Title: Gun Shy

Prompt: Written for hugglewolf on livejournal: "SPN, Team Free Will, addicted!Castiel: Post 'My Bloody Valentine', it's Castiel they need to lock in the panic room, and it's hard all round. Especially when Castiel is scared and distrustful of the Winchesters afterwards."

When the door finally opens, Castiel isn't waiting on the other side. Dean actually has to go in and pull the angel up off the floor, drag one limp arm over his shoulders, and guide him outside again.

He tries to ignore Castiel trembling under his arm.

Sam meets them at the top of the stairs, anxious and in Castiel's space as the youngest member of Team Freewill perfects his best puppy dog impression. Anxious circling, pleading eyes, and overeager nature are all out in full force. If the kid had a tail, he'd be wagging it hopefully.

Castiel shudders away from the offer of hot soup, sandwiches, and calling out for pizza. "I am not hungry, Sam," he insists weakly, not meeting either brother's eyes.

Sam's metaphorical tail droops.

"I . . . I do not wish to eat anything ever again," Castiel declares, and Sammy retreats, tail firmly tucked between his legs.

"Alright, no food," Dean decides. "But you really do need to get out of that suit and into a shower, Cas."

"I do not require . . ."

"It'll make you feel better, Cas," Dean explains earnestly. "Just trust me, alright?"

In retrospect, Dean might have chosen better words, he considered as he surveyed the suddenly angel-less kitchen.

"Why is the angel on the roof?" Bobby demanded, wheeling into the kitchen.

"Hello to you too, Bobby," Dean sighed.

Bobby gave the eldest Winchester a good hard look, and then with a huff, smacked Dean upside the back of the head. Dean narrowly avoided being knocked from his chair, and turned back to glare at the older hunter.

"Go get him," was the terse command, and Dean reluctantly untangled himself from the kitchen furniture to obey with Sam at his heels.

"And get my groceries outta the van while yer at it!"

Dean considered that maybe Singer Salvage was just too small for three hunters and their sometime-guardian angel.

Castiel was on the roof just as Bobby had said, standing at the peak, fists clenched in the pockets of the trench coat. Dean gives an idle thought to the kind of traction on Jimmy Novak's shoes.

"I don't think Bobby's got a ladder that high, Dean," Sam worried at his side.

Dean resisted pulling a face. Just how were they supposed to get a nervous angel off the roof anyway? Even if they had a ladder, Castiel could flit off to Timbuktu before they could scale it.

"Do you require something?" Castiel asked stiffly without looking down.

"Could you get your fool neck off my roof before you break it?" Bobby yells from behind them, making the Winchesters jump.

Castiel shook his head once. "I cannot. I am waiting for my grace to recharge."

There was a great deal of swearing, none of which managed to ruffle Castiel who continued to stare out across the horizon.

"I will not harm the roof," Castiel promised, finally glancing down at the hunters, although the look is fleeting.

"I'm talkin' about yer neck!" Bobby bellowed.

Castiel didn't deign to reply.

Dean's dimly aware of Sam talking Bobby back inside and the gruff hunter's strange acquiescence. But he's focused on shielding his eyes and craning his neck to look at the unmoving angel.

And then he finds himself sitting on the grass up against the side of the house detailing all the work a rusted piece of crap on the edge of Bobby's lot would need to run as the angel listened or ignored him from above. He finishes the truck, and moves on to the station wagon next to it. It's inane, but if he doesn't say something, Dean's gonna end up spilling his guts about everything else that went wrong this weekend, and he's not giving up his current edge on the mind-reading angel.

And he's not going to tell Cas of the gut-wrenching guilt and despair that came with sitting outside the panic room door just like this as Dean had tried drinking himself into an early grave. It was quieter this time around without Castiel's cries to bear. Without the sucker punch that came when his name was replaced with Sam's. Or Sam's devastated expression because the younger man knows he couldn't open the door and comfort his newfound friend. Castiel doesn't need to know about Dean falling to pieces out in the Salvage and praying for assistance that never came, or the guilt that came with Castiel's newfound nervous ticks.

He doesn't say any of these things. But he thinks them.

Sam comes out onto the porch, leaning against the railing, but whatever he was going to ask Dean is cut off by Castiel's abrupt appearance three inches from Sam's nose.

There is a long awkward silence as Castiel's blue eyes seem to bore into hazel. Sam cleared his throat. "Um, Cas?"

"I am sorry, Sam Winchester."

Sam blinked. Dean's fairly sure his mouth is hanging open.

"W-what for?"

"For not having the strength or courage to protect you as you have done for me," Castiel intoned softly.

Sam doesn't know what to do with that. "Um . . . thanks, I guess." He looked down and away, then back up shyly. "You sure you don't want to give pizza a try?"

"I would prefer the . . . vegetarian one," Castiel confided, and Dean is going to mock them both for that later, but right now he'll let it all go.

Sam ducked back into the house, and Dean approached Castiel slowly. He drops one hand on the angel's shoulder. Castiel flinched, but did not move away.

"I thought you were waiting for your grace to recharge," Dean asked suspiciously.

Castiel tilted his head to the side.

"I lied."