(A/N: Attention diabetics- high sugar content for this chapter; a lot of saccharine and fluff. You've been warned. :P Thank you guys so much for the reviews! I love hearing your thoughts on my words, it's such a great encouragement! Also thanks to Ninjakittee for yet another chapter of amazing beta work! You really had me working this round lol)

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Castiel woke to the roar of the Impala's engine and the crunch of gravel outside the dilapidated farmhouse.

His sleep had been comfortable but restless after the previous evening's events, and it surprised him that he hadn't woken to Sam creeping across the creaky wooden floor on his way out. The attack had left him exhausted, but fear of slipping back into the nightmare he had experienced had interrupted any rest he might have had afterward.

Feeling the solid warmth beneath him, the steady beating heart against his cheek, he settled in once more. He had never fathomed being this close to Dean before his fall; breathing in the hunter's scent, relaxed and boneless beneath the slightly tattered and stained sleeping bag on the threadbare old sofa, feeling genuinely content for the first time since he had woken in the Winchester's motel room in Washington. It almost amused him that after so many emotions had bombarded him in his first two weeks of being human - or as close to it as he could be - that these emotions could still give him pause.

He knew, since his conversation with Sam on the subject, that his affections for Dean Winchester were more than platonic, though it still puzzled him. He still could not fully grasp the full terms of what he felt for the hunter, except for the need to be near him; this ritual he had formed with Dean to quell his insecurities and the terrors that haunted his dreams, the appreciation he felt looking upon the man who had shown him free will, and the desire to experience the hunter's lips against his own once more. As an angel, he had never been a carnal being; such tangible emotions had been beyond him in his celestial Grace.

He shifted carefully, not wanting to wake his bedfellow as he turned to look up into Dean's lax, slumbering face, taking in every detail as though it were brand new. He had always felt drawn to the elder Winchester, held an irrational affection for the man. It was a bond forged by his own Grace when he had raised the Righteous Man from Perdition, reinforced through worldly experience.

Their... disagreement had been frustrating, and had left Castiel questioning where their relationship stood- platonic or otherwise. Sam had explained to him that Dean was being an 'asshole' about the whole situation, and Castiel himself could recall incidents far more damaging than simply fighting a few demons. He had been furious with Dean for implying that he was weak, unable to manage himself in battle because he was now mortal.

Then the hunter had called out to him in the midst of the now-distant nightmare of pain and white, had called him back to himself and ended the pain, caressed and consoled him, grounded him. Dean had stayed with him and held him until he had fallen into a fitful sleep, nullifying Castiel's anger at him for his actions in Whitefish and the ensuing childish argument that stretched across the following days.

No longer wishing to sleep, he watched his hunter until he woke, silently wondering what it was that Dean was dreaming as his soft snores were occasionally broken by a quirk at the corners of his mouth, or a quiet sound of contentment. He had visited Dean in his dreams previously, when he had been able. One of his favourites had been an isolated dock on a crystalline lake, surrounded by his Father's creation. It had been peaceful, and Castiel had found it astounding that Dean could harbor such beautiful images after all the horrors the man had seen in his lifetime, after forty years in hell.

It was a reflection of Dean's soul; beautiful and tranquil amongst the turmoil.

He wished that his own experiences with dreams had been half as peaceful. Even restful nights since he had fallen and met the constant requirement for periods of rest, his dreams had been nothing short of disturbing at their best. Most often, he dreamed of falling; feeling his wings splinter and burn away with his Grace as he plummeted, his heart fluttering in his chest like a frightened, caged bird. He dreamed of Samandriel, or of confronting Michael and Lucifer, being torn apart by Lucifer's will, or Raphael. He dreamed of his horrific acts as a self-proclaimed god, his vessel being overtaken by the Leviathans, being torn apart in the reservoir, of Purgatory.

