January 9, 2002

Castiel flinched as another particularly painful pulse of emotion struck him. In the years since the car accident, he'd nearly mastered the art of ignoring Dean's feelings, carefully separating them from his own and walling them off – but that was before. Early last year, something had happened in Dean Winchester's life that had led to an ever deepening spiral of misery and pain. The last two days had been nearly unbearable.

He rearranged himself in his nest of pillows and attempted to return his focus to the book in his hands. The adventures of Harry Potter and his friends were compelling, and Castiel had found them to be an excellent distraction from the now-constant bombardment of emotion from Dean. But today, they weren't enough.

Unable to concentrate on the Prisoner of Azkaban, Castiel paced the narrow room. He wished he could fly to alleviate his anxiety, but he couldn't trust himself to do so safely the last few days. Instead, he'd sequestered himself in the cabin he'd claimed as a home two years ago.

The old, wooden building had long been abandoned deep in the Appalachian mountains. Castiel had found it and made it his own – cleaning out the interior, repairing the worst of the damage to keep out the rain and cold, and then gradually filling it floor to ceiling with books. Sam had introduced him to the wonders that could be found in books, and he read everything he could get his hands on, though he had a particular fondness for the young adult and children's novels to which he'd initially been exposed.

Castiel adjusted his oil lamp as low as it would go. If he couldn't read, he should save fuel, which was much more difficult for him to obtain than books.

CAS.

Suddenly, Castiel found himself on his hands and knees, gasping for air. The shock of sensation that sent him there left him disoriented, and it took a moment for him to understand what was happening.

Words.

Inside his head, he heard a voice – Dean's voice – speaking words.

He could hear Dean...praying to him.

Shaking hard, Castiel closed his eyes and tried to make sense of the words, but they were slurred and incoherent. He only caught an occasional phrase, but those combined with the staggering emotional pain coming from Dean made it clear something was terribly, horribly wrong.

...I can't...

...Cas?

...please...I need...need...

The old urge to fly immediately to Dean's side flared up and nearly overwhelmed him. Castiel shook his head, trying to free himself from the voice, but then the words trailed off in a mumbled mess, finally going silent which was somehow worse than the desperate prayers. For the first time in months, Castiel felt nothing from him, and he knew – knew – Dean needed help, but was just as certain that any attempt he made to assist him would interfere with Dean's angel. It was the angel's place to help him, not Castiel's.

But where was the angel? Why didn't it do something?

And if his angel could help, why would Dean be praying to Castiel?

For several more minutes, Castiel fought the instinct to fly, telling himself that the angel would come. It would save Dean from whatever was wrong. But nothing changed, and whatever sense that told him that Dean was in danger still screamed its alarm.

Finally, he couldn't resist any longer. He took one extra second to extinguish his oil lamp before winging his way to Sioux Falls. He lit atop the roof of the shop building a short distance from the house. Trembling in fear, he quickly scanned the scrap yard for the angels that might catch him there, but there was no sign of either of them. And he neither saw nor heard anything to indicate the cause of Dean's distress.

Castiel fluttered cautiously inside the house, his heart pounding in his chest. The television was on, but there was no sound, just flickering light from the living room. He peeked around the corner, but saw no one. More light came from the kitchen, so he crept silently that way.

All his breath left him in a shuddering rush as Dean came into view.

He was curled unmoving on his side in the middle of the floor, surrounded by empty bottles and the cloying stink of alcohol, stale sweat, and urine. Castiel was beside him in an instant, horrified at Dean's condition – unconscious rather than sleeping and lying in a pool of vomit. More of it covered his chin and was spattered over his shirt.

He took Dean's face in his hands and pulled at the energies that hummed beneath his skin, relieved to find that Dean still breathed. Barely. Working delicately, Castiel sought out the poison in Dean's blood that was the source of the problem, breaking it down until it was no longer toxic and burning it away.

Having removed the immediate danger, Castiel released the healing energies with a sigh. But Dean was still in terrible condition, and Castiel couldn't leave him lying here in these fluids.

"Dean," he implored, running his fingers through the man's short hair and patting his cheek softly. "Please wake up."

Dean coughed, sputtering and spitting more vomit from his mouth, and groaned incoherently. He clearly couldn't move on his own, so Castiel stood and quickly searched the rooms on the lower floor of the house until he found what he needed. Returning to Dean, he gripped his shoulder and flew them the short hop to the bathroom.

Heaving Dean up by one arm, Castiel ducked beneath it to support him. Dean groaned again, but remained dead weight as Castiel struggled to lift him up and over the side of the bathtub. As he carefully lowered Dean's head to rest against the back of the tub, he debated waiting until he woke, but decided Dean wouldn't want to soak in his own bodily fluids any longer than necessary.

Removing the soiled clothing from his limp form was awkward and difficult, but once he managed it, Castiel turned the water on full and set it to spray from the shower head rather than the tap. With a wordless cry, Dean came abruptly to life, trying to fight the icy water raining down from above.

