Dean sits at the table for a long while after Sam goes to bed. He finishes his beer, but he doesn't replace it. He just leans forward, empty bottle before him, elbows braced on the tabletop, tracing the whirls in the wood absently with his thumb. The surface rasps and catches slightly against the calloused pad of his finger.

It's quiet. There's the occasional groan as the house settles, the whir of an appliance coming to life before stilling again. He can hear the softening timbre of the crickets through the open window, and, every so often, the screeching call of a bat in the night. Otherwise, nothing, just Dean alone with his thoughts.

Truth is: he's too tired to do much thinking. It's been a long day, and, after his talk with Sam, Dean's circuits are fried. So, he just sort of sits there and stares absently at his hands, knuckles still bruised and scabbed, bandages grimy and in need of changing. His eyelids grow heavy, but he lacks the incentive or energy to get up and go to bed. Somnolence eventually overtakes him, and he falls asleep right there, slumped over in the kitchen.

When he wakes, the grains of the table are digging into his cheekbone and his forehead. He's sore all over. His neck is twisted at an absurd and uncomfortable angle, and it feels like all of the muscles in his shoulders have stiffened and congealed overnight, roughly resembling beef jerky in suppleness. He groans, as the cacophonous symphony of birdsong forces him to greet the day. Apparently, he's getting too old for this.

He slowly sits up, rubbing his face and neck absently. God, he needs a shower—and a shave, he notes as his palm brushes against two-days' accumulated growth of stubble.

He's speculating what the fuck time it is (guessing pretty late to judge from the amount of sun streaming from the open window and forcing Dean to squint at its violent onslaught). He's wondering why no one bothered to wake him when he becomes aware of the fact that he's not alone. He startles at the realization that someone, anyone, managed to get the jump on him. He must have been damn tired for that to happen…although, it is Cas, and Cas is pretty good about stealth—another trait that has evidently carried over in the transition from celestial wavelength to human being.

Cas regards Dean steadily from where he's perched on the counter, head tilted to the side, fully dressed in a short sleeve black button down and jeans that he bought a few days ago. It's nice to see Cas in clothes that fit his frame. It's nice to see Cas, period, Dean amends, guilt and self-consciousness creeping into his awareness. His heart simultaneously leaps and plunges. He feels a little light headed and a lot nauseous. Cas' hands are behind his back, but Dean can see the bandages still covering the length of his forearms. It looks like he's just wearing a long-sleeve thermal under the short-sleeves. The bandages are a lot lighter than they used to be, for which Dean is grateful, but he can't help but think that he wasn't around yesterday to help patch Cas up, or to prevent him from getting hurt more.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas intones, shaking Dean from his reverie—in the midst of which his mouth had been hanging slightly open while he blatantly stared at Cas. The hunter snaps his jaw shut, clears his throat, and shifts awkwardly, rubbing a nervous hand against the back of his reddening neck. He feels like he ought to make a smart remark about Cas watching him sleep like a creeper, but, honestly, Dean's not sure that he cares anymore; he kind of likes the familiarity of the gesture, and, really, he's been watching Cas sleep more often than not lately.

Dean experiences a strange sort of panic at being left alone with Cas for the first time in three days. He knew he'd have to do this eventually, but he had hoped that he'd have a chance to at least brace himself for it, and maybe would have had time to brush his teeth and get changed out of his rumpled shirt and dirty jeans. Well, what a surprise, things aren't going to plan, boo-fucking-hoo, he scolds himself—his mental voice sounds a little bit like Bobby this morning—man up and deal with it. You promised Sam and you promised yourself. He sighs internally.

"Mornin'" he replies, tongue heavy in his mouth, voice croaking with disuse, "What time's it?"

"A little past ten."

Dean raises his brows, "And no one woke me?"

Cas continues to focus his discerning gaze on Dean, who does his best not to continually shift under the scrutiny, "Sam thought that you needed the sleep."

"I bet."

"He was quite insistent."

Well that tallies: last night, Sam was pretty damn insistent that Dean needed to be fully rested before he even considered coming within twenty feet of Castiel. He didn't want exhaustion to spur his brother on towards impulsive or stupid behavior—they both know that Dean is good enough at that while fully energized and sober, no need to add any extraneous factors to the mix. He should feel pissed at Sam for treating him like a sulking teenager having an emotional crisis, but he's too tired, and, truthfully, Sam is right. Dean is resigned to it and he's a little thankful for his little brother's stubborn inclination to patch things up in this patchwork family. He should probably get the kid a beer or a new dictionary as a sign of peace and gratitude. Speaking of Sam…

"Where is Gigantor anyway?"

"He went to 'run some errands,'" Cas' finger punctuation is sharp and clear.

The two of them share a look—Sam left them here alone to settle their scores, as it were—it's the polite way of locking them in a closet till they kiss and make up (not that Dean is in any way shape or form actively thinking about kissing Cas…). This approach is only slightly more subtle, and, if this method doesn't work out, there is no doubt whatsoever in Dean's mind that Sam will resort to increasingly desperate tactics, which may or may not include actually locking them in a room together—probably Bobby's panic room. He knows that he himself is the primary impetus behind these drastic actions, and he's a little shamefaced about it.

Fuck, what a damn mess.

So clean it up, boy, the Bobby in his head barks with an exaggerated eye-roll. He clears his throat

"Guess it's just you and me, huh?" Dean smiles tentatively, while he rubs at the back of his neck again—antsy—before becoming conscious of the motion and quickly aborting it.

Cas narrows his eyes suspiciously and then shrugs as if to say 'so it would seem.' The gesture sits somewhat awkwardly on his shoulders—body language recently acquired and incorporated into his vernacular, rather than a natural extension of his flesh—but the sentiment behind it does not; it is completely genuine, justified, and innate. Cas isn't expressing anxiety outwardly, like Dean is, but he looks uncomfortable somehow, the stiff and unyielding posture, like he's bracing himself against an inevitable blow—sitting ramrod straight and blinking slowly, averting his gaze every so often under Dean's stare—it belies a case of nerves.