The worst, aside from the vague nightmare of pain and white, had been the first time he had slept alone, without being close to Dean. The night they had stopped to rest at a wayside motel on their way from Billings to Centerville, he had dreamed of Jimmy Novak's death, the moment his vessel's soul departed as Raphael had laid him to waste at the home of the prophet, Chuck Shurley.

He wondered if his Father would ever permit him to dream anything so pleasant as the dock on the lake, or of his favourite Heaven, which Inias had been so kind to show him when last he had seen his brother.

Everything that he had experienced since awaking in the motel room in Washington with the Winchesters beside him had been confusion and frustration and guilt. He was thankful to Dean and Sam for being so patient with him, but at times he felt as though he was merely a burden upon his friends, bringing to them the ire of Heaven and endangering their lives.

Part of him had not expected to survive the fall, had even hoped for it. Had it not been for Inias, he likely would not have survived. The Winchesters would likely not have even known, would have moved on and only wondered what had become of him until he was forgotten- a memory alongside everything and everyone else they had lost.

"Dude, that's still creepy."

Castiel was shaken from his thoughts by Dean's voice, focusing on the hunter's bemused green eyes, an odd smirk on his lips.

"Sorry," Castiel murmured, preparing to pull himself up and return Dean's personal space to him, but was caught off guard when Dean pulled him back down.

Confused, he furrowed his brow, regarding the elder Winchester warily.

"What," Dean cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Dean," Castiel began. He wanted to ask the hunter about the night in Whitefish, when they sat on the steps of the cabin, when Dean had kissed him. Instinctively, he knew that this would push Dean away. The elder Winchester's loathing to express his emotions would certainly create a rift if pressed. So instead, he merely rested his head against Dean's chest once more and said, simply, "Thank you."

"You good, Cas?" Castiel didn't mistake the concern in the hunter's voice. The previous night had been disturbing, not only for the sake of the nightmare itself.

"Yes," he replied. "I was not disturbed further after you woke me."

There was a long, pensive silence from the other man, and Castiel almost flinched when he felt Dean's fingers carding lightly through his hair. It was relaxing, he decided, a small creature comfort that the fallen angel felt he could become accustomed to.

"I mean," Dean paused, gathering his thoughts. "You haven't really told us what happened to you. I get that you fell and all, but something's up, and the more we know the better Sammy and I can help, you know?"

Castiel sighed, reminded that he had come to them as a burden; a damaged thing that now weighed on his only true friends, endangering them. Had he perished in the fall, the Winchesters would not be hunted as he was, the prey of both Heaven and Hell, and he was all but powerless. All he had left was the skill of millennia of battle.

"Cas?" Dean prodded, the gentle caress through his hair ceasing as the hunter tilted his chin up to look him in the eyes. The genuine concern that met his gaze weighed on his soul, how humans had such compassion for all of their flaws.

"I don't remember much," he admitted. "I remember falling. I remember that it was my choice. But... I do not remember from whence I fell, only that I needed to."

He closed his eyes as Dean resumed petting him. It was still strange, this tenderness from the brash and abrasive hunter he had come to know and love. He felt himself smile as he thought to himself that perhaps he should test Dean with silver and holy water.

"I had thought it was atonement for my sins," he continued, fighting the lull of sleep induced by the comforting gesture. "For Samandriel. I suppose part of it still is. However... I was relieved, when it was done. I felt relief, that I was free. Isn't that strange..."

"Depends, I guess," Dean shrugged. "One thing still seems kinda off to me, though."

Castiel opened his eyes, turning toward the hunter again, questioning earnestly.

"Why did you kill Alfie?"

"He came at me, I killed him in self-defense." He frowned, the words came before he had even given them thought. They felt wrong, repeating them now. The exact same words he had spoken that night in front of the warehouse.

Dean didn't miss this either, and Castiel felt a flutter of panic. They weren't his words.

Castiel again pulled himself up, away from Dean, and this time the hunter let him, sitting beside him on the sofa. His vessel - his body - suddenly felt so small, so confined. He was an abomination, had murdered his own kin, mutilated himself for his own selfish purpose.

