Cas has been falling. Slowly. Cut off from heaven.

It's a djinn. A fear djinn, and Cas leaps in front of Dean and it injects him instead.

Sam and Dean take african dream root and go in after him when the cure doesn't work.

Cas is standing next to Uriel, Zachariah in front of them. "Re-education," Uriel says.

Zachariah turns to scrutinize Castiel. He nods.

The scene changes before the Winchesters can call out.

Cas is strapped to a table, a girl angel standing over him. She's holding a needle—a drill, really—and angling it towards his eye. Cas screams. His body jerks.

Dean pushes down whatever's trying to rise through his windpipe and shouts, "Cas! Cas, it's not real!"

He's running toward the table, Sam on his heels, when the scene changes again.

It's Uriel, standing over Cas, pounding into him curled on the floor, and Dean tackles the dark angel away.

"Cas," says Sam, kneeling beside the angel. "It's a djinn. This isn't real. You have to let go of your fear."

"Naomi," says Cas, "Naomi, stop this. Leave them out of it."

Uriel laughs. "Naomi's done with you today."

The scene changes again.

It's Zachariah now, and Cas is chained to the wall and the floor. Zachariah puts a hand on his head and Cas's face starts glowing blue. His head arches back.

"This was always one of my favorites," says Zachariah, "being autopsied alive. Do you not see the agony of humanity, Castiel? Do you not see that beneath their skin, they are nothing?"

"Cas!" Sam throws Zachariah back and Dean catches Cas when he tips forward. "Cas, look at me. You're not really here. It's a djinn dream. He's using your fear. Cas, look at me!"

Cas's head lolls upward. "Dean? Naomi… you're not here."

"No. No, I am, Cas. I am here with you. Your body is safe in the bunker. You're not in heaven. You're safe. I've got you, Cas. Let go of your fear."

The scene changes.

An autistic man's heaven. It takes only a moment to recognize it and something cold settles in Dean's stomach. Cas is on the hill, twenty feet out. Dean and Sam are running towards him, "Cas!"

Three forms appear behind Castiel. Smirking. Twirling blades. "This is pitiful, Castiel." One of the angels drifts away and Cas is turning to stop him, but the others hold him back. They're having trouble though. Until they stab him.

The other angel reaches a hand to the man's head and he writhes downward. The angel grabs the kite, yanks it down, and rips it to shreds while Cas protests.

Dean is already holding him, but he has eyes only for the kite and the man. "Cas. We're trying to rescue you. You have to help. Me and Sam are right here. You don't have to be scared."

The other angels are trying to get to Cas, but Sam is holding them back, anger in every movement.

"You live in the bunker with us. You haven't been to heaven for months, don't you remember? I'm real. Sam's real. The rest of this isn't. We're not gonna let anything happen to you. Look at me. You trust me?"

Cas's throat is jumping. He presses a hand to his side and it comes back with blood. He stares at it. "Not real?"

"None of it. Come back, Cas. Let go of your fear. These guys can't hurt you anymore. We won't let them."

Cas looks up at him.

"Please. We want you there."

Cas jolts a little. "You've never…" He looks over to Sam, fighting off the other angels, then back at Dean. "You promise?"

"Yes. One hundred percent. You don't have to be scared. We're here for you."

"Okay."

The scene fades.

The cut is too close to Cas's eye. Dean is holding the needle, going in to stitch it, and Cas is tense and hyperventilating, eyes wide, his arm coming up to push Dean's hand away. Dean pulls back.

Cas tilts backwards, but he's already pressed against the back of the couch, so he scoots sideways, away from Dean. "Give me a moment."

"Maybe it would help if you closed your eyes."

Cas nods. He's trying to slow his breathing.

"We could do this lying down, if that…"

Cas shakes his head frantically. "I wanna be up. Please."

"Yeah. It's your choice."

Cas touches the cut, almost like he's reminding himself that it's there. He slides back over and Dean lifts his hand a little, "You ready?"