They sit just regarding each other for a few moments. The silence is awkward and uneasy with words and feelings unspoken. They glance at one another and away, taking it in turns so that their gazes catch only occasionally. Somewhere, Dean is certain, Sam can feel the tension and starts to pull his hair in frustration and despair at the two idiots with whom he's been cursed. Dean shakes his head at the image. He honestly doesn't know what to say right now.

He could (and, indeed, should) begin with admitting that he royally fucked up and he's damn sorry. This whole thing is his fault. He's an idiot. Any of those would give them an auspicious start, but the words get caught in his throat. He knows the degree of his infraction; and, if truth be told, he should probably be on his knees groveling right now, but he's frozen, keeps opening his mouth and shutting it rapidly.

The great, suave, charming Dean Winchester: ladies' man, card shark, and con artist extraordinaire, is unable to form a coherent sentence. He has been defeated. It's shameful, inexplicable: who would have thought they would ever see this day? To the best of his knowledge, hell hasn't frozen over, but Dean's never been so lost for words. It takes him three minutes of gaping like a fish, before he realizes that the problem isn't that he can no longer fabricate stories; hell, he can still bullshit and lie through his teeth and have the civvies eating out of the palm of his hand. No, the problem is that he doesn't need a story or a lie here; he doesn't want a story or a lie, not now, not for Cas—and it isn't just because Cas would flay him alive or see right through him, and it isn't because Sam would disown him, and Bobby would shake his head in blatant disapproval and disappointment—no, it's that Cas doesn't deserve a story, a lie, or an excuse. He deserves the truth. He deserves an apology. And that means that Dean has to fess up, and his throat is closed against the tidal wave of emotion that's trying to burst free, because he's afraid of what he might say, afraid of what Cas will do when he hears it, and, most of all, afraid that he's not worthy of forgiveness. He never has been before.

Thankfully, after his eleventh aborted attempt to begin a conversation, Castiel steps in and saves him. Thank fucking god for that. It's ironic, given that the fast talker is being bested by the most socially awkward individual in heaven or earth in basic niceties. Gabriel would probably get a kick out of this, but Dean just wants to smash his face against the table and maybe hit the reset button on his life.

"Would you like some coffee?" Cas queries simply, almost no inflection to his voice. It's because of that that Dean isn't a hundred percent sure if Cas genuinely wants to make the offer, or if he's just searching for something to break the uneasy silence. Dean will take it either way, at this point he's not picky, and the gesture of peace is way more than he deserves.

"Yeah, sure," he replies quickly, almost eagerly, and Cas contemplates his response with narrowed eyes. Apparently, his question was a very important one, since he's clearly weighing the sincerity of Dean's response. Dean is reminded absurdly of the Grail Knight in Last Crusade, 'you must choose wisely,' he had warned the hero. Yeah, well, it'd be a lot easier if someone just told me the right fucking answers, buddy, Dean thinks, so that I stop fucking everything up.

It takes him a second of self-loathing to realize that Sam basically had given him the answers: "You've just gotta let yourself be happy." Dean just has to execute them. Easier said than done…He tries not to fidget under Cas' freaky angelic judgment, but evidently (finally), he decides that Dean's desire for coffee is pure or something, because he nods once and gets to his feet. Dean feels absurdly relieved, like he just passed some kind of test, like he had had his soul x-rayed, and Cas had found something worthwhile deep in the darkness of him. Somehow, yet again, Dean miraculously passed muster, though how in the hell he managed that he will never know. In fact, how Cas can have such high standards and such low standards at the same time will forever baffle him. He should probably just be grateful for that rather than trying to convince Cas that he can do better because, if Cas were to see the error of his ways, Dean would be royally screwed.

As Cas propels himself off the counter, Dean gets his first look at his hands. Sam had warned him of course, 'Be cool, Dean, okay? He was really upset about it, and was upset that you would be upset, so, please, don't freak out when you see him.' He would have teased Sam about how many times he used the word 'upset' in that sentence 'dude, it doesn't even sound like a word anymore,' but he hadn't had the heart. The severity of the situation eclipsed any and all quips, puns, and attempts at levity, which, for Dean, who tries to joke and bluff his way out of anything resembling emotional connection, weighty issues, or life and death circumstances, was really saying something. Until this moment, Cas had had his hands behind him, but now, as he moves towards the stove top, Dean can see that the gauze doesn't stop at his wrists, but extends the full length of his arm, all the way to his fingertips. The bandages are crisp where they encase his palms.

Cas moves slowly and efficiently as he finagles with several pots on the stove. His gestures and movements are careful and precise—calculated. Perhaps because of the mishap yesterday—no, Dean corrects himself, Cas always moves like that. Like what he's doing matters. It's just usually more fluid. He's stiff, wrapped in gauze and ointment, sore all over probably. You'd move slowly, too…well, probably not, but Dean has a habit of being brash about his own bodily injuries, where he tries to cosset Sam and Cas as much as possible. That doubtless says a lot about him as a person, but he refuses, point blank, to analyze what exactly it means.

Cas isn't flaunting his injuries (recent or otherwise), but he doesn't make any move to conceal them either, and Dean is struck anew with a fresh wave of guilt—he's spent three whole days straight up hiding from Cas because he was ashamed of his own injuries and didn't want to upset him…but, he's starting to wonder who the hell he'd been trying to protect, and coming to the increasingly disturbing conclusion that the answer to that question might be himself.

After a few moments, Cas sets a mug before Dean, its contents steaming lightly, the aroma rich and evocative. It's the mug Sam chose for his brother—lime green letters proudly proclaiming FREE HUGS in bold print on a hot pink background. It's obnoxious and annoying, and, when Sam had given it to him, Dean had glared at his brother, shoved the kid affectionately to the side, and griped about how butt ugly it was, but he secretly loves it, and everyone knows it. He likes that it's his mug and no one else's, he likes that Sam chose it to get a rise out of him, he likes that Cas automatically selects this cup for him from the cabinet—he likes that, in addition, to prostituting him out for hugs, the mug proclaims, 'hey, this is mine, I belong here with them.' He hopes for the other members of this broken family that he can pull his shit together and be worthy of their continued patience.

