Seven days passed at an excruciating crawl. Sam's fever was inchin' its way back up to a constant one-oh-four, and Kevin was practically in a tablet coma, nothing to be heard from his room but the rustling of papers and the hollow chiming of the empty red bull cans as he shuffled back and forth to his various notebooks. That left Dean. Surly, heartbroken, and painfully sober, the disappointment in Sam's eyes and the blinding hangover the next morning having been more than enough to keep Dean from dipping back into their whiskey stockpile. He kept at it, trying to keep Sam and Kevin alive while dragging Castiel's rejection around like a pair of shackles around his ankles.

And then there was Crowley. The former King of Hell was toeing the line between villain and victim, still snarky enough at times for Dean to want to put a boot in his ass, but at others so despondent that it became clear that leaving him isolated in the dungeon indefinitely would be, to quote Sam, "inhumane". Just peachy. Abaddon's marks were still livid on his skin, so whatever healing factor Crowley had was either gone or he was workin' real hard to fake it. A solution came from one of the dusty memorabilia boxes of the Men of Letters: demonic handcuffs. Whether Crowley was lying or not the cuffs would keep him mortal and hobbled enough that even Kevin could fight him off if it came to it. So they brought him upstairs, shoved him in one of the empty bedrooms with the strong impression that he should spend most of his time there, and left the demon to it.

Crowley of course went where he pleased, and so the bunker gained a shadow, flitting in and out of rooms as it suited him. Dean figured he spent most of his days herding the demon away from the sensitive rooms, checking his pockets for stolen gadgets. Luckily Crowley spent most of the time complaining, so Dean knew exactly where he was.

On the seventh evening after he brought Crowley to the bunker, Dean walked into the library to see the former demon leafing through Castiel's journal, pretty as you please.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Dean demanded, grabbing the journal and smacking Crowley upside the head with it before cradling it to his chest away from the demon's beady eyes.

"I was promised a sandwich," Crowley informed him coolly, "I got bored, and your little book was out on the table. Please tell me half of that writing actually belongs to Castiel, or I'll be very concerned about your mental well being."

"None of your goddamned business," Dean growled, "Now get out of here before I kick your ass on principle."

Crowley raised his linked hands in surrender before making for the kitchen, presumably to seek out his promised sandwich. He paused, eyes flickering down to the worn leather book in Dean's grip.

"I'm not one to advocate for that upstart of a former angel," Crowley added at the doorway, "But it looks like you've been giving him the shaft, and I'm not sure he actually deserves it this time." Dean ignored him, seething until he heard the creak of the kitchen door and knew Crowley wasn't breathing down his neck. With shaking hands Dean tossed the journal back onto the reading table. He stalked around it aimlessly for a few minutes, a jungle cat considering its prey, whether the hunt was worth the risk. At long last Dean dropped into a bronze gilded chair and flipped open the book, finding the latest pages with unnerving ease. Cas had written. Probably to tell him to fuck off, a bitter part of Dean mused. Maybe just to talk, a hopeful part retorted. Shut up, replied the rest of him, and Dean began to read:

Hello Dean,

I don't know where to begin.

…

Dean, whatever believe to be true is… it's just nonsense. I'm here. I'll always be here. I don't know what I said… Ambriel tells me it was hateful, that I drove you away. But you have to know that I was under the influence of something evil. The demon blood it… it warped me into something I can't even remember. I saw you and I thought you were a hallucination, something to drive me over the edge. I thought Abaddon would kill you. It sounds like nonsense but it was real. It was Abaddon. Not me.

…

I believe thanks are in order, but thank you seems inadequate. I find it strange that humans have such a small catch phrase for such big acts. You say thank you when someone opens the door for you at a restaurant. You saved my life, and a thank you is supposed to show you my appreciation?

Nevertheless, thank you.

…

I think about home often. Sometimes I think of heaven, with its never-ending songs and an intoxicating sense of unity. I think about the Men of Letters Bunker. I try to imagine what it would be in its ideal state. We could give each wall a fresh coat of paint like you wanted to, Sam could find an efficient way to organize the library, and maybe we could have your friend Charlie over for dinner sometimes. Just idle thoughts.

…

I've thought about shutting this journal, tucking it away in my car, and deciding to never write to you again. Why should I write to someone who would expect so little of me? Why should I write to someone who took offense to the words I said in my injured state? You must not know me at all.

…

I didn't mean that.

…

I will never forgive Ambriel for letting me think that you were just a hallucination, even though my rational side knows that she only did it for the benefit of our mission. I wish I could explain myself to you. Please write back. At least tell me you're alright.

Castiel

Dean closed the journal. He opened it and read Castiel's letter again. He closed it again. He got up drank a glass of water, paced back and forth around the table for a few minutes, then returned to his seat and stared at the dark leather bound book.

