So, here is chapter 5 - and I've been on a bit of a roll, writing-wise, because it's all come quite smoothly so far and been fun. But now I'm heading into a bit of a grumpy chemo downturn, so updates may have to wait until next weekend while I spend my time with fuzz in my head being generally pissed off. Fun. Anyway, the story's in there somewhere and it'll get out when it's ready.

Chapter 5

"I made oatmeal for breakfast," said Dean. "But you didn't eat any."

The relief of finding his friend - still on the Earth, still right here - was wearing off. Now Dean had a burning urge to fix Cas right the hell now - to fuss him and coddle him and wrap him up tight until he was all good, all better. Which wasn't an urge he could give into in any major way - you didn't just tell people to be fixed and then they were. You had to go little by little, softly-softly - which wasn't something Dean was particularly good at, but he'd try.

"No," said Cas. "I didn't."

"You need to eat."

Cas looked at him, his head tipped to one side - and when he did that it was as if he were looking right into Dean, right down into his soul. Which maybe at one time he could've done, but not now - not now that he didn't have his grace.

"You need to eat too, Dean."

"Hey, I had mine! I ate it all up." His stomach rumbled emptily.

Cas raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, so maybe we both need to think about stoking up more often." Dean twisted his hands in his lap. It was well past midday. Since when did he forget to eat? "Come on. Let's go get something right now." He stood up. "There's plenty of bread. I'll make some sandwiches."

"I'll help," said Cas.

Cas set off up the path, swiftly, agilely, his body all skinny angles in another old shirt of Dean's and some jeans of Sam's that he must have hacked off with a knife so that they came half way down his calves. He was barefoot, but it didn't seem to slow him down, and it crossed Dean's mind that Cas really was more a part of the natural world than many of the things that grew around them. He'd been here, on Earth, for such an unimaginably long time - long enough to see most of the plants and trees evolve out of little bits of algae and seaweed and moss. And now he was here, on this tiny parcel of land. Did he, too, feel trapped? Like Dean in his nightmare?

Dean looked up the path at Cas's back, disappearing amongst the tree trunks and tall ferns. He'd seemed content enough, sitting on the river bank with his hands in the water. Maybe small things were all he needed.

Dean was a small thing to Cas. To a man who'd been an angel, Dean was tiny.

His ankle ached as he stretched his legs to get up the steeper part of the slope. He winced and stumbled but kept himself balanced by hanging onto the tough fern stalks which stuck out from either side of the path.

"Dean!"

Cas's voice was sharp. He'd disappeared around a bend in the path but suddenly he was there again, bare toes curling over the edge of a jutting-out rock, glaring down with a smitey expression on his face, his eyes dark and his brow a thundercloud ready to break. He looked like he was about to give out some pretty stiff commandments.

"I'm coming," said Dean.

"You're hurt," declared Castiel.

"Yeah," Dean shrugged, glancing down at his ankle, his weight balanced awkwardly on the other leg. His boot felt tight around the injury - must be swelling up a bit. "It's okay. Just a rotten step in the basement. Don't go down there."

"You're hurt. And you didn't tell me."

Was that a trick of the light, or were Cas's eyes glowing? "It's fine, Cas. Really."

"No. It's not fine. Dean." Cas's fists clenched at his sides. His arms trembled. "Not fine, not fine, not fine!"

Dean watched, confused, as Cas's hands flared and then suddenly clutched at his hair, tugging it into even more of a mess than usual. His eyes screwed up tight, his mouth distorted into a grimace and his shoulders hunched forward until he was curled forward on the rock, legs bent and looking nothing like the smitey angel of a minute before but more like a frightened animal.

"Not fine, not fine. I can't heal you, can't do it, can't do it anymore."

Dean pulled himself up the slope and reached out toward his distressed friend.

"Cas, it's okay. Really."

Cas's hands writhed in his hair and Dean's fingertips brushed over one of the tumbled locks, but then jerked away as Cas responded with a snarl.

"No! No, I can't, I can't, I can't!"

The ex-angel ran, scrambling on hands and knees up the slope and then regaining his footing and then Dean couldn't see him anymore - he could just hear the slapping of bare feet and crashing of underbrush and then nothing.

Dean took a breath. And then another.

He turned around and sat down on the edge of the jutting rock, where Cas had, just for a moment, looked like he was going to sprout wings and a halo.

Cas was angry with him? Angry, terrified… what? Confused, definitely. But no more confused than Dean, who had always struggled to make sense of emotions - his own as well as others'. And now he ran his hands through his own hair, but it didn't tangle up and clump in messy locks like Cas's. Maybe he would let it grow now, though, just so he had something to tug and torture.

No. He wouldn't be doing any torturing, not even of his own hair.

