A/N: More feels in this chapter, and then finally some action. I hope everyone has a lovely Christmas weekend!

Chapter 4

Dean didn't get much sleep the rest of the night. He kept jerking awake at the slightest sound and listening carefully to see if Cas was having another nightmare. But if he was, they were silent ones.

When dawn came, Dean was the first one up and he immediately headed out to grab coffee and donuts for breakfast, wanting to avoid either a private conversation with Sam if his brother woke up next, or having to subject Cas to the humiliation of waking up groggy and disheveled after his obviously bad night. So Dean took his time, hoping that when he got back, both of them would be up and dressed and they could pretend like last night never happened.

Dean couldn't do that, though—shouldn't do that. He'd heard Sam's muffled voice from outside suggesting that Cas talk to him about his nightmares. Yeah, that was a brilliant idea: have a therapy session with the guy who was probably torturing Cas in his dreams. Dean wasn't stupid. If Cas wasn't having nightmares about Dean banishing him to Heaven where he was captured and tortured, then he was probably having nightmares about Dean saying yes to Michael and the archangel being the one to torture him. All in all, not fun times with one Dean Winchester meatsuit.

But Sam had a point that Dean did know what Cas was going through. The nightmares, the panic, the flashbacks. He'd been tortured in Hell for forty years.

The key difference, however, was his best friend hadn't been the one to send him there out of one stupid, careless act.

Dean sighed, and ran a weary hand down his jaw. He couldn't continue to ignore Cas's suffering just because he felt too guilty to look him in the eye. But he was afraid that talking to Cas about it would make things worse.

Well, maybe he could try. And if Cas shot him down, Dean would respect it, no argument.

He returned to the motel to find both Sam and Cas up and dressed. Cas had put on a pair of jeans and one of the flannel shirts Dean had bought, but he was wearing it over a turtleneck and then under a jacket that was halfway zipped up. If the dude wasn't freezing, then Dean had no idea what was up with him.

"Coffee and donuts," Dean announced, setting the bag and tray on the table. "Get it while it's hot."

Sam picked up a cup and sat down, immediately opening his laptop to resume their search. Dean could easily join him, put off what he wasn't all that eager to do. But he might not get another chance to talk to Cas before the next night.

"I'm gonna fill up the Impala," Dean said. "Wanna come, Cas?"

Cas paused in the middle of fishing a donut out of the bag, brow furrowing in thought. "Shouldn't I help Sam with the research?"

"He can handle it," Dean replied. "I can show you how to gas up a car." Because that was another one of those everyday human things Cas would eventually need to know how to do. And at some point Dean should teach him how to drive.

"Oh, alright."

Dean waved a hand at the paper bag. "Bring your donut." Even if Cas wasn't wasting away from malnutrition, Dean wanted to make sure the guy was eating enough.

Cas hesitantly pulled out a maple bar from the bag, and then Dean grabbed the remaining two cups of coffee to bring with them. He wasn't sure how long this errand would end up taking.

Cas ate the donut rather quickly on the drive and even licked his fingers clean. Dean made a note to file maple bars under the list of Cas's favorite foods. They pulled into the nearest gas station and Dean showed Cas how to open the gas cap and fit the nozzle inside.

"There's an automatic shut-off valve," he explained. "So when it clicks off like that, don't try to top off—um, don't try to add more. And tilt the nozzle up when you remove it so gas doesn't leak onto Baby's paint."

Cas was watching studiously and nodding along. "What if- if I make a mistake and the gas leaks…will it corrode the paint?"

Despite how seriously Dean took the care and maintenance of his baby, he did feel kind of bad for making Cas sound scared of even touching her. "Nah. And see those black bins between the filling stations? Underneath the lip on the side are paper towels. You can just wipe it off."

Cas looked relieved.

Dean finished filling the tank and showed Cas how to make sure the cap was twisted back on tight enough. With that done, it was time to head back to the motel, and Dean found his window rapidly shrinking. He started the ignition and slowly pulled back onto the road.

"So, um…" Crap, how was he supposed to do this? "Been sleeping okay?" Dean winced at how decidedly not veiled and casual that sounded.

Cas stiffened, and dropped his gaze fixedly to his lap. "You heard," he said in a low voice.

"Yeah." No point in denying it. "I get it, man. After I got back from Hell…I didn't sleep through the night for months."

"I remember."

Dean swallowed uncomfortably. He'd sworn never to speak of this to anyone… "I still dream about it, you know. And, sometimes…when I'm not the one on the rack…Sam is."

It wasn't the same and Dean knew it. But he didn't know how else to talk about this shit. Why Sam thought it'd be a good idea, he'd never know, and he was already regretting it.

Cas didn't say anything for several long moments. Dean was driving five miles under the speed limit, but they'd still reach the motel soon. Maybe Cas was waiting him out.

Dean cleared his throat. "You don't have to talk to me about it. I don't have the right to try and help with this—"

"Dean," Cas said tiredly. "I told you I forgive you."