Cas nods. "Could you, maybe, talk while you're… just so I know it's…"

"Sure thing."

Cas closes his eyes and Dean takes that as his sign to start. He reaches out a hand to steady the side of Cas's face. Cas flinches back a little, but quickly controls himself.

"You know," says Dean, raising the needle, "When we were little, there was this kid at school one year, told us all this story about falling off a bunk bed—" the needle goes through skin and Cas's eye and hand both twitch—"and hitting the corner of his cheek on a shelf. Had to go to the hospital to get stitches. But this kid just went on and on about how his kid brother didn't even care when he fell out. Just said 'at least you're not snoring' and rolled over, wasn't even phased in the slightest, didn't even get up. The kid that fell said he had to get up and go get his parents himself, blood gushin' like crazy. And they debated for five minutes about who was gonna take him to the hospital because neither one of 'em wanted to do it. Naturally, I didn't believe a single word…" Dean sticks on a bandage and pulls back, "You're all done, Cas."

Immediately, Cas is at the other end of the couch, taking deep breaths. "Thank you." He smiles weakly, touching the bandage on the side of his face, "The story helped."

Cas doesn't tell them when he gets hit. Dean's too afraid to ask why.

They have to ask directly, or check him themselves, because he'll hide it if he can. And you know he's hiding something when you hit the right question. He goes still. Stops breathing—only he can't just stop anymore because he's falling and he has to breathe, so he ends up taking weird staggered little breaths. His eyes flick down. Down to their hands, watching, waiting. And if you move at all, he jerks away.

He doesn't want to lie to them and doesn't want to tell them because he's scared of what they'll do, of how they'll react, of getting punished, of getting kicked out for not being good enough… Dean should really just ask why he doesn't tell them.

You have to repeat the question. Slow, careful, still, kind. If you're lucky or it's little, he'll nod.

They just got back from an angel fight and he's not nodding. Dean can't see blood or favored limbs, but he always has to ask, and "Are you bleeding?" was the right question because Cas locked up. When he asked again, Cas jerked back a little and didn't respond. So now Dean knows it's not some tiny cut or scratch or graze, and he has to hold back his panic and his need to hurry up and fix whatever it is, because that doesn't work with Cas.

"Cas," Dean tries a third time, "Are you bleeding?" He tries to put emotion in his voice—care, sympathy, love—and it's so damn hard because he's so used to holding it back.

Cas's eyes go watery. He chokes out an "I'm okay."

Dean ignores it. "That's not what I asked. I asked if you're hurt. I asked, 'Are you bleeding?'"

Cas wheezes a little. His eyes flick up to Dean's face and then back to his hands.

Dean is focusing so hard trying not to move them. "I'm thinkin' the answer's yes. You wanna tell me what hit you?"

Cas flinches, and yeah, okay, that was a poor choice of words.

"Blade?"

Cas shakes his head, "No."

Dean's grateful that no is so easy. That he can get the answer one way or another, even if he has to exclude every other possibility in the universe. "Bullet?"

Cas tenses even more. He holds his breath. And dammit, that's not good.

"Where?" Dean's an idiot if he thinks Cas is gonna answer that, so he has to physically restrain his surprise when Cas pulls open his trenchcoat and reveals a blood-soaked side.

Dean's hands twitch, he wants to reach out and put pressure on it and get the bullet out and patch him up, and can't yet—and of course, Cas sees the twitch and jerks backward. "You're safe, Cas, I swear to—I swear. Thank you. Thank you so much for showing me. Can I come closer?"

Cas doesn't respond right away. Dean's learned to wait. Ten breaths and then he nods, just once.

Sam takes a bad hit and Dean is panicking and Cas is useless. Fucking hellhounds. Dean is loading Sam into the car and he doesn't have the emotional wherewithal for a Cas check, because they take too fucking long and he's yelling even though Cas is making it hard to stay mad because he's so still and small and obedient. "Goddammit, Cas, I don't have time to play twenty questions! Just give me a straight fucking answer for once and tell me if you're hurt!"

