His skin hurt.

That was the first thing he noticed when he breached consciousness. His arms, his chest, his shoulders, his stomach. It ached, tender and almost burning, and he wasn't sure why. Inhaling through his nose, he tried to move and figure out where he was and what had been done to him. What am I pressed against? It was too firm to be a pillow, but it wasn't completely hard, and it was giving off some kind of warmth, and—

Castiel jerked, pushing himself up as he realized a person was underneath him, panic forcing all sensations of drowsiness from his mind. "Wh—?"

"Woah!" Dean startled, tightening his hold on Castiel. "Hey, don't freak out."

Castiel looked over his shoulder—How did I not feel his hands on my back?—and continued pushing himself away. His gaze dropped long enough to see his bare arms, swollen and scabbed, and then snapped back up. "What did you do to me?"

"What?" Face twisting up, Dean shook his head. "Dude, you did this to yourself."

Castiel's instinct was argue, but his brain pushed through the disorientation and fatigue, and he started to remember what happened before he passed out. "I…" He put his hands on Dean's chest and pushed again. "I don't—Get away from me."

"Hey, deep breath." Dean didn't let go—which made sense; Castiel was constantly trying to kill them, after all—but he didn't wrestle the angel into submission. "You kinda freaked out and scratched yourself up." He nodded toward his left. "We put a movie on. Sam went to the bathroom, so we paused it, but it's all good. You're good. Everything's fine."

"Take me back to my cell." Castiel looked back down and took in his equally inflamed chest and stomach. "Get away from me. Just take me—"

"Why, so you can tear your skin off again?" Dean put some pressure on Castiel's back, trying to pull him down. "You're gonna stay where I can see you until we have some kind of long-term plan."

Castiel tensed, shaking his head. "I don't—"

"Hey, do you think you could cooperate long enough to take a shower?" Dean kept his hands in place, not letting Castiel get too far away from him. "Just to rinse the blood off."

Swallowing, Castiel looked down once again—Do I watch him or check for injuries?—and almost decided it wasn't good to remain covered in dried blood when he realized something: he was straddling Dean's hips. "Why—why are you so close to me?" His head snapped up, chest tightening. "Why are we positioned like this? What do you want?"

"It's nothing like that," Dean dismissed. "I just didn't want you going anywhere, and… well, you were upset, and I always used to lay with Sam when he was upset. He'd listen to my breathing and heartbeat and…" He struggled for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know. I panicked. Can you answer the shower question now?"

Castiel started pushing again, moving to his right and getting one foot on the ground. "No, I'm not taking a shower. Just—just get away from me."

"Cas." Dean got up in unison with him, not letting him get anywhere. "You can't stay covered in blood, and I already told you I'm not letting you out of my sight, so I can't 'get away from you.'"

"Castiel?"

Castiel tensed, looking past Dean, and when he saw Sam in the hallway, he started fighting even more. He tried to punch Dean in the jaw, but the hunter was able to deflect it even if he couldn't get a good grip on Castiel's wrist.

"Just stop a second."

Leaning back, Castiel tried to keep his free hand out of Dean's reach, but Sam was there to grab it a moment later. "I—"

"Hey, hey, hey." Dean glanced down, like he was waiting for a kick—which was fair, given Castiel's history—but then he looked up again. "Just look at me a second."

"I am looking at you," Castiel grunted, pulling on the arm Sam was holding.

"Wow, you did something I asked. Incredible." Dean rolled his eyes, a faint grin pulling on his lips. "I don't wanna hurt you. Okay? I know this situation isn't the best, but I don't want to hurt you." He huffed out an incredulous laugh. "I told you, man. I'm fighting for you."

Pulling back, pointless though it was, Castiel felt his pulse quicken. "You're not fighting for me. You're fighting for yourself."

For once, Dean didn't seem frustrated, a somewhat bewildered, somewhat amused smirk on his face. "No, I'm not. And you know I'm not. Don't you, Cas?"

But you have to be! Castiel took a half step back and bumped into Sam. "I… I suppose I could…" He hesitated, swallowing thickly. "Just to get the blood off."

"Awesome." Dean nodded toward the hall Sam had come from, and even though he seemed to believe Castiel was going to cooperate, he didn't release the arm he was holding.