"I know that," he replied, throat tightening. "But that doesn't change the fact that you have nightmares about what I did. It doesn't change the fact that if I were the one to try to wake you up from them that I'd probably freak you out even more. Gut reaction, and that's okay."

Cas's hands clenched in his lap. "I don't want to be that way."

"It's natural, though. For those first few months back from Hell, when Sam and I were in the same motel room and he tried to wake me up…there were a few times I punched him." Dean swallowed hard. "There was one time I pulled my gun on him."

Cas whipped his head up, eyes wide.

"I didn't pull the trigger, obviously," Dean went on. "But it scared the crap out of me just as much as the nightmare. I upped the alcohol for a bit after that, just to make sure I stayed knocked out, even if it meant I was trapped in the dream."

Cas's mouth turned down. "Bobby wouldn't let me drink his liquor. Is that something I should try? Extra coffee in the morning would counter the effects, correct?"

"What? No!" Dean shook his head in exasperation. The motel was a block away, and he hadn't accomplished anything he'd hoped to. Not that he'd known what he wanted to accomplish out of this conversation.

Cas's frown deepened. "I don't want to hurt you or Sam. I'd suggested I sleep in the Impala, but Sam said it was better to wake up with someone there. He didn't mention…your incidents."

Because his brother would never turn his back on Dean when he needed help. Or Cas.

"You're not gonna hurt us," Dean assured him. "For one thing, you don't sleep with a gun under your pillow."

"But I could react in other ways," Cas argued, brow creased in growing distress. "I don't know if I'm violent or not when I wake up, as it was just me upstairs while you and Sam were gone."

Dean sighed. "The worst I ever did was give Sam a black eye, and that's not gonna kill us. We've both had way worse." He pulled into the motel lot and parked in front of the room. This conversation had not gone at all well, as it sounded like Dean had just convinced Cas not to let them help. He ran a hand down his face.

"Look, Cas, I don't know why I brought it up. Even after going through it myself—still going through it—I don't know how to help. I don't know how to make things better, and that kills me."

Cas looked away, mouth pressed into a thin line. "You- you don't wake up screaming anymore," he said hesitantly, almost like a question.

"Not most of the time, no."

"So…it does get…less bad?"

Dean's heart constricted. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It gets less bad."

Cas nodded slowly. "And until then…"

"I'll pull you out of it. But if you think that'll make it worse, Sam can do it. And…you don't have to talk about it if you don't want. Or I can leave the room, go for a walk, and you can talk to Sam."

Cas heaved a weary sigh. "I don't want to kick you out of the room in the middle of the night."

"I'll do it, though," Dean said earnestly. "Whatever you need, Cas, I'll do it."

Cas canted his head at him, the lines around his eyes crinkled with uncertainty and reluctance. "You and Sam are already doing so much to accommodate me…"

"Because you're family," Dean interrupted. "We do it for each other; we do it for you. No questions, no hesitation, no resentment. You're not an obligation. Yeah, I owe you for the shit I did, and I can never make up for it, but even if this hadn't been my fault, I'd still be here."

Cas looked away again, but not before Dean caught his eyes starting to glisten. His throat bobbed. "Okay," he said in barely above a whisper.

Dean let out a breath of relief. Even after everything they'd been through, there was still hope to work it all out.

Dean turned the engine off, and they headed back to the room. As soon as they walked through the door, Sam was standing up and shutting his laptop down.

"Hey, I found another outbreak of swine flu."

Dean pulled up short, having to mentally shift gears. Guess it was time to hit the road again.

Castiel loosened his tie a fraction. Dean kept notching it too snugly, claiming that federal agents didn't present themselves looking askew. But it was so uncomfortable. Castiel had never worn Jimmy Novak's tie cinched like a noose.

It was hard to believe he'd lived in a suit for two straight years. Now he thoroughly disliked wearing the garment. While he'd initially been flustered in jeans and other attire his first couple of weeks as a human, he'd gradually gotten used to them, and now felt unprotected without his extra layers, which he couldn't put on over the suit.

He wondered if having a coat like his old one would help. It would at least be permissible to wear an overcoat with the suit. And…perhaps it would make him feel like his old self, back when he was stronger and more confident.

Or, it could just as likely be a painful reminder of what he'd never be again.

Castiel reached up to loosen his tie more, but quickly put his hands down when Dean arched a pointed brow at him. They were currently at their third hospital interviewing the staff.

Well, Sam and Dean were interviewing the lead doctor; Castiel was staying quiet and attempting to look serious and imposing. Somehow it'd been easier as an angel. And it probably didn't help that he kept fiddling with his tie.

They'd been on Pestilence's trail for three days now, always one step behind the Horseman as they chased down outbreak of swine flu after outbreak. Castiel had continued to have nightmares each night, much to his chagrin. Mercifully, though, they weren't about Dean.

The older Winchester was always awake when Castiel jolted out of his bad dreams. Dean never said anything, but when he was sleeping in the next bed, he'd reach for a bottle of water on the nightstand and wordlessly pass it over. Sometimes he'd play with his phone, letting the LED display softly illuminate the room and vanquish some of the sinister shadows. When Sam was sleeping on the floor, it didn't seem to bother him.

