Chapter Twelve

Waking up is painful and coming to grips with what he's done is even moreso. Not only has he hurt a seventeen year old kid with some freaky definitely-illegal pills, but he went and fucked the same teenager the very same day. Blinking and squinting blearily into the light, Dean decides that there is absolutely no reason to deal with any of it right this second and closes his eyes again.

Maybe if he ignores it for long enough, it'll just go away.

Shutting his eyes tighter, Dean buries his face in the Castiel's warm sweet-smelling hair and pretends there's nothing wrong - pretends this is any other person than his underaged partner, that he's been out on a date and it went well and then they ended up at her apartment and now she's going to wake up at any moment and offer him breakfast. Yes, that scenario is much, much better than reality.

And then Castiel's hips twitch back against his and any fake daydream goes right out the window.

"Mmm, Dean?" asks Castiel sleepily, and moves his hips again, seemingly unconsciously. "You awake?"

"I'm awake," says Dean in a low voice, and he thinks about pressing his lips to Castiel's neck, wonders what would happen if he were to suck a bruise onto the pale, pristine skin - and then he forces himself away and unwillingly draws the covers back, moving to sit miserably at the edge of the bed.

"What is it?" comes the same sleepy voice.

"Cas." His voice is low enough that there's a rustle of sheets and then Castiel sits up; even with his back to him, Dean can tell he's being watched. "We can't."

"Can't what?"

"Can't -" a wild gesture that seems to encompass everything that's just happened between them. "Can't. It's not right."

Dead silence. The sort of silence that lurks in graveyards, in the alleyways behind bars, at the end of every conversation that starts with there's something you need to know. Finally, a low voice that cuts right to Dean's core, "What's wrong about it?"

"Too much for me to even know where to begin."

His voice sounds flat and disinterested. "Try."

"Well, for one, you're my partner, and I'm pretty sure the first rule of the FBI is not to get romantically involved with your partner."

"But I'm not part of the FBI."

"Which is my second point - underage."

He's silent for a long time and then, "Did you not like it?"

"God, Cas," says Dean and rips himself away, standing up and putting a hand to his forehead. "No, okay? We're not doing it again. We're just - stop looking at me like that," because Cas is sitting on the bed with a blank expression like he's trying hard not to show any emotion. "Go - take a fucking shower or something. We have things to do today, a case to focus on, if you'll remember."

"What happens if I don't?" says Castiel as he slides out of bed and stares at him, hard. And then he's walking past Dean, still smelling like sex and leaning in to ask in a low voice, "Going to give me a Level A pill this time, Dean?"

Dean flinches and it seems to be what Castiel is looking for, as he doesn't look back or speak again as he disappears into the bathroom and a few seconds later, the water clicks on. He tries hard not to think about him in the shower, naked and dripping with water.

It's awkward all through getting dressed and eating the quick hotel breakfast and still awkward at the start of the drive and finally Dean can't take it any more.

"So, today," he says loudly.

Castiel looks sideways at him and stays silent. Helpful.

"We're going to an addiction clinic. Rehab for those who've been exposed to the stuff. That okay with you?"

"Why wouldn't it?" asks Castiel in a polite tone.

"Well, I don't know." Dean takes a hand off the steering wheel to gesture aimlessly. "People. Stuff."

"What do you mean, exactly?" The polite tone is sinking into something icier and Dean's regretting this immensely.

"Just. You know. Talking to the kid on the street. And the kids in the classroom. Not your strong suite?" It comes out like a question. He doesn't know what's happening, how he's suddenly managed to become the uncomfortable question-asker in their little pack and he desperately wants it to change back. He's the leader here. He makes the decisions. Cas is - the quiet one, who looks hot in tight jeans and has the occasional moments of insight. This is not how it should be.

"If you think I should have stayed behind," begins Castiel at last.

"Cas, stop. All I'm saying is that it might be a bit hard for you to see so many people that have been negatively affected by it. That's all."

"I am quite aware of the effects of Grace," points out Castiel in a clipped tone. "I have studied it in depth and -"

"Studying is different than seeing it in front of you," Dean interrupts. "And you've seen some bad things, but this is - some of these people will be fresh off the streets and in full withdrawal."

