AN: I told you I'd give you a long one! 5,994 words. But, I'm sure some of you will be glad to know that there are some happy times this chapter! I know. It's shocking! Anyway, here you go. Thanks to Laura for beta-ing.

Little Earthquakes

When Castiel awoke, the house was empty. He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position and looked at the bedside table, where there was a plate of lukewarm breakfast and a bottle of aspirin. He released a soft groan, putting his hands over his face as his brain pulsed inside his skull. He felt like he'd been hit by a wrecking ball. Everything hurt: his head, his ribs, his leg. Yet, as he'd learned on day one, there were no pills in the entire apartment. Dean must have either hidden them or taken them with him to work, because Castiel had torn apart the entire place searching. The guest was honestly surprised that he'd been left with aspirin. It was definitely a step-up.

He swallowed four, not bothering to take a drink with them. They weren't the worst tasting pills he'd ever had in his mouth. The food remained untouched, though. His stomach wasn't going to allow it. A check of the alarm clock said it was nine forty-seven. Meg would be over at ten-thirty.

The young man gave another moan as he hoisted himself out of bed, cast thudding as he got to his feet. Wobbling over, he managed to grab the barely used crutches in the corner of the room, fitting them beneath his arms. They were incredibly awkward, and Cas knew that the likelihood of him falling was high. He'd never done sports as a kid. He'd never done anything dangerous. Injuries were, generally, a mystery to him. Before this, the worst he'd ever gotten was a fist to the eye, and that had taken three weeks to heal. He'd much rather have that, though; at least with a black eye he could still go out.

He used the bathroom, which was normally the extent of his morning activities. As he was leaving, he became distracted by his reflection. He stopped and took a step closer to get a better look.

It was awful. Castiel's dark hair was sticking up in all directions. It was the longest it had ever been, too, brushing past his eyebrows and the nape of his neck. Dark bags constantly tugged at his bloodshot eyes. His chin was brushed with deep brown from growing, untamed stubble, though it helped to hide the hollowness of his cheeks.

As he stared at the reflected countenance, he tried to recall what it had looked like a year ago, three years ago, five years ago. Pale fingers tentatively came up to his ears, which no longer had rings or studs in them. They hadn't for two weeks, and he could feel the beginnings of the healing process. They'd be easy enough to fix, though; he just needed a needle. He normally felt self-conscious without his piercings. They were missing from his ears, his brow, his hips. He didn't like it, but he also didn't have so much as a pin to stick in them. Everything was at his house. Perhaps he could call Meg and ask her—

I will tell Meg not to come here anymore. His own words echoed softly in his head. He needed to call her. The mere notion, however, was unnerving. Not seeing Meg again meant not getting any more drugs or alcohol or sex. It meant that he'd be left alone in his head without distraction. He would have to deal with the thoughts and the memories. He would have to remember all the words he'd said and those that had been said to him. He would have to feel the shame and guilt of everything he had done and become. It meant that he'd have no way to—

He was shaking. Castiel quickly sat down on the edge of the bathtub, knowing he'd fall over if he tried to remain standing. Once seated, he bowed his head down as far as he could, ignoring the tearing, shrieking pain from his ribs and spleen. His heart slammed over and over again into his chest. It was like a prisoner, frantically beating against the walls of a cell, screeching and wailing for release.

The young man suddenly couldn't breathe. The air was being squeezed out of his lungs, and he was left gasping like a fish out of water. His face was screwed up in fear and pain as he racked his brain for what he was supposed to do. It was usually easy to make the panic attacks go away; some beer or weed, and he'd be set, lost in a contented stupor. But here, he had nothing. Dean had destroyed everything that had been keeping him sane, and now it felt like there was a fire blazing in his head, ripping his mind to shreds with fury, outrage, and unbridled terror.

