(A/N) Warning for angst like wow. (Updates for this story will be posted to AO3 first)

Dean's hands were trembling as he held his paycheck in hand, the edges crumpling where he was gripping it like a vice.

"T-this isn't my right salary," the immigrant stammered, his voice nearly a whisper as he turned to Alastair, who'd been the one dispensing the week's pay to all of his workers. "It's two dollars short." The man arched an eyebrow at him, a smirk playing over his features, revealing teeth that were neatly aligned and way too bright.

"And what makes you say that?" the aristocrat asked him, running a hand over his neatly trimmed beard. His eyes sparkled with mischief and a bit of malice as he regarded Dean, who felt a bit embarrassed as he compared Alastair's tailored frock coat to his ragged and disgusting work clothes.

"I'm supposed to get nine dollars and six cents a week," Dean stated evenly, his brows knitting together. As far as he knew, this wasn't even the slightest bit legal. "That's twelve cents an hour. You're cheating me off two cents an hour."

"Does it really matter? It's only, what, twenty four cents a day?" he prompted, examining his finely manicured nails. Dean wanted to strangle him, and he was exerting an incredible amount of control, even without his brother around to steady him; Sam had started working part-time in a local bookstore and had to hustle out as soon as work was over. Most likely, he hadn't noticed the two dollars missing until he was stepping through the doors of the shop.

"Sir, I need that money," Dean told him, his voice taking on a pleading note that Alastair seemed to be drinking up with sick amusement.

"No, you don't," he replied, "Because I'm telling you that you don't."

"Please, sir," Dean begged, his voice becoming brittle as panic sliced through his skull. "We need to pay rent, we need food and new clothes and water and-" Alastair raised a hand, efficiently silencing the immigrant, who'd begun to ramble. He leaned in so close that their noses were almost touching, and only then did Dean realize that they'd attracted an audience. Alastair smelled of expensive perfume and lilac shampoo, the scents making the Italian sick to his stomach with both horror and dread of what had happened and what was to come.

"You're not getting a single cent from me, do you understand?" he growled, his voice a warning that sent the hairs on the back of Dean's neck standing on end.

"But-"

"Do you understand?"

There was a long pause, and a list of counterarguments popped into Dean's mind, the biggest thing being the fact that, with the trench-deep pockets that the factory owner had, he would almost certainly have two dollars to spare. He let the words stay stranded at the tip of his tongue, though, not wanting to risk losing the only job he had.

"Yes, sir," Dean rasped, averting his gaze to his scuffed and worn shoes.

"Good," Alastair replied, and there hadn't even been a remote attempt to conceal the smugness in the aristocrat's voice. Dean stormed out, not wanting to see the pitying looks on his coworker's faces. He didn't want their pity. He didn't want anyone's pity, and his rage simmered under the surface. He barged through the cobbled streets, narrowly missing being trampled by horse-drawn carts and shoving through crowds of people, who cursed at him in a colorful array of languages. He didn't care, though, and continued down the street, not even batting an eyelid at the beautiful Palomino for sale or marveling at his beautiful city. He felt the cracks spreading through him and clenched his jaw, trying to remain strong. He had to do it for Sammy, for their new life in the United States. Somehow, though, this was almost as bad as Italy. Here, the scum of the earth didn't beg for food and booze on the streets like in Naples, they sat in their palaces and ate lobster and had nice clothes and a full stomach when they went to sleep.

God apparently was testing him, because he managed to cross Ellen's path while trying to keep a straight trajectory for his tenement. He remembered how she bought food every Tuesday, and that he'd occasionally bump into her on the way back home, but now was not the day that he wanted to deal with her matronly attitude.