"Dean, yesterday I sang a boy to his death. I think I can handle it." Which is harsh, but true. "These people will be useful to us somehow?"

He shrugs. "We don't have much else to be going off of. Charlie's obviously looking into the… deaths from yesterday, but. Until we find something, we need to keep all options open. Look." Some brief hesitation. "I didn't mean to offend you. Just warn you. That's all."

There is an extended silence and he's about to give in and put on some Pink Floyd when Castiel speaks again quietly, like each word is costing him something dear. "If yesterday. If yesterday changed how you see me in some way -" Dean assume he's talking about sex which makes what Castiel's say next rather startling. "Seeing me in pain, if it made you think I'm weak in some way, I'm not. Dean, that was nothing to me. It caught me by surprise, yes, because it… because it was in a setting I was not expecting it to be in, but it should by no means make you think I'm - ill-suited or weak - I can assure you, my pain tolerance is much higher than the normal -"

"Cas, Cas," says Dean, at last able to retrieve his voice and swallowing hard around the knot in his throat. "Castiel. Please. I don't - it's not that. I swear it's not."

Quietly, "You don't need to warn me about these things."

Dean says, "I'm just trying to protect you. I mean, give you a heads up."

"Would you do it for anyone else? For Charlie or your old partner?"

Jo. Dean blinks hard and struggles to keep his focus solely on the road. His fingers flex against the leather of the wheel. No, he would not do it for Jo. She was tougher than anyone he could ever imagine - hell, she'd probably storm headfirst into this type of situation and manage to get more information than he ever could. There would be no need to worry about her being frightened or uncomfortable because she was Jo. He realizes he's been silent for too long, proving Castiel's point.

"If you don't want a romantic relationship with me, that's fine." Dean opens his mouth and Castiel barrels on once more. "But - you owe me enough after yesterday to continue treating me with respect. We were working like partners before this. Can't we continue?"

Respect is all Castiel has ever worked towards - and it is the one thing Dean has struggled with all along. How can he take this teenager seriously after Jo? It is only now that he realizes the unfair comparison he's held in his mind this entire time and he forces himself to release it, banishing all thoughts of his former co-worker. This is a different person he's dealing with now. Different skills, different values. Different partner. "Yes. I can do that."

"Good."

The rest of the drive is silent, except for when Dean finally clicks on the radio and then instantly switches to a cassette tape, turning it up louder than necessary to compensate for the gap between them. He spends the next twenty minute singing along to Queen with Cas sitting quietly beside him and finally catches Castiel humming along to 'Bohemian Rhapsody' because who the fuck can resist Mama just killed a man?

Yeah, he's ignoring the pain issue. He's ignoring all of the issues, actually. All the pain and guilt and how casual Castiel is acting about all of it - ignored. Because he's Dean Winchester and ignoring his issues is what he does best.

Cold air strikes them as they walk into the clean, airy rehabilitation clinic, and Dean leaves Castiel waiting in the lobby as he approaches the front desk and holds up his badge.

"I'm here to talk to some of the patients, if that's all right," he says, leaning against the counter as he flips his badge closed and tucks it back into his suit. To be on the safe side, he gives the woman sitting behind the counter a pretty smile. "Specifically the Grace addicts - uh, I mean -" He probably shouldn't call them addicts. "Grace recovery… patients? For a case, you understand."

The woman, heavyset with deep jowls and uneven eyeliner, stares back unmoved.

Shit. All right, time to dig a little deeper. He leans forward and lets his eyes flicker down to her nametag before looking back in her impassive eyes. "Carla. Carla." A wide glittery grin. "I know you might see this as interfering with - ah, their schedule, perhaps -"

"These patients have been trying to get away from that path their whole life," says Carla in a monotone voice, blinking at him in a way that says she's not taking any of his bullshit. He straightens up and tries not to squirm. "They do not need a reminder of their past at this fragile point in their recovery." It sounds like she's reading from a pamphlet but when her eyes flash, he knows she's taking this seriously.