He couldn't hear the front door open or the condescending voice regarding him over the howling in his ears. He was aware, however, of the tears falling in rivers down his face. Someone sat next to him on the bath, lazily wrapping an arm around him and patting his shoulder. Several minutes later, he finally came down. He was able to take long, shuddering breaths. The shrieking in his head subsided. The pounding in his chest calmed to a gentle rhythm. He was left shaking with his eyes closed, trying to rub away the evidence of his sobbing.

"Damn. You haven't had one like that in a long time." Her voice was as cool and collected as always.

It was a couple more minutes before Castiel was able to get a handle on himself. Finally, he sat up straight, taking a deep breath, and observed the woman beside him.

Weakly, he whispered, "Hello, Meg."

She gave a small smile, though it didn't follow through to her eyes. It rarely did. He could recall only a handful of times when he thought he'd seen her truly smile, and that was usually after her lips had caressed a bottle of liquor or the end of a joint. She had her own type of beauty about her, which Cas had often appreciated in the midst of sex or one of their daily baking sessions. She had a round face and a body made of curves. Meg's eyes were deep-set, and he had never seen them when they weren't holding arrogant condescension or anger. They were much like her lips, which were always turned up in a self-satisfied smile.

Coherency was returning to him. Castiel furrowed his brows suddenly and asked, "How were you able to get inside the apartment? The front door should have been locked."

Dark eyes rolled in their sockets. "You don't get to being one of the best dealers in town without learning how to pick a couple locks." She waited, expecting a chuckle of some sort, then peered suspiciously at her partner. "Come on, angel. You need to relax."

She stood up and grabbed the crutches, which were sprawled across the floor. Turning, she offered a hand to Cas, but he didn't take it. He didn't even look at it. She released an irritated sigh and stared disdainfully at him.

"What's your problem?"

Cas finally lifted his eyes, carefully examining her. He was always surprised by how put-together she looked. It was a generally accepted stereotype that those involved with drugs dressed poorly and failed to take care of themselves. Meg, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. Her dark brown hair was always neatly styled in waves and slight curls, falling around her shoulders. Today, she was just as well-dressed as she was any other day, with a leather jacket, tight jeans, and tall, loud heels that announced her entrance when she walked into a room.

He licked his lips, still shaking in the aftermath of his anxiety. How long had he been sitting there that she had already arrived at the apartment? Castiel now wondered if he should even bring it up. Dean didn't have to know. He could just tell Meg not to leave anything here, and that would work perfectly.

But he couldn't do that.

"Could we," he had to stop, clearing his throat to try to stop it from quivering. In a steadier tone, he asked, "Could we speak? Out in the living room?"

Her dark eyes continued to inspect him, obvious suspicion lining her face. With some reluctance, she handed him his crutches, and the two departed to sit in the much more comfortable living room. Once Cas had sat down, Meg made a show of stretching and then sprawling out next to him, allowing her feet to rest in his lap.

"Are you going to tell me why you haven't been putting out?" Meg asked curiously, raising a brow as she peered over her breasts to stare at him. "Not that I probably can't make a fairly good guess about that."

The young man stared at her curiously, furrowing his brows. It wasn't that he was wondering about the question itself; it was true that they hadn't had sex or intimately touched one another since he'd come to Dean's house. It was, rather, the statement that followed it.

"What do you mean?" he asked, honestly having no idea what she might be thinking.

Meg rolled her eyes again, folding her arms to rest beneath her head. "You've started talking like you did when we first met. All... formal and whatnot. You went months without a panic attack until your old boyfriend showed up. And now you're living in his apartment. It's not that hard to put two and two together."

Her satisfied smirk was directly proportional to the redness of Cas' face. He cast quick glances away from her, his mouth opening for a few seconds without making any words.

"I-I don't… Dean was not, he was not my boyfriend," he stuttered. "I would never even be… interested in a relationship with another man. That would be an abom—"

Sharp, biting laughter cut him short. Meg was grinning, shaking her head before propping herself up on her hands, boots still nestled in his lap.

