It felt better than Dean could have imagined, just to get out of the bunker for a while and do what he did again. The hunt was, as he'd predicted, a fairly simple salt and burn; but the ghost turned out to be aggressive and strong, and it was a bit more of a physical fight than Dean had anticipated. Before all was said and done, he felt battered, bruised and exhausted – and more satisfied than he'd been in months.

The physical ache in his body was almost a relief, familiar and strangely soothing, and the near-constant torment of guilt he'd been experiencing receded to the back of his mind.

Dean checked the time as he climbed into the Impala, weighing his exhaustion against his desire for the pounding heat of the bunker's awesome shower, and the familiar comfort of his own bed. It was an easy decision; the hour-long drive back to Lebanon was worth it.

He left the half-full bottle of Jack crammed under the seat untouched, and instead stopped for some cheap, strong gas station coffee to help him stay awake. He blasted his music and sang along at the top of his lungs, and thought about how for the first time in a very long time, he was really looking forward to getting home.

The bunker was quiet when Dean entered, the common rooms empty; so he made his way down the hall to his own room, stopping only long enough to grab his robe and a soft towel before continuing on to the shower room. He took his time, savoring the heat and the pressure and allowing his weary body to relax until every trace of leftover tension from the hunt was gone.

At one point during his shower, Dean opened his eyes and thought he saw a brief flickering of the lights. He paused, blinking the water out of his eyes and warily watching for it to repeat; but when he saw that the lights were steady, he decided to finish his shower. It was unlikely that anything nasty could get into the bunker, past the extensive warding left by the Men of Letters. It was probably just the last of the adrenaline from the hunt that hadn't left his system yet, making him imagine threats where there were none – nothing more than that.

But as he turned off the water and left the shower room, Dean couldn't quite shake the vague sense of unease he felt. There'd been no further sign of anything not right, only that brief flickering – but he still couldn't help the cold quiet worry that tugged at him as he made his way down the hall toward Sam's room.

It was unsettlingly quiet. Where were Sam and Cas, anyway?

Maybe Cas had simply taken Dean's advice to heart, and maybe Sam and Cas were shut away in the privacy of Sam's room, taking advantage of Dean's absence to take their relationship to the next level – as much as that thought made Dean simultaneously shudder with revulsion, and ache with jealousy.

But when Dean turned the corner and saw Sam's bedroom door standing open – suddenly he was convinced. The flickering of the lights hadn't been imagined, after all. Something was wrong.

Dean broke into a run down the hall to Sam's door, skidding to a stop in the doorway with his pistol drawn. He froze for just a moment when he saw Sam huddled on the floor at the foot of his bed, his eyes blank and staring – looking so strangely small and lost and alone. Dean put away his weapon and crossed the room to his brother in a couple of steps, kneeling at Sam's side and reaching out to turn his face, to gain his focus.

"Sam… Sammy," he tried, his voice breaking over his brother's name. "Hey – look at me. Sam!"

Finally, Sam shifted his gaze from the empty doorway, turning to look at Dean through dazed eyes, wet and rimmed with red. "Dean?"

"What happened?" Dean demanded, his hands skating over his brother's arms, sides, searching for any sign of injury. "Are you hurt?"

Sam looked back toward the door again, his breath shuddering out of him, his voice a quiet sob.

"He's gone. Dean, he's gone."

Suddenly, Dean understood – and his heart plummeted, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. "Cas?"

"I told him." Sam's tone was flat, eyes staring blankly at the empty doorway. "I had to tell him. Didn't I? I had to…"

"You – you told him?" Dean swallowed hard, the pieces starting to fit together in his mind. He hesitated a moment, wincing a little as he asked, "All of it?"

"Everything," Sam breathed out the word, an exhausted, defeated whisper.

Dean took a moment to process that, his heart sinking as he imagined how Cas might have reacted to Sam's confession. All at once, the flickering of the lights in the shower made sense; Cas wasn't entirely in control of his rapidly healing grace just yet, especially when he was upset or emotional; Dean felt a chill of mingled fear at the thought of what could have happened to Sam, and relief that it hadn't happened, that Sam was okay – physically, anyway.

"I screwed it up." Sam looked up at Dean through eyes that widened with dawning horror, as if remembering all over again what had happened. "Dean, I – I screwed it all up, and he's gone, and I – maybe I shouldn't have…"

"We didn't have a choice, Sammy," Dean argued quietly. "He was wrecked. There's no way he could have taken knowing that we both…"

"He knew."

Dean considered that for a moment – and realized that the only thing that was surprising about that statement was that he wasn't surprised. Cas was naïve, and too trusting, and often reckless, with a tendency toward tunnel vision when it came to whatever mission he had claimed at any given time.

But one thing he was not, was stupid.

