Author's Note; I never quite know what to include in warnings, so I figured I'd err on the side of caution. There is a little excessive drinking here. Nothing crazy, but in the interest of being a responsible adult I thought I should mention it just in case :)

As always, thank you all so much for your reviews and subscriptions! It means a lot to me and gives me the drive to continue. Chapter Eleven is not far away...

~ Imogen

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

They hadn't been in the room fifteen minutes before Dean left.

"I need a drink or eight," he said, picking up his keys from the table by the door, "think I saw a liqour store a couple of blocks back. Want to come with?

Castiel just shook his head and turned back to the screen. Without another word, the door clicked shut and Castiel picked up the remote control. He switched off the television and sat quietly, his hands resting loosely at his sides. As he stared at the blank screen, he replayed the past hour in his head. Over and over.

The road was black and reflective, the brake lights of passing cars red and bright against the bitumen. The rain-soaked roads meant slow traffic, and by the time they arrived at the motel almost three quarters of an hour had passed.

Castiel had stared out the window the entire time. Forty-five minutes of silence. He had ignored the offer of picking music, and five minutes into the drive, Dean had taken out the cassette and flipped it around to listen to the first side.

During the drive Castiel had given a lot of thought to understanding what he felt, and had come to the conclusion that what he felt, more than anything, was small. Unimportant. Useless. And although he had felt this way since he first woke up without his grace in the New Orleans hospital, he had been okay because he had known that Dean still wanted him around. But at the diner that one hurtful little voice in the back of his mind had planted the seed of doubt, and now he couldn't stop thinking that any moment now, Dean would abandon him. As soon as he realised that Castiel would never get his grace back unless God suddenly decided to help him, he would leave.

Castiel spent thirty-five minutes of the forty-five minute journey having an argument with himself about the likelihood of abandonment, and the scared, fragile part of himself had lost the battle. The other ten minutes had been used up with other thoughts, hopeful thoughts. Whenever they weren't drowned out by the fear, images would crop up in his mind of Gabriel appearing, carrying something small and shining that felt like home, of once again seeing that eternal Tuesday in heaven, sitting in the full sun and watching a red kite twist and duck and weave in the cool air. Images of Dean opening his arms and telling Castiel he would be okay.

In the parking lot of the motor inn, Castiel had become aware of Dean staring at him but couldn't bring himself to make eye contact. The hunter opened his mouth as if to speak, thought the better of it, and got out of the car. Castiel watched him walking toward a yellow neon sign that read 'Reception', and sighed, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

He was thinking the hopeful thoughts again when a sharp rapping on the roof alerted him to the hunter's presence.

"You coming?"

Castiel looked through the rain-spattered glass, nodding at his friend. He could see lines of worry on Dean's face, and hoped with everything he had that it was out of concern for his personal wellbeing and not just that he was out of angelic ammo.

By the time he had reached the door, Dean had already unlocked it and was reaching around the wall to find the light switch. Castiel stood behind him, waiting for the light to come on, and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to touch the hunter. This wasn't like the desire he had felt earlier that night. That had been different; almost a physical ache in the pit of his stomach. This, though, was something deeper. He had been on the verge of tears for most of the drive, and what he needed was... he wasn't sure. Comfort. Security. He was so lost. He needed to be grounded, to feel safe. What he really wanted, he thought, was for Dean to hold him close and let him press his face into the hollow of the hunters neck, He needed the warmth. He needed to feel protected. When the light finally flickered on, Castiel settled for resting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

At the unexpected contact, Dean turned back. When he saw Castiel's face, wrought with sadness, eyes distant and red-rimmed, his already worried expression intensified.

"Cas? Hey, are you alright?"

Dean reached out, putting a firm hand on Castiels shoulder, almost in echo of the angels hand that still rested on his. Castiel felt a wave of calm run through him. Even this small touch gave him strength. It helped to quiet the voice. He glanced down and let out a breath. For now, this was enough. He raised his eyes a little and smiled weakly.