"Don't even try, Castiel. That's part of the reason I liked you. It was a challenge." He quickly looked away from her, staring at the ground with mild horror. "I mean, you're a lot easier to get in the sack when you're high as a kite. Not to mention all of that gay fear you're rockin' seems to make you think you can just fuck the gay away. But you get loose lips when you're drunk. I've heard all about him. All about you and your family issues."

He was absolutely mortified. When Meg realized he wasn't going to respond, she lifted her legs from him and sat closer. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, letting her fingers run carelessly through his unruly hair.

"I don't know why you'd want to go back to him, though. He would just break your heart again. Up and leave without telling you, and do it to you all over again," she purred, blood-red lips just an inch from his ear.

"I don't… I don't want to go back – there's nothing to go back to," he stated firmly, though he still wouldn't let his eyes fall on her.

"Oh, Castiel… If you really believe that, then you're more oblivious than I thought. Then again, that's another thing that I liked about you when we met."

Castiel knew that. He remembered when he and Meg had begun sleeping together and how she'd give a dark laugh after a climax, petting him and calling him her "sweet, little angel." He knew that was the only reason their relationship had ever started. At the beginning, he had been timid, nervous, and religious; she had wanted nothing more than to break him down, corrupt him and wash him in sin. What a wonderful job she had done.

"I… I am not gay, Meg," he reasserted, but the slight anger in his voice didn't help him sound any more confident in that statement.

"And I'm not a heartless bitch," she chuckled

The young woman ruffled his hair and it felt like two years ago, when she was teaching him how to roll a joint or how to properly mix drinks. She had never been just his dealer. When she had come into his life, she had stayed there, aiding in the quick erosion of his morals and ethics. It had been easy. He had been so broken at the time that he would have done anything just to give up feeling angry or scared or depressed, or just feeling in general. It had been a cinch to tempt her favorite angel into falling down to her level.

Castiel took in a deep, shaking breath, closing his eyes briefly as he felt her breath softly falling on his ear and neck. "I do not wish to see you anymore."

When he looked at her at last, her expression hadn't changed. There was no surprise or outrage; she was just Meg.

"Be careful what you wish for, pretty boy," she whispered in his ear. "If you really mean that, then you know what that means, don't you?" Despite his nod, she went on, "No more booze to make you forget your problems. No more drugs to make you not care. No more sex to try to convince yourself you're not a fag."

Any other time, and he would certainly have been angry. He always got angry when someone called him that. He hated that word. He had never hated something as much as he hated that single word. But right now he was still reeling in the aftershock of a serious bout of anxiety, the first one in over three months. He couldn't muster up the energy to be upset, because he was too busy being terrified.

"I understand that," he breathed, voice shaking again.

"If you tell me to leave, you're going to have a hard time getting me back, you know?" Her fingers gripped his hair tightly, and she pressed her lips just beneath his ear. "I will always take you back, of course. You'll just have to get on your knees and grovel, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind."

Castiel swallowed the growing lump in his throat. He tried to nod, but the tight grip on the back of his head stopped him. Instead, he repeated, "I understand."

"Knowing all that, you still want me to leave?"

He was quiet for a long time. The man struggled silently in his mind for an answer. Staying with Meg would be easy. He could go back to his normal routine, return to a life where Dean existed only on the fringes of his mind and all he knew was high-induced serenity. If he sent her away, though, he wouldn't have that comfort. He wouldn't be able to feel like that ever again. He would have to face his problems head on, and he wasn't sure if he could do that.

Besides, what reason was there to stop? If he did, then he could see his family again, but they wouldn't want him back. Michael had been very clear about that. Sure, there was Gabriel, but his youngest brother was probably only visiting out of pity. Once Cas was better, they would go back to never seeing each other.

He would be healthier, but he couldn't care less about the state of his body, because he couldn't care less if he lived or died.

He could become part of the "real world," but being swallowed up by the joys of marijuana, LSD, and alcohol was almost always wonderful.

