Cas starts coming by every day- mostly, just for an hour or so after work, but on his days off he arrives in the late morning and doesn't go home until the carers start politely reminding him of the time. He's getting good at talking the kitchen staff into making him food, though he still prefers to bring his own. Cas isn't much of a cook, but he's not comfortable with taking the home's food for free, and Missouri who runs the kitchen refuses to let him pay.

Dean eats dinner with the other residents every other night. When his hands are bad, he still eats; when his hands are really bad, he drinks a shitty nutrient drink instead. He doesn't skip meals anymore, and he's out of bed by ten most days. At times, it's difficult or aggravating, but he's gotta admit that some parts of it are nice. Spending time with Jo usually puts him in a good mood, and he's definitely got more energy than he used to have: the problem is that it's got nowhere to go.

He tells Sam as much late one night. They talk a few times a week, with who makes the call being pretty equally split.

"I'm bored," he complains. Being unhappy is a full time job; trying to find something other than self-hate to fill his time with isn't going too well so far. "My TV is kind of terrible, and whenever I go into the lounge, Ava's always watching some friggin' cake show. Do you know I know what a Bundt pan is? Who the hell needs to know that?"

"What the hell is a Bundt pan?"

"Thank you."

Dean quickly forgets about the conversation, so it's a surprise when Sam turns up the following morning, carrier bag grasped in one hand.

"You're bored?" Sam greets him. "Read something."

He upends the carrier bag on Dean's bed and at least ten books spill out, a few bouncing off the mattress.

"Thanks, Hermione," Dean grumbles, reaching down to pick one up. "Seriously, Sam, Vonnegut? I haven't read this since I was nineteen."

"So?" Sam shrugs. "Means you've had time to forget it."

"What about this one?" Dean says, examining an unfamiliar dust jacket.

"That's my favourite book," Sam says as he picks up another of the fallen books.

"But there's not a pony on the cover."

Sam thumps Dean across the arm with the book he was holding, seemingly without thinking. When he realises what he just did, he freezes in place, his eyes growing wide in horror. Tension starts to fill the air, only to be shattered when Dean rolls his eyes.

"I can take a hit, okay?" he says. "You're not that strong yet, Boy Wonder."

"Jerk," Sam mutters, but he gives a wobbly smile, and he sticks around for another hour and a half.

A few days later, Dean rings to grudgingly thank him for the books.

"Which one are you reading?" Sam asks.

"Uh, I started my third one today."

"What the hell, Dean?" Sam laughs.

"What can I say?" Dean grins down the phone. "I got the brains and the beauty."

"And so modest," Sam marvels. "I can bring by some more next week, if you want?"

"Sure," Dean says. "You want any money for them?"

"Nah, they're all mine or Jess' or… yours. They're not costing me anything."

"Awesome," Dean says. Just like that, Sam's visits are somehow back to being weekly. It doesn't feel like losing.

August keeps on passing. PT is frustratingly slow, but Benny gets a weird satisfaction out of seeing Dean get mad.

"You gotta work with the anger, Dean," he says. "You gotta put it into what you're doing."

"Would breaking your nose be working with the anger?" Dean says tightly. Benny's got him working with this godawful 'hand exerciser', a device that comes directly from somewhere around the third layer of Hell. Trying to persuade one finger at a time to press down a button that doesn't actually want to be pressed down isn't Dean's idea of fun.

"Tell you what," Benny says. "If we get to the stage where you reckon you can make a decent enough fist, I'll let you punch me as a reward."

"You sure know how to motivate a guy," Dean says, but his heart's not in it. It's too early to notice any real change, but every time he does this stupid exercise, he thinks it feels a little easier. For the first time, getting pissed off at his body is actually having a productive outcome, and that's not something he's taking lightly. Besides, Benny's too damn nice to stay mad at.

Dean's still unwilling to talk about much with Tessa- anything she does coax out of him is like easing thick splinters out of a bloodied wound- but he thinks that's helping too. He still talks to Cas about things, but it feels easier now, almost cleaner. Before, it felt like he was thin skin, stretched over a writhing tempest of hate and hurt and a thousand fuck-ups; any crack in his shell risked causing an explosion, everything forcing itself out of the rare gap at once. Knowing that he can talk to Tessa if he needs to is like someone pushing in a syringe and safely letting out the pressure.

He and Cas go into town a couple times a week, though they never stay in one place and they don't really talk to people. Dean knows that Cas wants to go into coffee shops or diners, but Dean just doesn't feel comfortable sitting around other people for that long. Cas, being Cas, has a solution.

"We should try somewhere safer first," he suggests. "Somewhere quieter. Sam's house, maybe?"

"Yeah, no." 'Hey, Jess, I'm the brother-in-law you found sitting in a puddle of his own plasma, and this is my best-friend-slash-personal-volunteer. I'm here to insult your fiancé for an hour and leave tyre marks on your carpet. Where's your TV?' Dean's getting better at handling awkward situations, but he's gotta draw the line somewhere.

"What about my house?" Cas suggests.

Dean turns to look at him. "Seriously?"

"Why not?" Cas shrugs. "I don't live far from here. Transport wouldn't be that difficult to arrange."

