No Command

His feet are stone. Cas can't move them any further. The muscles in his legs have given up and all his recent, sleepless nights are charging at him with full speed. Exhaustion makes every joint weak; it makes him slightly nauseous and Cas wonders if he can even form words without yawning and vomiting all at once.

There he is, helpless on Dean's doorstep. Neither able to move or breath. He is going to faint, he knows it.

The door begins to shift, striking Cas with a bolt of adrenaline. His heart pounds and stops in chaotic rhythm as he sees Dean step through. The tall man looks like he has just showered and shaved— and Cas almost doesn't recognize him. It has been months since Dean looked like he took pride in his own appearance. Castiel almost forgot all those extra minutes he would spend waiting for Dean to fix his hair or pick out the right shirt. The man would never admit it, but he liked to look good. Castiel had admired that in Dean- he missed it more than he thought he would when Dean started to fall.

But now, he almost looks like he used to. Almost- a little more tired. A little thinner. Dean is wearing a corded, long sleeved shirt that grips tightly to his folded arms. The sleeves are pushed up, adding a bit more bulk to the already rounding muscles hidden beneath. Cas has always liked that shirt on his friend. It was the same color as his eyes and it makes him look kinder than the leather, biker jacket he usually encases himself in. He knows Dean wants to look intimidating but Cas has always favored the softer side—that was the side he first met. That was the side he became fast friends with. Until recently, that was the only side Dean had ever shown him.

"Hey Cas."

Dean leans into the door frame like Cas saw him do earlier, this time—not looking defensive, just looking like Dean.

"Dean, I—really am sorry."

"Cas, you really need to stop apologizing."

Dean smiles and Cas smiles back; a deeply engrained reaction that he has tried to analyze in the past, but quickly resolved to just be happy that it happens.

"Can you come in?" Dean's eyebrows rise with the question as he shifts his body to the side and gestures into the house.

Cas nods meagerly just before moving past the taller man and into the living room—still spotless from when he cleaned it before. Relief washes over him as he notices the lack of liquor bottles or smell of stale beer. There is only the faint scent of lemon cleaner and rosemary. Cas grins to himself with the deduction that Dean found one of the meals he made.

The door shuts softly behind him with a gentle click. Cas takes a deep breath as he turns around to face Dean. He holds the air tight in his lungs as his eyes falls on the hurt and concern wrecking Dean's usually perfect features.

"Are you alright, Dean?" Cas's worry contorts his face to mirror his friend's.

"No Cas, I need to be the one apologizing and I haven't done that yet. I don't—I don't even know how to start."

"Oh . . ."

Cas begins cursing his weakness with words for the millionth time in his life—if there were ever a moment to know what to say, this would be it. But he has never felt more helpless. This is when he would normally be calling Dean, and asking for pointers on how to speak. He would express to him, in his befuddled way, what he would like to say, and Dean would laugh and mock playfully, just before winding together some artfully shaped sentences that Cas would later mutilate. The results, in any case, still better than anything Cas could come up on his own

"Cas, buddy, I can't . . . I can't explain why I did what I did. I was so drunk and, well . . . I have just been so, so fucking pissed at the world! I just . . . I know, that's no excuse. But, I just-"

Cas is still—amazed that Dean is sounding like he often does: confused, scared, unaware of the words he wants or even how to use the ones he has. He wants to stop the man, keep him from the torture he knows all too well.

"I am just, so, so sorry Cas. You have no idea how sorry I am." Dean looks at the ground, his arms are tight along the length of his body, and his hands fumble inside his pockets. Cas likens him to a scolded child in a room full of breakables. "I want you to not be—to not be scared of me."

Dean looks up from under his brow, his green eyes reddening slightly as the corners dampen, just enough that Cas thinks Dean hasn't even noticed yet. The sight makes his heart explode. He has never seen Dean look so hurt. Even at Ben and Lisa's funerals, there was guilt on Dean's face and he knows how broken Dean was, but this look was something else completely. Cas hates it and every fiber in him wants to manually reshape Dean's features. He needs Dean to smile again.

"Dean, I am not afraid of you, I could never-" Cas feels his voice hitch and something within him really wants to feel Dean's arm around his shoulder, instantly making him feel selfish for thinking of his own comfort as Dean falls apart in front of him. "I could never be afraid of you." Cas finds himself closer to Dean before he even realizes his feet have moved. He tilts his head slightly, leaning in, as if to will the words through his friend's ears. Dean doesn't back away, surprising Cas a little—they usually aren't this close to one another and he thought it would be making the man uncomfortable by now. Dean's shoulders rise a bit as he looks back down at the ground.