Sam didn't, either, though he did shift his hands so only one was grabbing on while the other pushed slightly on Castiel's shoulder blade to urge him along. Castiel let them maintain control for now, blue eyes flickering left and right and back again as they led him down the dimly lit hallway.

Heart thudding against his ribcage, Castiel tried to keep his breathing level, but his brain was less cooperative. What are you doing? This is exactly what you've been working so hard to avoid. You know what's coming next—you know what's coming next—and you're not doing anything to fight it! He swallowed, clenching his fists but only pulling against the brothers for a second. They're going to turn you into a dumb animal. They're going to use you like a tool; a means to whatever ends they want. Castiel struggled to swallow again, silently screaming at himself. But I can't do anything about it!

And he started to understand. He started to understand what drove angels like Hezekiah to kneel on the ground and get their head patted by a human. Castiel had realized he was never getting out—he was too logical not to accept the fact and come to terms with it—and he knew he couldn't kill himself with what he had on hand. He could fight back anyway and keep his pride, but what was the point? It was never going to end. It would be the same fights, the same struggles, the same battles of wit, day in and day out for as long as the hunters lived. Nothing would improve. Nothing would change.

"Sammy." Dean opened the bathroom door. "Can you get some clean clothes for him?"

Sam hesitated, probably not wanting to leave Dean alone with Castiel, but in the end, he let go and walked down the hall. Dean pulled Castiel into the room, and while Castiel had only been in it once before, he remembered everything perfectly. There were, after all, some angelic abilities hunters didn't ward against, primarily because they didn't know they existed. Memory was one of them.

"I know you probably want privacy, but I don't exactly trust you to be alone right now." Dean pulled the angel toward the closest shower and stopped, looking at him for a long moment before finally letting go and backing up a few paces. "Go on."

Castiel stood there and, after another argument with himself, slipped his thumbs into his waistband. What's the point of fighting? I can't win. He hesitated for another second and then pushed the sweatpants and boxers down, freeing his ankles and tossing the fabric aside. He's alone, though. That could give me an advantage. He looked down at his hands, wishing he knew what to do with them, not used to being near another person without trying to attack. No. Sam will return any moment, and it'll lead to more of the same, over and over and over…

"Okay, you're just standing there, so I'm guessing you don't know how to operate a shower." Dean moved toward a fixture on the wall, turning a knob. "I hope it's not because you haven't bathed the entire time you've been on Earth because that's gross."

He had never even seen a shower before he met the Winchesters. If the market hands wanted to get their resident monsters clean, they hosed them down with freezing water while leaving them in the cages or chains that kept them bound. He wanted to tell Dean that, to snap and snarl, but again, there was no point.

He was tired.

"Hold on a sec…" Dean held his hand under the spray, feeling it as he gradually adjusted the knob on the wall. "There. Try that."

Castiel glared at Dean as much as he could manage, which wasn't much. You win. Are you happy? You finally got what you wanted. But Dean didn't seem to realize that. He just kept looking at Castiel, and after a few moments, he used both hands to indicate the running water.

"Sometime today, please."

Castiel inhaled and walked to the water, giving it a look up and down before stepping under the flow. He concealed his wince when the heat hit his skin, blinking slowly as the water soaked into his hair. Peripheral movement caught his eye, and he turned his head enough to see Sam walk in with a bundle of clothes. He looked back at the water—at the red tint pooling at his feet—and it was hard not to be tense when the droplets kept aggravating the gouges in his skin that… he had put there himself.

"Is it too hot?" Dean asked.

Castiel didn't respond. He also didn't do anything to remove the blood. He just stood there, trying to decide if he wanted to focus on where the brothers were or stare blankly into the distance. You don't have to be stupid about it just because it's over. He turned slightly, putting Sam and Dean in his field of vision, and he saw them exchanging… strange looks. Like they were scared or worried about something. Sam's shoulders lifted in a slight shrug, and he shook his head with wide eyes, and then Dean's hands jerked, like he wanted to gesture but didn't want to get caught.

Castiel looked down, keeping them in his peripherals but looking at the liquid going down the drain. He slid his hands over his stomach, inhaling sharply at the pain it caused but noticing how it helped remove the blood. Minutes ticked by in silence, his hands making their way across the worst of the torn skin, and then he stepped out, not bothering to turn off the water. He also didn't ask for a towel. He just stood there, watching them, struggling to reconcile who he wanted to be and who his hopelessness was turning him into.