Cas is in the back ministering ever so carefully to Sam. "My vessel is unharmed," he says, and Dean moves on.

It's not until they're back in the bunker, Sam's gut patched up, and Dean ready to conk out, that the guilt starts to slather itself on. He heads to Cas's room. Cas, who was so careful to be helpful and to anticipate everything Dean or Sam might need and avoiding them at the same time, so that they won't notice him or get angry—and Dean feels so awful for yelling at him like that. It's not his fault he's freakin' traumatized. And he saved Sam's life. Moved in and blocked the hellhound before it could go for the kill.

So now Dean is standing outside Cas's door and Cas wouldn't lie even though Dean was yelling at him so he's definitely not hurt. Dean knocks, hoping he's not waking him; Cas sleeps so poorly. "Cas?"

Nothing. So Dean moves on and leaves the apology for morning, when he's better equipped to handle it.

Morning comes and Dean is back outside Cas's room, knocking. "Cas?"

Cas doesn't answer, and Dean's sure the noise would have woken him. He tries again, and again the room is silent. Something cold is snaking along Dean's insides. Cas wouldn't lie, but fuck if he doesn't dodge questions and give half-answers and Dean racks his brain trying to remember exactly what he'd said in the car, still banging on the door. For the life of him he can't remember. Unharmed. He'd said unharmed. Still no response. Dean drops to his knees and picks the lock.

"Cas, you better fucking answer me!" He's woken Sam, Sam half-unconscious from drugs and blood loss, lying in a bed at the other end of the hallway behind a closed door, but the room in front of him is silent. "I don't know," Dean yells, trying to placate his brother, "I don't—" the lock clicks and Dean shoves the door open. Cas isn't there and Dean feels a flood of relief, and then worry, because Cas was scared and he thought Dean was mad at him and he never leaves his room unless it's to do something with one of them.

He gets up, pulls out his phone, calls Cas. When the ringing is right next to him he swears. If he left, Dean will never forgive himself. Dean starts searching the bunker.

Cas is… bad when he finds him. He's on the bottom floor, crammed into the back corner of a closet. The only reason Dean does find him is because he's banging his head against the wall, he's shaking so hard.

"Cas?" Dean lowers himself down to eye level, sitting on the floor, hands held out placatingly in front of him. It's a bad move.

Cas freaks, trying to curl smaller and shaking worse and now his breaths are short and sharp and he's sobbing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." A non-stop litany.

Cas doesn't talk when he gets scared. He goes silent, and this is putting Dean on edge because it's so wrong.

"I'm not mad at you, Cas. I shouldn't've yelled. I was just worried about Sam and I took it out on you, but you didn't do anything wrong. It's okay, I'm not mad, I'm not gonna do anything. You okay?"

Cas's face twists. His feet are skidding across the floor like he's trying to push back farther, but he's already up against the corner. The litany changes. "Please, please, please, please."

Something's wrong. "You okay, Cas?" Goddammit, he should've done the check yesterday. "What's wrong?"

Cas wheezes, his feet stopping, his upper torso lagging back. "Please, I'm so sorry. Please."

"What, Cas? What do you need?"

His chest hitches, head lolling into the wall, "Don't."

"Don't what? Cas, I'm not doing anything. I'm not mad, I'm not. We're all okay. What are you worried about?"

And Cas goes silent. But it's not his normal, tense, hyper-vigilant silent. It's sad and tired and—like he's given up, like he's just gonna sit there and take whatever Dean throws at him.

Dean is freaking out. "Cas, what's going on? You hurt? Drugged? Talk to me."

Cas's face pinches like he's in pain but he just sobs and turns his head away, curling his whole body into the wall.

"Let's do a check, huh? Let's… yeah, let's do that. One thing at a time, just tell me yes or no."

Dean is hoping Cas will react. He doesn't. "So, uh… Is anything broken?"

