The Obligatory Flashback
~Via prayers from Dean Winchester~

Castiel flexes his wings for the first time in over a year - truly flexes them. Their presence had never completely faded from his grasp, but the weight of the Leviathan kept him grounded in that time, and miserable for it. Dean told him once that some things were like learning to ride a bicycle: Castiel assumed he'd been trying to tell him that once you know a skill, you don't ever really forget. It's only pushed into the back of your mind until you need it again. He now has a fairly accurate basis of comparison for that particular saying. He takes deep, steady breaths with Jimmy's lungs, feels his own grace thrumming within his vessel. It's weak at the moment, his grace, but it will grow stronger with time and rest.

Then the nausea overtakes him. Castiel seizes and clutches at his head instinctively, hissing in pain. He focuses on quieting the voice that echoes loudly and incoherently within his mind. It is only one voice, yet it speaks with the intensity of a thousand. One single voice, saying a mess of words that he can't understand. 'Think, concentrate.' The words certainly aren't Enochian. 'English.' The soul, it feels familiar.

"Dean."

As the name tumbles from his lips, dozens of memories play in his mind at once. Every memory is a different prayer. A thousand voices - a thousand prayers, all from Dean Winchester. Dean is praying to him right now. Elated, Castiel sends away the memories of past prayers to better hear this current one:

"Cas?"

Dean sounds exhausted, like he's hanging onto his last thread of hope. Castiel allows his eyes to fall shut; he imagines Dean standing in front of him, his head tilted up towards the ceiling of the motel room, sad eyes narrowed and jaw set in a permanent frown.

"Cas, I wanna believe that you're still alive, that you MacGyver'd your way out of Purgatory somehow. Sam thinks you did. And if anyone could, it's you."

He pauses to glance over at Sam, who is asleep on the other bed. When Dean speaks again, his voice has dropped to a whisper.

"You can't be dead, because how am I supposed to- to live with myself if you are? I promised to get you out of there. I swore that it would be all or none. So... don't be dead, Cas. Don't you dare be dead."

The mirage of Dean and the motel fades away, replaced by reality: a narrow dirt road stretching across miles and miles of farmland, illuminated only by a waxing moon that hangs high in the sky. Castiel wants nothing more than to go to Dean, show him that he is okay. But his grace has been damaged far too much; he isn't even sure if it's safe for him to fly, be it a mile or a thousand miles. For now, he must wait.

Dean doesn't pray for another two weeks; in that time, Castiel has regained his ability to fly, along with a few more of his vital angelic functions. It should not have taken so long to recover under normal conditions, but he is not operating under normal conditions: he's cut off from Heaven completely. He'd been forced to ignore the feeling of unfulfillment in Purgatory, because he wouldn't have survived long had he not worked past that weakness. It was when he walked the Earth once again, after a year of being disconnected, that he realized the possibility of his situation being more permanent than he initially anticipated. And even if he wanted to test this theory, it's a bad idea to simply fly into Heaven - not after everything he did. Even if he wanted to face his brethren, Heaven wouldn't take him back. Of that he is certain.

The next prayer comes in the form of a status report, and Castiel is only too happy to have a distraction. Meditation provides little in the way of entertainment when it's the only activity on one's agenda.

"Cas."

Dean's voice sounds more hesitant this time, as opposed to the desperation in his last prayer.

"I- I feel like an idiot, praying to you when I don't even know if you're... alive, but- I dunno."

Dean is alone in the new motel room, Castiel can ascertain, though Sam's presence is nearby: he must be in the bathroom. It is confirmed when Dean glances over at the bathroom door as if watching for Sam to come out.

"Caught a case in Evart, Michigan. We think it's a crocotta- well, Sam figures it's a crocotta, and I agree." He chuckles hollowly. "Damn, haven't hunted one of these in years. Way before I met you, even. The big showdown'll probably go down tonight. We just have to find its hideout."

Dean's attention is caught by sounds of movement from the bathroom. He rushes to finish his prayer:

"That's my cue to sign off, so... Amen?"

For the first time since he's returned, Castiel smiles. It's nothing more than a twitch of the lips and a warm feeling in his grace, but it's enough.

That very night brings another prayer, but a concerning one. Now that Castiel knows where Dean and Sam are - which he suspects had been intentional - it's that much harder for him to not go immediately to them. It becomes near impossible upon receiving this new prayer. Ah yes, this prayer is different than the others because it isn't spoken aloud. Dean sits in the passenger's seat of his beloved impala, cradling his right arm, his movements stiff, his soul emanating distress. It fills Castiel with unease and a strong urge to fly to him. Two weeks of wandering farmland and meditating in abandoned barns has made him lonely, restless, and eager to rejoin the good fight.