Dean turned off the water and grabbed a towel, holding it out but keeping his distance. "Dry off, and then we'll see what we can do about those scratches."

Castiel blinked at the towel. He blinked again. He took the offered fabric and dried himself off, careful of the exceptionally raw patches.

"You can put the pants on awhile," Sam offered, crossing the large bathroom and holding out some underwear and sweatpants. "It looks like you only hurt your upper half."

Examining the clothes, Castiel gave Sam a look—what kind of look, he wasn't sure, because he really didn't know what he was doing, but it was a look—and took the pants. Pulling them closer, he noticed a first aid kit that had been hidden by the article, and it put a bitter taste in his mouth. I did such a good job of resisting every single time they tried to treat my wounds. I didn't make it easy even once. But now…

Castiel remained silent as he dressed himself, and that pattern continued while the brothers patched up the spots on his body where he had clawed his skin a little too vigorously. Nothing needed stitches—it had only been his fingernails, after all—but he couldn't deny his skin hurt a little less once it was bandaged.

"Okay." Dean clapped his hands together. "Slumber party time."

Sam rolled his eyes and held out a red shirt with a similar material to the sweatpants Castiel was wearing. "Here."

Castiel took it and turned it over in his hands, noticing a hood and a pocket, and bold letters declaring 'Stanford' in white on the front.

"It's a hoodie from when I was in college." Sam offered a somewhat nervous smile, like he wasn't sure what he was doing. "Back before… I mean, I took a break from hunting, and I…" Huffing out a laugh, he shook his head. "I don't even know why I still have it. It's stupid. But, uh, but it's really comfortable. Softest hoodie I've ever owned."

Don't put it on. Throw it back in his face. But Castiel lifted it over his head, and after he swallowed the nervousness of taking his eyes off the enemy, he pulled it on. It is very soft.

"We can start the movie over." Sam rubbed the back of his head, looking at Dean with that mildly panicked expression Castiel had noticed before. "You won't get the full effect if you don't see it from the beginning and get all the backstory."

Castiel pulled on the hem of the hoodie. "I don't know what a movie is." He said it flatly, lacking both his usual anger as well as any kind of curiosity. "I've heard the word before. But I don't know what it is."

Dean put his hands on his hips and smirked. "Well, you're about to find out."

"It's basically the telling of a story, but… you're seeing people—real people or drawn people or—" Sam shook his head, waving it off. "Dean's right. We'll just show you."

Castiel continued to stare at them. "I want to go to bed."

"Yeah, there's no way I'm letting you out of my sight." Dean moved a little closer, putting his hand on the center of Castiel's back and giving him a little shove. "We'll take turns sleeping and keeping an eye on you."

"Why?" the angel muttered, bare feet slowly moving across the hard floor.

"Because you might hurt yourself again, idiot." Dean continued to push, moving them both toward the door while Sam took the lead and went into the hall.

Castiel creased his brow slightly. "You never took the restraints off the bed. You can strap me down. I won't be able to hurt myself."

Dean snorted, as if the suggestion had been ridiculous. "Yeah, I don't think strapping you down and leaving you alone is the best thing for you right now."

"What does that mean?" Castiel narrowed his eyes, but he wasn't glaring. He was bewildered more than anything, and as they made their way into the dimly lit hall, he found himself using angelic vision to see Dean's face.

"It means when your brain is in a place where you start hurting yourself, being strapped to a bed in a dark room is going to make things worse. You'll panic, or feel alone, or get desperate, or—just not good stuff." Dean spoke like it wasn't a big deal, like what he was saying made perfect sense.

You won't trick me. But that didn't change the fact he wasn't fighting anymore, did it? Maybe he didn't believe Dean truly cared or had his best interests at heart, but he was certainly acting like it, wasn't he? Pathetic. Stupid, useless, pathetic.

"You should drink some more water," Sam said as they reentered the common room. He went to the end of the couch and grabbed a half-empty bottle of water, holding it out. "You had some before you passed out, but when you stress your body out like this…"

Castiel stood in front of the couch, Sam in front of him and Dean behind him, and he gave the water a long look before he took it wordlessly. His arm dropped to his side, and he didn't attempt to drink the water, just staring at Sam.