"Dean, are you okay?" she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder as her eyes sparkled with genuine concern. He appreciated her efforts to try and get through to him and talk it out, he really did, but he was too busy wallowing in his own failure to really be in the mood for such compassion. It must've shown on his face, because the hardy woman's expression softened and her eyes shined with sympathy, but as she opened her mouth he wrenched himself from her grip, much to her astonishment, and barged off. He hated leaving her in the dust, hated turning his back on her when she'd done nothing but attempt to comfort him, but when he glanced at the paycheck, which was crumpling in the tight grip of his fist, the wave of fury and self-hatred that crashed into him drowned out any guilt except the one that he possessed for letting Sam down. He was the big brother, the caretaker, and he was supposed to get this kind of shit right, keep the family together. Now they just might get thrown out of their homes, and they'd be back to square one, only in a new, unfamiliar place that seemed to look down upon them. At least in Naples they'd known the place, known the people that lived there, but now they were in an alien world that Dean knew was just as cruel as it was full of opportunity.

He scaled the steps to sixty-six East 12th Street and flung the door open so hard that he was just short of ripping the old, cheap thing from its hinges. He made it into the lobby before his resolve crumbled and the bitterness that had been fueling him and keeping him going dissipated into nothing, leaving him without a crutch for his mind to lean on. He collapsed against the wall and tucked his knees against his chest, finally allowing a small, strangled sob to escape his lips. After that he knew he was done for, because the dam that was holding back his emotions fractured and caved, allowing them to surge forth in a torrent of bitterness, misery, guilt, and anxiety. Tears began to stream town his cheeks, his shoulders shaking as he wept. He hadn't broken down like this since their father died. He always had to stay positive. Stay one step ahead and never lag behind, lest his demons drag him away to the world they dragged his father, where nothing matters but the bottle and what was inside of it. He needed to remain the rock, for Sam, but no matter how severely his mind scolded himself for being weak at a time like this, he couldn't manage to reign his emotions back in.

"Hey, Dean-o, what's shaki- Oh my God, what happened?" Gabriel's voice made Dean's cheeks burn with humiliation. Nobody was supposed to see him like this. He was Dean fucking Winchester and Winchesters didn't break down like this, because they would wither and lapse and wilt like how John had, and Dean was doing everything in his power not to end up like his father did. It seemed so easy, though, just to accept the constant pressure and shatter into a million pieces from the weight of all the burdens he'd shouldered. Nobody, except for maybe Sam, would miss him, because everyone he'd ever known was in Naples, but he couldn't afford to think like that. He couldn't afford anything.

Dean couldn't find it in him to reply, so he held up the rumpled paycheck for Gabriel to see, knowing that the tenement owner was well aware of his salary. He heard the sharp intake of breath and peeked through his fingers to see Gabriel staring at it, his brows pinched together and his hand methodically running through his hair.

"This is ten kinds of illegal, Dean," he said finally, his golden eyes smoldering with anger that was undoubtedly directed at Alistair. "That pig-headed, fat-assed, money-stealing piece of shit will be having a word or two with Cassie. Once I tell him of this he's going to flip a wig-"

"No!" Dean found himself blurting, so suddenly that he was almost as surprised as Gabriel looked. Softer, he repeated, "No."

"What do you mean no?" Gabriel prompted, putting his hands on his hips. "This," he waved the paycheck in Dean's face, and he couldn't bear to see Alastair's neat print that stated that the immigrant had earned only seven dollars and six cents for his seventy-two hours of labor, "Is a violation of your rights, Dean. Cas can have that guy thrown behind bars for doing this."

"I can deal with this myself!" Dean insisted. "I'm not some poor damsel in distress that has to run to him whenever I have a problem! I'm not some leech that saps his expenses for my own gain!" Gabriel let out an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands into the air.

"Dean, don't you get it?! He likes giving things to you. He likes helping people even more! Why do you think he became a ward boss? For the money? Let him help you, Dean. Stop lamenting over what you don't have and concentrate on fighting for what's you do have! And don't think he didn't let it slip that you two bozos kissed."

"He told you?!" Dean hissed, feeling betrayed. That was something private, something to be kept in between the two of them, and he gazed around warily as if there would be eavesdroppers listening in. Both Castiel and Dean's images would be ruined if word of that kiss managed to slip; homosexuality was not looked upon with fondness, whether it be by the Church or by the people, and Dean was well aware of all the lovers who were found dead in back alleys for their orientation, on top of the fact that authority looked the other way when it came to the horrors that this handful of people were threatened by.