Cas doesn't return to his perch. Instead, he sits next to Dean, settling into the adjacent chair carefully, his own mug (much more subdued than Dean's—cream earthenware with a pattern of leaves and grass) clutched safe and secure in both of his gauze clad hands.

"Thanks," Dean says, before taking a tentative sip. It's strong—rocket fuel—and rich. There's a nutty, almost earthy, flavor to it. It's really damn good. He takes another swallow, and sighs, feeling the caffeine hit his bloodstream and start to clear the residual cobwebs from his brain.

Cas watches, contemplative, as he sips his own brew.

"It's really good," Dean admits, an inflection of surprise to his voice.

Cas cocks an eyebrow. Dean takes it as an admonishment ('What did you expect?') and as a sign that he's permitted to continue the conversation if he so chooses. It's your move, Dean…

"Where'd you learn to make it?" God knows that Dean didn't teach him this, and, as far as he knows, Sam didn't sideline as a barista at Stanford, so unless Cas is just naturally gifted…

Cas' mouth tilts upwards at the corners, "It's an old art amongst your kind. I often enjoyed watching humans imbibe this brew as part of communal and ceremonial gatherings—" there's a slight twinge of nostalgia or wistfulness to his faraway voice, and Dean wonders how many times Cas had to sit on the outside looking in—watching families and friends and strangers—not allowed to participate, with no one of his own, unless you counted his fucked up angel brothers, which Dean totally does not. The thought of Cas drifting and alone for centuries upon centuries upon centuries, it makes Dean sad, makes him want to just take Cas in his arms and never let go—ever. You have a home now, he wants to shout, you have a home here with me, and I'll make it better, I'll be better, I swear. I'll never make you feel like you're on the outside again. I won't leave you. I'm sorry. Because he realizes that that's exactly what he did. He'd ditched Cas—because of his own shit, admittedly—but he hadn't explained a damn thing about it and had left Cas wandering around for days feeling rejected and confused and hurt to boot, wondering what the fuck he had done wrong. He'd made Cas, of all people, feel like the fuck up when it was Dean all along. I am an asshole, he decides, and I've gotta make this right. If I can...

"—I am acquiring a taste for it," Cas concludes as he takes another sip. Dean just blinks, feeling as if he might explode.

He's pretty sure that at some point he had a modicum of self-respect, some shred of control, a filter. He wanted to be cool and calm for this, but apparently, somewhere along the way, that just all went right out the window, because as soon as Cas finishes his sentence, Dean just combusts. Sam would face palm if he could see it.

"I'm sorry," he says. He actually almost shouts. Cas blinks at the outburst.

"I shouldn't've bailed. I—I was freaked out and I just…I couldn't handle it anymore—"

Cas looks like Dean has slapped him across the face, and Dean sort of leaps forward in his chair, knocking his knee hard against the table leg in an attempt to make Cas understand, because he can't fuck this up too, "—not you, man, not you, it wasn't you, it was me, like, I just—fuck, I sound like a damn high school girl—I just—fuck—"

Cas' eyes are narrowed to slits, his face a moue of frustration and abject confusion. He's verging on the look of an angel ready to smite the shit out of someone.

Dean takes a deep breath, You can do this, Winchester.

"I freaked out, because I can't seem to fucking do anything right and I—I fucked up, Cas, hell, I always fuck up, and you—" you deserve better than me, "—you and Sam, you should be happy, man, I want you to be happy, but I keep making shit worse, and I—ah, that's not an excuse for me to run away, I just, I thought that, that maybe you were better off without me, and, I needed to clear my head, and I—I'm sorry."

Dean delivers the last bit to his own palms, and a deafening silence ensues when he finishes his really fucking eloquent speech. He glances at Cas from beneath his lashes and, yeah, he's full on frowning, not that Dean blames him, but, at least it's not smite-worthy glaring? He can take solace in that, he supposes. He bows his head, bites his lip, and waits for judgment, but he can't stand the terse lull, he races to fill it, perhaps to delay the inevitable, tongue tripping over his words.

"I shouln't've left like that, it was stupid, and it was fucking me being a pussy, and I just, you shouldn't even bother—I don't wanna fuck this up, and I just can't seem to—" Dean is straight up babbling, his words jumbled and confused but no less heartfelt for that. He's almost choking on them and he can't seem to stem the tide now that the dam's burst. He doesn't know how to stop, he's not even sure what's he saying, but it burns.

That's when a bandaged hand comes into his range of vision. Long slender fingers, still some reddish brown blood dried in the cuticles. Dean doesn't move, doesn't breathe, lest the hand withdraw, but instead it creeps closer. Cas hesitates for a moment, hovering and shaking before he places his warm palm on Dean's and holds, gently at first, a shudder racing up his forearm, and then, after a moment, more firmly. Dean just stares at the sight, feels like a sun has come to rest in his palm, warmth stretching outward from the point of contact, lighting him up from the inside out. This is the first time that Cas has reached out for him, the first time that Cas has sought contact. It's kind of a miracle. It's the closest thing to benediction that Dean will ever receive in his life. He doesn't want to blink, in case Cas disappears, lest he remove this fucking blessed contact.

He looks at Cas, whose expression has softened. It seems almost sorrowful, but not wrathful, not at all. He squeezes Dean's fingers, and Dean squeezes back. They just hold on for a moment like that in silence, connected, tethered, more grounded that either of them has been in weeks, and Dean has a moment to recognize that their hands slot together like puzzle pieces, a perfect fit, and he's too overwhelmed by that realization to even understand where it came from.

"Dean," Cas finally speaks, "I—you do not, as you say, 'fuck everything up.'"

Dean snorts and shakes his head because that is a load of shit.

Cas' mouth purses in consternation, he sighs audibly, "You often fix broken things…like me."

Dean is nonplussed, his eyes widen in surprise and denial; flabbergasted he retorts, "Cas, you're not broken."

Cas' brows nearly hit his hairline with incredulity, "I am extremely broken, Dean."

"You're not anymore broken than me," Dean frowns. This isn't supposed to be a sick competition about who's more fucked up. That's not what this is supposed to be at all.