"Come on." Dean put his hand on Castiel's shoulder, pushing until the angel sank down onto the couch cushions. "So. Movies." He sat on the lefthand side of the couch and started to gesture with his hand, slipping into a brief explanation while Sam did something with a small, plastic, rectangle bar… thing. "Basically, it's all made up. They take real people, put them in places with real objects, and sometimes use computers to make not-so-real special effects. It looks real, though. But it isn't. It's just a story."

Breathing steadily, Castiel looked at the screen, where a woman's face was frozen, as if he were looking at a picture. He watched as the images started to jerk and change, and he quickly realized Sam was controlling them with the device in his hand. It took a little while, but soon the screen was black, and Sam, seated comfortably on Castiel's right, flashed a small smile.

"You ready?"

Castiel just stared. He didn't know or care if he was ready. He wanted to be left alone, and he could only hope their supposed need to keep him from hurting himself didn't last too long.

"You've got a fever," Dean muttered when he finally put his hand against Castiel's forehead. "You've been shivering all day." He ignored when Castiel pulled back, grabbing his phone from the end table and shooting a text to Sam, who had retreated to the bathroom for a shower about fifteen minutes earlier. "Do you feel sick?"

Castiel glared weakly and turned back toward the television, staring at the frozen image. "I'm fine."

"Achy? Tired? Head pounding? Throat sore?" Dean listed possible symptoms as if he hadn't heard Castiel's answer, primarily because he didn't believe it.

"I…" Castiel shook his head, an expression of disgust crossing his face. "I don't know. It doesn't… feel right."

Dean frowned from his position on the right side of the couch. "What doesn't?"

Shrugging, Castiel kept his eyes on the TV.

"Right." Dean sighed and moved closer, ignoring the way Castiel leaned back. He put his hands on either side of the angel's throat and pressed lightly. "Yeah, that feels pretty swollen."

Castiel half-heartedly pushed at Dean's hands, but it didn't do anything.

"Do you feel anything in your chest when you breathe? Rattling, wheezing, pain, pressure?" Dean waited, but Castiel didn't answer, prompting an eyeroll and withdrawal into his own space. "We'll keep an eye on it."

They lapsed into a silence that lasted until Sam returned to the room with the thermometer Dean had asked for, which Dean took with a quiet, 'thanks," before grabbing Castiel's chin and pulling it toward him. "Open your mouth."

Castiel jerked back, squinting at the thermometer.

"Just open your mouth." Dean didn't let go, maintaining eye contact the entire time. "I'm gonna stick it under your tongue, and it's gonna tell us if you're getting sick."

Swallowing, Castiel continued to stare, and then he slowly opened his mouth the teeniest, tiniest, most uncooperative little bit he could.

"Of course." Dean hit the button and slid the thermometer in, somehow getting it under the tongue. "Just wait a couple minutes."

Castiel's nose crinkled, lips closing around the device.

"I take it he feels warm?" Sam asked, standing by the couch with his hands on his hips.

"Yeah. He keeps shivering, too, and it's not that cold in here." Dean kept looking at Castiel, trying to figure out what had happened. Castiel still had that look on his face, like he wanted to fight back with everything in him, but there was a glaze over his eyes. Like he wanted to fight, but he just… couldn't anymore, so he wasn't even going to try.

And Dean didn't know how he got from Point A to Point B.

Dean heard the soft beep and pulled the thermometer out, looking at the result. "101.8." He set the thermometer on the end table and looked at Sam. "It's up there, but he's an angel. Maybe we don't need to medicate yet."

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "Even if we wanted to medicate, do you think we could get pills down his throat?" He gave Castiel a teasing smirk, almost goading him, probably hoping he would see a little bit of that fire come back.

But it didn't.

If he keeps acting like this… Dean ran a hand through his hair. "Cas, are you gonna be honest about your symptoms?"

"…I don't know." Castiel shifted his gaze between the two hunters. "My head is… throbbing. I am tired. My body hurts… but not the same all over." He took a breath and let it out, paused, and then did it again. "My lungs are shuddering."

"Shuddering?" Sam echoed, eyebrows raising.

"Faintly, yes."

Sam frowned slightly, but he didn't seem concerned. "Could be a wheeze. He could have a cold, or… maybe the flu, considering how fast and hard it hit him." He tilted his head. "But it would be kinda strange if he got an infection when he doesn't go anywhere."

"We could've transferred it to him. I mean, our immune systems are doing a heck of a lot better than his right now," Dean gestured to the angel, "so maybe we're carriers but didn't get symptoms."

