Author's Note: So, chapter seven has been giving me a whole lot of grief. Due to my extreme frustration with the other 70% of this chapter, I've decided to post the first bit now so you at least have something to read while I work on the rest, which will become chapter eight... So this is kind of a short one. But there are feelings, so that's always good! Hopefully I'll have the next chapter up in the next couple of days. Thank you for reading, I hope you're all still enjoying this!

~ Imogen

Insert obligatory disclaimer re: non ownership of characters. These lovelies are all Kripke's, all the time.

Castiel waited at the passenger side door as Dean caught up, resting his hand on the roof of the Impala. The metal felt good under his fingers. Solid. Already, the horrors they had encountered inside the convalescent home had begun to lose color in his memories, and somehow the feel of the car seemed to help the process. It grounded him, stopped him from dwelling. What had happened inside, all the blood and death and disease, that was all over. This was what was real now. The touch of cool metal on his skin. Fresh air in his lungs. The pale glow of yellow streetlamps and the distant sound of traffic. Castiel smiled. Looking up at Dean, he felt the pain of the past few days fade to almost nothing.

The hunter slipped a set of keys out of his pocket and made his way to the back of the Impala, opening the trunk. He shoved the shotgun and Ruby's knife into the mess of weapons and junk that cluttered the over-full space, and wiped the blood from his hands. After rummaging around for a moment, he glanced up at Castiel.

"I just got her looking nice again, you're not getting in when you're covered in..." Dean gestured toward Castiel's ruined clothes, a disgusted look crossing his face, "whatever that is."

Castiel looked down at himself. One side of his coat was drenched in blood, and the front of his shirt and pants were covered in a revolting greyish-yellow substance that smelled only marginally less awful than the building they had escaped from. One glance at Dean told Castiel that he wasn't the only one covered in the unpleasant slime, though the hunter had managed to dodge a lot more of it than Castiel had. It was vile, no doubt, but without his grace there was no way that he could see to get rid of it. He frowned at Dean.

"Well I can't get rid of it. No... angel mojo, remember?"

The words felt odd in his mouth, and he felt his lips quirk to the side in response to the ridiculous sound of the phrase as he looked at Dean, who half-rolled his eyes in response.

"No shit."

For a moment, Dean disappeared behind the open trunk. When he came back to Castiel's side, he was holding out a relatively clean t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans.

"Upside of living out of a car," he explained, handing them to Castiel.

Castiel took the clothes and put them down on the roof of the car, taking off his trench coat and folding it carefully in half. He looked up as Dean shrugged off his own jacket, and then, as the hunter pulled off his shirt, wiping the blood from his face on the inside before dropping it to the ground, Castiel stared. He had of course seen Dean in various states of undress; this was one of the reasons that any mention of personal space had ever come to pass. Three times he had appeared at Dean's side, and once Sam's, at a moment that both men had told him-in harsher terms-was completely inappropriate. He had seen no issue in it, but after their less-than-understanding attitudes to the situation, he had made it a habit to avoid appearing at times of the day when either of the hunters were likely to be showering.

As an angel, seeing a human unclothed was akin to a human seeing a nude statue. There was an understanding of the form, even an appreciation of beauty if it were present, but it was always disconnected. An observation devoid of any underlying responses, emotional or otherwise. But somehow, the more distant his grace had become, the more connected he felt to the world. First had been the experience of physical pain, and that he had come to terms with. Now, though... He had not been prepared for desire. Castiel swallowed, still staring, drinking in the sight of Dean before him.

In the dim light, the hunter's skin was smooth and unscarred. Castiels eyes traced the lines of his well-defined muscles, which flexed slightly as he leaned to pick up a new t-shirt from the trunk. His gaze moved slowly over Dean's chest, his arms, his collarbone. Even from this distance, he could make out a tiny pulse in the skin there, and without quite knowing why, Castiel bit down hard on the inside of his lip. There was something about the shape, the movement of Dean's form that transfixed him. He stared shamelessly, forgetting himself completely, still holding the folded trenchcoat between his hands.

Dean, having pulled on his new shirt, looked back at Castiel. The angel was staring, his eyes a little glazed, and he hadn't moved an inch.

"Cas?" Dean took a step toward him, concerned, "Cas, you okay?"

The sound of Dean's voice cut through, and Castiel blinked, quickly looking away from the hunter, trying to force his eyes to land on anything else. They darted around wildly. He felt heat rising to his cheeks, and was immediately thankful for the dim light which disguised his embarrassment.

"Uh," he floundered, tongue darting out over his dry lips, "um, yes. Still a little dizzy, I guess."

Dean eyed him warily.

"If you're gonna hurl, aim away from the car."

Castiel nodded and put his coat down on the ground as Dean disappeared behind the trunk again, noisily going through the contents. He stripped off, and stepped into the faded jeans. The waist was a bit roomy and the zipper a little stiff, but he managed to get the single button through the hole on his first attempt. Dressing was proving to be much more easy the second time round. He couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself. He was smiling to himself, pulling on the faded t-shirt when Dean reappeared.

The hunter stopped, looking at Castiel with some concern. Standing there in normal clothes, his hair dirty and a five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw, the angel looked a little too familiar for Dean's liking. Images of his time in 2014, of the drug-addled, broken version of his friend, flickered in his mind. He tried to force the unsettling thoughts from his mind by making a joke as he picked up the ruined clothes.

"Suits you, Cas."

Castiel tilted his head in question and Dean gestured toward the shirt.

"The angel."

Castiel glanced down. The t-shirt was dark grey, perhaps black when it had begun its life, and on the front it bore the words Led Zeppelin and United States of America 1977 in white print. Between these words was the outline of an angel, it's arms raised to the sky. He looked back up at Dean.

"Indeed. What's a Led Zeppelin?"

Dean stared at Castiel, blinking slowly. After a moment he spoke pointedly.

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

He bunched up Castiel's clothes with his own, and shoved them all into the trunk of the Impala before slamming it shut and walking around to the drivers side. Looking over the roof, he pointed at Castiel.

"It's time for your musical education, Cas. Get in."