"And you did not break me," Cas continues, ignoring Dean's interruption, "Not every bad thing that happens is your fault, Dean," Castiel sighs, "You did not make me fall."

Dean isn't totally sure that he believes that. He's not even sure that he believes it a little bit. He's not sure that Cas believes it either, but, finally, he's not sure he wants to argue the point.

"Dean, you frequently put me back together," Cas frowns in concentration, desperately fumbling with useless human words in order to explain something so much bigger, urgently trying to make Dean understand, "if I had not fallen where I had—"

"Hey, we would have found you," Dean's promises fiercely; his voice brooks no argument, because if he had to fucking dig his way through the Arctic, come hell or high water, he would have found Cas, and he would have killed anyone or anything that stood in his way. He holds fast to Cas' hand, hoping that Cas can feel that certainty, the same way that Dean does.

"I know," Cas smiles softly, sadly, and his naked trust does something very peculiar to Dean's heart. He places his other hand on top of Cas' and holds on tight, Cas flinches at the contact.

"Shit," Dean hisses, he is really fucking this up, "Did I hurt you?"

"No, I—" Cas hesitates, but when Dean tries to draw away, he intervenes, "don't."

Dean frowns and stills.

"I—," Cas struggles for a moment; Dean can see him grappling to find words to help him express something for which there is no suitable explanation, "You didn't hurt me. I—" he trails off.

"You what? Talk to me, man," Because this exchange might be important. It might be the way to fix this, and he needs to listen to Cas; Cas listened to him.

"I—human perception is different," he looks incredibly frustrated, seethes slightly with annoyance, "I didn't just lose my wings, Dean."

There's a sinking sensation in Dean's stomach at that pronouncement, "What do you mean?"

Cas takes a deep breath, and Dean swears it looks like he might cry. He knew that something else was wrong, he fucking knew it, but this is the first that Cas seems ready and willing to give voice to it. And like Dean, when he starts to give voice to it, he can't seem to stop.

"I used to be able to see things…I used to be able to see you. I could hear my brothers and sisters always. I—I understood things, complex things, and I knew; I knew the universe in all its splendors and multitudes. Now I," he huffs a sigh, "I have been rendered blind and deaf. There is silence and I can't see.

"You don't hurt me," he continues, "not physically, it's…it hurts, but it isn't—it's uncomfortable? It's—these sensations are unfamiliar to me. Angels do not feel as humans do. Touch is—I feel things and they burn. It's as if my skin has been flayed raw, but not all of it has, and it is worse in the sections that are not wounded."

Dean can hear his heart pounding in his ears. He doesn't know what to say. Cas is suffering sensory overload and sensory deprivation at the same time.

"I have been abandoned by my father and my family and," there are definitely tears in Cas' eyes now, but he doesn't seem to be aware of them; Dean is, acutely, "I believe that the inability to even experience the comfort that you offer," he brushes his thumb against Dean's palm, the comfort of touch, the comfort of connection, "I believe that that is, ah, part of the punishment."

He finally faces Dean with a strange lopsided grin, a trembling lower lip, and a tear slowly tracking its way down his cheek, "So when I say that I am broken, Dean…" he shrugs, and Dean vaguely recognizes the feeling in his chest as his heart breaking, which, huh, he didn't think it could still do that, after everything…

"Hey," Dean says, voice low and firm, "Cas, listen to me, okay? You're not broken," he tries desperately to make Cas see that, to catch his gaze and hold it, because this is important, so important, "and you don't deserve any of the shit that you've been through, okay? None of this is your fault."

Cas shakes his head, "I'm of no use to you like this. I know that I am a burden," yep, definitely his heart breaking, "I—I did not blame you for leaving as you did."

Fuck. "You are not a damn burden, Cas. Never, all right? I—I'm a damn idiot for leaving yesterday, okay? That was on me. It had nothing to do with you."

Cas raises his eyebrows.

"Okay, it did have to do with you, but you didn't do anything, it was more about how I'm not good for you. I felt like a burden to you and Sam."

Cas looks at Dean like he can't believe what he's hearing and he seems concerned that Dean might actually have lost his mind. It's surprisingly close to a bitch face. Sam would be proud.

"I don't know how to do this anymore than you do. I was embarrassed about how much I've been fucking up, but, Cas? I would never leave you," Dean vows, gruff and earnest, "Never, Cas, I swear." Dean doesn't back on a promise, they both know it, "We're family, and family's gotta stick together, even when some of them are idiots, okay?"

"Sam said something similar yesterday."

"Yeah, well, he's a smart kid."

Cas nods sagely, and Dean struggles with the desire to wipe away his tears, but then Cas chuckles wetly and Dean's startled from the notion.

"What?"

"We're a pair," Cas says, nodding at their hands which are still interlocked. Normally this would be the part where Dean would pull away, awkward and self-conscious, but he doesn't.

"Yeah, guess we are." He smiles slightly. Dean's bandages are grimy and badly in need of changing. His left hand, the less damaged one, is bruised, abrasions across his knuckles. Cas' palms are wrecked, but the gauze that shields them is clean and new. They do make a pair. They're both broken in different ways, but the cuts are just as deep.

"I didn't want you to see," Dean admits softly, if they're gonna be honest, might as well just keep goin' with it, "that's why I was avoiding you."

Cas narrows his eyes, "You should not have felt that way."

Dean shrugs, "I didn't want to upset you."

"I am upset that you're injured," Cas replies, slowly, "but I was more upset that you were hiding."

"I know. I shoulda known that; I used to hate it when you would just disappear and shit."

"I have recently developed an understanding of that sentiment," he admits wryly, "Please, don't do it again," Cas' jaw clenches, and there is sincerity in the plea.

Dean swallows past a lump in his throat, "I won't."

He gently taps Cas' knuckles and catches his eye, "Don't you disappear either, okay?"

Cas nods solemnly "I promise."

It feels like a weight has lifted from Dean's chest, "Good."

Turns out they need each other. Huh, who knew?

It settles after that. Dean (finally) releases Cas' hand to go and take a much needed shower, and Cas clears their mugs and puts them in the sink.