"Gotta admit, I'm curious about the millionaire's mansion you spend no time in." One of the rare gifts that Cas accepted from his family, the much-avoided house is far from Cas' favourite place to be.

"It's not a mansion," Cas says. "It's… large, yes, but it's nothing special."

"Whatever," Dean shrugs. "Sure. I'll go, I guess."

Cas squints at him. "I'm not entirely convinced you're capable of expressing enthusiasm."

"Yay," Dean says, deadpan, and Cas smirks.

"I just need to clear it with the staff," he says. "I can go and ask now. Who's the lead carer today?"

"Uh, Lilith." Dean starts wondering if it's too late to change his mind.

"I'm not getting in that," Dean says in horror.

"Is everything okay?" Cas asks, concerned.

"No," Dean stresses. "Your car is crappy."

Cas rolls his eyes. "Get in the car, Dean."

"Dude, it's awful," Dean complains as he aligns his chair with the seat. "Like, really, really awful."

"Yes, I did get that the first time."

"I- we are not finished," Dean warns, moving himself a little closer and putting the brakes on. He's only done this once or twice before, and not for a very long time now. It's gonna take some focus.

Dean shuffles forwards until he's resting on the edge of the seat and grabs his left leg, pushing it in. He does the same with the right so that both of his feet are resting in the passenger side of the car. With one hand on his chair and the other on the seat of the car, he swings his body across. It's pretty clumsy, but it does the job.

"Not bad," Ruby calls from behind him.

"Bite me," he calls back, reaching over to push the backrest of his wheelchair down. Shit, he hasn't had to fold this thing away in well over a year. "Hey, Ruby, how do the wheels come off this thing?"

"It's your chair, genius. Not mine." She starts walking over all the same.

"I don't need your help," he objects and she stops, sighing heavily.

"Then why did you ask?"

"Gotta make you feel like you're useful for something."

"You're so good to me."

"Try pushing in and twisting," Cas suggests. "That's how Anna's chair worked."

Cas is standing by the front of the car, and he's been sensible enough not to try and swoop in. If there's one thing Dean hates- more than wheelchairs in general and fucking cake shows, that is- it's people trying to fuck with his chair. Dean presses and twists, and the wheel comes loose in his hands. He drops it on his lap and gives a loose attempt at a thumbs up before pulling off the other one too. "What am I doing with these?"

"Back seat?" Cas suggests. "The seats fold forwards."

Folding seats are convenient for transporting wheelchairs, something that Cas almost certainly knows. Dean would guess Anna's accident and Cas buying this car didn't happen that far apart. It's a useful design, but that doesn't mean Dean's going to stop mocking it.

"Why do you have a green car?" Dean says as soon as Cas closes the driver's side door.

"What's wrong with green?"

"Nothing, if you're drunk and in Ireland. You don't paint your car green."

"I didn't paint it. It was green when I bought it."

"Then you don't buy green cars."

"It gets me-"

"Don't say it gets you from A to B," Dean half-begs. "Do you know how much I hate it when people say that? That's like saying 'I wear a sack instead of clothes because it still keeps me warm'. If you give a crap about what you wear or eat, or where you live, you gotta give some love to your car too."

"Are you done yet?"

"No. The suspension is terrible, the steering is terrible-"

"You aren't even driving."

"You're breaking my heart here, Cas."

"It's a car," Cas says helplessly. "It works most of the time- what more could you want?" When Dean doesn't answer, he glances over at him. "Dean?"

"Sorry, I'm having some trouble processing just how many things were wrong with that last sentence."

Dean is pretty sure that whatever Cas mutters under his breath is Spanish, and he's almost certain that it's offensive.

"You like driving this thing?" Dean demands, wincing as Cas turns the wheel slightly and the car hurls itself around the corner like an over-excited dog.

"Not particularly," Cas admits eventually. "I've been meaning to buy a new one, but I don't know much about cars."

"That, my friend, is where you're in luck," Dean says. "Give me a price bracket and a magazine and I can make all of your dreams come true. Well, the car ones, anyway. No 'after hours' stuff."

"You like cars?"

"How can you not like cars?" Dean says. "I used to drive the most gorgeous Impala '67- seriously, Cas, one look at her and you'd change your mind. You know Helen of Troy? This car was like, the Chevy of Troy."

"Sam would be proud," Cas muses.

Cas' house is only about ten minutes away, and when they turn into the driveway, it's all Dean can do to keep his jaw from dropping.

"Dude," he says.

"It's just a house."

"Right, and a whale is just a fish."

"Whales are mammals."

"Thank you, Animal Planet."

"The house isn't that big," Cas argues as he parks.

"How many bedrooms?"

"Three."

"It's big."

"Three isn't a lot."

"It's a lot for one guy."

"That," Cas says, pocketing his car keys and opening his door, "is a very different matter."

Dean reassembles his chair, grumbling as he tries to push on the wheels and finally gets it right on his third attempt. His chair's not exactly a great chair- it's kind of uncomfortable, so he tries to avoid sitting in it for too long, and the left wheel occasionally decides to freeze up and ruin his smooth ride. Dean doesn't even remember buying it. He thinks Sam or Jess or a doctor must have handled things, and he's never mentioned any of the issues to them; admitting that his chair sucks means talking about the fact that he has to use a chair.