Sam gave Dean a long, bewildered look. "Why do you know how the flu works?"

"Wow, Sam." Dean crossed his arms. "I'm not that dumb."

Sam laughed. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He looked at Castiel. "But he's right. Your immune system is probably shot."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, pushing back into the couch. He might have been less confrontational and willing to accept help, but they had a long way to go.

"Basically," Sam continued, moving his hands as he spoke, "your body—or a human's body, which might be similar to a fallen angel's body—has a system to fight off diseases. But if you, let's say, don't eat as much as you're supposed to, or maybe you're really stressed all the time, or you're not moving around because you're chained to a bedpost…" he gave Castiel a look, "…then your immune system gets weaker, and diseases have a better chance of hurting you."

Castiel watched Sam carefully, like he was trying to decide if he believed what he was hearing. He snuck a look at Dean, then shifted back to Sam, then to Dean, and then to Sam one last time. "Okay."

Good to see he's opening up. Dean rubbed his forehead. "Let's just get back to this movie-thon for now."

Castiel glared at him. "We've been watching movies for two days. When are you going to take me back to my cell?"

"I might never take you back to your room. I might just keep you where I can see you for the rest of forever." Dean leaned against the arm of the couch with an unimpressed look. "Unless you can convince me you're not going to skin yourself if I leave you alone."

"You do realize that merely keeping me from hurting myself does not change my perspective." Castiel gave him an equally apathetic expression. "It's pointless to prevent the reaction to my situation when you can't change the way I view my situation. You are simply prolonging the inevitable."

Dean opened his mouth but didn't speak right away, because that was a point he hadn't considered. He had always just ignored his emotions until they went away, so he sort of assumed if he kept Castiel alive and safe long enough, whatever caused the breakdown would fade into the background.

"Then let's talk about the way you view the situation." Sam spread his hands, ever the emotionally attuned one. "What made you want to hurt yourself?"

"I didn't." Castiel sighed. "Turn the movie back on."

Sam tried to coax him. "If you give us an idea of what's going on in your head, we might be able to help you. It's like you said, if we don't—"

"If you want to know what I'm thinking, you'll have to figure it out yourself." Castiel folded his arms in a position that fell somewhere between crossing them over his chest and wrapping them protectively over his stomach. "Should be easy for you. You need to know your enemy, after all."

Dean and Sam exchanged a look, silently bemoaning the fact that, while Castiel was closer to cooperation, it was a defeated cooperation. He still didn't trust them, he still didn't like them, and he still saw them in the most negative light a person could see someone in.

So Sam looked at Castiel with a mildly annoyed, mildly aloof, somewhat-mean-but-in-a-sibling-insulting-you-before-sticking-out-their-tongue-kind-of-way look. "That's funny coming from you, considering you think we're the enemy and yet you don't know us at all." He said the words with his signature sass, turning and falling backwards onto his end of the couch. "Go on, Dean. Hit play."

Dean tried to hide his smirk, knowing how much Sam liked to have the last word, but it got significantly harder to stay solemn when he saw the way Castiel was glaring at Sam. Shaking his head, Dean extended the remote and pressed play.

He said he can never go home… so he's trying to escape… and we have to somehow convince him this situation doesn't need to be escaped from. But he thinks everything we say is a lie, because he thinks we're trying to manipulate and use him, and there's nothing we can do to change his mind. Dean let out a soft sigh and put his attention back on The Addams Family.

We'll figure something out.

"What did you do to me?" Castiel tried to inhale through his nose, but they had put something in it during the night, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth instead. His mouth, which led to his throat, which felt like it had been scraped raw.

Dean glanced over from where he sat at Castiel's feet reading a book. "You just have the flu, man." He put his gaze back on the text, disinterested.

Castiel sucked in a breath and quickly coughed it back out, pulling his blanket tighter around himself and wishing he could somehow sink deeper into the couch cushions; wishing he could just warm up even the tiniest little bit. "Why hasn't this happened before, then? I've been on Earth for…" he buffered, realizing he didn't really know how long ago the angels had fallen, "…a long time, and I've never felt like this."

"It's not like we get it once a month." Dean shrugged. "You get colds a couple times a year, and if you're generally healthy, they're not that bad. And then, every few years, you get knocked on your butt by something like the flu." He smirked. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

Grumbling to himself, Castiel curled up a little tighter, his entire body aching. "It would 'suck' much less if I were in a bed."

