Castiel lifted the lapel of his trench coat to his nose. He could smell the Greyhound Bus and the inside of the trucker's cab, such painfully slow ways to travel to this isolated place, the geographical centre of the contiguous United States. Trusting in Garth, he chided himself with his old regret that he had not modified the sigils on the Winchesters' ribs so that he could seek them out. Not that celestial location would be an ability he could draw on for much longer. He looked over his shoulder expecting to see evidence of his leaking grace, like the breadcrumbs in a story called Hansel and Gretel that Jimmy used to read to little Claire.

He raised his fist and pounded on the bunker doors. He waited.

Castiel was well versed in waiting. An inordinate amount of his existence had been spent waiting, pregnant with anticipation for his next orders, expectant of divine revelation, observant of sub-atom changes in the universe. A fluttering trembled in his gut, an unpleasant quiver of suspense. Finally the heavy door was dragged inwards revealing Sam Winchester's face breaking into a wide dimpled smile.

"Castiel!"

"Hello Sam." Castiel tried to crane his neck to see behind Sam, who was looking different. He was paler than the last time Castiel had seen him and he had ink stained fingers and a wool sweater worn over his plaid shirt.

"Is it really you, man? How come you didn't mojo inside? Is there angel-proofing that we can't see?" Sam examined the blank surface of the door and the floor of the threshold.

"This place does not exclude the host. Some of my brethren were summoned here in the past." Castiel tried not to think of the state of Balthazar's wings after the Men of Letters had required a supply of angelic feathers. He avoided the question about his 'mojo' and asked, "Where is Dean?"

Sam coughed, not in a manner indicative of his damage, but in an awkward human fashion. "He is out. Concordia, I figure."

"Concordia? Is there a case so close to your new residence?"

Sam jerked his head in a negative, "It was like pulling teeth." He looked from the doorway up at the evening sky, "It is going to rain, won't you come in Cas?" He used both hands to pull the door fully back, "Did you hear my prayers?"

Castiel looked down at his shoes. They needed to be polished by hand now. "No Sam. I have been cut off from what you call Angel Radio."

"Because of The Angel Tablet?" Sam made a sweeping motion with his arm for Castiel to enter.

"No. I do not believe so. I exercised free will and this is the consequence. When will Dean return from the dentist?"

Sam laughed, a warm sound coming from his belly. "No Cas. Dean is not getting a tooth pulled. Dude, we missed you. Dean is probably at Geary's Bar."

"I will go to him." Castiel announced and forced his wings to spread out on the celestial plane.

"Wait!" Sam cried, but Castiel had already vamoosed.

SPNSPNSPNSSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPNSPSNPSN

The rain cloud had already burst over Concordia and heavy drops plummeted to the ground of the parking lot. Castiel's legs gave out when he manifested. His grace level hit a new low as he arrested his fall with his hands spread flat on the hood of the Impala.

Dean was close by.

Straightening up and closing his eyes to centre himself, Castiel pushed his shoulders back retracting his wings. He had to be strong for Dean, not reveal too soon the broken fragile state of his grace and his body. He was unsure of his reception. He remembered every word Dean had spoken to him in Lucifer's crypt. He needed Dean as much in return, but he was certain that the version of The Angel Castiel that now existed was not the one that Dean required. This falling weakened being might repulse the hunter, or perhaps Dean's bright compassion would pity Castiel. The angel didn't know which would be worse and he almost turned around and departed. He needed to see Dean, but at that instant in time he felt every missing drop of his grace, so he wrapped his wings around tight and hid from human eyes. He ignored the prick of guilt. Spying again, Dean might think. Castiel bit his lip too hard and a bead of blood rose on the soft inner skin.

Dean was at the pool table. He looked good. He had his soft brown toned plaid shirt over his worn olive green tee. He was wearing the denims with a rip at the knee. Castiel never knew if the rip was intentional or damage from a hunt that Dean had not taken the time to repair. Focusing his admiration closer he noticed Dean looked a little tired maybe, dark circles marring his unique eyes. Castiel presumed they were due to Dean's worries about his brother and regretted that there was no way for him to heal Sam's damage. He leaned against a cold paint-flaking pillar to watch Dean apply his hustle.

