My immunity from Lucifer doesn't last long. It takes Dean and Sam four hours to drive to where I am. I spend most of that time huddled behind the cemetery gate, disoriented and swimming in self-loathing as Lucifer punishes me for my moment of defiance.

I am snapped out of it by the familiar rumble of an approaching engine. Standing and dusting myself off, I see that it is starting to get dark. I stagger out to the sidewalk as the Impala pulls up, and as I wait I try not to shake too much.

Dean parks crooked and jumps out of the car. "You son of a bitch!" he shouts as he stomps his way toward me, "Where the fuck have you been?"

Sam is right behind him, explaining in a more even tone, "Meg called us right after she left the hospital. She said you'd taken off. We didn't know where you were."

Dean takes over again, "We didn't know if Crowley had gotten you, or if the angels had decided to get some payback, or if you were just lying in a ditch somewhere! What, did it take you a whole day just to find a fucking phone to let us know you weren't dead?"

"I…" I try to say. My voice is weak, and it's hard to put words together after the beating my mind has taken. "I'm sorry. I tried to call. It's just…"

Suddenly Lucifer hisses in my ear, "Look how angry he is at you!" And even though I can tell that Dean is angry because he was worried, and not because he hates me, it still makes me flinch.

Dean misses it, but Sam's face falls as he recognizes what it means. "Dean," says Sam, tapping his brother on the arm, "Give him a break, man. He's in bad shape."

Dean's face finally softens just a bit as he says, "Right. Well, get in the car."

I slide into the back seat. Sam asks me questions as we drive. Was I followed? How many of Crowley's men are after me? Am I still seeing Lucifer? How often? Right now?

I answer as best I can. I don't think so. I don't know. Yes. All the time. Yes.

Dean glances at me in the rearview mirror every few seconds, but all he says is, "Really, man? ELO? I'm disappointed in you."

When we pull into the parking lot of a motel a couple of towns away (just in case there were demons on my trail), Dean runs around the car to meet me as I get out. Without a word, he takes the paper bag containing my coat from me and hands me off to Sam by my elbow. "Grab us a room and keep an eye on him," Dean says to Sam, "I'll be right back."

I follow Sam silently as he procures us a card key and gets us settled into a room. Finally, when the silence has stretched on too long, I ask, "Is Dean very angry with me?"

Sam chuckles. "Dude, he was just worried about you."

"No," I say, "Not just about today. About everything."

The smile fades from Sam's face. "It's complicated," he sighs, "You know Dean. Everything is complicated with him."

"Yes, I know Dean," I say quietly.

"For what it's worth," says Sam, "I forgive you. You saved my life. Took that bullet for me. All the rest is water under the bridge."

I reply, "That is worth a lot to me."

Sam pats my shoulder on his way to collapsing into bed. "Okay. Sorry man, but I need to sleep," he says, "We pulled an all-nighter before Meg called, and Dean hasn't let me sleep since then. Too busy looking for you. Will you be okay on your own?"

"I'll be fine," I say.

"Seriously," he adds, "I've been there. You wake me up if it gets bad, okay?"

Even if Dean never forgives me, I am very lucky to have Sam Winchester as my friend. "I will," I say, "Thank you."

Sam is asleep almost instantly. I take up a seat in a little straight-backed chair by the window, and wait for Dean.

It doesn't take long for Lucifer to make a reappearance. With a wave of his hand, the window stops showing the parking lot and becomes a viewing screen for all the horrors I ever committed. I watch impassively, trying not to wake Sam. I lose track of how long it has gone on, how many angels I have seen burning out their wings at my feet, how many humans I have watched choking on their own blood. I take it because I know that I deserve it, even when Rachel's dead face turns to accuse me, "I trusted you, and you betrayed me. Everyone you care about ends up dead, and it's all your fault."

"Cas?"

"Ahh!" I gasp, jumping in my seat. The window abruptly returns to normal.

Dean drops something over the seat back before putting his hands on my shoulders from behind. I don't turn to look at him. Lucifer can play with what I see, but if I can feel it then I know it's real. The weight of Dean's hands is a steadying comfort. "Sorry," he says, rubbing my shoulders soothingly, "I didn't used to be able to sneak up on you."

"I'm fine," I say, but even I can hear the sob in my voice.

Dean's hands tighten over my shoulders. "No, you're not," he says.

"No, I'm not," I quietly agree, "But I'm better with you here." I hate myself for saying it. I never want to make him feel obligated to stay with me. I don't blame him if he wants to drop me right back off at the nearest hospital with a psychiatric ward.