Dean hummed, turning the page on his leatherbound book. "Yeah, because being strapped down on your back is really going to make you feel better right now. Especially with all that drainage."

"You don't have to strap me down. I won't do anything." Castiel tried to breathe again, reaching up and massaging his nose. "I want you to take out whatever substance you put in my… everything above the neck."

"Cas—" Dean rolled his eyes, finally looking away from his book, "—for the last time, we didn't put anything in you. You are congested because you are sick." He emphasized the words, as if speaking to the stupidest person on the planet. "Sam's at the store getting some medicine, and when he comes back, you'll at least be suffering because you stubbornly refuse to take medicine instead of suffering because we don't have any." Dean gave Castiel a look that probably meant he wanted the angel to shut up and stop complaining, and then he got back to his book.

Castiel was unintimidated. "If I take the medicine, will you let me go to bed?"

Dean paused at that, raising a brow. "Maybe." He grabbed his phone from the arm of the couch and checked it. "It's 3:30, so… take the medicine, and I'll let you go to bed tonight after dinner. If you don't try to peel your skin off, I'll let you go to bed every night. But you're spending your days on the couch."

"I am not going to hurt myself. I… lost control for a few moments, and it had repercussions. I'm fine, and your hovering is annoying." Castiel shifted again, shuddering from the perpetual cold he couldn't seem to get out of his bones.

"If it's annoying, it should be a pretty good motivator for you to never hurt yourself again." Dean looked back at his book, resting his ankle on his opposite knee.

Castiel sighed, a noise which quickly devolved into a violent coughing fit. He curled up, wrapping his arms around his stomach and chest, every spasm twisting through his muscles and heightening the never-ending ache.

What the—? He jerked, feeling a hand on his back, and he immediately started kicking. "Get away from me!" He bared his teeth. "I don't want you getting this idea in your head that just because I had a—a moment of—" he sputtered for a second, coughing several times, and then jumped the gap, "—that I suddenly trust you or rely on you. I want nothing to do with y—" He broke off into another coughing fit, trying to kick Dean again as he collapsed onto his left side.

"Oh, for—"

Castiel held a hand to his mouth, eyes screwed shut, and he tried to catch his breath. Gasping in between the spasms, he used his other hand to press down on his chest and then on his stomach, trying to ease the pain of his muscles contorting.

"Come on," Dean muttered, grabbing Castiel by the shoulder and pulling him up.

Castiel forced his eyes open, but they were watering so badly he couldn't see anyway, and then he felt something hard against the back of the hand covering his mouth.

"Try and get some water in your mouth and then swallow it when you have a second where your lungs aren't trying to turn themselves inside out."

Pressing down on the gap beneath his sternum, he took his hand from his mouth and tried to grab the cup. He put it to his lips and managed to get some water, and after a few harsh exhales through his nose, he managed to swallow it. It eased the tickling, itching sensation in his throat for a moment, but it quickly came back.

"Just keep sipping when you can."

Castiel begrudgingly followed the directions, trying to get as much down as he could, and it did help. It got to the point where he was just coughing or clearing his throat every twenty seconds or so, and he eventually curled up against the arm of the couch, watching Dean and holding the cup close to his chest.

"You're welcome." Dean rolled his eyes and retreated to his end of the sofa with a heavy exhale.

Castiel glared down at the remaining water, fighting the urge to thank the hunter. He hated that he even had that urge, but he did, and it was a struggle not to mutter at least some form of gratitude for the fact that, despite Castiel being the most uncooperative person alive, Dean continued to take care of him. It's all a trap. It's just—it's just a manipulation.

But he wasn't as confident of that as he used to be.

"So." Castiel opened his mouth to continue but stopped, teeth slightly parted as he struggled with himself. He wanted to ask about a trend he had noticed, and the more he went back over his interactions with Dean in a less hostile mindset, the more curious he became.

"You are the most difficult, impossible, irrational person I've ever met, and that's saying something, because I raised Sam."

"I raised a stubborn child once, and so help me, Cas, I will do it again. Eat."

"I always used to lay with Sam when he was upset."

"So? Were you going to follow that up with something?"

"You and the taller one are… brothers." Castiel slid his index fingers against the blue plastic. "But you're the older one." He narrowed his eyes. "That… somehow translates to…" He tried to find words, mouth moving disjointedly.

