the blood and tears were gone. Cas's complexion paled a degree, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment as though woozy. "There, happy?"

Sam just stared at him incredulously. What the hell was his problem?

"No," Dean snapped. "You need to be more careful. Your grace isn't at full strength, remember? Which means you could get yourself killed."

"Then that would be my problem," Cas retorted.

Now Dean turned a shade whiter, looking as though he'd been punched in the kidneys. Sam glanced between them, feeling as though he were suddenly missing something. And what the hell kind of response was that? Cas getting killed would be his problem? Did he have no sensitivity to the fact that a week ago he had been dead? And that it had nearly broken Dean?

Dean's expression hardened. "Go sit in the car while Sam and I clean up this mess."

"I can—"

"No." Dean spun away from him, clearly signaling an end to the argument.

A muscle in Cas's jaw ticked, and he flicked a wary look at Sam before turning to head down the path to where they'd left the Impala. Sam stared after him.

Okay, he and Dean needed to have a serious talk. Soon. Because something was definitely wrong here, and they needed to figure out what.

Castiel sat in the backseat of the Impala, watching the vista scroll by as though the earth were turning at seventy-miles-an-hour and he was the one not moving. It only added to his growing headache and churning nausea. Healing Sam and then himself had taken more energy than he'd had to spare. He wouldn't have bothered with his own wounds to begin with if Dean hadn't been so angry. As it was, Castiel had also only mended the shirt and outer layer of his coat, the pieces that were visible to the Winchesters.

He fingered the slits in his suit jacket where the werewolf's claws had ripped through the seams. Fixing them would take too much energy, both physical and mental, and Castiel no longer had the wherewithal to care. The tears were an apt metaphor, he thought. These clothes were like a second skin as much as this vessel was, and underneath them he was as ragged and worn as the frayed threads unraveling between his fingers.

Neither Dean nor Sam had said a word after returning from disposing the werewolf bodies, and the car had been fraught with a heavy silence for the past hour and a half. They were right to be angry, of course. Castiel had endangered Sam, endangered them both. He hadn't meant to. He never meant to.

Yet that was always what he managed to do. He'd raised Sam from the Cage, but neglected his soul. He'd broken Sam's wall, causing the Winchester to live through months of torment under Lucifer's hallucinations. He'd gone to help Metatron, rather than stay with Dean and save Sam from completing the Trials. He had let Lucifer out of the Cage again, and the Devil had nearly ripped apart Sam's soul.

That didn't even cover his colossal mistakes, the ones that endangered the entire world, that left rivers of blood and burned wings in his wake. Or all the ways he'd let Dean down over the years. Castiel couldn't do anything right. He was worse than not useful; he was a liability.

He should leave, protect the Winchesters from himself. But when Dean pulled the Impala into the bunker's garage that evening, Castiel didn't get out and turn back toward the driveway. No, he watched the large metal door close behind them, sealing Castiel in to what was simultaneously a prison and sanctuary. And he hated himself for it.