Castiel let the water do its work for a minute or so, then turned it off. He knelt beside the tub and caught one of the flailing arms. "Dean! Calm down or you'll injure yourself, and I've healed you enough for one day."

Dean fell still at last, blinking up at Castiel in bewilderment. "Cas?"

"Yes." Pulling a small towel from a ring beside the sink, Castiel used it to mop water from Dean's hair and face.

"It's you?" Dean reached up as if expecting the vision before him to vanish like smoke. He touched Castiel's jaw with his shaking fingertips. "You're really here?"

Castiel nodded and gave a tentative upward quirk of his lips. "Hello, Dean."

Suddenly, he was back on the shore of that pond, leaning over a terrified, soaking wet human child. The stunned look of awe on Dean's adult face was nearly identical to the one he'd worn back then, except now there was so much more pain in his wide, green eyes.

With a whimper, Dean lunged upward to claw at him, struggling to lean out over the edge of the tub enough to drag him close and cling to Castiel's neck. His body shook from the cold and the shock, and he mumbled Castiel's name over and over in a prayer. His shivering changed to body wracking sobs, and he clutched tighter to Castiel who could feel the hot-then-cold touch of tears on his neck and shoulder.

"Dean, what happened to you?" Castiel whispered. He stroked the hair at the back of Dean's head, attempting to calm him. When the shuddering died down some, he eased back to search Dean's face. "Where is everyone?"

Pale as he was, Dean seemed fragile as glass, though that was belied by the strength of the grip he maintained on Castiel. He shook his head helplessly. "Gone," he muttered. "Gone, all gone."

How had Dean reached this point? What could possibly have happened to hurt him so badly, and why had nothing been done to care for him? A thread of anger wound through Castiel. The more he thought of the careless creature that had allowed this, the hotter his anger became. "Dean, where is your angel?"

Dean's lip trembled. "Don't have one. Gabriel is Sam's now," he answered. "All I have is you."

Suddenly, it felt as if Castiel were the one plunged in icy water.

His anger evaporated in an instant. No angel? If Dean didn't have an angel, then... Castiel felt sick thinking of everything he'd actively ignored over the last years, assuming that his presence would only hinder efforts to help Dean, as it had for Sam after the car accident. "Dean..."

Castiel realized with a start that Dean was still soaked from his cold shower in a drafty old house in January. His shivering had increased, and his lips had taken on a tinge of blue. Castiel stood, looking around the room for towels, but before he got two steps away, he felt a sharp tug at his wing.

With a panic stricken face, Dean clutched two of Castiel's primary feathers in a tight fist. "Don't go! Don't leave!"

"I won't leave, I promise," Castiel assured him. Reaching down, he coaxed Dean's fingers from his feathers. "I'm just getting a towel. We have to get you dry."

Dean blinked and looked down at himself with a slight frown, as if he'd only just noticed where he was.

Castiel found two large towels, and brought them to Dean, helping him climb out of the tub and wrap them around his shivering body. "Where are some clean clothes?"

"Upstairs."

"Hold on," Castiel told him as he gripped Dean's shoulder and flew them to the top of the stairs. Dean stumbled on the landing, but Castiel held him up.

Dean lifted his chin in the direction of his room, so Castiel led him there with a supportive hand at his elbow. He made Dean sit on his bed while he searched for something suitably warm and comfortable for him to wear. In the dresser, he found soft flannel pants, a T-shirt, and thick socks.

Despite Dean's weak protests, Castiel helped him dress. Dean flushed and wouldn't look Castiel in the eye, but he was too unsteady on his feet to be left alone. Dry and dressed, Dean crawled into bed, curling up on his side while Castiel tucked the blankets snugly around him.

Dean's voice was drained and sleepy. "I can't believe you're really here."

Guilt ate at Castiel's insides, but he smiled softly anyway. "I'm really here."

"Why?"

"I heard you," Castiel answered simply. He crossed over to hit the light switch by the door.

"Will you still be here in the morning?" The darkness seemed to swallow the words, as if it were as afraid of the answer as Dean.

Returning, Castiel sat on the edge of Dean's bed. "Yes. I won't leave you."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

The affirmation allowed Dean to relax into sleep – Castiel had removed the threat of alcohol poisoning, but Dean's exhausted body still needed rest to fully recover.

As Castiel's eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, he let one of his wings drape over Dean as an additional blanket and watched him sleep. Suddenly puzzled, he tipped his head, scrutinizing Dean more fully. He hadn't noticed it in all the chaos before, but there was something that felt...different.

A twinge of pain interrupted his musing, and he realized Dean had once again latched onto his feathers. It hurt, but Castiel knew he wasn't doing it deliberately. If Dean's subconscious needed reassurance that Castiel wouldn't leave him during the night, he would gladly tolerate a little discomfort. He had so very much to atone for.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is written by J.K. Rowling. Duh.