"Don't get your inexpressibles in a twist, I've known about Cassie's attraction for the same gender since he was ten years old. I've come to terms with it, though most of our family hasn't," Gabriel paused, the subject of family obviously being a touchy one, "They don't know, though, and I have my lips sealed. He was pretty worried that you'd be angry for letting it slip, but unless you're a Grade-A bootlicker you won't have a problem, am I correct?" Gabriel fixed Dean with a stare that clearly stated that if the immigrant did have a problem with it, he'd be running into a few things that were much more severe than a secret kiss or a paycheck. Dean swallowed hard and nodded, trying to wipe away the mortifying dampness on his cheeks.

"Still," he whispered, "Please don't tell him. I don't want him to go against Alastair; from what I've learned, Cas isn't so popular without the immigrants' votes in exchange for him giving them a place in society, and Alistair is rolling in money. The next Andrew Carnegie, maybe. Castiel won't stand a chance, and his reputation will become all the more diminished. I don't want to put his job in line for the sake of my nine dollars and six cents a week. He deserves so much better." Gabriel's expression softened in understanding, and he handed Dean his paycheck back, the paper now looking as if it'd seen better days.

"Okay. If this keeps up, just tell me and I'll delay the rent. Can't lower it, though, I'm sorry. I have a boss, too, and he's all for the profits," the tenement owner told him, and a slight gleam of hope began to flutter in his chest. "But I really don't want to throw you guys out. You two have been through so much already, coming here to the Land of the Free for a better life, and if I turned you to the streets it would be like going back to the place you were trying to get away from, not to mention your brother is hot." Dean looked at Gabriel sharply, who just shrugged with a shit-eating grin on his face. "I swing both ways."

Dean chuckled and pulled at the fabric of his trousers a bit. He was meeting Castiel for the last time tonight, and the ward boss always lifted his spirits. The sessions had long since traveled out of the land of strict studying and into the world of just hanging out. They hadn't kissed again, both of them clearly hesitant to do so in a room where just anyone could walk in, so they kept to soft touches and fleeting glances that were almost as infuriating as the occasional glance. Cas was going to start campaigning for the small but upcoming election, so he would be unavailable for the rest of this week and all of next week, but he promised that they'd go back to his manor soon enough. Just the thought of that place, of Brutus and Achilles, of the nice beds and food, and of the horses, made Dean's insides flutter with excitement and anticipation, especially when Castiel had told him that Sam could come along next time. Maybe this would all get better.

-Җ-

Castiel knew something was wrong the moment Dean shuffled inside his wing at Tammany Hall. From the beaten and shattered look in his normally joy-filled green eyes to the way he hunched when he walked, which was so unlike the drilled-in poise of the Winchester brothers, there was certainly something that was on Dean's mind. The immigrant did his normal routine, hanging up his coat, which was too thin for this December chill in Castiel's opinion, and making himself comfortable on the bar, which they'd found was easier to study on and talk.

Castiel tried to catch his eye, but Dean seemed determined to stare at the floor, his face indifferent but his eyes giving away all of his secrets. Normally, the Italian would be willing to open up to Castiel about his concerns and his woes, constantly telling him of the stresses of his factory job and of the upcoming rent that was due, but this time he was closed off, as if he'd erected walls around himself to keep Castiel out of his thoughts. It'd been a month and a half since they'd ventured to Castiel's estate, but neither the politician nor the immigrant could find the time to go back again. Dean was very independent when it came to his rent, and refused to allow Castiel to help him, saying that neither he nor Sam wished to be babied. The politician couldn't offer him any other jobs without looking like he was playing favorites with his clients (something that his opponents would pounce on if they found out), and Dean was determined to pay rent by its deadline. He and Sam were doing well so far, but the goal was still slightly out of reach, and Castiel felt helpless when Dean told him of his struggles, though with good humor.