"I wish I could say the same, Cas. I scared myself back there."

Castiel watches as his friend lets out a long, rickety breath. He desperately wants Dean to look at him. Green eyes finally rise and meet his own as he stumbles on words to say. Before he can think of a single one, Dean's gaze falls slightly and Cas wonders a moment before realizing that Dean is looking at his bruised jaw. Cas turns his head the opposite way, wanting to hide what is there; he doesn't need his friend feeling any more guilt.

Dean's right hand pulls smoothly from his pocket and rises up; Cas watches in bated breath as Dean's fingers come up to touch the stubbled angles of his jaw. The action seems out of character. Cas knows Dean likes to keep his hands to himself. Even the occasional hug makes him jittery. He starts to wonder if Dean even realizes what he is doing.

"Your face . . ." Dean says, voice wrecked.

"It's okay, Dean." Cas offers, knowing it will do little.

"Okay?" Dean looks desperately into Cas's eyes; his mouth sagging open—lips, shaking with doubt. "It's so not okay, Cas!"

Dean's voice is low but strong, heavy with guilt, and with what Cas can only assume is exhaustion—he hears it in himself.

"Dean, I'm fine . . . really." Cas can't even finish the words before Dean is pushing past him. He watches as the man storms beyond the kitchen and down the dark hall. His fading silhouette stops halfway, shadowy hands reaching up to his hair and gripping it tight. Cas wants to say something, but again- no words come out. Dean turns partially back, facing the wall. A fierce grunt escapes his lips as his fist makes contact with white plaster, shaking the house.

Castiel freezes, wondering a moment if he is afraid—afraid to feel that fist again, but the sudden forward motion of his body tells him differently. Dean's muffled sobs grow louder as Cas closes in. He watches as Dean slides down the opposite wall, his face hidden beneath his large hands. He touches ground and folds his arms across his knees, letting his head fall into the space between them. Dean's shoulders drop and Cas can hear his chest battle against the attack of restrained emotion.

Cas looms over him for a moment, unsure of what his next move should be. Dean doesn't look up even though Cas knows, he is aware of his presence in the hall. The tears have been sucked back, making the crumpled man take short little gasps, trying to calm himself down; an attempt to avoid looking weak. Cas has seen Dean cry before, he hates the sight but he knows Dean hates the vulnerability more.

Cas takes a small step back, turning on his heels before sliding his back down the wall. The final drop leaves him resting just beside his friend. The two men sit in silence a moment. Cas—head back, legs outstretched, his hands clasped in his lap, staring seemingly at nothing; Dean, a tightly closed off ball of a man beside him.

"None of this is your fault, Dean." The words slip softly off of Cas's tongue; they come easily. He breathes in deep and watches Dean's shoulders tense out of the corner of his eye.

"Ben, Lisa . . . me. None of it. You carry all this blame—blame for things that were accidental, or the result of too many unfortunate events." Cas drops his chin to his chest, turning his head a touch to observe the form of the man beside him.

"You are a strong man Dean Winchester, but even you don't have the command to ruin everything like you think you do."

There is a quietness over the house, the air seems to freeze as Cas's words trail into the vapors.

Dean's ears pull back, as if something is grabbing them and slowly lifting his head from the nest of his arms. He turns and looks at Castiel, his jaw slightly slacked. Bloodshot eyes, still dampened by old tears. Cas remains static, letting Dean collects him in his sights.

He feels his chest tighten as his friend of seven years pulls his back off the wall and leans in close. Strong, gentle fingers pinch Cas's chin and pull him in, closing the gap between the two men. He feels his lips connect with the warmth and softness of Dean's.

An aching second passes before Castiel realizes what is happening. Someplace in the back of his mind tells him he should pull away, but he ignores the suggestion, just like Sam said he would

Instead, he presses in lightly, feeling the same sort of calm he always feels when Dean wraps his arm around his shoulders or gives him the occasional hug. Cas closes his eyes and relaxes his rigid muscles, allowing the rest of his body to fall towards Dean. He sips in the scent of Dean's aftershave, as pleasant hints of rosemary dance along his tongue.