Don't you wonder why Dean threw all of those things away?

The bitter part of him wanted to say it was because the man just enjoyed seeing Castiel in pain, but even he knew that was a stupid argument. A more likely answer was that he simply didn't want the substances in his house, since they could get him arrested. That idea, however, was shot down, as well. Dean hadn't made a fuss when Cas had brought over the drinks for their dinner, and when they had gotten into their argument, the other man had sounded angry and hurt when he had pointed out what Castiel had become.

But that was probably just wishful thinking. He just wanted Dean to care about him, so he convinced himself that he'd heard it. He'd been drunk, anyway, so who knew what had really happened? The man had probably just been using it to distract from Castiel's insistence at knowing why he'd left. He simply hadn't wanted to talk about that, so he'd changed the subject. But if he hadn't wanted to talk about it, why had he then brought it up last night?

"Cas. You there?"

He was pulled from his thoughts by Meg's intrusive voice. Blue eyes turned and looked into the dark ones that held nothing but slightly annoyed curiosity. She had pulled away from his ear, though her fingers continued twirling around his long hair. Right. He was supposed to be deciding if he wanted her to leave or not.

"Could you… Could you give me a few days?" he asked slowly.

She shrugged, "If I'm in the mood…"

"Meg, please." Castiel grabbed her shoulder, staring intensely at her. He knew he sounded desperate, but it wasn't a decision he was ready to make. He needed time alone to sort through his thoughts. He needed to actually think, for the first time in years.

She huffed, glancing to the ceiling. "Fine," she conceded. The woman got to her feet abruptly, strutting to the kitchen island and grabbing a large purse from it. "You've got my number. If I don't hear from you, I'll assume you're out," said Meg, walking to the door with her usual air of aloofness. "See you around, Castiel."

And then she was gone.

Cas sat on that couch for what felt like ages. When he leaned his head back, his eyes fluttered closed. He was pretty sure that he drifted to sleep once or twice. He was barely slumbering in those moments, however, as he noticed the gradual transitions between consciousness and unconsciousness.

In his waking minutes, he thought about the crux of the matter at hand. It would be a lie to say that he had never thought about doing this before. He'd contemplated giving it all up, but they were thoughts often crushed by another round of drinks or another pass of Mary Jane. Now that he had time to actually focus on it, without any of the distraction, it was difficult. If he analyzed it for too long, he would start to feel the beginnings of another panic attack, and then had to quickly revert to a different train of thought to stop it.

First, he reflected on Meg's reaction to the whole thing. Though it had surprised him, it seemed at the same time to be totally like her. She never cared about anyone else but herself. The young dealer always did what was in her own best interest; if that happened to overlap with someone else's, it was a happy coincidence. That was part of the reason that Cas had been attracted to her. She was devoid of emotional attachment, and thus he was, as well. She didn't care who she slept with as long as they were clean. She didn't care who she sold to as long as it brought her money. She was completely self-centered.

So, he should not have been surprised by her exit. Castiel's staying or going would have no impact on her. Perhaps she would prefer to keep him, because she already knew that he didn't have some sexual disease (he only slept with whomever she brought with her, and she was beautifully careful) and how he functioned, but he would be easy to replace. Besides, she'd already ripped the wings off of her angel; now that they were gone, he wasn't as much fun to play with.

At some point, he heard the sound of the door opening. Sam wasn't due home until three. Was it really that late already? However, as he craned his neck around, he saw that it wasn't Sam, after all. Dean poked his head in suspiciously, green eyes carefully scanning the apartment before landing on Cas. Cerulean eyes quickly averted the gaze, choosing instead to stare at his own lap and gnarled, bony hands.

"Hey, Cas." The words sounded timid and cautious, as if Dean were testing him.

"Hello, Dean." The young man was able to form his reply with a steady, even voice, though it was quiet. He heard the door close and the other man wander the apartment. He tentatively went on, "You are home early."

