A/N: I just realized I picked the worst possible name for this fic. Because now, whenever I get email alerts, it's always "_ is following following you," and that just sounds weird.

It took no small amount of effort for Dean to fold his brother into the backseat of the Impala, but he managed it, and the second he'd made Sam as comfortable as he could manage he pulled away, prepared to floor the gas pedal until they reached the nearest hospital.

Sam wasn't having any of that.

"Dn," he muttered, latching onto the edge of his sleeve. "Crwly."

"Let go, Sammy, there's no time." He'd gank the sonuvabitch right now if he could, but Sam was the priority. Crowley could just sit and stew in his devil's trap, and if he became a problem later they'd deal with him then. Together, this time.

"No." He was surprisingly adamant. "Lt hm go."

"Are you crazy?!" But Sam kept on shaking his head, and Dean couldn't refuse him, not in that state, so it was with a shriek of frustration that he tore away back into the church, demon killing blade in hand.

Crowley was crying, frenzied, before he even reached him. "I'm nearly human, please, don't kill me, please."

That gave Dean pause, and he peered at the part-demon who had never begged, to his knowledge, the entire time he'd known him. He raised the knife and watched, fascinated, as Crowley, Crowley, flinched away.

Then he bent down, and began undoing his bindings. "Oh, I'm not going to kill you now," he said lowly. "But that's only because of Sammy. Trust me, if I ever see your ugly mug again… I'll waste you."

Work finished, he looked into Crowley's eyes. There was genuine fear in them, and that gave Dean a rush of pleasure, brought a cold smile to his face. He had the upper hand here. "I'd start running if I were you, Crowley," he said. "I can't guarantee I won't come looking for you."

A nod, and Dean was running back to the car. Whatever it took, he was going to cure his brother. Everything else; fallen angels, demons… they could all wait.

oOo

It was weeks before Castiel managed to make it to the bunker. How he finally got to it, he wasn't entirely sure; everything was a mix of stale food and smelly car interiors he'd hitchhiked in, to him. People had been good to him, on his journey here. It stung.

And now that he was here, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be. It would only make it more real, going to Dean and having to tell him, again, that he'd ruined everything. And, what was it Metatron said? I want you to stop thinking about master plans, and Heaven, and angels, and all this… That doesn't concern you anymore.

Castiel wished that was true. But he had a Duty, and that was part of what propelled him to the door. What the other part was, he didn't want to think of. His own fear and loneliness and loss, that wasn't what was important here. He had no right to seek shelter among the Winchesters.

He was faintly surprised when Dean opened the door, and immediately wrapped him in a hug.

"I thought you were dead," his friend whispered, tightening his arms. I wish I was, Castiel thought, but he found himself sinking into the embrace, even returning it. He was filled with a warmth that was pulled away all too soon, as Dean withdrew and looked him over, grinning.

"You look like crap." He did, too; he'd never really stopped, in all the time getting here, to clean himself up, he only slept when he couldn't prevent his body from doing so, and had only eaten morsels of what sympathetic people had given him.

"Yes," he said, and because seeing Dean again only rekindled the worry that had been eating away at him, "Sam?"

"He's recovering." Dean's smile faded slightly. "I think, it looks like it. Come in. And… take a shower. We'll talk after."

The shower was a mild difficulty, but Castiel read all of the labels on all of the containers before beginning, and thought he had a pretty good grasp on which products were used where, and how. The water was warm and beat on his back pleasantly, and it was with a bit of reluctance that he finally withdrew, pulling himself into some spare clothes that Dean had conjured up for him, because there's no way you're getting back into those, it would defeat the whole purpose.

When he entered the living room area, Dean was smiling again. "Took you long enough, princess," he chuckled, and when Castiel shrugged in response, his smile grew wider. But that was only for a moment; then he was all business. He indicated for Castiel to sit next to him on a sofa.

"Talk to me. What's been going on? How are you here?"

Castiel sighed, tried to organize his thoughts. "Metatron betrayed me," he said, softly. "Naomi was right. He stole my grace, and with it completed a spell to expel all the angels from Heaven. I'm… human, now." It hurt more than he expected to say it aloud, his memories were still too painfully vivid, having his throat slit open, his grace pulled out, and suffering those first few, terrifying seconds where he was actually bleeding from the neck, bleeding out and dying, before Metatron healed him and returned him to the Earth. Where he was able to witness, firsthand, the consequences of his stupidity.

Dean's face was open, and Castiel hoped that the broken expression in it wasn't a mirror of his. "Cas…" His hand reached out, hovered in the air as if unsure what to do with itself, before settling on Castiel's arm. "I…"

Castiel's head dropped, he looked at his hands. "The angels are walking the Earth now, and… Dean, I don't know what to do. I need to be told what to do."

There was something in Dean's expression that he couldn't read, and the man's lips opened to answer, as a voice came echoing from the other side of the room.

"Dean? Cas?" It was Sam, holding himself steady on the doorframe, all pale, sweaty skin and feverish eyes.

Dean leapt out of his seat. "You're awake!"