Cas' driveway is fairly long, and luckily for everybody involved, there aren't any steps to his front door. He opens it and stands aside, gesturing for Dean to go in. Normally, Dean would worry that the hallway might not be big enough for him to fit through, but he really doubts that's going to be a problem here. Cas shows him to the lounge, and Dean takes care not to scratch the door frame on his way in.

"Do you want a drink?" Cas asks. Dean takes one look at the pale carpet and decides, quite vehemently, that he does not. Cas goes to make himself coffee, and Dean makes a mental note not to touch anything- actually, make that not to breathe near anything. Suddenly, he can't envisage how being in public could make him feel more out of place than he does now; just being in the place feels like staining it.

That being said, it's not like there's much to ruin. It's nice, sure- expensive, that's obvious- but it's like a set-up from Bed, Bath and Beyond. There aren't any paintings on the walls or photographs in frames, and everything has this white, clinical look to it. There's a DVD rack, but it's half-empty, and what is there is covered with a thin layer of dust.

"Like I said," Cas says, reappearing with a steaming mug, "I don't spend much time at home."

"Why not?" Dean asks. "You got a nice place here."

Cas doesn't look convinced. He takes a seat in the chair by Dean. "It's adequate."

"You got a lot of space to yourself, huh?"

"Too much," Cas says, so quietly that Dean nearly misses it. Anna's name lingers in the air, unspoken but impossible to miss. Dean's starting to wish he'd asked for a drink so that he had an excuse not to say anything.

"What are you doing?" Cas asks curiously.

"Huh?" Dean says, drawing a blank. Cas nods towards his hand, and Dean realises what he means.

"Nothing," he says, placing it palm-down on his armrest. "It's some dumb PT thing. Benny likes me to do it whenever I get a spare moment."

It's a simple enough exercise- bringing down his fingers to his thumb, one-by-one- but on bad days, cramp and spasms and shaking make it a real pain in the ass. Today's a pretty good day, though, and Dean's been practicing so much that he kind of does it on automatic.

"It looked like sign language," Cas comments.

"I forgot you learn that," Dean admits. "What, were languages with actual words not good enough for you?"

"I like different modes of communication, verbal or otherwise," Cas says placidly.

"Is it hard?"

"Not really," Cas says. "I'd be happy to teach you."

"Eh," Dean says, starting up the PT tapping again. "Maybe."

"How is PT?" Cas asks. Dean goes to reply with 'crappy', because stopping himself.

"It's not so bad," he admits grudgingly.

"I suppose that's high praise, coming from you."

"What, you mean I'm not a rainbow of joy and delight?" Dean says, mock-offended.

Cas looks incredibly conflicted. "… I don't know how to answer that," he says eventually. Dean bursts out laughing.

"You're something, you know that, right?" he says, shaking his head. "You and your giant house and your terrible taste in cars."

"I wondered how long it would be before you got back to mocking my car," Cas muses. "I'll be right back."

Cas returns less than a minute later, his laptop in his arms. He sets it down on a nearby table and plugs in a mouse - whether for Dean's benefit or out of personal preference, Dean doesn't know, and he's sure as hell not going to ask.

"I don't have any car magazines," Cas says, and the meaning takes a moment to click in Dean's head. He wheels himself over, already sifting through years and makes in his head.

"First things first," he says, drawing himself up in front of the laptop. The table's a little high, but not so bad he can't manage. "Let's talk price."

Cas pulls a face. "I don't have much money."

Dean looks at him incredulously. When Cas tilts his head in confusion, Dean looks around the room, slowly and meaningfully.

"My father has a lot of money," Cas reminds him, sitting down by his side. "My father bought the house. I'm not prepared to ask him for a car."

"So we're going on tax accountant wage," Dean says. "I can work with that. Plus, you should get some extra from selling that insult to engineering in the driveway."

"Since when were we selling my car?"

"Since when were we not?" Dean says, bringing up a search engine page. It's been a long time since he used a computer, and moving the mouse isn't the easiest thing, but it's doable. Typing, though, is… interesting. He has to point his finger and drop his whole hand down to press a key, and he feels like a six year old sucking at piano. Cas isn't paying attention, though.

"You are," Cas says, with an affectionate kind of irritation, "unusually invested in my motoring preference."

"You bet it," Dean says, managing to hit 'search'. "Automatic or manual?"

"Manual."

"Good man," Dean says approvingly, clicking a link. "Better control. Do you want to talk horsepower?"

"Not even slightly."

"How much do you actually know about this stuff?" Dean asks, turning to face him. Cas hesitates.

"… cars have wheels," he says. "Four of them. Usually."

"Someone tell Top Gear we've found a new presenter," Dean mutters, and Cas frowns. "It's a car show," Dean supplies. "One you should watch."

"Right. Okay. No, I really don't know anything about this," Cas says, almost pitifully. As sad as he looks, Dean can't stop himself from grinning; they're on his turf now.

"In that case," Dean says, "I know how we're spending the next few hours."

By the third visit, Cas' car has apparently wised on to what Dean is doing, and it makes its disapproval very clear.

"It definitely has gas," Cas says for the fourth time. Dean's getting the impression that that's the only thing he knows how to check.

"Dude, you kidnapped me," Dean says.