"Bobby gave me an extra half-hour for lunch. Thought you might want some company," came the nonchalant answer.

Or you just wanted to make sure Meg wasn't here, Castiel thought. He did not voice that idea, though. Instead, he stayed silent. He wasn't sure what else to say to that. As he continued to stare at his hands, he noticed they were trembling. It wasn't from an impending, anxious breakdown this time, though. It was a reminder of how long it had been since he'd had alcohol. It must have been something like sixteen hours, if Dean was here on his lunch break. By this time, he was usually wasted in more ways than one, but he hadn't touched a drop today (not that there was actually anything to drink, after Dean dumped it all down the sink).

"I was wondering, Cas… Do you think you'd want to go out?" That caught the man's attention. His head snapped up to stare at Dean, surprise obviously written on his face. The Winchester wasn't looking, though, instead rifling through a bag of groceries he'd brought with him. "There's a place just down the street I thought we could go. I'm sure you've probably got some cabin fever, staying in here all the time, and it's really nice out, y'know, for October."

By the time Dean looked over, the initial surprise had washed from his guest's face. Castiel licked his lips and looked away again. Perhaps that would be pleasant. After a moment, he allowed his head to dip into a nod, throat humming with a semblance of agreement.

"Great. I'll get the wheelchair."

Dark brows furrowed, he watched Dean walk to the bedroom and return with a crappy, plastic wheelchair that they'd gotten from the hospital. As he gently fingered his injured ribs, he pondered the other man's newly bright tone. Had his answer really been so satisfying? The wheelchair was brought over and unfolded. The man didn't make any attempt to help Cas, though, and Cas couldn't say he blamed him. After his attempt to aid last night, Dean was probably a bit wary of the skinny and injured guest.

With shaking limbs, Castiel managed to load himself into the seat. He didn't need to bother with washing up or changing; it was not like it ever really mattered. He craned his neck to try and look up at Dean, but as soon as their eyes met, Dean left, retreating to the bedroom. He came back a few moments later, though, bearing a forest green jacket.

"It's kinda cold out. You might want this."

He handed it to Cas, whose quivering hands gently clenched it and pulled it on over Sam's shirt. If Dean noticed the tremors, he didn't say anything. Instead, he grabbed the handles of the wheelchair, and they left the apartment in silence.

It was, indeed, a nice day. The sky was an incredible shade of blue, accented by the bright sun and wisps of white clouds. Castiel found that the air that engulfed him was a rather pleasant temperature, but the occasional wind caused him to shiver and clutch Dean's jacket around himself. He closed his eyes, relaxing slightly at the feeling of sun falling on his skin and the sound of birds chirping and cars quietly rolling by.

His reverie was broken when they came to a stop a few minutes later. They were outside a café, which caused blue eyes to snap up to his host in confusion. Dean Winchester eating at a café? The home-cooked meals were weird enough, but this…

Dean rolled him up to the counter so that he could see the menu printed on the wall. "They've got some good food here, Cas, so feel free to order whatever you want," he said. He tore his gaze away from the list of food to look down at Cas nestled comfortably in the wheelchair and his jacket, flashing a smile.

They ordered their food, and Castiel couldn't help noticing how miserable Dean sounded when he ordered his "garden burger with a water to drink, thanks." Cas ended up getting a baguette and soup, the only things he thought he might actually be able to keep in his stomach. Though there was plenty of seats within the restaurant, Dean rolled him outside. He made a big deal about making sure Cas was seated in the sun, despite the helpless man's insistence on getting a table with an umbrella.

When Dean sat down, the other decided that he might as well not argue. He didn't want to stress. If he did, he'd start panicking again, and he didn't want to do that out in public and especially not in front of Dean. Cas ended up staring at him, instead, confused. The man's green eyes were glaring at the glass of water between his palms like it was some sort of tasteless devil. His pink lips were tight (he remembered teasing Dean when they were kids about how the boy looked like he was wearing lipstick), and his eyebrows were pulled together in thought.