Dean turns the water up as hot as he can stand it. It burns against his skin. The bathroom quickly fills with steam. He rests his forehead against the wall, letting the water pound over his back and his bowed head. Closes his eyes, in something like relief and gratitude—if he believed in god, he'd probably say a prayer of thanks, a plea for strength, but he doesn't, so he won't.

He cleans up, quick and efficient. Shaves, brushes his teeth, which is a fucking relief (it had started to feel a bit like his tongue was growing mold or something). He gets dressed: jeans, boots, faded grey t-shirt, cause it's gonna be a hot one. He trundles down the stairs to find Cas sitting on the front porch, in the full glow of the sun, book open on his lap.

The birds are singing, the sun is shining, Dean takes a big gulp of air; it's a brand new day and the weight that's been sitting on his shoulders is, well, it isn't gone, it will probably never really be gone, but it's lighter.

He drops down next to Cas, "Whatcha readin'?"

Cas pronounces the title, in French.

"How's it goin?"

"It's interesting; I appreciate the author's attempt to represent the metaphysical in celestial terms."

Dean smiles, and Cas grins, slowly at first, then more resilient.

Dean sits with Cas, just watching him, thankful that he's here and okay and didn't reject the hell out of Dean when he totally could have. Cas keeps reading in the sunlight, color blooming in his exposed skin. Cas occasionally reads passages aloud to Dean (even though they both know that Dean can't understand French for shit), but Cas has a really nice voice, and Dean leans back and dozes intermittently, while Cas softly intones the words.

"How's it going there, sleeping beauty?" Sam says when he comes back and lightly kicks Dean's leg.

"Shut up, bitch," he retorts, refusing to move. He can practically feel Sam's smile, bright and blinding like the sun.

"How was the 'running of errands'? Cas asks, and Dean smirks because he's ninety-eight percent positive that Cas just sassed his baby brother…just like old times.

"Good, I think I got what we needed," he replies, totally busted, but still smug as all hell,

"Everything okay while I was out?" he asks, only the tiniest twinge of trepidation in his voice.

"All good, Sammy," he opens his eyes enough to see his brother's form towering over him, and Cas give an emphatic nod in response to the question. Dean flashes him a broad smile and winks. Cas blinks owlishly in response, which might be his attempt to return the gesture, and Dean just chuckles and closes his eyes, while Cas blushes and goes back to his book.

Sam basically skips up the steps.

"I hope you put gas in her," Dean calls.

"I'm not an idiot."

And somehow, miraculously, peace is restored to the universe, at least, for now.

Dean decides to complete this image of domestic bliss by washing his Baby ("Dude, there's nothing wrong with her" "Just checking"). Sam disappears inside (and Dean thinks he's gonna sulk or something), but he comes back five minutes later with a stack of books.

He shrugs at Dean's cocked eyebrow, "It's a nice day," he hands a pen to Cas with an admonishment, "In English this time, we're not all omni-lingual, here," before settling on the opposite side of the steps.

Cas accepts it with the very tiniest smile, almost invisible, "Of course."

Dean fills a bucket with suds and water, turns on the radio, "Don't Look Back," blares out of the speakers.

"Boston?" Sam jibes.

"'It's been too long since I've felt this way,'" Dean sings back, loud and off-key, as he turns the music up. Cas tries and fails to hide a wider smile, and Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he too is grinning.

Dean transforms the carwash into a labor of love. New day, new start—he thinks as he washes off the grime of his impromptu road trip—no more—he glances at his brother and his angel, chattering about exorcisms, as he wipes sweat off of his brow—at least, not without them.

Sam occasionally asks Cas longwinded questions, and Cas gives extremely detailed replies. Dean tosses in his two cents every now and again.

Before long, the Impala is gleaming, black and shining in the light. He can see his reflection fully detailed in the hood.

Cas comes to perch closer to Dean, who drags him up and shows him how to properly apply a coat of wax to the trunk.

"Just like Miyagi said, 'wax on; wax off,'" when Cas makes a 'what the fuck are you talking about?' face, Dean rolls his eyes and laughs, "—I'll explain it to you later."

Dean watches Cas with something like pride and affection. He can see his shoulders flex and slide under his shirt and it's mesmerizing. Dean clears his throat and tells Cas that he's doin' great. Sam overlooks the proceedings with a pleased, somewhat secretive, smirk. The clandestine joy is enough to have Dean spray Sam with the hose and laugh hysterically when Sam sputters, leaping to his feet.

The game is on; Cas regards them as if they've gone mental and he runs to protect the books from further harm. By the end of things, Sam has a lot of soap in his hair, Dean's shirt is sopping wet, and Cas is glaring at them both through a thoroughly drenched fringe and eyelashes. Dean and Sam shove and blame each other under his chastising glare.

"You started it!"

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Samantha."

"I understand," Cas finally says, still scowling, like they both deserve to be put into perpetual time outs, "why Bobby Singer calls you both 'idjits.'"

Sam looks affronted; Dean beams like he just got the highest of compliments, and Cas warily shakes his head, composure breaking into a slight grin.

They dry out in the sun and spend the afternoon talking about nothing. Sam's errands, which were, Dean maintains, totally a pretext for leaving him and Cas alone all morning, were apparently to visit the local Farmer's Market. He's singing its praises in vivid detail that leaves Dean mildly disgruntled and confused. Sam is going to turn into one of those organic hipster freaks. He can feel it. The kid already had a predisposition. Apparently, Sam is embracing this identity in full force, as he explains about local growers and vegetables and everything. Cas has his head cocked to the side, absorbing the information readily and obviously intrigued. Dean has to be careful before he loses them both to the dark and swirling vortex of domesticity, although, really, there are worse things that he could lose them to, so he can probably settle with this. He actually finds himself, in the midst of teasing Sam, perking up in response to his brother's epic tale of a local bakery that sets up a stall at the market and gave samples of berry cobbler that were, 'out of this world, dude.' Sam can play him like a fiddle, and the damn bastard knows it, but Dean might be willing to go with it if it gets him pie. Sam suggests that Cas come with him, and Dean too, next week. His eyes get a little shifty with embarrassment and hopefulness, 'We can make a day of it…when you're up for it obviously, no pressure." Castiel seriously considers the offer, "I think that would be enjoyable, Sam."