"I didn't mean to," Cas says, stressed. It's 6:28PM, and they promised Lilith that Dean would be back for half six exactly. Nobody likes to piss off Lilith.

"Woah, Cas, chill out," Dean says. "Turn the key again."

"It's not going to-"

"Cas." With a sigh that's just this side of bitchy, Cas turns the key. Dean listens.

"It's not doing anything," Cas says tetchily.

"Exactly."

Cas sighs heavily, despairingly. "You did not cover this."

"I was getting around to it," Dean says defensively.

It's been about a week since Dean's first visit, and in that time he's made Sam bring him a whole pile of car magazines. Dean uses Cas' laptop whenever he comes around, but teaching Cas about cars means that Dean spends more time talking than researching. Cas tries to listen and understand, but it's clear that this doesn't come naturally to him. Dean can't really get mad- not when Cas has gone through the ASL alphabet four times now and Dean still can't remember anything past 'H'.

"When you turn the key, the car should make a noise," Dean says. "Right now, it's like a mouse in a monastery. That means the problem might be with the battery cables."

"The cables?" Cas repeats uncertainly.

"The cables," Dean nods. "I can tell you how to check them."

Cas looks like Dean's just suggested he performs open heart surgery with a spork. "That sounds like a terrible idea."

"Have some faith," Dean says, reaching over to clap Cas on the shoulder.

"I have faith in you," Cas says- and whilst it's said as a grumbled protest, it still makes Dean's stomach twist into his chest cavity, like a preteen girl who catches a cute guy staring at her shoes. "It's my own abilities I doubt."

"What?" Dean says incredulously. "Come on, Cas, you're like the smartest guy I know."

"Conjugating verbs in Spanish has not prepared me for changing battery cables," Cas hisses.

"You're not changing them," Dean says, in his best 'reassuring sports coach' voice. "You might need to get them replaced, sure, but right now you're just going to check them. It's easy. Seriously, you can do it," he adds when Cas looks at him desperately.

Five minutes later, he's out of the car and back in his wheelchair, watching Cas regard the engine like it might just bite him.

"Okay, so you're just gonna turn that nut, and it's gonna come right away," Dean says encouragingly.

"Which way do I turn it?"

"Left," Dean says instantly; he'd memorised lefty-loosey, righty-tighty the way most kids learn nursery rhymes. Cas treats the whole thing like a vicious game of Operation where the buzzer delivers a fatal shock to the player, but he gets it done.

"Okay, so these are corroded as fuck," Dean says. "Seriously, man, I'd yell at you so damn much if we weren't selling this thing soon."

"I'm still not sure-"

"Anyway," Dean continues, "for now, we just gotta clean up the terminals a little. Have you got a wire brush? Or a terminal cleaner?"

The look Cas gives Dean suggests that asking for the Holy Grail would have been more realistic. Dean lowers his expectations.

"Have you got a toothbrush?"

"Yes," Cas says confidently.

"Baking soda?"

"What?"

"Humour me."

"Yes, I think so."

"Awesome," Dean says happily. When he looks over at Cas, he's standing so stiffly that he might as well be made out of cardboard. Dean has to laugh.

"Relax, would you?" he says. "You're doing great so far."

"What are you going to make me do?" Cas asks warily.

"We," Dean stresses, "are going to fix your car."

And as much as Dean hates that goddamn thing, when it rolls out of the driveway fifteen minutes later, he can't help but feel a grudging kind of affection. The way that Cas keeps looking over at Dean, gazing at him like he's just turned water into wine- well, that helps too.

In the first week of September, Cas grudgingly agrees to replace the battery cables in his car. Dean is delighted; Cas, less so.

"You did fine last time," Dean reminds him as Cas squints down at the engine like a cowboy re-encountering an old enemy.

"That doesn't guarantee a repeat performance," Cas mutters. He stops for a second and tilts his head, staring at something under the hood.

"You okay?"

"Is that where the spark plug is?" he asks, pointing. Dean scoots a little closer to check.

"Hell yeah, it is!" he crows. The haggard look of dread that Cas always wears when around cars disappears from his face, temporarily replaced by one of incredulous triumph.

"And what does the spark plug do?" Dean presses.

"… it makes a spark?"

"I shoulda seen that one coming," Dean acknowledges. It doesn't do anything to dissipate the good feeling. "Anyway, back to the battery cables." He's already checked that Cas bought the right parts and worked out a solution for every potential 'Cas fucks something up' scenario. Not that he's letting that on, obviously; Dean knows that nothing sucks more than having someone staring over your shoulder, ready to bark out criticism should you screw up. He learned most of what he knows about cars from his father.

"And you're sure this is a-" Cas begins, turning to face Dean.

"Cas," Dean says. "Trust me."

Cas sighs like Dean's just bound him by oath and turns back to the engine. Dean nods proudly.

"Damn straight," he says. "So step one is disconnecting the battery. See that nut? You need to loosen it again, so- yeah, like that. Okay, that's good. See? You're doing good."

It takes longer than it used to take Dean, but Cas follows the instructions to the letter. Soon, Dean is holding two nasty, corroded-to-shit cables, and the car's busily becoming acquainted with its shiny new friends. He doesn't think Cas moves a single muscle in his face until they're done, when he slumps and sighs obvious relief.

"You alright there, Stark?" Dean asks, and Cas straightens and nods.