He needs to think fast. Quickly, he adopts a chagrin expression and glances back at Castiel and then to Carla again, leaning back in. "Look, I didn't want to come right out and say it, but. See that kid back there?"

Her eyes flicker unwilling over his shoulder and Dean turns too, both of them watching silently for a moment as Castiel stares at a vending machine and then slowly moves forward and presses a Coke button, like he thinks something will happen. Then he glances over at Dean and Carla and looks surprised to see them watching, hesitating a moment before waving.

Dean looks back at Carla. "That's my nephew. My sister's boy. I know he looks like a little nerdy dude, but he got involved with some bad kids last spring and my sister's really worried about where he's heading. I know this may be unconventional, but I thought if he saw some people who had been actually affected by it - well." They both look back again.

Now Castiel looks frustrated and is pushing all the buttons on the machine, one by one methodically as though he'll eventually land on one that works.

He glances back and adopts a sympathetic look. "We'll be out in under an hour, cross my heart."

"Honey," says Carla, eyes locked on Castiel and Dean doesn't even bother to look back this time. He hears a loud thump. "Take as long as you like."

"Thank you so much," he says, and then moves away from the desk and calls back. "Cas! Get over here."

"Want a sip?" says Castiel, hurrying up beside him and offering out a cold Coca Cola.

Dean stares at it. "How the hell -" He decides he doesn't want to know. "Nevermind. Come on, I got us an in. By the way," his voice drops an octave, "you're my nephew and potentially addicted to drugs. Sorry."

"All I hear you say is that I'm the reason we got in," points out Castiel, and Dean gives him a sideways look. "You're welcome, Uncle Dean."

Wow, he never wants to hear that ever again. "Yeah, whatever. Make a left here, I think." The heels of their shoes click against the linoleum floor and the rows of fluorescent lights about their heads buzz noisily. Soon they start passing by rooms - most of them closed, but a few with open doors and people looking out, some haggard and some healthy, a few ignoring them entirely until they get to some sort of open lounge with a few people drifting in and out and doing other activities.

"Are they all Grace patients?" asks Castiel in an undertone, eyes flickering around the room in one sweep as he takes in his surroundings. It is the same practiced move he makes no matter where he is, Dean's noticed, no matter if it's a KFC or the hotel room or SD headquarters; its always the same routine check.

"Ah, no. Some of them are just regular old cocaine addicts or alcoholics or methheads. You know, your usual mix."

"So how do we know which ones are the Grace ones?"

Dean looks at him with a little smirk and claps his hand on his shoulder. "That's where you come in."

Castiel stares at him, uncomprehending until finally he looks around the room once more and then back at Dean, squinting. "You want me to…. pick out which ones have been touched by Grace?"

Dean grins. "You are the expert here, right?"

It looks for a second as though Castiel wants to say something crass to him but instead he simply presses his lips together and narrows his eyes further and then settles his gaze on each person in the room, one by one, staring them all down as though his life depends on it. Finally he nods to himself and then says, "Starting with the woman at the table drawing and going right: alcoholism, pain medication - most likely morphine, that one's visiting a relative although probably cheating on a spouse as well, Grace, LSD, Grace, and then the two in the corner are both heroin users."

Dean stares at him in unconcealed amazement. "How?" he finally says.

"How what?"

"How the hell did you just do all that?"

Castiel looks at him for a moment and then one side of his mouth twitches up in a half-smile. "I am the expert, aren't I?"

"You're a smug son of a bitch, that's what," says Dean, knocking into him playfully and Castiel catches his elbow and they stare at each other, both of them inevitably remembering the night before. Dean coughs and pulls away. "So which ones did you say were the Grace addicts?"

"The woman writing a letter and the woman watching TV."

Dean purses his lips, examining both for a second before nodding towards the latter. "TV is easier to interrupt. C'mon." Castiel follows obediently as they walk towards the couch at the far end of the room, where a dark-haired woman is curled up with a bowl of popcorn, staring intently at the screen. "Excuse me," Dean begins.

The last thing he's prepared for is for her to completely flip her shit. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?" she snaps, lifting her bowl off her lap like she's preparing to throw the entire thing at his face. She's got a British accent. "Wait till a fucking commercial. Asshat." And then she's back to intently staring at the screen which looks like an old re-run of America's Next Top Model.