Samsquatch is on dinner duty tonight, so while he heads into the kitchen, Dean fires up the grill (that's what Sam disappeared to buy during the disastrous trip to Target). Cas sits on the front steps with several plates and a look of utter focus on his face as he spears vegetables onto skewers in complex patterns of color and texture. Sam joins them with chicken breasts slathered in marinade. Dean cooks them with gusto, drinking a beer, while Cas tries raw peppers (they're a hit; his eyes do this really cool exuberant pop, like, 'woah, what even did I just put in my mouth…I like it' Dean laughs).

They eat on the porch. Everything, including the veggies, is awesome. Grilled zucchini is apparently natures' candy or some shit like that. Cas is so fucking into the vegetables that Dean fears he might have a burgeoning vegetarian on his hands. Sam looks at him as if to say, 'sweet victory: colorful, healthy, various, points for healthy eaters. IN YOUR FACE.' Dean gives him an exaggerated eye roll.

Dean cleans up everything afterwards. Turns out Sam did, in fact, pick up a cobbler for all of them, which they eat with ice-cream.

"I want to marry this woman," Dean says mouth full of blueberries, vanilla, and crumbly crust; flavors rushing to his brain. He might have just achieved a state of nirvana.

"I think she's already taken," Sam returns.

"Damn," Dean says. Cas looks weirdly upset, "What d'you think, Cas?"

"It's very flavorful," he replies.

Sam glares at Dean briefly, and turns to Cas, "He was kidding about marrying the pie-lady, Castiel."

"Oh." His face and demeanor lighten considerably, and Dean wonders what the fuck that was about. Sam shakes his head, bitch face #16 you're so oblivious; if it's weren't so annoying, it would actually be sad.

Dean muses that they really need to get like a fire pit or something. Sam proposes that a chimenea would be a better option.

"Really, dude?"

"What?"

Dean waves his hand in a combination of dismissal and disgust, but forgives Sam readily when it turns out that he bought fixings for s'mores.

"C'mon, Cas," Dean says setting up a marshmallow on a stick and offering it to Castiel, "this is one of the perks of humanity."

"Sugar highs and cavities," Sam snarks, but he practically skips with anticipation, as they hover around the grill turned impromptu fire pit.

"You shut your filthy mouth."

Sam and Dean have very different ideas about the proper way to roast a marshmallow. Dean is in full support of methodically roasting his with a precision focus to creating an even golden glow. Sam, perhaps surprisingly, holds his perilously close to the flames, constantly on the verge of catching fire, and occasionally just straight up roasting, such that Sam has to quickly blow out the flaming ball of sugary goo.

Cas is probably the slowest marshmallow roaster alive. He doesn't want it to catch on fire, and so he holds it so far back from the flames, that it barely gets any heat. Dean has already consumed four s'mores, chewing with his mouth open to make Sam fake gag, by the time Cas finishes his first marshmallow.

Cas makes the weirdest face ever when he eats the gooey chocolaty mess. It's like he's torn between ecstasy at the sugar rush and pure disgust at the sticky crap leaking all over his fingers, but he eats three more before he's done.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, later, when Cas has gone inside to shower, and it's just the two of them, watching the embers die down.

"It's just s'mores, Dean."

"That's not what I'm talkin' bout."

"I know," Sam takes a swig of his beer, soft smile playing at the corner of his mouth, "and you're welcome."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean heads inside soon after, "You want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good, just gonna sit for a while…you go take care of Cas."

"Night, Sammy."

Dean washes the residual marshmallow off his hands and takes a steadying breath. He's absurdly nervous, like he was this morning, but different. A few weeks as a civilian and he's already acting like a girl, Jesus, that's a bad sign.

He takes the stairs more slowly than usual to catch his breath or let himself get a handle on this weird jumpy feeling in the pit of his stomach—a feeling that has a strong resemblance to anticipation.

Cas' door is cracked, but Dean knocks anyway before gently pushing it all the way open.

Cas is sitting on his bed, one leg tucked under him, the other dangling off the edge. He's wearing grey pajama bottoms in soft cotton and that's it. His torso is totally bare, still damp from his shower and the warm sultry night, glistening slightly in the twilight.

He looks up at Dean when he enters, blue eyes bright under his dark fringe, which falls damp over his forehead, the rest stands at attention in messy mismatched spikes and whorls. He's clearly been waiting here for Dean, probably not for more than a few moments, but that knowledge feeds fuel to the fire in Dean's abdomen.

He just stares rapt at Cas, whatever attempts he'd made to calm down on his way up here immediately evaporate at the sight of him. His mouth may be hanging slightly open before he realizes that he's just standing in the doorway gawking like an idiot.

Cas tilts his head ever so slightly to the side, face a play in light and shadow.

Dean shakes himself, "Need a hand?"

"Of course," it could be Dean's imagination, exhaustion, or the impending sugar coma, but Cas' voice sounds deeper than usual, and it sparks the heat already coiling in Dean's gut.

Dean licks his lips, bites the lower one, and then smiles much easier than he feels.

He gently sits on the bed behind Cas, who watches his movements, tracking him with his eyes, but remains still as a statue.

Cas' back is a terrain of dips and valleys, skin still raw and mottled in shades of pink and red, the imprint of wings. Dean never fails to be amazed by the fact that, though he's healing rapidly, the distinctly feathered pattern on his back and his arms don't seem to be fading at all, in fact, they just become increasingly clarified. He supposes that's what happens when god wants to make a point, or maybe it's just the nature of celestial touch on human flesh. The handprint on his shoulder has never faded—and he's secretly thankful for that. He wonders if Cas is, or ever will be, thankful for this constant reminder of who he used to be, of what's he's lost…

"I'm gonna touch you, Cas," Dean's voice, too, has become rough, "okay?"

Cas turns his face so that Dean can see the solemn cast of his profile in the semi-darkness, "Okay."

Dean bites his lip again, chews it thoughtfully, exhales—get a grip, dude.

He skates his fingers across Cas' shoulders, just above where the burns begin, and it's like a shock of electricity to his skin, makes Dean shudder, and Cas shiver and hiss.