"You're a very good teacher," he admits grudgingly.

"You're a good student," Dean shrugs, but he can't pretend it doesn't feel good. If nothing else, his hands have been hurting like a bitch all day long, and he appreciates the distraction.

"I need to change my shirt," Cas says, frowning at the oil stains on his t-shirt, and Dean's mind goes to a filthy, beautiful place.

"Sure thing," Dean says. "I can use your laptop, right?"

"Of course," Cas says. "I'll be back soon."

They're in the garage, which is blessedly set on the same level as the rest of Cas' ground floor. It means that Dean can wheel himself in and out without a problem- though he lingers for a few minutes after Cas leaves, peering at the engine and double-checking that the cables are right. They're near-perfect, and pride blooms fresh in his chest. Sure, he feels kind of shitty for not being able to do it himself, but he's too pleased with Cas' progress to be all that upset. It feels less like making Cas do it for him, and more like teaching Cas how. It's not all that obvious who's delivering the favour here.

Dean pats the car good-naturedly. "I am gonna sell you so hard," he tells it, before he turns to go.

He's not even sure how it happens. He knows that the wheel of his chair catches the base of the small, flimsy table Cas rested the toolbox on. He sees the box rock forwards and hurl its contents over him in what feels slow motion, and now, even now, his instinct is still to try and jerk his leg away rather than move the chair.

"Fuck!" Dean yelps as a screwdriver glances off his wrist. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants under his breath, leaning over the side of his chair and starting to pick things up. Nearly all of the tools completely missed him and his chair, or bounced off his wheels, so it's no big deal. It's still a stupid fucking thing to do, though, and he's embarrassed to hear Cas' hurried footsteps behind him.

"It's fine," Dean calls before Cas can say anything. "I hit the table like the dumb asshole I am."

"Are you alright?" Cas asks, concerned.

"Yeah," Dean says again, dropping a spanner into the box. "I don't think anything's broken here. I'm sorry, man."

"It's not a problem," Cas says. "That table is-"

"Cas?" Dean questions when Cas breaks off. He goes to crack a joke- some half-formed quip about not being that pretty, one of those 'think whilst speaking' deals- when Cas suddenly lunges for him, dropping down and moving his hand to Dean's right calf.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean barks, instinctively raising his hands to push Cas away.

"Your leg is bleeding," Cas says, his voice level but urgent.

"What do you mean, it's bleeding?"

"Something must have cut it. Do you have a hankerchief?"

"Who the hell carries a hankerchief?" he says, annoyed. "Would you just-"

Cas moves his hands and they come away red. Dean's eyes widen as he takes in what he'd somehow managed to miss until now- the slash in the material, the rapidly growing stain, the regular drip of blood onto the floor. Cas moves away and returns with a clean cloth, pushing it into Dean's hand. Dean bends down and presses it to the wound, using both hands to hold it in place.

"You'll need to wash the cut," Cas says. "I have a detachable showerhead you can use."

"Come on, it's not that bad."

"No, but septicaemia may be, and I honestly cannot remember the last time I cleaned those tools. Wash the cut, Dean." In all fairness, Dean's guessing that 'I borrowed your resident and brought him back with blood poisoning' won't float well with the care home staff. He takes one hand off the makeshift compress, but judging by the blood trickling out from under the cloth, he can't let go if he wants to keep things clean.

"I can't steer one-handed," Dean says.

"Then let me push your chair."

"And I thought things couldn't get worse," Dean mutters, but he reaches across and manages to awkwardly disengage his brakes. "What're you waiting for?" he says, twisting up to look at Cas.

Cas takes the handles of his chair and begins to push. He's good at handling the chair, and in return, Dean tries his hardest not to bleed the carpet. He's made fun of Cas for having his bathroom downstairs before ("dude, you have an upside-down house"), but now he's grateful for it- in a far-off, dulled manner. He's already working on shutting himself off, detaching from the situation. He can feel the shame and disappointment and anger stagnating in the gap he leaves behind, eagerly waiting for his return. There was something to be said, Dean thinks, for only ever having bad days; when you're caught in a thunderstorm, what's a little extra rain?

Cas parks the chair so that the wheels are pushed right up against the shower. "Is it still bleeding?"

Dean pulls the rag away to check. "Less than before."

Cas slips in around him and pulls the showerhead off. "Can you roll the material up?" he asks. "Dean?"

"Miles away," Dean mumbles. "Sorry." He bends and pulls off his shoe and sock, dropping them behind him. He peels the sodden material back from the wound, ignoring the way Cas flinches at how roughly he pulls. Dean moves to the edge of his seat and uses his hands to manouvere his leg as far out as it will go.

Cas hands him the showerhead. He twists a knob and water streams out, hitting the join between shower floor and wall. "I'm going to hold your leg straight," Cas says. "I don't think it's a good idea to get your chair wet."

Dean actually couldn't give less of a shit about the condition of his chair, but he doesn't want to talk anymore, so he lets Cas do what he wants. Cas slips a careful hand around Dean's ankle, slides the other underneath his knee, and gently straightens his leg out. Dean leans forward and aims the water at the cut, not bothering to test temperature or strength. The wound starts bleeding again, the water swirling down the plughole tinted a dirty pink.