"Yeah," he replied softly, a heavy sadness sinking into his bones with the truth. He reached out a gentle hand to rest between Sam's shoulder blades, swallowing hard. "Yeah, I guess he probably did."

"He just… he needed to believe that… that there was someone he could trust…" Sam's voice broke, and he lowered his face into his hands with a shuddering gasp. "Oh, God… he trusted me, Dean, and… and now…"

"Shhh, Sammy, it's all right," Dean lied, falling back on instinct as he braced his back against the footboard of the bed and pulled his brother into his arms, running soothing fingers through his hair and holding his shaking form close against his chest. "It's gonna be all right. He's a lot better, right? So – he'll be all right, wherever he's gone. And we knew this wouldn't exactly go over well, right? He just needs some time. He's gotta – process, or whatever. And then – once he's cooled off a little – he'll come home. Okay?"

Dean wasn't even slightly convinced of what he was saying, but he hoped at least some little part of it might be giving Sam some comfort. His heart sank as Sam shook his head against Dean's chest, hot tears soaking through Dean's shirt.

"No, he won't," Sam whispered, despairing. "He thinks… everything that ever happened between us… he said…"

Sam couldn't finish, and Dean was pretty sure whatever Cas had said, he didn't really want to know. He stroked Sam's back gently, helplessly silent, searching for words to reassure him somehow, though the situation seemed increasingly hopeless.

"People say shit when they're pissed, Sam," he said quietly at last. "Doesn't mean they always mean it. I mean – come on. I've seen the way Cas has been walking around here the last few weeks, the way he looks at you like you hung the moon. He fucking loves you, Sammy..."

Immediately Dean knew that that was somehow the wrong thing to say, because Sam's entire body flinched against him, and Sam let out a choked sob, shaking his head slowly. "He did," he replied in a hoarse, desolate whisper. "But… he doesn't. And I never should have let him."

"Okay," Dean said, pushing Sam away a little so that he could get up. "You're done. This isn't helping anything. I need you to get up for me, Sam. Come on, come here…" Dean pulled his little brother to his feet beside him, alarmed at how easily Sam went along with him, and led him to the side of his bed to sit down again. "Here, let's get you changed, okay? Everything's gonna be all right, and I'm gonna try to get ahold of Cas, but you – you need to rest."

Sam shook his head. "Can't," he muttered. "Couldn't sleep if I tried… don't need…"

"Sleep is exactly what you need," Dean argued, as stern and authoritative as he could make himself in the face of his little brother's tears. "You've barely rested at all since this whole thing started, and it's not doing Cas or anyone any good for you to sit around here worrying yourself sick."

Dean pulled Sam's shirt down off his shoulders, setting it aside and leaving Sam in only a light t-shirt and the sweats he'd already been wearing. Sam allowed Dean to push him down on the bed on his side. Dean wrapped his own body protectively around his brother's and settled in close behind him, reaching down to pull the blanket up over them both.

"He's never gonna forgive me," Sam whispered after enough silence had passed that Dean almost thought Sam had fallen asleep.

"That's bullshit," Dean scoffed with more certainty than he felt. "Sam – I tortured him. I nearly fucking burnt his wings off. He pulled me out of Hell… died for me, twice… and I nearly destroyed him. On purpose. And six weeks later, he's already talking about forgiving me. If he can forgive me – then he'll forgive you, Sammy. He will. He just needs time."

Sam didn't argue, but he didn't answer either. He just lay there in silence, his back turned to Dean. But slowly, as Dean held him close, stroking gentle fingers through his hair, Sam's shaking began to ease, and his breathing became slow and even. Once he was certain that Sam was asleep, Dean rolled over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling for a long time and trying to come up with words that might mean a damn thing to Cas given the circumstances.

Castiel was half a world away from Lebanon, Kansas, deep in a mountain forest, when Dean's prayer came through.

"Cas, man… I hope you're listening. I know you're pissed, man, but you've gotta know – Sam thought he was doing what was best for you. He was trying to protect you. He didn't want to lie to you at all, I kinda forced him into it, but – if you can tell us what else we could have done… I don't know, man. I just don't know."

The words were rambling and awkward and utterly infuriating to Castiel.

What else could they have done? Castiel could think of a few cutting responses to that question – like not torturing him without even hearing his explanation first… or not sitting idly by and listening while he suffered, pleading for mercy and rescue and receiving only more violation instead. Maybe once it was done, telling him about Sam's part in it wasn't exactly easy – but Sam could have chosen not to betray Castiel in the first place, couldn't he?

He wanted to go to Dean, to tell him all of this and more; but he wasn't certain he'd be able to control his emotions, or his grace, at the moment. And in spite of everything they'd done to him, all the pain and confusion of the last few weeks that was entirely their doing – Castiel truly did not want to hurt either Winchester.