"Did I hurt you?" he whispers.

"No, no, you didn't," Cas replies, voice shaky, "Keep going."

Dean clenches his jaw and does as he's told. His touch is gentle, careful, his palms warm the ointment, and he spreads it, almost massages it, into every divot, curve, and scar. Tracing the edge of what was once a primary feather with the pad of his thumb and carefully soothing the ghosts of the auxiliaries with his fingertips, feeling the knobs of Cas' spine, the muscles of his shoulders, that had so entranced him earlier. Dean touches the impressions of feathers and the reality of flesh and he finds it difficult to breathe.

Cas holds as still as possible, occasionally trembling.

"I think that we can leave off the bandages for the night," Dean finally says, "If you're cool with sleeping on your stomach."

"I can try," Cas says, as if sleep in general is a strange and elusive concept, which it is.

"All right," Dean encourages, trying to distract himself with professional field doctor talk, "this is good, man, you're getting better," Dean says and he wonders why that leaves him feeling strangely bereft. He wants Cas to get better, of course he does. So why the disappointment? Is it because Cas won't need him anymore? Cause that's dickish, even for him—no, he realizes finally, it's because when Cas is better, they won't have this anymore. It won't be the two of them, sitting in the quiet in the dark like this, Dean's hands on Cas' skin, free to touch and caress and roam free without consequence. Holy shit, Dean breathes, I'm a goddamn pervert. He's my best friend, the guys hurt and you want to grope him while he's—oh, fuck, his eyes fly wide because he might have just had an epiphany. Shit.

"Dean?" Cas prompts, because Dean's hand is still resting gently on the slope of Cas' neck.

"Yeah, sorry, just spaced out for a minute," Dean takes a deep inhale, "let me get your arms."

Cas' triceps are okay, healing nicely, but, for some reason that doesn't necessarily make any logical sense (but, then, what does?), Cas' forearms are probably the most raw of his burns.

Cas turns without being told when Dean's hands still, lingering for a brief moment at Cas' elbows.

Suddenly, Cas is extremely close to Dean, in that inability to distinguish personal boundaries sort of way. His eyes are fixed on Dean's face, and Dean can't help the way that his own eyes flick down to the soft swell of Cas' lower lip, only inches away, wondering if it would feel soft against his own mouth—Get a hold of yourself, dude.

"Here," Dean holds out a hand and Cas gently rests his palm into it, a good fit, another jolt of electricity. Cas has goose-bumps, "You cold?"

"No," Cas whispers.

Dean is careful as he moves his fingers and palms in slow circles over Cas' arm, wrapping fresh strips of gauze over the feathered marks. He moves to the other side, and then Cas, with his eyes fixed on Dean, flips his hands so that the palms face upward, gently nestled in Dean's. They're scratched to all hell, and there are a few deep gashes, but Sam did a good job cleaning them up, and, honestly, it could have been a lot worse.

Dean opens his mouth and closes it, looks at Cas, really looks at him, and rests his thumb against the pulse point in Cas' wrist, "I'm sorry," the depth of his apology, his regret, evident and unmasked in his full voice.

"It wasn't your fault," Cas replies.

"I'm sorry for the part that was," he persists because he is, truly.

Cas' eyes' are wide and filled with some overwhelming emotion, they soften gently, and he half-smiles, "I know."

Dean meets the stare for as long as he dares and then ducks his head and resumes his ministrations. Cas' palms are finished. Bandages chase their way from his knuckles up to his elbows.

Dean sits back, work done, but Cas, apparently has other plans. He reaches out and takes Dean's hand, and the hunter is admittedly surprised, "What're you—?"

"It's your turn," Cas says, "Let me. Please."

It feels like his heart might beat its way out of his chest when Cas pulls his hand closer to his torso, to exam the abrasions, studying each one. Dean can feel the radiant heat of Cas' bare chest caressing his skin, wanting to ignite. He swallows hard.

Cas takes the medicated ointment and gently dabs it onto Dean's scrapes. His fingers, long and graceful, smooth it into the ridges, the cracks and bruises, caressing the old scars and the new hurts, ghosting over callouses, and there is something in the tenderness of that touch that makes tears stand in Dean's eyes and his throat burn.

Cas wraps the gauze around Dean's knuckles, slowly and carefully, and when he's repeated the motion on both of them, he takes his hands between both of his and he looks at Dean, firmly and gently.

"I am sorry," earnest and honest and true. There is sorrow in his eyes, regret, and something warmer, something that Dean doesn't recognize, but makes his voice catch.

"It wasn't your fault."

"I'm sorry for the part that was." He repeats Dean's earlier sentiment, and that's when Dean understands, even more than he did this morning or last night; they're both going to take the blame and feel guilty, maybe Cas feels like he chased Dean away and maybe Dean feels like he hurt Cas, too, but they can't do this without understand how they impact one another. They both feel like shit, blaming themselves for things beyond their control…but hiding and running from that, it only makes the hurt worse. They can't do that anymore. He won't let that happen again, not if he can help it.

Cas waits for the realization to sink in, and then nods once, squeezing Dean's fingers, releasing them, and sitting back. Cool air rushes into the space he leaves behind, and Dean immediately misses the warmth of Cas' skin.

"How're you so fucking smart?"

Cas breathes a laugh, "Millenia of observation," he allows deadpan.

Dean smirks and sits back, close but not close enough. This is getting out of hand really fucking fast.

It's quiet, save for their breathing, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the beginning of cricket song. Sam is probably reading downstairs, he'll likely fall asleep on the sofa with a book for a pillow—instead of, you know, actual pillows that he handpicked for their 'warm accents'.

The quiet and the intimacy, the darkness, the closed door, and sloping roof, the unmistakable tenderness of what had just transpired; it invites complicity and confidence, like it's just the two of them in the world, and that's all that matters. It should scare Dean more than it does right now, should send him running for the hills, hell it already has, but that impulse doesn't come. He's oddly content and completely revved up and it's perhaps that combination that lets him ask what he does.

"Hey, Cas?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you mean this morning?"

"You might have to be more specific."

"When you said that you 'couldn't see' me?"