For the first time, Dean wonders what Sam and Jess used to get his blood off the bathroom floor. The memory is old and crinkled, a photograph pushed to the back of a drawer. Dean had forgotten how quick it had all been. He'd cut his left arm first and as he tried to cut the right, blood was already spilling over his legs, running down his chair, leaving puddles on the tiles. It had hurt, it had hurt so fucking badly but he'd kept on cutting, kept on going until his hands were too slippery and his vision was going and the blade slipped from his sticky fingers.

There had been so much red- a bright, arterial shade, the kind of colour that looks wrong in the real world, that you instinctively know should not be seen outside of your body. It had been everywhere, so much of it, more than he'd ever seen in one place and he'd been a fucking FBI agent, all pumping out faster and faster and right at the last moment, right before Sam kicked the door open and Dean lost consciousness, Dean had been scared.

Dean doesn't remember what he was thinking when he saw Sam- there's too much there to isolate one specific feeling, especially when he's looking at it through the smeared and greasy lens of time and blood loss- but he can't be sure that, buried somewhere in it all, there wasn't a whisper of relief.

"That should be enough," Cas says, jerking Dean back to the present. He turns the shower off and steps around Dean to hand him a towel.

"I have bandages, but make sure you get Dr Singer to look at it when you get back," Cas says, opening a cabinet and rooting around for supplies.

"Okay."

"I'm serious, Dean."

"I know," Dean snaps. "Just leave it, alright?"

Cas looks at him then, and Dean knows that he's confirmed what Cas was already suspecting- that it isn't just the blood that's getting to Dean here, that this pain goes deeper than physical. Cas turns back around and finishes searching. He hands Dean a self-adhesive bandage and gives him a small, quick smile. For once, Cas doesn't say anything- and for that, Dean thinks he might just love him.

Once Dean's got the dressing in place, all he wants is to go back to the home. Cas offers to lend him a clean pair of pants, but the idea of wearing Cas' clothes triggers feelings that Dean doesn't feel able to cope with right now. He turns down the offer, and once he and Cas are on the road, Cas starts to speak.

"Did I ever tell you what happened to my first car?"

Dean's not in the mood for jokes, so he just tilts his head towards Cas, waiting for him to go on.

"I can condense a fairly long and incredibly painful story into one sentence," Cas says. "Diesel cars do not take gas."

The meaning takes a half-second to sink in. "You didn't."

"Believe me, I soon wished I hadn't."

"How old were you?"

"Eighteen. It was some time before I was allowed another car."

"We'd better make sure your new car runs on gas," Dean says.

"I'm not selling this car."

"Definitely gas."

Cas glares at him, and for a moment, Dean feels okay. It doesn't last, pain shooting through his hands and sadness settling into his stomach like an old friend coming home. They lapse into silence before Dean speaks again.

"I don't care that I made a mistake," he says. Dean's not stupid, thanks- he knows a conveniently applicable story when he hears one. "I mean, I do- if any of that stuff's damaged, Cas, you gotta tell me and I swear, I'll pay-"

"Was it because you couldn't feel it?" Cas asks, and it sounds more like he's enquiring about Dean's favourite movie than potential emotional trauma. Cas, as immensely and ridiculously caring as he is, does not have a setting for 'tact'. Dean's never been sure if that's a flaw or a blessing.

"I thought so," Cas says when Dean doesn't reply. "You do recognise that it's not your fault."

"It's not that. It's more…" Dean exhales, turns his head towards the window.

"Some days I think I'm gonna forget what it was like to be real," he tells the glass. "To be a part of things. The world's out there, and I'm in here, and sometimes I can't remember what it was like when here and there were the same place." Dean breaks off, rubs his eyes. "I don't know if that makes sense, but-"

"It does," Cas says. "I think."

Dean nods, not expecting any more- so when Cas takes a breath as if to speak, Dean turns to look.

"For what it's worth," Cas says, "if you and 'the world' were considered separate places, then I would rather have you."

He looks away from the road then, catches Dean's eye and holds the look for so long Dean starts worry they're going to hit something- but Dean can't seem to look away either, so he's not one to talk. He doesn't have words for his thoughts, much less for his feelings. He resolves the issue, after too much time without speaking, by paying attention to neither.

"Engine sounds better," he says instead, dropping his eyes to the dashboard and staring like he can see straight through it. Cas doesn't even reply, though Dean sees him nod slightly out of the corner of his vision.

There's a kind of tempest in Dean's chest, one he's barely holding back. Want and need and incredulous gratitude are all desperate to find their way into Dean's mouth and out into the open, but it's safe to say that the nerves linking Dean's legs and spine are not the only connections in him that don't really work.

Cas tattles on him to Ellen, so there's no way Dean can sneak back to his room without seeing Bobby. Luckily for Dean, after a quick inspection and an affectionately grumbled "Idjit", he's cleared to go. He spends the rest of the evening in his room and whist he doesn't have nightmares, what little sleep he gets is brief and patchy. He still hauls ass out of bed when morning rolls around, but persuading himself to do so is harder than it's been in a long time.