Castiel breathed a contented sigh and looked out at the street. On the other side of the road, there was a park. It was barely inhabited, mostly by young mothers and their children, who were kicking up dirt and rolling down slides. The trees' leaves gently swayed with the wind, some falling away and being carried with the breeze so as to paint the ground brown and orange. He couldn't remember the last time he'd just sat outside. After all, a hit of acid was all it took to feel like he was riding on the wings of a massive, black bird or swallowed up by a suffocating lake. However, Cas could not remember a single time when he'd taken the drug and then felt goose bumps rise on his pale skin or the jovial warmth of sun. There had never been that much comforting detail.

While they wait for their food, the two enjoyed the chirps of birds, rumbles of car engines, and laughter of children. It was peaceful, and Cas didn't realize when his lips lifted into the ghost of a long-forgotten smile or when the grass-colored eyes watched him. Ten minutes passed before their meals were brought to them, and they each thanked the waitress.

Cas was quick to dive in, surprised at how hungry he suddenly was and the fact that his hands had stopped shaking. His head hurt with a gently pounding headache that was demanding even just a single drop of liquor. He tried to drive it away with a long sip of water, despite knowing it wouldn't work. He raised his eyes to look at Dean, but the man hadn't even touched the burger. He wasn't even sure if it should be called that, though, because it was made out of a tofu patty, which was probably why Dean was staring morosely at the thing. It was a disgrace of a burger.

"If you don't want it, Dean, you should take it back and get something else," Castiel told him after finishing a bite of his bread.

The other continued to stare at it, then tried to look less disgusted when he glanced up at his friend.

"I'm going to eat it," he replied bitterly. "I'm just… working up to it."

Cas rolled his eyes and breathed in deeply. "Dean," he said, a bit more sharply this time, but the man interrupted with a grunt. He picked up the sandwich and gave it a good, hard look, as if he were gathering up the courage to eat it. "It's not poison," Cas muttered. Dean shot him a glare, then daringly took a huge bite.

That had been a bad idea. The man let out a low groan, accompanied by a rather amusing face as he slammed the sandwich back onto the plate. He finished what was in his mouth with large, open-mouthed bites, trying to avoid having it on his tongue for too long. When he finally swallowed, he gasped and violently shook his head.

"That tasted like… like crap. Mushy, meat-colored crap," he bemoaned.

A grin had been working its way across Castiel's face, and the comment set him off. A light, airy laugh escaped him, and he actually threw his head back, one hand resting over his stomach. It was like he'd just seen the most hilarious thing in the world, and Dean couldn't help but join him in the laughter. A minute passed, and they both calmed down. A sickly thin hand wiped across blue eyes, banishing the tiny tears that had cropped up. When he'd been reduced to soft chuckling, a grin was still beaming on Cas' face.

"You're such a pansy," he teased.

That made Dean practically giggle, and then his green eyes were resting on Cas.

Sitting in his wheelchair, the man suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable. He couldn't move out of the gaze or look elsewhere without being massively obvious, so he was forced to just stare back. It was an odd expression that Cas vaguely recognized, but he cynically refused to believe it was what every fiber of his being was telling him.

It was the same look that Dean had given his brother when the youngest Winchester came home from third grade with a drawing of his family, which consisted of Sam, Dean, John, and their mother Mary, who had donned wings and a halo. It was the same look that Dean had given several photographs when he and Cas had found an old shoebox full of them in the basement of the Winchester house. It was the same look Dean had given Castiel the last day they'd seen each other and said, "You're a good friend… Thanks for putting up with me."

It was, undoubtedly, fondness.

"Why are you doing this, Dean?" Even the one who asked the question couldn't figure out the tone. It was a strange mish-mash of curious, accusatory, hopeful, and upset, all equally coloring the words.