Pancakes. Yep. That was the thought that bubbled to the surface. Castiel eating pancakes that Dean had made for him. Castiel, eyes wide, cheeks stuffed full like some adorable blue-eyed breakfast loving squirrel. That morning had probably ticked off a list of all of Dean's caretaker fantasies as Castiel stumbled his way into humanity via three plates of butter soaked flapjacks.

How quickly it shattered into betrayal and pain and demon blood. (Why was it always demon blood?) And then there's always the explanation. It was Leviathan. It was Naomi. It was Abaddon. Hallucinations, insanity, mind control. Couldn't they get five fucking seconds to talk like normal human beings? Dean felt like he was on a goddamn roller coaster. Up, Down, Sam's sick, Sam's better, Cas is good, Cas hates me. It was too much.

Dean wanted to write back. Say yeah everything's fine. It's cool. But it was just too fucking much. He was too raw, and too tired. Even the thought of reconciliation was already getting bruised by ugly guilt. Yup, there was the real trouble. A few harsh words and Dean had walked right out on his best friend. Chalk up another abandonment on the Dean/Cas tally.

Dean sank further and further into the couch, his emotions warring on the soft and smudged journal pages as he absently scanned Castiel's letter again and again. I'm here. I'll always be here.

Yeah, right, Dean couldn't help but think as his eyes fluttered shut and he fell into a restless doze, brow tight. Then where are you now? Guilt, stubbornness and self-pity fought it out as Dean slipped into a true sleep, stress and exhaustion taking its toll.

"Dean, Dean I'm here." Dean comes to awareness with the press of a warm and comfortable weight against his chest and newly calloused fingers stroking through his hair. Blue eyes river deep swim into focus and Castiel smiles at him soft and lazy.

"Cas? You're-how-" Castiel's hands take root in his hair, grasping firmly as he pulls Dean into a kiss. Dean's eyes blow wide and then fall shut as the world narrows to the press of Castiel's lips; the puff of his warm breath and the tiny sounds of need that escape his throat. His hands flounder before landing on the soft flannel covering Castiel's back. Blue flannel, Dean realizes as Castiel pulls away to kiss his eyelids. His flannel. Brow against brow, Castiel stares down at Dean, his face full and healthy, no trace of the pallor from the last time Dean saw him.

"I missed you." It's the softest of confessions and Dean only nods, breathless, before pulling Castiel back down, sealing their mouths together. How had he walked away from this? Months of stress and anxiety melt under the heat of Castiel's body against his. Lips part, and Castiel is tasting Dean like a fine wine, jaws stretching wide and hands gripping too tight.

"Wait-" Dean attempts, trying and failing to make sense of what was happening beyond the sheer cliff of want that he was tumbling over.

"Please Dean," Castiel begs, mouthing along the bolt of Dean's jaw until he can whisper in his ear, "Help me feel human."

Dean's response is a choked off groan as Castiel presses their hips flush and Dean feels just how much the former angel wants him. Suddenly the heat in his belly flares, their kisses turning desperate. When Dean takes Castiel's hips to roll him over onto the mattress (When did he end up in his bed, anyway?) he knows it's hard enough to mark, even through his jeans. Castiel doesn't seem to mind, in fact he growls as Dean presses him into the memory foam, yanking on Dean's hair and biting his bottom lip hard enough to break the skin. Dean jerks away, hissing in pain.

"Ow, Jesus," Dean exclaims, his fingers coming away scarlet when he brushes them across his sore mouth, "What the fuck, Cas?" Castiel laughs, fingers digging painfully at his scalp and he tries to pull Dean back down.

"No, stop," Dean protests, "That hurts."

"I know."

Dean's blood turns to ice in his veins.

Castiel's eyes flicker beetle black, sweeping over Dean's face as a cold smirk toys at the former angel's mouth.

"Cas, what-"

"You shouldn't have pushed him away, Dean-o." Castiel's lips are moving, but Abbadon's sultry purr fills the air and Dean is paralyzed.

"No!" he denies, clasping Castiel's face in his palms, but the touch of his skin begins to burn like acid.

"Yes!" Abbadon crows as Dean recoils with a harsh cry, "I've got my hooks in him now, and I'll never let him go." Castiel's spine arches off the bed, and suddenly his eyes are blue again, pupils contracted in fear as he sobs, begging for Dean, for the pain to stop. Dean tries and tries to reach him but his hands pass through Castiel's chest like a hologram as the former angel goes rigid and begins to convulse. His eyes are vacant and accusing.

Why did you leave me?

"Cas!" Dean nearly tumbled off the couch as he woke up with a shout. A hand against his mouth revealed no blood; a look around the darkening room revealed no former angel. Heart pounding, Dean had the journal open and off the coffee table before the adrenaline left his system.

Cas? Cas if you're there for christ's sake pick up.

I'm here.

