(Whoa... two chapters in two days :) Back to Bobby's POV... and if you are wondering why there is a distinct lack of Bobby's catchphrases well... I feel like over using them is just a cheap way to capture his characterization ((though I did toss in a lone "idgit")) I hope you like it and as always, I am so incredibly grateful for the reviews, faves, and alerts. You all make me so happy!)

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I avoid my own upstairs like the plague. We moved him back there last week, making sure to avoid the room he totaled. And of course, by "we" I mean me and Sam—Dean won't get within twenty feet of him since Cas woke up. This boy is an absolute fool, but of course, that's nothing new. As soon as the angel woke up, the idgit wanted nothing to do with him… In true Winchester fashion.

The tension in the house is nearly suffocating. Sam stays upstairs mostly, coming down every few hours, pale and tight-lipped like a patron at a funeral parlor. Dean is rarely inside at all; instead he passes most of his days working on some junker, or else down at the bar. I'm the middle man, stuck alone in my study with only my books and pervasive thoughts to keep me company. If at all possible, the mood has gotten worse since Castiel woke up. Back then, we were all coming to terms with his death, but now… How in the hell do we deal with this?

"Hey Bobby," Sam's voice cuts through my reverie, and I look up from the book that I had studiously pretended to read for the past hour and a half. I had felt the floor shudder and once—though I did my best not to hear it—the single cry that reverberated throughout the house.

"Is he alright?" I ask, almost dreading the answer.

"I am fine," comes a sudden voice, right behind me. It feels so damned common-place, and yet, I never thought I'd hear it again. I spin around, and sure enough, I am greeted by a painfully familiar face. The only thing missing is that trench coat of his. Instead, Dean's guardian stands before me, his slim frame draped in an oversized shirt and pajama pants. To see him like this, with tousled hair and a bleary look in his eyes, it is hard to believe that this unassuming being had been the closest thing to God that this world had seen in millennia.

"You sure?" I ask after a pause. "What was that shout I heard?"

Cas' head tilted slightly, a frown marring his expression. "My… vessel is still recovering. My grace is still clashing with the vestiges of the…" His voice dies in an instant, and for a moment I don't understand why.

But then the reason becomes abundantly clear, as we hear the door slam shut and the heavy thud of Dean's boots against my linoleum. "Vestiges of what?" He spat out, leaning against my doorframe. "Vestiges of the souls you drugged yourself with?"

Castiel actually flinches at that. Sam took a step forward, his eyes narrowed, but Cas holds up his arm to block him. After the listless eyes that I had to endure as we dragged his hardly responsive body upstairs, I was actually glad to see the anger fill his gaze.

Dean sees it as well. "So. I finally hit a nerve, huh?" He bit out, his shoulders squared confrontationally.

Cas' lips thins. "Dean, I have apologized-" I don't remember ever hearing Cas sound so dangerous when speaking to Dean. (I try not to count his brief stint as the Almighty.) But judging by Sam's alarmed expression; he remembers it all too well. I tend to forget that, for a long time, Cas and Sam were on opposite sides of the proverbial fence.

"Oh and you think that we'll just hug and things will go back to normal?" Dean retorts. Everything about him is just begging for Cas to retaliate, to hurl back a harsh word, or some sort of insult—anything.

Dear God…. It all makes sense now. Dean isn't trying to punish Cas. Dean is pushing him, trying to get the angel to punish him.

I open my mouth to tell the moron off, but before I can, Cas flickers and is in front of Dean in an instant. I can't see his eyes, can't see the anger that he is currently unleashing upon the hunter, but I can feel it. It is a stark reminder that, even wounded, Cas is still an angel, and one scary sonovabitch. He draws himself up like a prize fighter, his bare planted firmly on the floor, facing down the much larger hunter.

And, damn-it-all if Dean doesn't look like Christmas came early.