Cas's shoulders are shaking. He starts his litany again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"No, no, no. Hey, Cas, you haven't done anything wrong or bad. I just—I wanna make sure you're okay and not hurt. Can you just tell me yes or no, is anything broken?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please…"

"Cas."

"It won—It won't happen again."

"What won't?"

Cas's breathing speeds up.

"Okay, okay, I believe you, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Cas."

Cas jerks. "I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you. One hundred percent, I forgive you, it's forgotten. Are… Are you bleeding, Cas?" Maybe this is blood loss, or a fever. "Can you… Do you get sick? Are you sick? Cas?"

"It hurts," says Cas, and Dean lets out a breath, because it sucks, but an injury he can deal with.

"Where?"

Cas shakes his head.

"Can you tell me what hurts, Cas? So I can make it better?"

"You can't," says Cas.

Dean has to take a moment to compose himself. "Tell me anyway?"

Cas turns. Turns to look at him, his eyes, his hands, his posture. It's normal for him, and Dean feels some of his panic fade.

"My wing," Cas says.

Dean can't comprehend it. "What?"

Cas doesn't say it again. He hunches his shoulders in and burrows into the corner, eyes on Dean's hands.

"Did you say your wing hurts?" Cas stays silent. "Is that why… why you said I can't make it better? Because it's your wing? Is it… " Dean has no idea what he's dealing with here, but at least Cas seems normal now. "Because you're falling?"

But Cas shakes his head. His eyes flick up. "No," he says, and he never lies.

"Then what's wrong with it?"

Cas flicks back down to his hands. "It's okay."

"But it's hurt?"

Cas shrugs.

"Cas… Is it broken?"

"No."

"Is is bleeding?"

Cas goes still. His eyes water.

"When did it start bleeding? This morning?"

"No."

"Last night?"

Cas shrugs, careful and stiff and he curls in to rest his head on his knees.

"Sort of last night? You don't know?"

"I know," says Cas.

"Can you… tell me what happened to it?"

Cas hesitates. Hesitates and jerks a little and his eyes flick to the door—his escape route. Dean tilts to the side to make it more open, afraid Cas will freak out if he moves more than that. "Yesterday," says Cas, dodging the question, "While we were out."

"While we were…" Dean closes his eyes, because he really hopes this isn't what he thinks. He opens them again. "Hellhounds got it?"

Cas doesn't say no. His breathing stutters just a little.

That's not good. That's really not good. "Could it kill you?"

"No. It's not… bad."

"But…?"

"Hellhound saliva is…" Cas gets bogged down by the next word and doesn't say it.

Fatal? He'd said no. Dangerous? Painful? "Is what, Cas?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and burrows smaller. "I'm not an angel anymore."

"If you got wings, Cas, then you're an angel."

Cas meets his eyes. Longer than Dean is used to. It makes him want to fidget, but he doesn't wanna scare Cas.

"It's poisonous to angels."

Dean was unprepared for that. Not gonna die, he said he wasn't gonna die and Cas always tells them the truth. "And one of them bit your wing?"

"It's… I don't feel good." He says the words fast, and then braces, like he's worried Dean will be mad at the admission.

He's scared is what it is. That Cas tells him straight up like that. His eye could be falling out of its socket, he wouldn't tell them. Dean worries about dying again. "Okay, thank you. I… How can I help? What do you need?"

"I'm cold."

Fucking scary. "Blankets upstairs. You wanna… move this to your room?"

"No," says Cas. "No, I'm okay."

"So the saliva is poisonous, what does that mean, exactly? For you?"

"Forget it," Cas is shaking or shivering or something, "Tend to Sam."

"Come on, Cas. You're gonna… you're sick or something?"

"Sure."

"Don't do that. Just tell me."

"I'm okay, really. It'll work its way out of my system. I don't know why I…" He's not looking at Dean at all anymore. "I'm okay."

"You're always okay, Cas. Do you feel… you feel cold? Maybe… is that a fever? You got a fever?"

"Just leave me."

"What? Cas, I'm not gonna leave. What—are you moping? You must really feel like crap."