Dean and Cas stare at each other wide-eyed. "Well, shit," Dean finally says, and moves to sit next to her. Cas sits down next to him uncomfortably and they all sit there and watch the show for five straight minutes in silence until finally it cuts to commercial and the woman looks at them like nothing's happened.

"Well?" she asks.

Dean looks at Castiel who raises his eyebrows silently in return. "Right," says Dean, and looks back at the woman. "I'm Dean Winchester and this is my… nephew, Castiel Novak," he ignores Castiel's disgruntled shuffle beside him, "I'm just trying to show him around here - you know, show what happens when." He coughs awkwardly. "When people get involved in the wrong things…"

She stares at them both impassively. Then abruptly her attention switches to Castiel, staring at him intently. "So what's your kick, kid?"

Castiel glances towards Dean and then back at her and says, "Grace."

She arches an eyebrow, looks terribly amused. "Grace."

"I'm sorry, what was your name?" Dean injects.

She sits back against the couch, studying them. "Bela."

"And what was your – I mean, why are you –" starts Dean.

"Grace as well." She shoots Castiel a wide grin. "So you think it's fun, kid?"

He tilts his head slightly. "That's why I do it. Why do you do it?"

"Did it," she corrects and looks like she quite wants something to fiddle with, like a drink or cigarette. "I've been clean for nine months now."

Dean says, "Congratulations," and Castiel says, "That's very admirable," and Bela looks at both of them like they just said the funniest joke ever.

"You're not really here for your nephew," she says to Dean, and it's not a question. Then she looks at Castiel. "And he's not really your nephew. Is he? He looks like he's never even had grape flavored cold medicine, much less fucking Grace. So please. Cut the bullshit. What do you want?" Except that's when the commercials end and she holds up a hand, looking impatient with both of them as she returns her attention to the show.

Dean and Castiel look at each other.

"Um," says Castiel in an undertone. Dean shakes his head. Something non-verbal passes between them in which Castiel wants to know if they should leave but Dean tells him to just stay put and see where it goes and when exactly did they reach the point where they were able to do that? The show goes on and it's some weird-ass photoshoot where they all have to dress up like freaks at a circus and then commercials are back and Bela looks at them.

"Well?" she says again.

"We know this may sound strange," says Dean, "but your dealers. The guys you got it from – I know it was months ago, but do you remember anything strange about them? Any tattoos or anything?"

She gives them a hard to read look. "What are you guys, detectives?"

"We're looking for someone," says Castiel. "He had a tattoo that looked sort of like this on his wrist," and he pulls out a piece of paper from his jacket and unfolds it, handing it to her. Dean can see carefully drawn Enochian evenly spaced on the paper and wonders when Castiel had time to do that without him seeing.

She looks at it for half a second and then rolls her eyes. "No, I get it. You're some of geeky fanatics. What is this, some sort of Lord of the Rings spell?"

"It's Enochian," says Castiel, looking confused. "It's an ancient language of –"

Dean nudges him slightly. Most people don't realize that Grace comes from angels or that angels even actually exist; it's just another drug to the common people, able to make them forget about their shitty lives for half a second. He seriously doubts this Bela woman is on the secret.

"It's – it's not Lord of the Rings," says Castiel lamely to cover up his blankness. "We're just looking for someone with –"

"Well, my dealer didn't have that shit on his wrists," says Bela, and looks back on the TV. "Try Lisa Braeden, I heard she fucked hers for her hit, so she probably knows every tattoo he's got."

What a complete waste of time. Dean and Cas sit there for a minute or so more, just in case she changes her mind and decides to tell them something or other, and then get up and wander around the room a bit, trying to make it look casual when they choose to sit down next to the dark-haired woman writing her letter.