Dean's jumbled rambling at last reaches him, though quieter than Castiel is used to.

'Hey there, Cas. Good news. The crocotta is dead. Get this: girl named Christina had a secret admirer who sent her lovey dovey crap online. Her boyfriend Raul - who's a real douchebag, if you ask me - didn't like that too much, so he goes on her Facebook page or whatever the hell it's called, not that you know what that is, I guess- anyway, he finds out that she's gonna meet the mystery lover boy. We followed the same lead, but he beat us to the punch. Of course her secret admirer turns out to be a freakin' monster. Didn't get there in time to save the girl, but Raul walked out alive. He's a spoiled punk, but at least he ain't dead, I guess.'

Guilt joined the Stress and the physical pain- more fuel to the white hot intensity of self hatred burning in Dean's core. Dean blamed himself for the woman's death, though it seemed unlikely that he could have done anything to prevent it. It felt unbearable as a second-hand sensation; Castiel wondered with mild horror how Dean could stand to harbor it within himself constantly.

'But that son of a bitch managed to get a few potshots in before we ganked him: threw me around the room like a damn rag doll. Almost tore my arm off, the bastard. I'm gonna feel great tomorrow. Sam's in better shape than I am, thank God for that. Heading back to the hotel. Place called O'Malley's. God, I really need some pie right about now. And alcohol, lots of alcohol. And sleep. Definitely sleep. First thing I'm gonna do when I get to the hotel is take a nice long shower, while I can still feel my arms and legs. Then I'm gonna drink myself unconscious.'

Sam speaks to Dean, muffled words that Castiel can't make out.

'Back at the hotel now, so... that's it. Keep kickin', wherever you are.'

Castiel can no longer remain in hiding. Dean is hurt, physically and emotionally, and he was going to bury it in a dark corner of his mind as he did with his other moments of emotional trauma. Castiel won't allow this to happen. He won't let Dean destroy himself again and again over things that he can't control. He is through with waiting until his strength returns. He may not be as powerful as he once was, but he can help with what power he does have. He can still be useful.

This thought carries him to the Connor O'Malley's Irish Pub and Restaurant. He circles the building one time in a single blink, and once he's located where Dean's soul resides, he's in the room without a second thought. And Dean is there, sprawled haphazardly on one of the beds. He looks almost unconscious. Fearing this to be the case, Castiel feels the beginnings of Panic leap in his stomach. He has to make sure that Dean is okay.

"Dean." Castiel calls, hoping that his voice doesn't betray Anxiety.

Startled, the man scrambles out of bed and whips out a knife. Oh. Castiel considers too late that his sudden appearance would further distress Dean: he reaches out to Dean with his grace, soothing his soul by showing it that he is a familiar presence. It drains him immensely, but Dean drops his knife and looks on him with an expression that makes it all worth it.

"Cas, you're..."

Castiel feels- well, he feels many things, but the strongest feeling is Safe. He is pulled into a tight hug, clinging and intimate, Safe enveloping them both so greatly that a hug just isn't enough for him. It's not enough. Castiel grips Dean's soul and pulls it closer to his grace, so close as to be almost touching, but it isn't enough. He presses Dean into the wall, cradling his face, annoyed that Dean is resisting him when he can feel Desire boiling underneath his Hesitation. Castiel feels all this and blindly obeys his feelings in the heat of the moment, winning two passioned kisses and - had Sam not entered the room right then - he might have begun to ravage that wicked soul with the fire in his grace.

"Cas?"

His eyes widen (like a deer caught in the headlights, Dean would later tell him) as his eyes shift their focus from Dean's face to the speechless Sam Winchester standing at the threshold behind him. Dean rips himself away from Castiel, but that isn't necessary because he's already fled the room, flying in one general direction until he calms down enough to land. He instantly regrets leaving Dean behind and almost returns, but that option disappears when another bout of severe nausea, a kind of nausea not associated with prayer, causes him to stagger forward, reaching for the support of the nearest wall. Everything churns and swirls so unpleasantly. It's his grace: he somehow managed to deplete his entire reserve of energy in a single night. Castiel's eyes snap closed, and he falls to the ground unconscious in an alleyway in Tuskegee, Alabama.