Cas doesn't respond.

Dean sighs. "Can I come closer?"

"Sure."

Dean scoots forward across the floor, slow and with as little movement as possible. He breaks the doorway of the closet and he's blocking Cas's exit now, but clearly Cas doesn't wanna leave, so hopefully he won't freak out. "I'm just gonna touch your forehead, okay? To check for a fever."

Cas reels back. "I'm okay."

He's definitely shivering. "Course you are. I just wanna check. Or I could find a thermometer, but that would take longer, and I'm sure you'd rather just get it over with."

Cas nods minutely. "Yeah."

Dean lifts his hand when it's by the side of Cas's face and not right in front of it, then shifts to feel his forehead. It's hot. Burning. He retracts his hand. "Okay, that's a fever." A really, really high one. "You know I really think you'd be more comfortable in your room, Cas."

"I don't wanna move."

"Blankets up there."

Cas won't meet his eyes anymore.

Dean shifts minutely-away from Cas, actually-and Cas wrenches backward, head slamming into the wall with a hideous crack. Dean has to stop himself from checking his friend over. Has to hold himself carefully still.

Cas's face curls into a grimace. He tilts away from the wall. Towards Dean.

"I really think you'd be more comfortable in your room."

Cas nods. He grimaces. And then he scoots past Dean, hands shaking.

"Your head okay?"

Cas bunches his shoulders up and shies away from Dean.

"Is it bleeding?"

Cas's trembling hand pulls up, touches the back of his head. His fingers come back clean. "I'm sorry," he says.

"I forgive you. You wanna go to your room?"

"I... " Cas's throat bobs. He curls in on himself as he ghosts across the room.

Dean waits. Waits and doesn't move and Cas stops at the doorway.

"I'm scared," Cas says, his voice barely there. "I can't… everything's…" His voice shakes, breaths hitching. "I don't… wanna be alone."

Dean is terrified. He doesn't know what to do. His brain clicks onto autopilot. "Okay. Sam's room?"

And then Cas falls to the floor and starts crying.

Dean freezes. "Cas?"

"Dean," Cas sobs, "I don't feel right."

"Okay. We'll get you fixed up, Cas, don't worry." Dean is worrying. Maybe Cas doesn't realize that he's gonna die. "You know anything about hellhound saliva?"

"It hurts."

"Okay. Sam's room. Let's go. You need help?"

Cas shakes his head.

Dean stands ever so carefully. "Okay. Go ahead, I'm right behind you. Well, like ten feet because… you know."

Cas nods. "That's good." He stands. Staggers out the door and down the hall with Dean trailing along behind him. Cas is off-balance. Tilting into walls, legs wobbly, arms shaking.

"You sure you don't need help?"

"I'm sure."

Cas draws to a halt outside Sam's door—falls into the wall, actually.

Dean keeps coming. "Okay, Cas," he soothes. He opens the door. "Come on."

Cas goes in. Stops after a few feet like he doesn't know where he's supposed to go.

Dean reaches out, "Okay, Cas." He sets a careful hand on Cas's shoulder and pulls him toward the cot-set up so Dean could keep an eye on Sam.

Sam is staring, pushing up onto his elbows with concern and pain pinching his eyes. "Cas, you okay? Dean?"

"He'll be okay." Please, god, let him be okay. Dean pushes Cas onto the cot and Cas sits slowly. "There we are. Sam's room. I'll go grab a few more blankets. Just stay here a second. Maybe take your coat off so you can manifest your wings?"

Cas twitches back and shakes his head. "No, thank you," he says quickly.

"Okay," Dean soothes. "Just one second." Dean walks back across the room, scanning Sam as he does, "You doin' okay? Hungry? Cold? Thirsty? Need more pain meds?"

Sam is staring at Cas. The Winchester is flat on his back again, head raised by the pillows. "I'm okay," he murmurs, brushing Dean off. "Get those blankets, he's shivering."

So Dean slips out and races down the hall. God, let them be okay.