"Knowing how to take care of idiots?"

Castiel glared.

Laughing, Dean shook his head. "It's not specifically an older sibling thing. I mean, sure, I pretty much raised Sam, so I had to learn a lot, but…" He shrugged. "Sam learned to take care of me in a lot of ways, too."

"You… raised him." Castiel kept staring at the surface of the water, and even though he knew what he wanted to ask, he wasn't sure he wanted to tip his hand that much. "Because… you are born small."

Dean let out another laugh. "Uh, yes? Small, defenseless, unable to do anything." He was confused, but he must have caught on, because he continued before Castiel even had a chance to elaborate. "Oh. I guess angels are all adults. You just kinda… are. So, you don't know…" He hummed. "Yeah. Humans can't do anything when we're born. We just sleep and cry."

Castiel creased his brow, trying to imagine wallowing in such an existence. Being trapped in a weakened, sometimes almost human body, was already more frustrating and traumatic than he could get his head around, and being enslaved and stripped of control over his own wellbeing had been equally horrendous. And humans somehow started off with… less?

"I know how to take care of your sorry butt because I had to take care of Sam. When he was sick or hurt, when he was scared, when he was fighting with our dad, when he wanted to learn something, when he didn't want to learn something—you name it, he did it, I helped." Dean paused, a curious tone slipping into his voice. "You're telling me you and your angel siblings didn't take care of each other?"

Lifting the cup to his mouth, Castiel used a drink to avoid answering, but he eventually had to swallow. "We took care of each other. But it was… different." He had never doubted his siblings would be there if he needed backup in a fight or an extra dose of grace, but the thought of being unable to function without them was… foreign. He could recall one time, very long ago, when he had been drained of his grace to the point he could barely move, and Anna had come to his rescue. But she had recharged him quickly, and they had gotten back to fighting in seconds. It seemed humans had a much longer, more gradual process when it came to recovery.

"I guess being invulnerable means you don't have to trust anyone but yourself." Dean hummed again, thoughtful. "Huh. I don't know if I would like that."

Castiel chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing. But how do you know who to trust? Because I have been vulnerable many times since I fell, and there was nothing about it I preferred over my invincibility. He tilted his head slightly, clearing his throat as the urge to cough returned. "So, you… took care of your brother."

"Yup. Dad was busy hunting all the time, so I stepped in. It got worse as we got older because—" Dean cut himself off, sounding like he had been caught in a lie. "I mean, not worse. It wasn't worse, it was just… you know, we got older, and we needed less supervision and check-ins, so… it was just the two of us. But it wasn't 'worse.' Dad didn't do anything wrong; he was just busy."

Castiel squinted slightly, turning his head and finally looking in Dean's direction. "You said your brother was stubborn… but you're older, so I assume you made him listen." His own brothers always had when they outranked him, and when he was the one of higher rank, he had done the same.

Dean chuckled. "Well, I tried. I had to strongarm him a lot, but…"

"But…?" Castiel pressed, watching Dean's face, which bore some kind of guilt.

"It's… hard. I… I tried to teach him to be a good person and, yanno, a kid who listened to the rules, but… I also had to teach him how to be his own person and make his own decisions." Dean spoke haltingly, wearing a conflicted expression as he struggled through his explanation. "I had to keep him alive, too, but I had to let him fight his own battles, or he wouldn't know how to stay alive when I wasn't there, and… I don't know." He waved it off with a heavy sigh. "I guess I got him from one point to the next. Who knows if I did a good job? But I got him there."

Castiel furrowed his brow slightly and leaned back against the arm of the couch, sipping his water. Maybe humans have some kind of instinct to… I don't know. It's like an instinct to protect, but if that were the case, they wouldn't do so much killing and torturing. He scratched idly at the side of the cup. But he can't… he doesn't even know me. Neither of them do. It has to be some kind of… instinctual, gut reaction they can't control.

It had to be.

"Okay." Sam let out a sigh, unboxing the cough syrup and holding it where Castiel could see. "It tastes terrible, so you're gonna think it's poison or something, but it's not. It just has a bad taste."

Castiel looked at him suspiciously, but it couldn't be called a glare. "And you expect me to believe a little cup of poison is going to make me not feel the way I currently do?"

"It's not gonna make you feel completely normal, but it'll help with pain and congestion." Sam gave a sideways nod. "Well, we hope it will. You're an angel, so we can't guarantee anything, but Dean said he gave you another painkiller, and it worked, so maybe this will, too."