"Are you feeling under the weather?" Castiel asked, raising a brow. Dean grunted in affirmation, his head bowed as the candlelight washed over his face and illuminated it with dancing shadows. Realizing he wasn't going to get much more of a reply, Castiel launched into an animated, though one-sided, conversation about his upcoming campaign. He told Dean that the immigrant had been a great influence to his speech writing and had helped him consider all the problems of the people that needed to be addressed. Perhaps he'd become more popular because of Dean, and the immigrant let out a bitter laugh as Castiel praised him.

"I'm good for nothing, Cas," he stated, and the politician felt his blood run cold as Dean got up and poured himself a drink. Dean didn't drink, not after the issue with Sam and his father's alcoholism, one of the cases having ended in death. Even though it was a very expensive bourbon that Dean was taking, Castiel wasn't concerned about that. He was concerned about Dean's well-being; from what he could glean from the little bits and pieces of Dean's past that he's learned, Winchesters had a tendency to turn to the bottle when things got tough. If the immigrant's comment about being good for nothing was anything to go by, things were getting tough.

"Dean," he said firmly, and only then did the Italian look up at him, half of his face distorted by his glass as he downed another sip of the amber-colored whiskey. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Listen, Cas," Dean sighed, his eyes growing a bit unfocused. Castiel only realized later how low of an alcohol tolerance the Winchesters must have from their years of not touching a single drop. "I know you're trying to be helpful and all, but you have to mind your own goddamn business." Castiel was taken aback by this, and his astonishment almost immediately turned into annoyance that simmered low under the surface.

"You come in here and begin ignoring me and drinking my bourbon, when you haven't had alcohol in years, and you expect me to mind my own business?" he snarled, his expression growing hard. "That's what friends, lovers, whatever we are, are for. You can't keep this from me, Dean." The immigrant licked his lips, his jaw clenching as he leaned in close, so close that their noses were almost touching.

"Watch me," he hissed. "This isn't your problem, Cas, stay out of it. Sam and I don't have to be pampered and showered with gifts of money and shit just because you have the hots for me." That struck a nerve, and Castiel stood up so fast that the stool tipped over, slamming into the ground with a loud thud that made Dean flinch, though the immigrant wasn't fazed.

"Don't you dare insult my feelings that I have for you, Dean. I decided to share that piece of myself with you and you just threw it back into my face like some ungrateful, whiny bitch. You can't do this, Dean. I'm a nice person and I want to help you in whatever way I can, because I'm your friend. Did you know that I've never made contact with any of my other clients as much as I've done with you? They've stopped in every once or twice, but never have I tutored someone such as yourself in English. That has to mean something!"

"No, it doesn't. You don't know the first thing about me, Cas," Dean's voice was less snarky and irritating and more tired than his last retort.

"Only because you've never shared," Castiel replied, his voice much more measured and calm than before. "It's your own damn fault that you think I don't know you, but I do."

"That's not likely," Dean snorted and took another swig from his glass, which Castiel wanted to hit out of his hand and watch shatter onto the floor. He liked these glasses, though, and merely settled for digging his nails into the meat of his palms.

"Oh, but it is. Your birthday is January twenty-fourth. You're an Aquarius. You like learning and are very smart and witty and sarcastic. You're from Naples, Italy and had a black Frisian named Impala. Your mother died when you were four and your father took to the bottle soon after, leaving you to care for your younger brother, Samuel Winchester, and you two are closer than any brothers could possibly be. You need and depend on each other." Dean was stone-faced, showing absolutely no emotion whatsoever as Castiel continued, "Sam had a drinking problem, which was influenced by a woman named Ruby, and times became so tough that you managed to gamble enough to get tickets to America. You enthuse about horses and your favorite food is pie, and you like to listen to the people playing instruments on the streets. I could say more, but you get my point."

Dean put down his glass and rose, and a smile broke out on Castiel's face as he extended his hand to touch the immigrant's shoulder. But instead of coming towards Castiel to embrace him and tell him of his troubles, Dean shied out of Castiel's reach and trudged over to the coat rack.