Dean was either playing dumb or sincerely didn't understand when he asked, "What do you mean?"

"The food, Dean. I am going to assume you were not eating like this before I came to stay with you," the other explained patiently.

The man raised his head slightly, nodding. "Oh," he muttered. Cas could see him trying to cook up a lie, so he took another bite of his baguette to hold his tongue. "I just… I thought you were a nice excuse for us to eat healthier."

"Why?"

"Well, you should eat things that are actually nutritious or whatever when you're recovering. Help the healing process, y'know?"

Cas stared at the other with immense scrutiny, and it was Dean's turn to squirm.

"There's more to it," he stated flatly, leaning back in his wheelchair. "I knew you for fifteen years, Dean Winchester. I know when you're lying, and I know when you're holding back. Please, do not treat me like some common acquaintance."

Their eyes were locked for a long time, and Castiel could tell that the other was struggling with something. He was deciding whether or not to tell Cas the truth, most likely. He wouldn't, though. He would make up an excuse. He would blow it off. He would tell a joke or make a pop culture reference, because that was what Dean did. That was what Dean always did, and now wasn't going to be—

"I looked into your meds."

Oh. Cas looked struck, shock written all over his face. "You what?"

Dean shifted in his seat and suddenly decided that his Burger from Vegan Hell was really interesting and delicious. He took another bite, scowling at the taste as he forced it down his gullet, and then set it back down.

"When I went and got your meds, Sam recognized them and told me that they were… He told me what they were for. So, I looked up some, uh, some stuff that I thought might be helpful to your situation."

It was funny that Dean looked so embarrassed over that. He wouldn't look at Cas, choosing instead to stare at the park across the way. However, it all made sense now. The afflicted had done his own research when he'd first been struggling. He knew a person's food choice could affect symptoms. Drugs and alcohol were definitely supposed to be out... His eyes drifted to the sky, squinting to look at the sun and clouds. And sitting in sunlight was supposed to give a person special vitamins or something, and thus help with depression.

He couldn't help but smile slightly. There was still a part of him that wanted to hate Dean. He wanted to blame the man for all of his problems: for Michael, for being kicked out, for the drugs, for the alcohol, for the depression, for the anxiety. But right now, he just felt happy to hear that answer and to feel like his best friend from long ago still cared about him. Instead of questioning it further, Castiel left it at that and asked his friend how his day was going. He asked about working for Bobby. He asked about getting reacquainted with the city. They carried on a conversation like two normal people without the aid of beer. It was a wonderful change, for once, and Cas couldn't remember the last time he'd had such a conversation with anyone.

Dean managed to finish his meal, while the other was very excited to have managed to eat a third of his bread and half of his bowl of soup. When he proclaimed that he was done, green eyes glared disapprovingly at him.

"Come on, you can eat more than that. We went over this; you're skin and bones" Dean gestured at his friend. "Eat up. I'll wait."

Castiel shook his head, though, placing a hand on his stomach. "I can't, Dean. I am, honestly, completely full. That's the largest meal I've had in awhile."

"You ate everything last night. And every other night."

Castiel rolled his eyes. "Last night was an exception. And I usually only have a few bites; I give the rest to Sam." When Dean continued to stare at him, he added, "I will also get sick if I continue to eat. My body is not accustomed to having so much food... At least, not while I'm... You know, not high."

The man's gaze finally lightened, and he nodded as if he understood. He didn't push the issue any further than that, but Cas could see the cogs turning in Dean's brain. He was scheming something, but the messy-haired man wasn't sure what. A breeze kicked up, and he pulled Dean's jacket closer around him, popping up the collar to protect his neck. That seemed to be the cue to go, so Dean threw away their plates and wheeled Cas back to the apartment.

When they reached the bedroom, the injured man allowed his friend to help him get into the bed. They said their goodbyes. Dean informed him when he'd be home. Then, he left. Cas' hands began trembling shortly afterward.