He just felt so betrayed – vulnerable and violated. He'd known, before Sam said anything; he thought that on some level, he'd always known – but he'd tried to block it out, ignored the evidence that was right in front of his face, in favor of the safety and reassurance that Sam had offered him freely. And Dean was right about one thing – how desperately he'd needed that.

He needed it now.

Castiel nearly laughed at the bitter irony of the situation in which he'd found himself – the fact that in the midst of this hurt and confusion, when his entire world seemed to have shifted around him, leaving him once again without any sure footing or anything stable to cling to, all he wanted in that moment… was Sam.

Only this time, Sam was the one who had hurt him – though some weak, broken, dependent little part of his brain hadn't seemed to register that information yet.

He could almost feel Sam's arms around him, gentle fingers stroking his hair, his back… his wings. He closed his eyes, desperately craving the reassurance he had found at Sam's hands, the softness of his voice soothing away the nightmares, the panic that had closed in on him so many times over the past few weeks. He felt it again, now, creeping around the edges of his thoughts – but this time, Sam would not be able to calm him.

He sat down on a fallen log behind him, burying his face in his hands and struggling for the emotional control that had been so automatic for him before these past few weeks. Now, the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely was the bright, hard hurt and anger burning just under his skin.

"Well, well. Fancy finding you here."

Castiel did not turn to look at the sound of Crowley's voice; he'd felt the demon's nearness before he'd spoken, and was unsurprised by it. The touch of his grace he'd left on Crowley's blackened soul meant that Crowley could find him as surely as he could find Crowley; and while the bunker's warded walls had kept Crowley out, now Castiel was out in the open and easily found – but he was unafraid.

As clearly as he could feel Crowley's foul presence, Castiel could also feel his desperation, pouring off of him in waves.

He had no patience for it at the moment.

"This is not a place you want to be right now, Crowley." Castiel ground out the words without looking at him.

"Perhaps not," Crowley conceded, moving to stand directly in front of Castiel despite his warning. "Seems to be a rather depressing place at the moment. Or perhaps that's just you."

"Go away," Castiel growled.

"No, I don't think I will just yet." Crowley shook his head. "See, you've been a difficult one to get a hold of since our last meeting. Locked away in that bunker where you can't be contacted by the likes of me."

"Good," Castiel retorted. "I've no desire to converse with you, Crowley. Now is… not a good time."

Crowley's eyes narrowed, and Castiel looked away from the piercing scrutiny, well aware that the demon king was far too perceptive for his liking. He wasn't sure just how much Crowley could pick up from his mood, or from the grace bond that now existed between them. Though the thought of the suffering it must have been causing Crowley offered him at least a little satisfaction.

And now that he thought about it… that was almost certainly the reason that Crowley was here.

But if he was picking up on Crowley's weaknesses, Crowley seemed to be picking up on his as well. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face as he concluded, "So you finally figured it out, did you?"

"Figured what out?" Castiel snapped, rising from his spot on the fallen log and turning his back to Crowley.

He was unwilling to admit, or believe, that Crowley could have possibly put it together so quickly. But then, he realized – Crowley had been there when it had happened, hadn't he? He'd seen Sam, upstairs in the cabin while Dean tortured Castiel in the basement. He'd known all along what was being kept from Castiel – and probably taken great delight in knowing how it would certainly turn out in the end.

"What's been in front of your face the whole time," Crowley replied with a smirk. "Really, Cas… those two may have their differences from time to time, but when it comes down to it, it'll always be the Winchesters for each other, and the rest of the world can sod off and die. Including you." His tone shifted into a soft, cruel sneer as he concluded, "A bit of regret after the fact doesn't change that."

Castiel suppressed a flinch at those words, unsteady fingers idly picking at the soft flannel that still covered him. His mind was filled with images of Sam, so gentle and reassuring and affectionate – and the sick realization that all along, those actions had been motivated by guilt, rather than love. Sam didn't give all that he'd given to Castiel because he loved him, but because he believed he owed it to him. Castiel was irrationally torn between wanting to tear off the shirt and obliterate it with a single thought – and wanting to cling to it, protect it, as the last remaining trace he had of all he'd lost.

"You'd have liked to think that all those times you risked your life – even gave your life – for Sam and Dean would mean more than that, wouldn't you? But in the end, it turns out you're just like everyone else around them, Cas," Crowley continued.

"Stop it," Castiel snarled, turning to face him.

Crowley did not stop. "Disposable." His knowing smile made Castiel want to lash out, to wipe it from his face just before wiping him from existence. "It was inevitable, you know – that eventually even you would be destroyed – simply by virtue of being within their orbit."

"Shut up," Castiel ground out, taking a menacing step forward into the demon's space.