"Dean?" the ward boss asked, his brows furrowing in bewilderment. Judging by the hands on his grandfather clock, it was only eight forty-five at night. Dean slipped on his jacket and buttoned it up, his face a mask and his lips pursed.

"Good job, you know the basics of the wild and elusive Dean Winchester. Gold star for you," Dean growled, and he held up his hand for silence when Castiel tried to ask him what the matter was. "I'm not coming anymore. I don't need your help, Cas. Maybe I'll come back when things get better but…not now. I can't." And with that, he was gone, leaving Castiel standing shocked and alone with Dean's empty cup.

The ward boss threw it against the wall in his frustration, though the sound of the glass shattering didn't help like he'd thought it would.

-Җ-

Things didn't get better.

"Four whole dollars, Sam," Dean cried, burying his face into his hands as his brother rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Four whole dollars are gone. Gone."

"Don't worry, he's not messing with my pay just yet. We can do this," Sam assured him, but his voice was tight, as if he was trying to convince himself of that fact. Dean didn't waste any time in getting another job to help pay the rent, and he worked and worked and worked and worked. He worked from the time his shift in Alastair's factory started at eight o' clock in the morning to the end of his shift of assisting the butcher at his shop, which was at four o' clock. It was still not enough. Dean sobbed as he counted their money and Sam was always the rock to lean on, and they were struggling to make ends meet. Gabriel always let his offer of informing Castiel stand, but Dean always adamantly turned him down, at least after Sam told him that he was willing to go down this path as well. He knew that Gabriel was aware of the fact that he'd temporarily severed things with Cas and had left him alone in a fit of upset, but if it bothered the tenement owner, he never mentioned it.

The exhaustion was starting to get to Dean. He had told one of the workers who operated close to him to please wake him up if he began to nod off, and the shadows under his bloodshot eyes were dark. He would've used booze to drown out his worries and keep himself awake, but every penny went to paying the rent, whose sum was like a high mountain whose summit could never be reached. The months dragged on, and Dean was pretty sure that Gabriel had let his mouth wag to Castiel, who never stopped sending him telegrams asking if he was alright and if he needed help. He burned all of them and refused to see the politician when he arrived at the tenements. Gabriel was scrambling to help in any way that he could, and even some of their neighbors were trying to chip in, but it never was enough. Dean was now being paid two dollars a week from Alastair and fifty cents a week from the butcher's, and Sam's paycheck had begun to wane until he was making three dollars from Alistair, twenty five cents a week from the bookstore, and ten cents a week from his new job helping a merchant. Both worked Sundays. There was no time for rest.

It came to the point where they had to ration. One slice of bread had to last you two days, a cup of clean water had to last you a week. More often than not Dean came home with tears in his eyes and handed Sam a second slice of bread, saying that the baker had taken pity and given them two extra. Dean would always claim to have the bread in his pocket or to have eaten it along the way. The younger Winchester would weep with joy and throw his arms around him, unware of the fact that his brother was becoming ever so thinner. Sam wasn't stupid, though, and he began to see it. Dean's cheekbones began to jut from his face, his eyes sinking deep into his skull. His skin became sallow and covered in nicks and scars from the grueling labor he performed on four hours of sleep every night. And when they did sleep, Sam heard the rattling in his brother's breathing, the way his coughs were violent and hacking.

Yet he always brought home extra bread, the bread that Sam was well aware wasn't extra at all.

"Sammy, you have to eat. Stay strong," Dean rasped when the taller Winchester refused to take the second slice of bread.

