Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He runs up the bunker stairs double-time, wary of what will be on the other side but knowing somehow that the surveillance cameras Sam set up weren’t lying; that what was on the other side of the door wasn’t a shifter; not a demon, not a spectre, nothing; just Cas, who has been missing for six months now, and Dean has to, has to get the door open now. “Cas!”

He gets to it; fumbles with the heavy panel for way too long, turning the wheel that unlocks it the wrong way before he gets it right, hands slipping, sweaty, on the metal. He says, again, “Cas!” as if Castiel could possibly hear him through all that steel, and then finally gets it open, light flooding from the outside onto him, haloing the silhouette of that familiar body, that well-missed face.

He falls on him, practically; swamps him in his arms. “Cas. God damn it, Cas.” His voice is muffled by Castiel’s shoulder, and he laughs blearily when Castiel’s arms raise, hesitant, to encircle him; to squeeze him in return.

“Dean.” He mutters, softly, and Dean has missed him like nothing else, and it is so wonderful to be standing there, Castiel warm against his chest, that for a moment his eyes don’t quite register what they’re seeing, his chin resting on Castiel’s shoulder, gaze pitched over his back.

Twenty-odd pairs of bewildered eyes stare back at him.

Dean stumbles backwards, out of Castiel’s arms.

“Whoa. Who – Cas?” he says, worried that this will be yet another ‘Dean, I fucked up’ situation – and Castiel’s gaze is measured, soft and pleading, and he looks guilty before he sighs.

He casts an arm back at the crowd behind him, a small, nervous, jostling throng of ragged men and women, in various states of dress. “Dean.” He says, again. “These are my brothers and sisters. Some of them.” He finishes, softly, then adds – quieter, as if expecting a blow in response – “We need your help.”

---

There are eighteen fallen angels in the Men Of Letters Headquarters, and as Dean and Castiel lead them down the sheet-metal stairs like weird pied pipers, their sensible shoes clanking, Dean wonders at how quickly his life shifts from one stage to another.

They get downstairs and the angels follow behind them in pairs, meekly. In the living room, the gaggle stands in front of the two of them, most of them with their hands clasped in front.

They vary hugely from one another; big and small, skin that ranges from glass-pale to deep brown; men and women, alike; but in one aspect they are pretty much uniform, and it’s that every single one of them is dressed like a churchgoer.

Dean doesn’t know how he didn’t know, immediately, what they were; they carry themselves, all of them, in the same strange, curious way that Castiel used to. They hold themselves like strangers in their own bodies, and all of them are in wrinkled, cheap suits or pastel-coloured dresses. Most of them are ragged, and dirty; their pants are torn at the knees, their stockings laddered and ripped. There’s a pale blonde one, a woman, whose high-heeled shoes are missing their heels, and another whose face is so filthy that he must have rolled down a hillside.

They are ragtag, and messy, and Dean is loath to admit it, not being a huge fan of angels in general, but they are endearing, like children grown too big by accident, watching for Castiel’s instruction with big, wide eyes.

Castiel mutters to them at large, something Dean doesn’t understand, the syllables wide and heavy, and they all nod to him and murmur in response.

Then, as a slightly awkward, exhausted collective, they all sit cross-legged on the floor of the headquarters, like kids at Sunday school waiting for a parable.

Dean eyes them for a second before he looks at Castiel; then he puts a hand on Castiel’s back and gently, quickly, leads him across the room, out of earshot.

“Cas, what the hell?”

Castiel has his eyes on his siblings, but he turns back to Dean, at his words. “Quite the opposite.” He says, softly, and sounds sad. “They’re Fallen, Dean. We all are.”

Dean glances at them, then finally looks, properly, at Castiel.

He looks different, somehow. Dean’s never really seen so many people defer to him before, never seen him take on leadership so fully and restively, and it fits him, this meek little gang of disciples, however it makes Dean’s heart twinge with memory, too.

Castiel’s trenchcoat and suit jacket are gone; his tie is loose around his neck. For some reason, that’s the thing that strikes Dean across the face, like a blow; not the falling, but the coat.

“Where’s your stuff?” he blurts, and Castiel looks at him as if he’s mad.

“Pardon?”

“Where’s your – you know. Where’s your coat?”

Castiel smiles gently at him; looks almost pleased. “I gave it to one of the others, to keep them warm. The jacket got…misplaced.” He shrugs, carefully. “It’s been a long walk.”

Dean looks him up and down again, then again at the silent, gathered angels. If they speak, they do so very, very quietly, like they’re not allowed. “Can you leave them long enough to get a drink?”

Castiel looks at him seriously. “They’re not children, Dean. They just need…direction.”

“Okay. Well. Can they cope without directions, for a second?”

“Yes.” He says, and follows Dean through to the kitchen, where Dean immediately pulls a bottle of whiskey down from the shelves. He pours himself a fifth into a glass, and picks another up off the drainer for Cas; pours out the brown liquid, hands it to him, and Castiel thanks him, quietly.

They look at each other for a moment, and then Dean laughs. “Sam’s gonna shit himself.”