But he doesn't sound upset when he asks, "How's that?"

"It's easier to remember what's real and what's not when I have someone to talk to," I explain, "I can usually tell, but I get confused about some things. Especially when it comes to you. So having you here – the real you – it helps."

He's silent for a while before he asks, "What don't you remember?"

I don't ask him if he only ever thought of me as a tool. That was an obvious lie by Lucifer, so obvious that it only worked on me when I was already at my wits' end. But there are other, subtler doubts. "After I healed Sam," I ask, "Did you tell me that you forgave me?"

"Yes," is all he says.

"Did you mean it?"

He hesitates. "Look," he says, "It's not like I've forgotten everything you did. You fucked up really bad, and we're still feeling the aftershocks. But you made things right with Sam, and I'd be lying if I said that I've never fucked up in a big way before. So yeah, I meant it. I still mean it. We've still got some work to do, but we'll be okay."

That, just hearing that, is such a weight off my chest that I would be content to leave it at that. But his hands are still on my shoulders, and I have other questions.

"When you left me at the hospital, did you ever intend to come back?"

"Fuck, Cas!" Dean says so loudly that I worry he will wake Sam, "What kind of a question is that? Of course I did! I promised you I would."

"You did?" I breathe, "I don't remember."

"Yeah, well you were pretty out of it," says Dean, "That's why we couldn't take you with us. You're a lot better now." He leaves it unspoken, but I can tell that we are both thinking it. Now that I am somewhat better, maybe I can stay.

I blurt out my last question before I can convince myself not to. "Did you ever kiss me?"

His hands slide off my shoulders. I take that to mean, "No."

"I'm sorry," I stammer, "I didn't mean to..."

But then I hear his shirt rustle as he bends down, placing his arms gently around my shoulders and resting his chin on the seat back so that his mouth is right behind my ear. His voice is halting and uncertain when he whispers, "You really don't remember?"

I breathe out a long, slow breath. So it was true. That fact is so huge that my mind doesn't even know what to do with it. "I think I do," I say, "It all gets twisted around."

Dean's right arm is draped over my shoulder, his hand resting against my chest. Slowly, he curves his thumb and pinky under his palm so three fingers are visible. He taps those fingers against my chest as he says, "Three times."

He curls his ring finger and holds it with his thumb. "Once the night we trapped Raphael."

He does the same with his middle finger. "Once right before we faced Michael and Lucifer at Stull Cemetery."

Only his index finger remains. He bends it too, making a fist. "Once when I left you at the hospital, when I promised I'd come back for you."

I close my eyes. If I focus very hard, I can remember the first two. I can't remember the third, or his promise, no matter how hard I try. But I believe him.

His fist relaxes, his fingers splaying out against my chest.

I turn my head. I hadn't realized how close he was to me until that motion brings us face-to-face, our noses almost touching. He doesn't pull away.

"Make it four?" I request.

He makes it five, and six, and then seven. He turns the chair around so he can stand over me from the front, and makes it eight and nine. He pulls me upright and makes it ten. He makes it eleven, twelve, and thirteen on our way back to his bed, stepping on the backs of my shoes to kick them off my feet, and fourteen as we collapse into the sheets. I almost expect him to begin tearing the rest of our clothes off, to take more and more of me, but he doesn't. He throws the covers over us both and makes it a long, slow fifteen as he wraps me up in his arms, safe and comfortable, content just to lie here and kiss me as if we have all the time in the world.

"I'm never gonna leave you again, Cas," he whispers to me, and that's when I lose count.

"He's lying, Castiel!" Lucifer is shouting at me, "They'll all leave you in the end!"

It's almost as if Dean can hear it too, or maybe he just feels the way I tense against the words, because he repeats, "Never." When he pulls me close to him, snuggling his face into my neck, I decide that I trust Dean more than I trust Lucifer.

Dean's breath slowly evens out, and I can almost pinpoint the moment at which he falls asleep. I allow my eyes to wander. Lucifer is still here, but I find that I can tune him out in favor of the steady sounds of Dean's breathing and heartbeat.

My gaze drifts over to the chair where I had just been sitting, and my own breath catches in my throat. My coat is there, thrown over the seat back, the tan fabric catching the moonlight through the window. Ever since Dean returned it to me outside the hospital, its blemishes have read like a catalog of my sins. Each stain and wrinkle have reminded me of a murder, a betrayal, a loss.

But there, laid out in the moonlight, there is not a drop of blood on it. Dean has made it as good as new.