"What about you, Dean?" he'd shouted. "What happens to you?" Dean had stayed silent. They knew that one day shit would hit the fan, as it had done over and over and over again for these past months, and it occurred on the first day of April, which just so happened be a holy day. While everyone was preparing to go to church, Sam woke at seven forty five to get to the factory, and he was one of many who had to work Sundays for that little extra pay. Anything that they could scrounge. He was getting dressed in his work clothes when he saw it. Dean was struggling to get out of bed, his sides heaving with the strain of trying to sit upright as his hands scrabbled at the covers. When he finally managed to haul himself up, after a very worrying amount of effort, he staggered, his eyes unfocused as he groped for his work clothes. Sam couldn't take this anymore, couldn't watch his brother withering and wilting, wasting away like a flower in December. It was like his father all over again, only this time there was no booze. There was nothing, and Dean was just trying to help in that Dean way of his; sacrificing himself for the sake of others.

"Dean, stop," he said softly as his older brother's unsteady, thin fingers fumbled with the buttons of his butcher uniform that he fell asleep in every night.

"Can't, Sam," Dean's voice was so hoarse that it was barely there. "Gotta get to work. Gotta feed us."

"You mean feed me," Sam snarled. Dean looked up, and his eyes just looked so tired. So broken.

"Of course," he replied, his voice so full of tenderness that the younger Winchester felt the burning behind his eyes that signaled oncoming tears. "You're my little brother. I gotta take care of my pain in the ass little brother."

"Dean, we're taking a day off," Sam told him firmly, and Dean let out a bitter laugh.

"If this is some sort of April Fool's joke, Sammy, s'not funny."

"It's not a joke, get back in bed and take off your shirt." The elder Winchester's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline when he realized just how serious Sam was, and he shook his head vigorously.

"No, we have until exactly twelve o' clock until our rent is a day late and we have to pay extra, and right now we're five dollars short. Five dollars." The pain in his brother's voice was evident. Mostly to himself, he grunted, "Maybe I should turn a few tricks to get to the deadline." That was the final straw, the mere suggestion that Dean was going to sell his body off to some bull-headed freak had Sam grabbing his brother roughly, ignoring the wince that it dragged from the elder Winchester, and sat him down on the bed, tearing his shirt off in the process. The sight before him made him want to sob. Dean's baggy clothing had hidden the terror that lay underneath, and Sam inhaled sharply at how he could count every one of his brother's ribs. His arms were sticks. His hands thin and gnarled.

He looked like a corpse.

"I'm going to get Rowena, she used to be a nurse back in Scotland, and if you're not sitting on that bed when I get back, I'm leaving you alone for the rest of your life," Sam told his brother sternly, trying to ignore the way Dean flinched with every word.

"O-okay," was the faint reply, and Sam stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The only thing was that he wasn't going to get just Rowena. He descended the stairs and nearly collided with Gabriel, who hadn't been himself lately; far too stressed and serious to be the happy-go-lucky guy who was their landlord. He grabbed the shorter man's shoulders, his fingers tingling with the contact, and looked him straight in the eye.

"Send a telegram to Cas. Hell, deliver the message yourself if you have to. Dean's sick. I need him to come here with a doctor. We have a retired nurse here and even though I'm not sure if he actually had contracted any illnesses I just want to be safe. I'll pay for everything, I swe-" Gabriel silenced him with a very serious and concerned look.

"I've got it covered, Samantha, don't you worry." And with those words he grabbed his coat and whisked out of the door faster than the immigrant could A) reply and B) scold him for calling him Samantha. He dashed back up the stairs and roused practically all of their neighbors, from Crowley and Rowena to Lisa and Ben, though he didn't allow the latter two to come, in case Dean had actually contracted an illness. He knew that they were just as vulnerable as Dean was in his current state, and they had sent him along with their best wishes for Sam's brother.

"What do you think he has?" Ellen asked, her expression pinched with worry. Sam worried his bottom lip in between his teeth.

"I don't know, but you'll see why I'm worried."

Needless to say, he didn't have to explain much once he'd brought them into the room to see Dean lying on his side, asleep and breathing that rattling breath of his.

He looked dead.

