A/N: Moving back on campus, school starting, yadda yadda. Thanks to the mysterious Guest Reviewer- I couldn't respond to you individually!

For those of you who've been holding out for some actual Destiel... Let's just say I hope this doesn't disappoint ;D

"What do you mean 'we can't save Sam'?" Dean hissed, his frustration boiling over.

Cas shrugged wearily, as if a giant weight was pressing down on him. "What do you want me to say, Dean? Your brother is in Hell, probably under strict guard. It took every ounce of power I had to rescue you. And that was when I had the Heavenly host at my side. Now I'm…" He paused, blowing out a long breath that ended in an odd, cynical little chuckle that was chillingly uncharacteristic, "Impotent, I suppose. 'Can't get it up' as you would say."

"So what, you wanna sit around with your thumb up your ass?" Dean was livid now. All those prayers, that energy, the hope, wasted. I cared about you, you lousy sonofabitch. His heart was racing, heat rising in his face. Strangled, bellowing breaths blew in and out from his lips.

Cas shrugged again, this time only managing a faint twitch of his shoulders. His eyes were far away. "All I know is that something is wrong up there."

"Yeah, well I can see something wrong right in front of me," Dean spat.

"I never said I didn't agree. I am an abomination, after all. I'm just not sure how to get it through your thick skull; Heaven doesn't want me anymore."

Dean's fingers twitched into a spastic fist. He needed to squeeze, him, slap him, make him care. The former angel was slumped limply on the worn couch, curling in on himself as if he was in pain.

"THIS IS SAM WE'RE TALKING ABOUT HERE. NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO MOPE AROUND FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF!" Dean roared. Cas at least had the decency to flinch, averting his eyes from the hunter's thunderous visage.

Anger formed had formed a tight fist in Dean's gut, its heavy pressure pushing uncomfortably against his insides. He swallowed convulsively, mad impulses dashing across his body.

A punch connecting solidly with Cas' cheekbone, knuckles stinging.

The coffee table unpending, sending books scattering like leaves.

A primal howl tearing from his throat.

Cas was looking at him with the same blank stare he'd worn when they'd first met. As if he were trying to deconstruct Dean, pick apart his words and tics and come to a logical conclusion about the human race.

"You have my sympathies," he said evenly, without breaking eye contact.

Dean saw white for a moment, awed at the utter inadequacy of the response. Blinded by Cas' ignorance.

He leaned in closer, breathing in the stench of stale sweat and sickness.

Look me in the eye, I dare you.

Cas tilted his chin up expectantly, an attempt to gauge the effectiveness of his words.

Dean kissed him. Not with grace or finesse but with a powerful mashing of lips and teeth, like he was trying to convey all his black frustration and stubborn hope in one action. He needed Cas to feel again. So he dug his fingers into the nape of the other man's neck, gripping the short, coarse hairs. He needed Cas to hurt. To want.

He needed Cas.

Dean was beginning to try his patience. The hunter refused to see what was right in front of him, what logic clearly indicated was beyond the limits of possibility. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cas sensed that this was a coping mechanism of sorts. Denial. That Dean was hurt and confused, grasping on to any solution available.

He's not trying to hurt you.

But frankly, Cas was too tired to care. The low-watt lamp Dean had been reading by buzzed like a mosquito at the back of his skull.

I'm not made for this. I'm a soldier, not a therapist.

Was a soldier, he corrected, again feeling the itchy discomfort of shame and frustration burrowing into his chest.

That was another thing that surprised him about being human. How emotions somehow wormed their way into physical sensation, demanding attention, reminding him they were real.

Cas stared at Dean, who stood over him with his fingers digging into his thighs and wondered what Sam's absence felt like. Was it a constant, gnawing pain like hunger? A sharp stab? Pins and needles? The feverish light in the hunter's eyes spoke of burning, from the inside out. It would consume him entirely, leaving nothing but ash.

"You have my sympathies." The words slid out before Cas could mull them over, another instance in which his new body acted independently of his mind.

The other man froze, letting out an involuntary growl. The anger in his face was total and absolute.

Who is at fault here? I'm tired and broken and I can't bear to see you constantly putting your faith in me. It seemed to Cas that they simply took turns betraying and misunderstanding one another.

Dean's face loomed closer, swelling in his field of vision like a freckled balloon.

You can't fathom how sorry I am.

And then he was pressed into the fabric, spine digging into the springs. The sensation reminded him of when his wings were new and unblemished, fragile bones poking through the skin.

How different he was then; eager and obedient. A proud, perfect weapon of God. Now his body was reacting on its own accord. Heart jumping wildly inside his chest, lungs devoid of oxygen. Susceptible to the myriad fallibilities of every other human on the planet. Stroke, coronary, sex. They were all the same really.

Or so he had thought.

Cas found himself pressing into Dean's touch, rather than away. Submitting to the embrace with clumsy, unpracticed movements. His body, kept so cold and rigid the past ten years, was hungry for touch.

Dean let out a small noise; half gasp, half snarl. His teeth clacked together, pinching Cas' lower lip between them. The skin broke, causing drops of blood to smear across their chins.

Suddenly, Cas was drowning. The salty taste flooded his mouth along with the slightly alcoholic tang of Dean's saliva, the heady scent of oil and exhaust, underlain with dirt, the bulk of the hunter leaning into him, the friction of the couch, his clothing- Dean enfolded him, invading a bruised and battered brain. Cas thought his nerves might explode trying to keep up with each new sensation, re-learning how to synapse.

An unholy baptism. Reborn in lust.

And suddenly the weight was gone. Dean had stood, swiping at the blood half-heartedly, like a man waking from a dream. His eyes were hooded, unreadable. He pivoted abruptly and marched out the door. A minute later the Impala roared to life.

Cas stared after him, a small smear crusting on his chin.

Look at how far you've fallen.