Crowley did not back down, merely grinned defiantly up at Castiel. "Make me."

Castiel frowned, caught off guard by Crowley's behavior. Castiel's physical health was completely restored, and they both knew that Crowley's power was no match for his. And while antagonizing Castiel was certainly something Crowley would enjoy – he had never been the type to be so dangerously reckless in his actions.

If there was one thing Castiel had learned about Crowley over the years, it was that everything he did had a purpose.

Castiel smiled slowly as he finally really looked at Crowley, and took in the tension in his posture, the nearly feverish light in his eyes.

"Has it really gotten so bad so quickly?" Castiel asked, moving closer to Crowley. And although he did not yield any ground at Castiel's advance, Castiel could see the brief flash of fear in his eyes at the gesture. "So bad that you're actually seeking out my wrath?"

"Please!" Crowley scoffed. "I'm many things, but suicidally reckless is not one of them. No, I'm here to propose a deal. A – truce of sorts. Something that would allow us both to go back to the way things were before all this ugly business."

Castiel studied Crowley through narrowed eyes. "You're at a decided disadvantage already. Why would I agree to any sort of deal with you?"

"Because as miserable as I am at the moment," Crowley declared, edging closer and glaring defiantly up at Castiel. "You are nearly as bad off. And I have the power to make it all go away. As if it'd never happened."

"I'm perfectly capable of time travel all on my own," Castiel reminded him.

"I'm not talking about time travel." Crowley shook his head. "I'm talking about erasing the memories of this whole dark time from your head, and from Sam's and Dean's as well. Deal of the century, really – because all I'd ask in return is that you remove the grace you've left in me. Nothing more. And trust me when I say that no one gets such an easy deal with me, ever." Crowley smiled, glancing up and down Castiel's body with a look that was a bit too lascivious for Castiel's comfort. "You're fully healed at this point, yes? Physically speaking, anyway. No nasty scars left behind to be explained away. So why not let me simply clear your minds of all the bad-touch memories and feelings and let the three of you go back to where you were before?"

Castiel would have been lying if he'd said it wasn't a tempting thought. He'd just been sitting there, wishing for almost exactly that, when Crowley arrived. But he considered all that he'd experienced in the past few weeks, the ways in which, despite the suffering, his relationships with both Winchesters had grown and changed – and he knew that, even with the boys' consent, it was not a choice that he could make.

"Because… where we were before," Castiel answered softly, a bit of his anger fading into sadness. "Was not a place I'd choose to return to. It was – a place that could allow this to happen, between Sam and Dean and I, and… I choose to retain those memories… those learned lessons… even if it means I have to retain the pain that comes with them."

"And what good do those lessons do you, now that your entire relationship with the Winchesters is shattered?" Crowley snapped, and it was impossible to miss the desperate edge to his voice. "I could fix all of that for you with the snap of my fingers, for almost nothing in return, and you're going to refuse that?"

"You can't fix it." Castiel's heart ached at Crowley's words, ached with longing for Sam, and Dean, and everything that was so broken between them – but he knew better than to accept Crowley's offer. "It isn't that easy. If you take those memories, you're leaving us back where we were – with little enough trust between us that such a thing as this could happen in the first place. What we had was… distant at best. More like… broken and… and toxic. And… I can't go back to that place. I won't."

He lowered his gaze for a moment, swallowing hard, backing up a little to allow Crowley the space to move. "You can't undo what you did to me." He met Crowley's eyes again, matter of fact. "And I can't undo what I've done to you. Even if I wanted to. The damage is done. There's no going back now."

"Castiel, listen to reason…"

"Go, Crowley," Castiel ordered, though the heat in his voice had been replaced with weariness and resignation. "I can't remove it, and I won't smite you – but I can and will make it worse if you don't leave me. Now."

There was just a moment's hesitation, a slight movement of his mouth as if he wanted to say more – but in the next instant, Crowley had vanished, and Castiel found himself utterly alone once more. His fingers toyed listlessly with the soft fabric across his torso, before reaching up to unbutton the shirt and slide it back off his shoulders. He held it in his hands, leaned down and pressed his face against it for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent that he'd found so comforting.

Now, it just made him ache with loss.

He held it in a crumpled ball in front of him, in one hand, focusing his energy on it until it was consumed in sparks of fire, swirling upward and away with the wind until there was nothing left of it. Then he glanced down at his body, unaffected by the cold, but still exposed, and with a thought willed himself clothed again, with the familiar outfit of Jimmy Novak. The weight of the suit and trenchcoat hung comfortably over him, oddly reassuring in a way – but Castiel felt cold inside, and bereft.

There was no going back; no fixing what was broken.

Castiel sat down on the fallen log once more, his face in his hands, and bitterly, silently wept.