-Җ-

The doctor that Castiel had managed to get in contact with wasn't one of his trusted favorites, but they lived way out on the island and therefore he had to settle with this one. Rev. Roy Le Grange was a part-time doctor and a part-time faith healer, balancing out his duties in his parish with the duties of being a medic, and he claimed to be capable of curing even the most serious of diseases. From what Castiel has heard, he was the real deal. He was blind and wore tinted spectacles to hide his unseeing eyes from the world, but he seemed to sense things that no one else could. His suit was neat and tidied, his top hat without a single speck of dust upon it, and Castiel felt severely underdressed. Considering that he, too, was in a suit, that was a big statement. Le Grange's hairline was receding and he was on the pudgy side, but he was as healthy as healthy could be.

Their carriage thundered along, for he'd urged the cabbie to go as fast as possible without getting them killed, and the ride was one thousand times more hazardous and painful than usual. Castiel thumped and smacked into the sides like some sort of rag doll when they hit the bumps and the dips in the cobbled road, occasionally knocking heads with Rev. Le Grange. Anxiety was consuming him as he recalled Gabriel's barging into his office, panting from exertion, and telling him to get a doctor and go to Dean's tenement. He thought of all the horrible diseases that Dean could've attracted. Influenza was becoming increasingly more common in the city, and there have been a couple of outbreaks of typhus noted in the area. God forbid it was cholera, which was becoming quite the epidemic and could kill within minutes, especially in the slums where Dean lived.

"So is this Dean a friend of yours?" the reverend asked, twiddling his thumbs and calmly taking the jarring and the bouncing of the carriage.

"Something like that," Castiel sighed, but he didn't want to go into depth considering that the Church frowned upon thing such as a man kissing another man. "I fear for his health despite the fact that we haven't talked in a few months."

"Meaning?"

"He's been struggling to pay rent, completely refusing my offers to assist him and his brother. Gabriel, that's my brother, has told me that he's more than once overheard them arguing over whether they should accept my help, with Dean being firmly against it."

"Why would he refuse help?" Le Grange asked, his voice not sounding in any way incredulous or judgmental, but rather curious. He didn't blame Dean for the situation that he was in when he could've easily avoided it all by letting the ward boss intervene and assist, and was merely inquisitive about the reasoning behind his decisions.

"He is very poor, and he hates being helpless more than anything else, I believe. He's grown up raising his brother, and in that time he had to remain strong, couldn't afford to be helpless, and now that he has a safety net I assume that he simply doesn't want to use it and have to rely on someone else to aid him," Castiel replied, wincing as the carriage halted suddenly, sending him zipping forwards and into the wall, and then started up again, causing the ward boss to slam back into his seat.

"Interesting," was all the reverend replied. It felt like hours until they pulled up in front of Dean's tenement, and Castiel wanted to leap out and break down the door, except he had to lead Le Grange out of the carriage, which sped off, and up the steps before he could do much else. Gabriel answered the door before Castiel even knocked, and hustled the two of them through the hall and the lobby, up the stairs and towards room twenty-five. Sam was waiting for them, pacing about worriedly, and after hurried introductions they led the reverend inside.

"We had Rowena, a retired nurse, help him out, but we waited for you before we did anything," Sam explained, and Le Grange nodded, groping around for the bed, which he placed his suitcase upon. Dean was lying on the bed, his eyes opened a fracture, but he seemed too weak to do much else, and Castiel could see why. It was so bad that he had to turn away, his hand covering his mouth as he took deep breaths through his nose to calm himself. Had Dean not been a close friend, he wouldn't've noticed the man that was lying down before him. This one's ribs showed through his skin, and he was too thin for his height. Maybe with his bulky clothes on he could be considered "lanky", but not without. No, Dean was emaciated, and Castiel couldn't bear to see him in such a state. He wanted to pounce on him and kiss all of the sadness and the stress and the thinness away, wanted to sweep him off his feet and take him home and pamper him until he was spoiled rotten. Then he thought of something, and as he finally turned around to see Le Grange with his stethoscope checking Dean's heart and having Rowena assist him with checking anything that actually needed to be seen, such as his ears and his eyes, he knew exactly what he was going to do next.