The mark was a tall well built man with the aura of a gentle giant. This was a good man and Castiel's mouth twitched in mild disapproval of the lengths Dean and Sam had to take to survive in the world, but he did not interfere. He was content to observe until Dean claimed his winnings, and then he would appear, too close, perhaps behind his friend, perhaps in the seat next to him and greet Dean. Dean would startle (adorably), perhaps cuss him out and tell him that he still had no concept of personal space. A smile broke over Castiel's hidden face at the imagined event.

Attention back on the game, Dean had missed a shot. He threw his head back laughing at his error. Castiel's eyebrows rose. This was not typical of the hustle. The other player came round to Dean's side of the table to analyze the position of the colors. Dean moved closer to him. Castiel watched Dean intensely, wondering if he was going to pickpocket the guy's wallet, but Dean did not make the well oiled movement, instead he leaned in closer, so close that the right side of Dean's body was pressed into the left side of the other man. They did not pull apart, rather the black haired man put his cue against the table and slung an arm over Dean's shoulder, then bent his head to blow air into Dean's hair and whisper something in his ear. Castiel watched a blush rise up Dean's neck and flush his cheeks. Still Dean continued to lean into the other man.

Tears pricked Castiel's eyes. He didn't know why. His mind swam in confusion at his sudden emotional reaction to the scene. He extended his wings and moved to the interior of the bunker. This time he could not stop his knees from giving way and he face planted onto the floor, coat flaring around him.

"Cas! Castiel. You have got to be kidding? What the fuck?" Sam rounded the long reading table and dropped down beside the angel. There was blood dripping from a cut above his eyebrow. Sam pulled one of his supply of Men of Letters monogrammed linen handkerchiefs from his jeans pocket and patted the blood away. "Cas, man, what is wrong with you?"

Castiel pulled himself up so that he was kneeling back on his haunches next to Sam. His eyes drank in the library. "My grace. It is draining away."

"Awh, man, that sucks."

"It does suck." Castiel stood slowly easing aching muscles.

"Did you find Dean?"

"He was otherwise engaged."

"Ah-ha, he was with 'Paula', I guess." Sam put finger quotes around 'Paula'.

"I do not understand your…." Castiel copied Sam's finger quotes, "Dean was in the presence of a large Irish-American giant, who he was permitting to remain inside his personal space."

"Taller than me?" Sam asked the most important question.

"I believe so, Sam."

"What about his hands and feet, were they big?"

"I am not completely ignorant Sam," Castiel looked horrified, "I did not ascertain the size of the man's hands. I have a foreign urge to apply cruel epithets to Dean's new friend."

Sam chuckled. "I believe you are jealous."

Castiel examined his reactions for evidence of envy. He had been surprised, unprepared, to see Dean in an intimate stance with another man. He had seen him stand shoulder to shoulder with Benny but that was in another world. He had seen him in countless positions with women over the years. However tonight he had wished himself into the place of the giant man, into the position of having Dean lean into his side. Yet he did not wish ill on the other man.

"No Sam. I am not jealous. I am tired," and mentally added that he was unworthy of possessing an entitlement to Dean's affections.

"Would you like some tea?" Sam asked, "Maybe with your depleted batteries, you know, I have a warm pot of green matcha with honey and lemon. I find it eases the pipes."

Castiel nodded and pulled a chair out to sit at a part of the table not covered in open books.

Sam returned from the kitchen with a cup and saucer. The cup had a 1950s rendition of a kitten on it that he thought might amuse Castiel. He approached realizing the angel had made a pillow of his folded arms and was asleep at the table.

"That's not a good sign." Sam sighed and putting the cup down at his own place, he ran a hand through his hair. He took a sip of the tea and returned to his treatise on the nature of solitary vampires. He tried to keep the volume of his racking cough down. Gregory of Antioch's text began to describe a nest of starving vamps that had been ganked by the heroic Ethelbert the Saxon. It sounded better in Latin. The door slammed. He checked Castiel but the angel had not made a sign of reaction.

His brother's merry voice called, "Samantha, I'm home."