Castiel gave it another long, hard look and nodded. "I'll drink it."

Keeping himself from letting out an audible sigh of relief, Sam nodded and started wrestling with the seal. It took a while to break into Fort Knox, but once he was in, he poured a double dose and held it out.

Castiel crinkled his nose and cautiously took the medicine, giving it a onceover before he threw it back. He choked immediately, the sound mixing with a screwed-up expression to let everyone know just how repulsive it was as he forced it down, shaking his head with a disgusted grunt. "And that's not poison?"

"Nope," Sam chuckled. "Dean's making chicken, and after dinner, you can go back to your room. Between that and the medicine, maybe you can get some good sleep."

For several seconds, nothing was said, blue eyes lingering on the tiny cup. "You're… different."

"Uh…" Sam blinked.

"You act differently, and yet, you seem to have similar viewpoints."

It took a moment for Sam to realize Castiel was talking about him and Dean. "Oh. Well, yeah. No two people are exactly alike." He shrugged. "You don't have to function or think like someone to agree with them. Even if you don't agree with them, that doesn't mean you can't understand where they're coming from. Even if two people were the same, it doesn't mean they're going to agree. You can have two selfish people who are selfish in different ways. No one is defined by a single trait. You're a mix of everything inside you." He shrugged again, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"But you are brothers and coworkers. You should be the same."

Sam arched a brow, confused. "No? Not at all?"

Castiel scowled.

"Sorry, that was condescending." Sam cleared his throat. "You and your siblings were all in Heaven, living the same lives and following the same rules, but you weren't the same, were you?"

Squinting slightly, Castiel gave his head the mildest tilt. "Yes? We were?" He paused. "That was meant to be condescending, by the way. It was intentional on my part."

Sam couldn't keep from laughing, but he was still stuck on the response. "You were all the same?"

"Of course. We were the same species, and we all had duties to fulfill—"

"You never disagreed? You never interpreted something differently?"

Castiel tensed, averting his eyes for a fraction of a second as thought crossed his face. "No, we…" He trailed off, growing progressively angrier and keeping himself completely still.

Sam held up his hands. "It's not a big deal. I'm not trying to make you mad, I was just trying to explain… how…" he struggled to find words, "…how Dean and I are different but still work well together." Sure. Let's go with that stupid collection of words.

Castiel didn't say anything, but the anger seemed to taper off, replaced by an unnerved expression. He leaned back and folded his arms over his stomach, leveling a glare at Sam. "I took the medicine. Dean said I could go to bed if I did that."

"Like I said, we're gonna have dinner first. Chicken of us, chicken noodle soup for you." Sam immediately continued, not wanting Castiel to interpret the different meals the wrong way. "Soup is a typical meal when you're sick. It's easy on the stomach, and you don't always feel like chowing down on a full meal when you have the flu, so… soup is good."

Castiel stared suspiciously. "He's made soup for me before. I know what it is."

"Right." Sam forced a smile. I know you know what soup is; I'm trying to keep you from thinking we're treating you differently for any kind of negative, manipulative reason. He sighed softly. "I'm not trying to… I know you're going to see this as manipulation, but I still want to say it."

Blue eyes narrowed.

"Dean and I… don't trust you not to do something bad to humans. That's why we're keeping you here. We think you could be dangerous." Sam took a deep breath, holding his hands about a foot apart. "But that doesn't mean we don't care about you. It doesn't mean we're not going to help you. It definitely doesn't mean we're going to hurt you."

Castiel remained guarded, but he didn't deepen his glare.

"I just wanted to put it out there." Sam smiled again, just as brief and weak as before, and then walked to the nearby recliner. He grabbed his laptop from the floor and tried to decide what to do when he opened it. Look for a case to work? Check his email to see if any fellow hunters needed something? Waste time watching dumb videos on YouTube that shouldn't have interested him nearly as much as they did?

…actually, that last one sounded like a great idea.

Author's Note: HEALING IS NOT LINEAR
PROGRESS IS PROGRESS
Seriously, though. He's getting there. Slowly but surely. He's getting there.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and remember, the next Wednesday Update is NOT the next chapter of this story! It's the first chapter of Want is a Wasting Disease. If you want to see some funny screenshots from editing, check out my tumblr. Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!