Dean picks the chair nearest her and waits a moment for her hand to stop moving before clearing his throat. "Miss Braeden –"

She looks up with a polite expression, a calm smile on her face as though being disturbed is absolutely no problem for her, and then her eyes slide from Dean to Castiel. The first thing Dean notices is a look of intense hunger, as though she is a dying woman spotting the cure or a woman in the desert spotting water – and then she throws herself back, away from him, her hands clamping down over her mouth as her eyes turn wild. "No," she moans behind her hands, the word coming out muffled. "No, get him away from me!"

They're both on their feet, Dean holding an arm out protectively in front of Castiel, as she shakes her head and falls from her chair to the floor.

"Leave!" she shrieks. "Go!"

Two workers dressed in dark blue medical clothes burst through the door and look around before heading straight towards Dean and Castiel with determined expressions.

"We're going!" says Dean, holding his hands up further to prove his innocence. "I don't know what happened, she just –"

"Please," breathes Lisa and now she's crawling towards a horrified Castiel, one arm reaching up as though to touch him. "Please just one – just a little – please –"

"What does she want?" Castiel asks, cowering behind Dean. With anyone else, he would be out and fighting, but Dean knows there's no way he's going to attack a woman, especially when she's looking at him with such need in her eyes.

"Castiel," says Dean sharply. "Go – get out of here. Wait for me outside." And then, when Castiel continues to stare at her, "Go."

Castiel goes.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, Lisa sags to the floor, gasping for air and pressing her face into the cold tiles. The two workers move for her, but Dean steps in between them, reaching into his jacket for his badge and showing it to them. "I'll handle this," he says in a low voice.

They share a look and then one of them shrugs and the first one says, "Call us if you need anything," and they leave.

"Is there anywhere private we can go, Miss Braeden?" asks Dean as he grips her elbow and helps her to her feet. She's unsteady, trembling against him.

"My – room." Everyone's staring at this point, but Dean ignores them and so does Lisa as she directs him to her room and he helps support her the entire way. Finally they're there and she sits down heavily on the pristine, white bed, looking exhausted and still achingly hungry, as though she's missing something vital. He hovers, unsure of what to do, until her eyes finally flicker to him and she looks vaguely surprised, as though she didn't expect him to still be there. "What's your name?"

"Dean Winchester."

Impossibly weary, "Sit down, Dean Winchester."

He sits down in a chair that's hard, cold, and incredibly uncomfortable.

"Should I apologize for you having to see that?"

"Of course not," he says automatically.

She smiles tiredly. "Except that's the sort of person I am. I'm sorry that you had to see that."

He looks at her – really looks – for the first time and sees that beyond the look of weariness and struggle, she's actually quite attractive. Hot. Except Castiel would call him crass for thinking that - so, beautiful. He wonders why he couldn't want her – why he couldn't desire this woman instead of the seventeen-year-old waiting for him outside the building. Other than the drug addiction, he's sure she's a good enough person. Probably too good for him, actually. It appears that everyone is. "Who were you writing to?"

"My son," she says.

"You have a son?" Now there's a surprise. "How old is he?"

"Eight. His name's Ben." There's a dedication in her eyes now, and he knows she would do anything for this Ben of hers. He wonders where Ben is staying if she's in here, struggling to get over an addiction.

"What happened back there…"

"I don't know," she says immediately, shaking her head. Her wide dark eyes look frightened. "I don't know what happened. Look, I've only been here three weeks – the tremors have finally died down a little – please tell him I'm so sorry about that, I really am." Horrified, he realizes her eyes are watering up.

"Hey – it's fine. Everything's going to be okay," he assures her, and then sits forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees. "I'm just trying to figure out what might have caused it. You see, my partner and I – I know, looks young for his age – are actually working on a case concerning Grace. I was wondering if you remember anything unusual about your dealer maybe that could help us." He hesitates, remembering what Bela'd said. "Any tattoos or anything, perhaps? Maybe like – " and then he remembers he left the sheet of paper with Bela. "Well, anything foreign, really. On his wrist?"

She reaches up, wiping her eyes and then starts to shake her head before something occurs to her and she looks at him with a dawning expression. "Well – I mean, not on his wrist, but –"

"Yes?" Dean prompts, straightening up and sitting forward.

"Well, on his back he had a tattoo. I don't know if it means anything to you, but I always found it sort of odd. I always asked him if it was Chinese or Japanese and he would always change the subject."