Dean doesn't know what to do with himself. He's seeing Benny tomorrow and Tessa in a couple days, and Cas is supposed to be coming by after work, but that's it. He tries reading but the words slide straight from memory whenever he closes his eyes, and the third time he rereads page 34, he gives up and closes the book. He puts the TV on, channel flips for twenty minutes, then turns it off again. He ends up staring blankly at the wall, his fingers tapping one-by-one to his thumb without him really noticing. He spent the whole of last night trying not to think, and that didn't work; he's spent today trying to think, and that's not working either. His mind is filled with a heavy fog and time moves slow, like blood oozing from an old, putrefying wound.

Cas rarely bothers knocking anymore, and when he arrives in the early evening, Dean nods rather than saying hello. He's lying on top of his bed, fan on and legs stretched out under a blanket, and Cas sits down nearby. Dean notices that he's carrying a bag, but decides against asking.

Cas opens with "How's your leg?"

"Okay," Dean shrugs. "Bobby just shoved another dressing on it. He says I gotta keep getting it checked, but other than that…"

"Good," Cas says. He's fiddling with the handle of the bag, and Dean raises an eyebrow. Cas isn't the kind of guy who fiddles with things.

"I wanted to try something," Cas confesses.

"I don't wanna go out, Cas," Dean says tiredly.

"You won't even have to leave the room." Dean looks at him warily. "I mean it. You won't even have to get up."

"That sounds… odd," Dean says.

"You'll think so, yes. You'll probably say no at first, but-"

"You're not selling this well."

"Dean."

"Go on."

"It's something I used to do with Anna," Cas says. "Well, it's based on that."

Dean just about holds back from saying 'so it's a cripple thing'. "What do I have to do?"

"I told you, nothing."

"Well, I'm real good at doing nothing."

"Then you should be an expert at this. Where are your headphones?"

Dean squints at him suspiciously. "Wh-"

"Dean."

"When did you get so bossy?" Dean grumbles. "Top right drawer. Player's attached."

Cas finds them and hands them to Dean. "Put them on."

Dean can't find a reason to argue with that, so he does as he's told. Cas proceeds to close the blinds and flick the overhead light off. Summer is starting the slow decline into autumn, so the room is still dimly lit; Dean's blinds aren't that good. Cas walks straight past the chair and sits on the bed by Dean, like personal space is something that only applies to other people. Dean should probably be more uncomfortable with that than he is.

"This is getting weird," Dean asks. "You're not gonna hypnotise me, are you?"

Cas actually rolls his eyes. "Do I look like someone who believes in hypnotism?"

"You look like someone who doesn't want to look like someone who believes in hypnotism."

"Now you're stalling."

"I'm scared. Are you gonna electric shock me or something?"

Cas' lips break into a small smile, the familiar 'you are an idiot and I find it strangely endearing' look that Dean's come to regard a little like water, like oxygen.

"It won't hurt, and it won't last for long. If you really want to stop, then I will- but give it a chance, Dean."

Dean's tempted to ask if it's some freaky fetish thing, except that Cas said he did this with Anna, and if that is something Cas is into then Dean really does not want to know. He weighs things up and decides surrender is probably his best option.

"What do I need to do?"

"Lie down," Cas instructs, "and close your eyes. You can listen to whatever music you want- I used to play Anna classical, but I get the impression you would object to that."

"Understatement," Dean says, using the bar on the wall to slide down the bed a little. He picks a quieter song, but he still turns the volume up way too high as he closes his eyes and waits.

Something cold touches his neck, and his eyes snap open.

"The fuck-"

"Trust me," Cas says softly. It's been months since Cas first showed, months of and fights and fuck-ups and breakdowns, and yet somehow they're both still here. Dean figures that a little trust is the least he can give, and he closes his eyes again.

"Thank you," he hears Cas say over the music. The cold sensation on his neck is dampened a little when something warm joins it- fingers, Dean realises after a second. Warm, strong fingers are pressing to the side of his neck, sliding up and down. Dean smells cream- thankfully, the unscented kind- and realises what the cold stuff is. He knows a lot of the carers and volunteers do massage, but it's mostly on hands and feet, and neither of those mean much to Dean.

Cas' fingers trail up to his ear and then down to the collar of his t-shirt, thumb swirling in circles. More cold cream finds the other side of his throat, and the same gentle fingers rub it in. Dean takes a moment to be grateful that Cas closed the door, because this must look really fucking weird- but it actually feels pretty good. Dean's confidence that he's sussed out Cas' plan is broken when something new touches his face- still cold, but this sensation is definitely dry. He cracks one eye open and sees a small piece of silk in Cas' hands, white and slightly fraying. Weird, okay, but he's sat through worse.

The silk trails across Dean's throat and up to his jaw, the very edges of it brushing against the sides of his face. Dean's world is dark and ruled by the steady beat of bass in his ears, and with everything else taken away, the brush of material against his forehead is the bright spray of graffiti against a plain-brick building, a splash of ink on a white paper background. He tracks its movement across his face, down his throat, even ghosting briefly across his lips.

The sensation disappears and something new replaces it- rougher, coarser. It begins at his elbow and is dragged slowly up his arm, skipping the patch of shoulder covered by his t-shirt and sweeping in behind his ear. Carpet, he identifies eventually, a small smile coming to his lips. Shit, it's been a long time since he felt carpet.