Is something wrong, Dean?

Jesus… Are you alright? Are you- any demon blood problems?

No… My body managed to overcome the effects. I haven't felt anything since, maybe a few headaches.

I… uh ok. Good. Ok.

Why do you ask?

Of course, it's good to hear from you, don't misunderstand.

It's nothing, I guess. Just a bad feeling.

Dean paused. This could be it. He could end it here with some perfunctory small talk and walk away with relief that Cas was okay and the status quo intact. But it wouldn't be enough. Not anymore. The image of a writhing, begging Cas still painfully fresh in his mind, Dean continued.

No actually it wasn't nothing. Cas I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you there.

Dean- you don't have to- It's unnecessary.

No it's not. You thought you were dying and I left you. I shouldn't have been pissed I should have ignored you and stayed until you were ok.

It's forgiven, if that's what you need. But I'm not angry.

I'm… I can't stay angry with you.

You should be. I'm angry enough for the both of us. Christ. I haven't slept through the night since you left and I had you in my hands and I let Ambriel talk me out of there.

Ambriel is difficult. She's been known to keep secrets. Including that you weren't just a hallucination in the first place.

But she has her reasons.

I'm not mad at Ambriel. I don't care about that I'm trying to make a point about my own dumb self here. I'm sorry.

You saved me Dean. It what universe does that require an apology? Don't apologize for being afraid. Or overwhelmed. We are only… human.

Nothing about this is simple. You reacted the way anyone would. You don't need to apologize to me.

I'm not anyone. You're not anyone to me. You shouldn't have been in danger in the first place. I shouldn't have pushed you away.

Come on, Winchester. All or nothing. Soft hair, a warm mouth, hard angles and sharp eyes. Dean needed him.

That wasn't why—

I shouldn't have told you no.

Dean's own writing burned a tattoo on his eyes as he waited for Cas's reply. No turning back now. He chewed on the end of his pen, heart jumping as Cas's neat print slowly appeared.

You don't have to patronize me now, Dean. It happened a long time ago.

No. I mean—

It doesn't feel that way to me. I don't—maybe you feel differently now.

What I feel doesn't matter. I wouldn't put you in any position—where you might feel obligated.

Christ, Castiel still thought this was some kind of guilt laden pity party. Dean was gonna have to spell it out.

I wanted it. I wanted it so bad. I wanted you right there on the floor and why I didn't—why I couldn't—I was scared, man.

Dean was still pretty scared now. But if there was any chance at all that Cas hadn't written him off he was willing to go for it. Goddammit he'd take the catcalls and the funny looks in bars and the loud exclamations proclaiming "Your daddy would pitch a fit" if he could have Cas. He'd take all the supernatural shit that would probably come after them and all the demons that would use them against each other and the homophobic ghosts they were bound to start running into now that Dean had thought of it if it meant he could have Cas.

I've lived thirty-five years of being one way and five of those with you and me being one way and I don't know what to do. I still don't. But I'm tired of being scared.

I apologize for taking so long to respond… the English language can feel so limited sometimes. But Dean… I don't know what to do either. For millennia I watched humankind, fought for them, but I only truly fell when I saw your soul in hell. I didn't know it then… Maybe not until I became human did I accept it. But if you want this, you have me. Whatever is left of me.

Dean was shaking, too surprised to laugh but too happy to cry as Castiel's words lined the page. There was a knot somewhere inside him loosening, leaving him wide open and elated and nervous. Excited to hold Cas, to show him how much he meant, and anxious that Cas would realize what a broken, messed up asshole he'd just offered himself to. Dean didn't tamp down on either set of feelings, letting them fight it out and coming up with one thought.

Come home. Please. Come home and let me try again .

I will. Soon.

But there is something else you need to know.

Dean rolled his eyes, imagining Cas in some rotten hotel room reporting like a soldier after all that chick stuff they just got through spillin'. It was making Dean freakin' glow.

Of course there is. Shoot.

I think I can save Sam. Ambriel has found a way.

Fuck yes! Lay it on me!

I—we're still testing, and there are a few more stops to make. I'm asking you to trust me. As soon as I have the cure, I'll be there.

Ok. Ok. I can do that. Thank you. Fuck, man, I can't wait.

I wish I could be there now. I've missed you. More than I could write.

It's all gonna be ok, Cas. We'll work it out together. Just get here when you're ready.

I will. I promise. I hope you'll be able to sleep now.

Like a baby. 'Night Cas.

Goodnight Dean.

Dean closed the book, heading for his own room with a smile on his face. He really could have it all. Cas could come home with nothing but the shirt on his back and the clap and Dean would be freakin' thrilled, but of course Cas would have the answer he and Kevin had been killing themselves to find.

After a quick look in on Sam, Dean fell asleep in his own bed, dreaming of soft brown hair and eyes that wrinkled when they smiled.