"Could you draw it?" asks Dean eagerly, and at her brief hesitant nod, moves around the room looking for a piece of paper and pen. He notices, as he does, that there's very little decoration in the room – which makes sense, as she's only been here for three weeks – and then comes to a stop at the one picture in the room. "This is Ben?"

"That's Ben."

"He's a cute kid."

"The cutest. You should see him playing guitar."

"He plays guitar?" Dean glances back and the tears are gone now, a soft smile playing at her lips.

"Just barely. I'd just gotten him started in lessons when –" She swallows hard. "I don't want you to think I'm a bad mother. I love my son."

"I don't think you're a bad mother," he says and closes his hand around pen and paper resting on top of the dresser next to the picture. He brings it over to her and crouches down, handing it to her and looking up at her as she stares down at it. "I know how hard it is, to do the right thing. You're doing the right thing now, by being here. And eventually he'll realize that, even if he doesn't see it now."

Why couldn't he love her instead? Why couldn't he live in a house with her and her son and have a nice, normal, happy romance for one goddamn time in his life? It would be so easy, to wake up to her face and not have to worry about touching her in public or what the neighbors might think. About not having to claim to be related to her every time they went somewhere so people wouldn't be suspicious. About not feeling guilt twist his insides every time he felt the urge to kiss her. It would be so easy to have her instead of reality.

Because the reality is that he doesn't care what's easy or not. The reality is that he's given up on easy a long time ago and he doesn't care what anyone thinks is right or wrong, just that he knows what he wants and he knows what Cas wants. At least, he thinks he knows. God, he's sick.

"Here," says Lisa, and holds out the sheet of paper.

He accepts it and stands up, staring down at it for a moment before nodding. He can't read it, but it looks close enough to Enochian that he think it might actually be worth something to Cas. "Thank you. I really appreciate it."

"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for," she says softly, and looks down.

"Thank you." He hovers for a second more and then nods and says, "I'll be on my way, then, since he's – my partner's waiting outside," and turns to go. It is only when he's walking down the hallway and he looks a the piece of paper again that he sees something he didn't notice before – there, at the bottom, in neat handwriting, is a ten digit phone number.

He could keep it. And call her later, and wait till she's out of the hospital and get to know her and what she likes and dislikes and he could create something special with her.

And then he walks out into the parking lot and sees Castiel waiting by the Impala, looking nervous and upset, and he immediately walks towards Dean and says, "Is she all right?" like he genuinely cares about this stranger he's never met before.

And he knows he's never going to use that phone number.

"She's fine," he says in a low voice. "It wasn't your fault; I have no fucking idea why that happened. Come on, get in."

After both doors have shut, he holds out the sheet of paper for Cas to take and starts up the Impala. "Mean anything?"

"I believe it means 'beautiful' in Chinese," says Castiel in a solemn voice.

Dean damn well near crashes into a Buick at that. "Shit, really?"

"No," says Castiel. "That was a joke."

Dean forces the Impala to stop and then looks at Castiel, staring at him. "That was a joke," he repeats. "You just made a fucking joke."

"I thought if I joked more, you might want me," says Castiel, and if Dean had been driving, he knows he would have wrecked. As it is, he just sits there looking straight ahead for a moment and then shifts into drive and turns out of the parking lot.

"I can't, Cas," he says in a rough voice. He might know that he wants Castiel above all else – definitely wants him more than poor Lisa Braeden – but he also knows that it's wrong. At least until Cas is older and not still under control of a fucking psychopath laboratory and not working with him. He feels Castiel reach out and touch his hand which is resting on the gear shift – and he jerks his hand up and away, ignoring the way Castiel shrinks back into himself.

It has to be this way, he wants to say. But he doesn't, because he hates it when people say things like that to him.

Instead he just says, "What does it really say?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "It says 'God's glory.'"

"And what the fuck does that mean?"

"A reference to Grace, maybe?"

Dean's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "They're just fucking around with us. They don't mean anything."

"Does that mean this trip was pointless?"