"Cas," Dean's voice called to him as he fought the memory of his brother's death. It was so wrong. He put his head in his hands, trying to shut away the image of Samandriel's face, the betrayal in his eyes, the slick of blood on his hand as he pulled the blade free.

Castiel felt Dean's arms close around him, pulling him close, becoming aware of the hopeless sounds he was making in his throat. He wiped at his face, but there were no tears; just the pain of regret, confusion and despair in his chest as his hunter tried to soothe him.

When he felt calloused fingers take his jaw in their grip, tilting his face toward those empathetic green eyes, he nearly flinched [flash of white, gray eyes] and then all thought simply ceased as a pair of warm lips cut through the murk of half-remembered nightmares and desperate confusion.

It was unlike the first time Dean had kissed him, and also unlike the kiss that Castiel had given him in return. It was soft, slow, patient, and Castiel felt himself wrapped in it like a sun-warmed sheet, pulled back to the present, back to Dean in the simple yet profound gesture. A shiver ran through him, a strange electric sensation that spread out through his nerves from the very core of his being as Dean's fingers trailed lightly along his jawline. He felt compelled to move into it, reaching a hand up to rest against the hunter's shoulder to steady himself, drunk on the sensation of the intimate moment with his favourite human.

When Dean pulled away abruptly it left him dizzy, positively buzzing in the after effects; his eyes didn't seem to want to focus and his lips felt swollen, remembering when he felt light-headed that breathing was now an imperative.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his daze, and registered the crunch of gravel and the rumble of the Impala's engine before it cut off. Dean was watching him intently, jaw tight and eyes searching his face with latent fear. "You okay?"

Castiel responded with a ghost of a smile that showed more in his eyes than on his face. "Yes, Dean," he said. "I'm fine."

Dean grinned back at him, ruffling the fallen angel's hair fondly. He was on his feet, pulling his duffel bag up from where it sat on the end of the couch by the time Sam shouldered his way through the door carrying a tray of coffee and breakfast.

[XXXXXX]

The mood of the morning quickly soured over breakfast as Sam relayed the news he'd received of demonic omens in Des Moines. To make matters worse, his call to Sheriff Mills revealed that there had been a bunch of suits in her back yard the day after Castiel's crash landing, poking around the newly formed crater.

Dean belatedly wished that he had acted on his impulse to call her that day after Sam had put two and two together from the news article of the 'meteor' that demolished her shed. They might have had better preparation for the events that had unfolded a week afterward, their confrontation with Ramiel and all the crap that had followed them since.

Castiel sat mutely as he picked at his hash browns, Dean noting with concern that Sam's retelling of what Jody had told him over the phone had upset the angel to the point that even the bacon had hardly been touched.

In the impact crater where the shed had once stood, she told Sam that she had found tattered and burned fabric, blood, a handful of charred black feathers and, strangest of all, the burnt outline of what had appeared to be massive wings. Dean had thought that the wing impression thing meant that an angel had died on the spot, and yet Cas was still here with them. Just how badly had he mangled himself when he fell? Had they almost lost him? Dean found himself suddenly immensely grateful to Inias for sticking by his friend after everything that had happened over the last few years, and a little ticked off at Cas for being so reckless.

He lost interest in what Sam was saying after that, watching the increasingly withdrawn angel who no longer seemed to even pretend to be interested in his food. Cas had gone eerily still, his eyes fixed on nowhere in particular that Dean could tell, a faint crease in his brow that the hunter had learned to read as a sign that the angel was disturbed by something, or perhaps guilty. He wasn't sure if he wanted to give Cas a hug or shake him until he spilled whatever it was he was thinking about.

Dean also saw the brief flicker of sadness that washed over Castiel's face as Sam mentioned the wing impression, the subtle roll of the fallen angel's shoulders, almost an unconscious act. He saw Castiel's eyes dart away from the table, toward the door, the windows, as though he was looking for some kind of escape from the conversation. Like he wanted to disappear. Like he wanted to fly away.