He'd have to get up and go and find Cas again. Or wait for Cas to come down out of a tree or something. And he was hungry. He'd feel better with some food inside him, even if he felt dizzy and a bit sick right now and his ankle was definitely swelling up inside his boot.

Dean sighed.

Something shifted on the path behind him.

"Dean."

Then Cas was there again, lowering himself down to sit on the rock, his legs dangling down toward the tops of the ferns and the path winding down to the riverbank.

"Hey, Cas." He was so tired. The rock was hard under his ass, but he felt glued to it, like he couldn't move.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shrugged.

"I can't… " Cas swallowed, audibly. "I'm having trouble..."

"It's okay, Cas." Dean raised a hand and let it hover, unsure. Then he patted Cas's thigh - a quick, light touch, a wriggle from side to side to show it wasn't serious and then back safely into his own lap. "I guess it must be hard. Being without your powers again."

"Yes." The word was as tight and hard as the rock beneath them. "Yes. But I didn't mean to be angry with you. I just-" He took a deep shuddering breath and then pushed it out in a harsh puff. "I don't want you to be hurt - ever." He turned and glared, and Dean couldn't help but look back, drawn by the intensity of those blue eyes. "Ever, Dean. I need you to be whole and real and safe."

Dean gulped, his throat dry. "Uh, yeah. I don't know if I can manage that, buddy… Cas." He tried for a smile, but was pretty sure it came out all twisted up. "You know DIY - it can be a pretty rough gig."

Cas frowned. "You must be careful."

"I am careful, but-"

"I will look after you. Now. Let me see your injury, Dean."

"Okay." Dean crooked his leg over the opposite knee and pulled up the leg of his jeans. His sock was torn on both sides and blood had seeped through. It had gotten on his jeans and the tops of his boots too and probably wouldn't come out now that it had dried in - but stains would cover stains eventually, so Dean wasn't too bothered.

"This needs attending to," said Cas. "You should not be walking on it."

"It ain't that bad." Dean wouldn't tell him about the running.

Cas got up and held out his arms. "Lean on me," he said. He pulled Dean's arm around his shoulder and Dean felt like it was overkill, really - he could have limped along under his own steam. But if Cas needed to play mother hen, what harm could it do?

The ex-angel took his job seriously, pushing his way through the undergrowth at the edge of the path, so that Dean could walk on the smooth, clear area. Dean wondered how Cas wasn't getting his bare feet all cut up. Maybe he was.

They came out behind the house and Cas lowered Dean onto the steps that led down from the kitchen.

"You will stay there," he said. "While I get the first aid kit."

"Water's on," said Dean. "Just the outside faucet over there and the one in the kitchen. The pressure's a little low. I think there's a leak somewhere. But we've got water anyways."

"Good," said Cas.

Cas padded up the steps and into the house and Dean let him go, closing his eyes and slumping back to lean on his forearms. It wasn't the most comfortable position - the step edges dug into his back. Some reclining sun chairs'd be nice. Or a hammock - he'd had an idea for hammocks, hadn't he?

The steps wobbled as Cas came back across the verandah and climbed down to kneel on the ground in front of him. Dean reached to untie his bootlaces.

"No. Let me. Just relax."

"Okay." Dean closed his eyes again. He'd let Cas look after him, because it was good for Cas. And because maybe it was good for Dean too - good for that little cowering thing deep inside him that he didn't like to look at too closely.

Dean's leg was supported and he felt his laces being tugged free and then the boot came off - and if Cas was good with getting up-close-and-personal with Dean's sweaty foot, then that was up to Cas. Cool air struck his foot as the sock (another one ruined) was peeled away.

A groan of mingled pain and relief escaped his lips. It throbbed more with the boot off, but the cool air was nice.

"Your skin is badly abraded," said Cas.

"Yeah?"

"I will clean it."

"'Kay."

A package tore and then there was the sharp alcohol smell and coolness running over and around his ankle, not stinging yet, because Cas knew to clean around injuries first. Then another packet tore and Dean flinched as the cleaning solution got right in there and brought both sides of his ankle to burning life where it had caught between the rotten old boards.

"Sorry." Cas's hand curled around the back of his ankle to hold him steady. His grip was firm and gentle but sure. Despite the pain, and the ridges of the steps digging into his back, Dean felt his body slacken and loosen and his mind drift.

Hazily, Dean registered more rustling amongst the first aid supplies and Cas mumbling to himself under his breath. Then his ankle was being wrapped around and around, firmly, safely, but not too tight.

"You need to keep this raised," said Cas. "Hmm. Wait there." He lowered Dean's ankle to the step, where it immediately began to throb.