"I will be."

Dean had tried to smile back, but it was barely more than a grimace. He gave Castiel's shoulder a brief squeeze and walked into the room, dumping his duffel bag down on one of the beds before sinking down onto the sofa. He switched on the TV.

After a moment, Castiel pulled the door shut and sat down on the faded sofa beside him, his knee just barely grazing Deans. It was strange. The desire, the physical longing that had first struck him outside the convalscent home when he saw Dean changing, was still present. He wanted to touch, to feel, to taste. It was unsettling. But on top of that, was another desire, one less physical and more like that which he had always associated with the pull of his grace when he was being called. A feeling of completeness almost realised. He was thinking of this, inching his hand across the green cushion of the sofa so as to accidentally bump his fingers against Deans, when the hunter had stood and walked toward the door, proclaiming his need for alcohol.

By the time Dean arrived back from the store with a bag of potato chips, a bottle of Jack, and a plan to drown their sorrows, Castiel was so overwhelmed by the swirling mass of feeling that he downed the first glass in one go. He held it out for another before his friend had even finished pouring his own.

Dean raised his eyebrows, but he didn't say a word.

Castiel felt a warmth blossoming in his stomach, growing with every drink. The world felt louder. Some time after his fourth drink, as they sat at the little table by the window that overlooked the motel parking lot, Castiel decided to tell Dean about waking up in the hospital. He leaned forward, one elbow pressed into the surface of the table, trying to hold Dean's attention. Dean, meanwhile, was surpressing laughter. The angel was a lightweight.

"Dean. Dean, this is important," Castiel blinked slowly again, each eyelid slightly out of synch with the other, "Dean. Listen."

Dean held up his hands in surrender, though he was still chuckling under his breath.

"Alright, alright, what's your story?"

"Okay," Castiel nodded to himself, then frowned, "what was I up to?"

"The doctor was asking you your name."

"Oh. Okay. So the doctor, she uh..."

"Asked you your name."

"Yes. She asked me my name, and I didn't-I mean, I thought that I shouldn't use my name, because other Angels might have been looking for me. So I didn't tell her my name was Castiel. But then I thought, I thought if I said Jimmy Novak, and they got his medical files, they would contact Jimmy's wife. So I couldn't say... Uh. I couldn't say that... either."

Dean was listening with the dwindling focus of a sober person being subjected to a drunks rambling. He was going to have to catch up if this story was going to last much longer. In almost an hour, the angel had covered maybe five minutes worth of what had happened at the hosptial. Dean poured himself another drink as Castiel thought hard, trying to remember the rest of his story.

"Okay. Right. So I couldn't say that. But then I thought of you and all your false, I mean, all your fake identities and how they are musicians. So I tried to think of a music-HIC-"

He hiccoughed and Dean snorted at the startled expression on his face.

"-a musician."

Castiel held a hand to his throat, feeling the twitch of his hiccoughs. After a moment, he seemed to remember he was telling a story and lowered his hand, looking back at Dean.

"So I told her my name was-HIC-Wolfgang Ama-HIC-Amadeus Mozart."

Dean couldn't stop laughing. Even when the whiskey slid down his windpipe and he was choking, with tears in his eyes as it stung in his throat, he couldn't stop laughing. He had always thought he was going to die a hunters death, but now he decided that he was wrong.

This is it, he thought. This is what's going to end me; not some demon or poltergeist or Lucifer, but choking to death on my drink because Castiel is clueless.

Castiel knew he was being laughed at, and not with, but he couldn't find it in himself to mind. It was funny. And it was worth it if it meant that Dean was laughing. He tried to feign offence, a pout of indignation on his face, but that only served to make Dean laugh harder. Castiel felt the corners of his own mouth twitch up into a grin.

If this is what it is to be human, he thought through the whiskey fog that had settled in his mind, then I could probably get used to it.