His wings, Dean mentally slapped himself. He had only seen them a couple of times, and even then it had only been a shadowy suggestion, an ethereal outline that was more perceived than tangible. He had become so accustomed to Castiel's near-human appearance that despite all of his awkward and alien behaviour, Dean could at times forget that his friend was anything but human. Apart from the odd joke, he had never really considered the fact that Castiel did, in fact, have wings in his true form.

But not anymore. He had clipped his own wings, as evidenced by the news that Sam had brought from Jodi Mills. Cas was officially more human now than he was at the end of the apocalypse, when he had still managed to keep a few tricks up his sleeve until the finale.

Dean cleared his throat as Sam continued to ramble on about angel feathers and ruined sheds, suddenly wanting to steer this conversation to something more pertinent and less sensitive. So far this morning had been nothing short of surreal, and the circumstances surrounding Castiel's fall from Grace were growing murkier and more confusing. For that brief moment though, when he had taken a chance, acted impulsively, it had been pretty fucking awesome. Seeing the angel actually smile for the first time in he didn't know how long had been the highlight. For a moment he could forget the image of that hollowed out ghost of Castiel he had met in the future.

He had been nervous as hell when Cas started freaking out about Alfie, not quite sure what to do. He had intended to keep his little revelation to himself, not quite ready to act on it just yet, and the action had been all impulse and desperation. Dean wasn't great with words, and offering consolation and comfort verbally was awkward. Not that kissing his best friend wasn't, but it was better than words, and to be honest he had wanted to anyway, ever since that night at the cabin.

"Sam," he said, interrupting his little brother's monologue. "What about the demon signs in Des Moines? Think that kinda takes priority at the moment."

Sam stopped, derailed as he looked up from his notes to his brother, then looking instantly guilty when he saw Castiel, mute and despondent across from him. He shot Dean an unspoken apology.

"Anyway," Sam said. "So yeah, there was a massive black-out in Des Moines yesterday with no determined cause, and just south of the city, crops on several large commercial farms just shriveled up and died overnight."

"Son of a bitch," Dean sighed. "Think we're being tailed?"

Sam shrugged. "It's possible this is just a coincidence... it's not exactly a small city."

"When has our luck ever let demons nearby be a coincidence?"

Sam sighed, glancing at Castiel again. "Good point."

Dean shook his head, losing interest in his pancakes. The whole damned thing was looking more and more hopeless the longer they looked at it. They didn't know their enemy, or what they wanted other than the three of them dead, or worse. They'd gone up against worse and come out on top, but the element of not knowing what exactly they were up against just lent to the gravity of the situation.

He was pretty sure it was Crowley who wanted Cas on the Hell side. The King of Hell had had it in for the angel since the whole God thing. But Heaven... Heaven hadn't had any beef with him and Sam since the almost-Apocalypse, and had left them pretty much alone. Which could only mean that it was all about Cas, and they were collateral damage.

Fuck that.

Dean wasn't about to let either side get to Cas, and he'd be damned if he went down without a fucking fight. This wasn't Castiel the Holy Tax Accountant with the stick up his ass, nor was it Castiel the fledgling God hopped up on Purgatory souls, or even secretive Cas sneaking around behind their backs fighting some civil war upstairs.

This was Cas, his best friend and maybe more, lost and fallen and alone save for Dean and Sam Winchester, running for his life from whatever fucked up shit they were doing to him in Heaven.

"Well," he said, bolstering his resolve, "either way they're not getting their fucking hands on Cas. Them or those feathered dicks upstairs."

Castiel's head popped up at the declaration, eyeing Dean curiously with an undertone of guilt that Dean wanted to smack right out of him. There was also a trace of hope, however, and gratitude.

Dean wished he had even that much faith in himself, but hell. He'd beaten worse odds before.