Dean left his eyes closed and let himself float, because Cas was here and he was fussing pleasantly over something that wasn't life threatening but was kinda nice to have fussed over.

Would he let Sammy fuss him like this? Probably not. Probably tell him to fuck off and pass the JD. Dean huffed. He didn't always give his brother the easiest time - but that was what it was like between brothers, wasn't it? He wasn't going to beat himself up over it at this stage. Not much anyway. Probably.

"Here. Come on." Cas's arms were slipping under his shoulders and Dean opened his eyes muzzily. "Over here."

Cas guided him to the shade at the back of the verandah, close to the kitchen door, where he'd stacked up a pile of bags and blankets for Dean to lie and lean against, like a tumbled chaise-longue shape covering the bare boards.

"We really need some furniture," said Dean.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't think of anything-"

"No! This is fine. I ain't complaining." He relaxed back against the reclining heap of kit. "This is good. Thanks.

Cas knelt down next to him and raised his ankle onto a rolled up blanket and then crushed one of the chemical ice packs and curled it around the injury.

Dean sighed, let his head fall back and smiled. "Thanks, Cas."

"You're welcome." Bare feet shuffled on the boards. "I'll make something to eat."

Dean pushed himself up to sitting. "I can help! You-"

"You will stay there, Dean." The smitey Angel of the Lord was back.

Dean smiled. "Alright, then. But if you bring the stuff out here I can help. And a bucket of water - my hands are filthy."

Cas conceded.

Dean washed his hands in cool water and splashed it over his face and neck. Thank Jack the water main was intact, even if he did need to track the course of the piping and check for leaks. And as for the sewers - maybe they'd have to get people to come and stick a camera down there. The bucket and shovel technique wasn't one Dean wanted to be using for very long.

Cas spread out another blanket next to Dean and then unceremoniously dumped a loaf of sliced bread, a pack of sliced cheese and a tin of pink meat stuff that Dean had grabbed at random because it looked like it'd survive a nuclear attack let alone a lack of refrigeration. He also dropped a couple of handfuls of damp green leaves onto a plate.

"What're they?"

"I foraged," said Cas.

"Are they edible?" Dean poked the leaves with the tip of a suspicious finger.

"Yes, of course," said Cas. "I told you I know about growing things."

"Sorry."

"And you will eat some."

Dean's mouth twisted. "Yeah, whatever you say, angel."

Cas had been slapping bread and meat and cheese together with the efficiency and ruthlessness of a fearless leader of celestial troops, but then he froze. "I am no longer an angel, Dean." He flattened some of the leaves onto the roughly cut lumps of meat and pressed a bread lid on top, crushing the sandwich down. "I never will be again. Here." He thrust the sandwich in Dean's direction. His hand shook.

Dean wanted to say something that would help. But instead he just took the sandwich. He held it in both hands - square, lumpy and like a paving slab A far cry from the little crustless triangles he used to make for tiny, fussy Sammy. "Thanks, Cas." He took a big bite and chewed. And had to stop himself then from cramming the whole thing in at once. He was so hungry and it was so good.

Cas hadn't yet had anything to eat at all today, but when Dean looked up he was already tucking into his own rough paving-slab, his eyes intent on his meal, his mouth working and bulging just as much as Dean's. He slurped a drink of water from a plastic cup and gestured toward another cup. Dean picked it up and gulped thirstily between bites, water running out of the corners of his mouth.

Dean chewed, swallowed, moaned in satisfaction and reached forward to grab the makings of more sandwiches, half expecting Cas to forbid him, as a DIY casualty, from any exertion. But Cas just ate and watched as Dean made two more sandwiches - bread, cheese, meat and the leaves (which were kind of nice in a sharp, peppery, garlicky way, Dean had to admit) and then a bread lid pressed down hard to squash the whole lot together without the benefit of mayo, which he'd forgotten to bring.

Dean pushed one bulging sandwich toward his friend and chowed down on his own, still only the very edge of his hunger smoothed away.

"Thank you, Dean."

He nodded around his messy mouthful and wanted to say something else - something about it not mattering that Cas didn't have his grace any more and couldn't fly or do angel stuff. But it did matter. If it hurt Cas not to be who he once was, of course it mattered. If he was confused and compressed into a small human shape, then it mattered more than anything else that Dean should help him in some way - to feel better, to not feel trapped, to not feel alone.

But Dean didn't know how to help.

So he ate and Cas ate, and they took turns to make big, fat, messy sandwiches. And each time Dean thought they'd had enough - that they were full enough - one of them or the other would reach out and make another round, until all the bread and meat and cheese and all of the little green leaves were gone.

Yummy sandwiches. These boys deserve plenty of good food. And they're slowly working out their issues...