Cas frowns, not at Dean, but at the question and he takes a deep breath, hesitates only marginally before he answers, "I used to be able to see you differently."

"I got that, thanks, Cpt. Obvious, different how?"

Cas looks like Dean might not like what he's about to say, "Before I fell, I could perceive your soul."

Dean's brows rise and he shakes his head, "My soul?"

Cas nods, "Yes."

"That's kinda personal, Cas."

"It's very personal." Dean barely contains an annoyed eye roll.

"Were you ever gonna mention that?"

"The ability or my present lack of it?"

"Either, both?" Is Cas being difficult on purpose? Does Dean care?

Castiel grins at Dean's persistence, but seems generally unruffled, in fact, if anything, more settled by Dean's bluster; "Angels, as beings, have more in common with souls than with flesh, that's part of the reason that this transition has been so difficult. My true form could interact with your soul; that's how I pulled you from hell. It is 'personal,' as you say, but it is also a 'worldview.'"

He looks suddenly shifty while Dean processes this information. He should have known that Cas could literally see his soul, he looked at him like he could often enough. He wants to ask what the hell it looked like, but he's afraid of the answer he'd get; black and burnt and diseased probably. He feels nauseous at the idea of Cas seeing that twisted thing from hell, the real him, every time he looked upon his face. Dean knows that he can get by on a smile as a human. That he can charm and wink and have people swooning and eating out of the palm of his hand. He knows that's a show. The real him, the parts that his pretty face covers, would have any sane creature running in the other direction, terrified, scarred. He feels like he might be sick at the fact that Cas had seen that; could always see that. Maybe Cas is lucky that he doesn't have to look at that mutilated, misshapen thing all the time anymore. Maybe Dean, vain creature that he is, should be grateful that Cas has gone angel blind. Another part, thinks of Cas' real self the self that was beyond flesh and bone and blood and skin, the self that was bright white light that would burn out your damn eyes, and he wonders at the fact that that Cas had once held him and carried him from hell, that he had interacted with the real Cas, a version of Cas that he'll never see or understand fully, a version of Cas that's gone forever, that Cas mourns, and he wishes he could remember that, but doesn't at the same time.

Cas interrupts this reverie; "I miss seeing your soul," he admits, like he's been caught at something forbidden, hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

"Why?" Dean can't keep the surprise and, almost disgust from his voice, who would want to see the mangled, damaged, hideous thing that he was and is.

Cas, for his part, looks shocked, "You have a beautiful soul, Dean."

Which, yeah, Dean is floored, "You're kidding, right?"

"I would not joke about this," Cas is dead serious, "Your soul is brilliant and bright, and, yes, beautiful."

"Cas," Dean chides, with his hand rubbing the back of his neck and a blush creeping up his cheeks, thankfully hidden in the darkness, "You can't just say that to someone."

"I'm not 'just saying that to someone'," Cas rolls his eyes, and then fixes Dean with a steady stare, "I am saying it to you because it is true."

"Huh," he doesn't know what to say to that.

Cas shakes his head, "You doubt your worth, Dean," he makes it sound like that is the single most frustrating thing he's ever encountered, "far, far too much, but you are truly a beautiful creature."

"All right, you really need to start using a different adjective."

"Like what?"

"Manly, macho, kickass," he suggests.

Cas sighs in exasperation, "Souls do not have genders, but I suppose 'kickass' could suffice, though it greatly underestimates the innate glory that is manifest in your soul."

Dean just shakes his head.

"I had missed seeing it, seeing you," Cas admits, softly now, "flesh is harder to read. More difficult to understand. It's a mask."

"That sucks," having to learn a new set of senses at like a billion years old must blow.

"It does," Cas agrees.

"Missed? You don't anymore."

Cas smiles, "I just learned a different way to see it."

Dean frowns.

"Your soul is you, Dean, it's who you are. I would recognize it anywhere," Cas looks right into Dean's eyes, his hand coming to hover by Dean's cheek. Dean can't look away, he's captured, captivated, "It shines through, I was just too distracted to notice."

Cas gazes at him like he's precious, like he's the only thing in the universe that means anything, like he hung the moon and the stars, and Dean wants. He wants to run and hide from it, he wants Cas to look at him like that forever and never stop for a second, he wants to lean forward those last few inches and capture Cas' mouth with his own. He wants to touch Cas' skin, not to heal it, but to own it, to claim it, to taste and touch and feel and be. He wants Cas and that want overwhelms him, here in Cas' room, on a summer night, in the dark, with this man who was once an angel and who has seen him, has seen down to his soul, and found it beautiful despite the tarnish, and, he's not worthy, Dean knows he's not, but by god does he want to be; he wants to earn that look.

Hell, what am I doing?

Dean sighs, swallows past the lump in his throat, tries to ignore the fire racing across his skin, the heat in his stomach, the hardness in his jeans, the burning in his eyes, the itch and ache in his palms.

"Thanks, Cas," his voice breaks, he clears his throat, "I, ah, I think I should probably head to bed, kinda wiped out."

Cas drops his hand, frowns at the change of subject, but covers it well; he's learning emotional skills from the Winchesters, that is so not good. "All right. Thank you, Dean."

"Yeah, you too," he holds up his hand, "You did a good job."

Cas ducks his head slightly at the compliment, "Good night."

"Night," Dean closes the door behind him, crosses the hall, thanks god that he doesn't run into Sam, and falls onto his own bed. It's cold and empty and he rubs his hands over his eyes, wondering why a few feet seems so far from Cas, and how the hell he could have let this happen.

AN:

Guys, I am so sorry this is so fucking long. Holy crap, things got out of hand. I thought about breaking it up into multiple chapters, but, honestly, I couldn't bear to and I hope that's cool with all of you. Also, I hope Dean's emotionally stunted word vomit wasn't *too* out of character for him.

The next chapter is…different. It's a Cas POV chapter (yay, for those of you that enjoy them!), but it's more of an interlude between the plot to get some Cas perspective. I'm a little nervous about it? But I also really like it?

ANYWAY thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and following this story! I swear, you guys are awesome. I would love to hear what you think of this update. Hugs.