Dean sighs and then reaches a hand up to rub his temple, where a headache is beginning to form. "I don't know. Yeah. I guess. None of this is making any sense. We're just going in goddamn circles."

There's silence and Dean is contemplating putting on a cassette when Castiel speaks up quietly. "Don't you think it's odd that something for one person – the Grace in an angel – gives them the ability to heal and stronger senses and better fighting abilities, and then in another, it… burns them up inside? Turns them into incoherent wrecks and ruins their lives. Don't you think that's odd?"

"And the fact that people willingly choose to do it," says Dean, and he's thinking about one person in particular and he's struggling not to, with all his might. His hands feel like they're about to break the steering wheel off in his hands. "That anyone could see that as a better option – to be high for an hour – than just fucking being happy because of normal, simple things, like eating a cheeseburger or going on a date. It's insane. The human race is fucked up."

"Is that why you're working on this case? So that this will stop affecting people's lives?"

"I got put on this case as punishment," says Dean shortly. "And even if Grace is no longer available, people will just find some other way to screw up their lives."

"Oh."

He glances sideways. "I never asked. Did you get to choose where you were placed or was this just by random?"

"I had the option between entering Afghanistan on a solo mission to retrieve a very important item for the United States government or working on a case involving angels' Grace." Brief pause. "I'm very, very glad I chose this one."

Dean imagines Castiel alone in the desert, fighting blank faces, struggling, starving, alone and unsure of what to do. He's gone from thinking he was incompetent to knowing he's not, but with that knowledge comes a fierce protectiveness as well. It doesn't seem to matter to his brain that he knows Castiel can tackle a grown man and put him out of commission in less than five minutes; he still feels this unavoidable urge to shield him and teach him that the world has its kind sides too. So far he has done very little to show kindness.

"I'm glad you did too," he tells him. Silence hangs over them for a moment and he knows he should speak up now. This is when he needs to really actually say the things weighing down on his mind. "Cas."

"What?"

He takes a hard breath. Grow up, you little shit, and say it, he orders himself. "I - I - I know I apologized, but I did it in the wrong place and manner. And I'm sorry for that. But more importantly, I'm really fucking sorry I gave you that pill. I was - messed up. From seeing those bodies. I took it out on you when I shouldn't have."

Dead silence. Then, "How did you apologize wrong before?"

"I was - I put you in a bad state. I took advantage of your mental state." Shit, he really doesn't want to be having this conversation right now. This day feels like it will never end. A subtle glance sideways reveals Castiel staring out the window.

"You didn't take advantage. I asked you to do it."

"Only after I put you through a shit-ton of pain first. You would have never asked for it otherwise and that's why we can't -"

"I would have though," says Castiel. He's turned back to look at Dean, expression ablaze. "I've been thinking about it for weeks now." His voice drops an octave. "Every night…"

Dean bites back a groan and stares hard at the road, forcing himself not to glance over at the teenager sitting next to him. God, he wants him. He wants him so bad it hurts. But this conversation has to be done right. All the times Dean has screwed up before and never properly said anything about it - never properly apologized - he has learned his lesson. He has learned his lesson the goddamn hard way, and because this he has learned it well. "How can you not care? How can you not care that I gave you a pill I knew would hurt you?"

"You knew that's what it did?"

"Well - not exactly -" Castiel makes a little noise like he's proven a point and Dean slams a hand against the steering wheel in abrupt frustration. "Don't you see how that makes it worse? I could have killed you! Or paralyzed you for good! Who knows what the fuck it could have done? And you don't care?"

Calmly, Castiel says, "I've had worse done to me, Dean. I survived. You didn't know what it did, and you were in an emotionally traumatized state. I said I forgave you. I did."

Which is precisely when Dean realizes how truly far gone this kid really is. He's spent his whole life poked and prodded - and when something like this happens, he doesn't even seem to see how terrible it is really is. Something hot and sick twists Dean's stomach. What else can he do? Castiel doesn't see how bad the situation is, and Dean doesn't know how to show him - and part of Dean is glad that he's won forgiveness so easily.

Shit.

Conversation over. He gives up. The rest of the ride is silent except for AC/DC playing loudly in the cassette player.