The next is thick and soft- flannel, Dean thinks, or maybe a towel. It's replaced soon after by a strip of cotton, a light, fluttering thing that finds its way across his closed eyelids, the feel of it burrowing down to his fingertips and becoming memories of pulling on a t-shirt or tugging at a girl's sundress. Wool, he realises, feels very different to flannel- it's more uneven, warmer, more reassuring somehow. Cotton wool is gentle at first, but after a while it gains a harsher edge to it.

Denim scratches against his throat and velvet hugs his face, fleece and fake fur different kinds of soft. The material brushes along his neck, his jaw, his cheeks, nose, forehead, eyelids, ears. The slightest brush of touch becomes a firework on a pitch-black December night, every sensation blown into something that cannot be brushed aside or forgotten. The music in his ears is loud, the touches to his face unmistakable, and he feels it, he feels it all; he has never felt more.

I'm real, he thinks, the thought unbidden, bizarre. The world is no longer at arm's length; the world surrounds him, fills him, tendrils finding the gaps between his cells and curling around them, protective: there you are. I thought I'd lost you. Dean does not feel dead; he does not feel forgotten. He feels wanted. He feels found. I'm real.

The final song on the album is drawing to a close, and Dean doesn't have another one queued. There is a quiet strumming of guitar, the gentle hum of voices coming together as one, and he feels the warmth of Cas' thumb slip as he pulls the material away. Something new brushes over Dean's cheek like breath made material, like a handful of kisses all hitting at once, and Dean doesn't know how he recognises feathers except that he does.

"That's the last one," Cas says. Dean opens his eyes and pushes himself up a little, turning towards Cas. Maybe it's PT and maybe it's dumb luck, or maybe God sat up and paid attention for once in Dean's damn life, but when he reaches for Cas' wrists, he finds them. Dean curls his fingers around them, holding Cas still. He looks at the feathers dangling from Cas' fingers and then jerks his head down slightly- drop them. Cas does.

They float towards Dean's body, their descent slow and unhurried, but he pays little attention. Cas' hands are only inches from his face, and Dean gently pulls at his wrists until Cas' fingers brush the side of his face. Dean looks at Cas and hopes that his eyes can say what he doesn't trust his lips to, because the connection between his heart and mouth may still be blocked, but he and Cas are getting good at carving out alternates. He is need and want and he is here, and Cas would choose him over the world but Dean doesn't think he has to, not anymore.

Slowly, so slowly that at first Dean doesn't think he's going to, Cas starts to move his hands. His fingers trace the contours of Dean's face, outlining his jaw and ghosting across the stubble of his chin. Dean keeps his eyes open this time, fixed intently on Cas' face, and yet he feels every touch a thousand times more intensely than he had in the darkness. Cas' own eyes follow the path of this fingers, mapping out Dean's face like it's blessed, like it's holy, like it's something he never wants to forget. His thumbs brush across Dean's cheekbones, fingertips arching over his eyelids, palms coming to rest on the side of Dean's head until he is holding Dean's face in his hands.

Dean moves his hands from Cas' wrists to his neck, fingers resting on Cas' shoulders, and he tilts his head forward until their foreheads are pressed together. Dean's so close that he can feel Cas' breath on his lips; so close that when he turns his head, his lips brush against Cas' skin. He begins to mouth along the line of Cas' jaw, and a joke comes to mind- sorry, but my hands don't work so good- but the hitch he hears in Cas' breathing when his teeth graze the spot just below Cas' ear turns it to dust.

Dean breathes in the scent of soap and aftershave and something more-the smells that make somebody flesh and blood, that make them real. He goes back the way he came, coming to a rest with his lips a hair's breadth away from Cas'. It's the easiest thing in the world to close the gap.

The noise Cas makes is almost a keening sound, Dean's own desperation echoed back at him, and it's like two jagged halves fitting together to make something that feels whole. Cas' hands slide to the back of Dean's head, pulling him as close as he can, and it might have been a long time since Dean has kissed someone but that doesn't mean he's forgotten how. He kisses like a dying man given water, like a drowning man finding land, like in this moment his continued existence depends entirely on the feel of Cas' hair in his hands and his tongue behind Dean's teeth and Dean really, really wants this existence to continue.

For a while, time doesn't get any say in things. When it finally butts its way back into Dean's consciousness, it finds his lips slipping from Cas', his hands going nowhere and personal space remaining a laughable concept.

Dean is still.

A sick feeling is starting to descend into his stomach, the kind that comes with jumping into a lake and realising, as the water closes over your head, that you do not know the depth. He breathes out, a cautious, juddering thing, and he tries to think of the right thing to say.

"I should make it clear," Cas says, his voice hoarse and heavy, "that I did not do that with my sister."

That... had not been on Dean's mind.

If it's not offensive, it should at least be hilarious- but instead, for some reason, it just makes Dean happy. He chuckles, affection bubbling in his chest until it threatens to burst, and Cas pulls back just enough to let Dean can see the slightly suspicious confusion in his eyes.

"That was a bad thing to say, wasn't it?"

"Uh, kinda," Dean says, still sniggering. Cas considers this. He starts a sentence, gives up, tries again, gives up, then leans forward and kisses Dean once, lightly.

"I didn't know what else to do," Cas says, an apologetic explanation.

Dean kisses him back. "Solve more problems that way."