That was another thing that was beginning to irk Castiel. After two days, he'd started to catch on that the finger game the Winchesters had taught him might be fixed, because Castiel still hadn't taken a turn sleeping on the floor. When he brought it up, though, Dean brushed it off as him simply never winning. And when it was Castiel versus Sam, Sam just patted his shoulder and told him it was a game of odds, and that eventually it would even out. He doubted that, but there was little argument he could make without sounding petulant. He just needed to figure out the game and how to lose. Which was sadly—and ironically—not as easy as it should have been.

Just like everything else.

"We haven't had any new cases since Tuesday," the current doctor was saying, and Castiel tried to pay attention. "It's the darnedest thing."

Sam nodded. "Well, thank you for your time."

"Actually," Dr. Stafford continued, "while you're here, there is something I'd like you to take a look at."

"Uh…" Sam flicked a glance at Dean. "Sure."

Dr. Stafford gestured toward an adjoining room. Castiel followed Sam and Dean inside, wondering if their cover was about to be blown if the doctor asked them to look at another medically related issue. Although, Castiel did have a working knowledge of various pathogens. He'd spent time observing and learning about all of his father's creations, even the microscopic ones. Perhaps he could be of use if put to the test. If he could manage to speak articulately; he found himself growing more and more anxious after each failed attempt.

Dean crossed the room toward the window, sweeping his gaze over the empty patient bed and sterile counters. "What is it you need?"

Dr. Stafford shut the door behind him, and his eyes flicked black. None of them had any time to react before the demon whipped a syringe out of his lab coat and jabbed it into Sam's neck. The younger Winchester went down to his knees with a choked gasp, his eyes almost instantly rolling back. Dean surged forward, but a flick of the demon's wrist sent him flying into the wall and crumpling to the ground.

Castiel scrabbled to draw his angel blade, and then he charged at the demon, intending to end its miserable existence with one fell thrust. But as he stabbed the blade toward the demon's chest, the possessed doctor shot a hand up and caught Castiel's wrist, instantly stopping the motion.

For a moment, Castiel could only gape and sputter, held at bay by a single grip while he gritted his teeth and poured every ounce of strength he had into finishing the attack. Yet he gained no ground over the demon. The doctor squeezed, and pain ripped through Castiel's arm, sending a shockwave of numbness through it so that the blade fell from his fingers.

How… The last time he had faced down a demon, he'd possessed the strength to toss it about like a measly sack of bones. He could have shattered its spine with celestial force…with an angel's force. Now Castiel was the sack of bones and the one who could be easily shattered. Bobby's training had taught him how to use human weapons, even a few human combat moves. But it hadn't prepared him for the simple fact that a demon was now so much stronger than he was.

The demon possessed doctor sneered at him, leaning close so that his sulfurous breath wafted over Castiel's face. Castiel wrinkled his nose and tried to wrench away, but he was practically helpless.

The demon fisted his other hand in Castiel's suit jacket and hefted him into the air. His breath caught, and then he was flying, a sensation he'd never thought he'd feel again.

It only lasted a split second before he collided with the wall and everything went dark in an explosion of pain.

Awareness came back with a jolt, just like when waking from a nightmare. Someone was shaking him, too.

"Cas? Come on, man. I need you."

The voice sounded slightly muffled, but familiar. Castiel forced his eyes open so he could find the source. It took a few tries, and his vision was blurry at first. As soon as the fog began to clear from his brain, he registered the intense pounding in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut with a groan.

"Cas, hey, look at me."

"Dean?" He squinted against the harsh light haloing the hunter.

"Yeah. You okay? You feel nauseous or dizzy?"

Castiel frowned and had to think about it for a moment. His head was throbbing, as was his wrist, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage. "I'm fine." He tried to sit up. Dean was kneeling in front of him, suit rumpled. "Where's Sam?"

Dean's eyes darkened. "Gone. That son-of-a-bitch must have taken him. Can you stand?"

In truth, Castiel wanted to not move, but Sam was in danger and so he tried to push himself up, but almost cried out as he put pressure on his wrist.

"Whoa, okay," Dean said, and grabbed his arm, fingers suddenly prodding at his tender flesh with deft purpose. Castiel instinctively tried to yank it away, but just like with the demon, his strength was no match for the determined hunter's.

"It's not broken," Dean said. "I think it's just bruised. Come on." He gripped Castiel's elbow and helped haul him to his feet.

"How long…?" he gasped, unable to finish the sentence. How long had he been out, delaying their opening for a rescue? How long had Sam been gone?

"Not long," Dean replied, though his voice was strained. "Maybe fifteen minutes. Bastard couldn't have gotten far."

Castiel hoped that was true, because he would never forgive himself if Sam was lost due to his failure to stop one demon. Even as a mortal, he should have known better, should have known how to adapt to his new limitations.

Dean stormed toward the door, and Castiel scooped up the fallen angel blade with his other hand as he hurried to keep up. On the off-chance his absent father might be listening, might care…he prayed they wouldn't be too late.