“Do you think he’ll mind?”

“I doubt it.” A pause stretches between them. “S’good to see you, Cas.” He says, looking at him over the top of his glass, and Castiel smiles, indulgently.

“You too.”

“Where’ve you been, man?” Dean asks him, and hopes it doesn’t come out too plaintive.

“Everywhere.” Castiel breathes, and tension seems to swoop out of his whole body in one long thread, his shoulders slumping. He leans against the counter, and Dean appreciates the gesture with his gaze, carefully. “I landed in Colorado, but I’ve been… collecting them.”

“So you found them?”

Castiel nods, briefly. “Found them. Pulled them to their feet.” He shrugs, and glances backwards, as if he can look through the wall, at his brothers and sisters. “They’re… strange.” He says, absent, and then turns back to Dean.

“They’re a bit like you used to be.” Dean says, unsure if Castiel will take it well; but he just nods. “Quieter, though. Less …threatening.” They smile at each other. There’s a lot going unsaid.

Dean takes a huge breath inwards, then gulps at his whiskey and puts it down on the counter, emptied. “Okay, Cas.” He looks at Castiel as earnestly as he can. “What do you need?”

“A place for them to sleep, and gather themselves, for a while. Nothing else. We’ll move on soon.”

Dean’s heart twists sharply, but he nods. “Okay. I think we can do that.” Is all he says, and Castiel smiles so gratefully that Dean hasn’t the heart to complain, or bring up any kind of flaw in the plan. He doesn’t say, go where? He’s tired of trying to hang on to Castiel’s coat-tails, and pull him back. He’s not even wearing the coat anymore; what would Dean have to grab? He takes a deep breath, instead, and feels it swell inside his chest.

“Okay. I’m gonna go wake Sam, see if we can find somewhere for them to go. You… keep an eye on them.”

“Okay.” Castiel looks down at his glass, still half-full, and a smile creeps its way onto his face. “Thankyou, Dean. It means a lot.”

Dean takes another breath, laughs and cuts it off, hesitant, half-humorless. He claps Castiel on the shoulder as he turns to leave the kitchen.

---

He rouses Sam from sleep with ease, once he says Cas is back – Sam shoots up in bed, gets to his feet so quickly that he almost bowls Dean over, and is “battle ready” in seconds, even though he looks like an idiot with his pyjama shorts, his long hair rucked around his head.

“What’s happening? Is he okay? Where is he? Who’s here?”

“I’m – he’s fine, you big weirdo, come on. I can’t – it’s better if you just see.”

Sam, predictably when faced with a room full of listless fallen angels, is excited.

He stands in the doorway and for a minute he gropes for Dean’s arm, at his side; when he finds it, he grips him tight. “Dean, there are like two-dozen people in here.”

“Yep.”

They stand in the doorway. Castiel is across the room, crouching, speaking to one of the angels; a young man, dark skin, short dark hair. At the sound of Sam’s voice, though, he raises his head, and he grins. Dean isn’t used to it, not even from this distance, and it’s not even directed at him; Cas is so happy to see them. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does.

Castiel walks over to them, and hovers uncertainly a few feet away. “Sam.” He says, warmly.

“Hey, Cas.” Sam grins in return, then nods at the room full of angels. “You, uh, brought some friends over?”

“They’re my brothers and sisters.” He says. “We were going to stay, for a while. If that’s okay with both of you.”

“’Course.” Sam says, immediately. Dean looks at him.

“So, you think, five in here, two to each bedroom?”

Sam looks out at the living room; the angels have started migrating from their places on the floor, but not far. They sit, clustered, in a little group, and mostly they don’t make noise.

This kind of thing is actually something that comes naturally, to Dean; he goes straight downstairs to the laundry room; gathers armfuls of blankets and pillows and sheets. When he comes back upstairs again, Sam and Cas are separating the angels into pairs, and moving them gently from the room. Dean hands Castiel enough pillows and blankets, counting them out into his arms, and when he’s finished Castiel looks at him, again, and his expression is grateful, again. Dean stifles a groan.

“C’mon, Cas, don’t do this to me. It’s nothing. You pulled me out of hell.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, shut up about it before I change my mind.” But he grins, despite himself. This is something he can get into, something good. Caring for people. Helping a friend.

With Castiel gone from the room, the angels look even more hesitant than before. They gaze at Dean with wide, wary eyes, and he wonders what happened to them to make them so scared. Angels aren’t like this; they’re not nervous, not careful. They’re frenetic and hasty and rude and obnoxious, and Dean doesn’t miss it, exactly, but he does wish they’d talk a little more.

He looks down at them, sitting on the floor. Two boys, three girls – men and women, really, but it’s hard not to think of them as young. “Alright. Get up, guys.”

The angels rise simultaneously to their feet; they even blink almost in sync, and that’s gonna get real creepy, real fast. “Okay, so we’ve got three on the couch, two on the floor, I think. Which of you wants the couch?”

The angels are silent. They look at each other, then back at Dean, and he shifts his grip on the bedding in his arms. “C’mon. I’m not gonna make you fight for it.”

Silence, again, and then one of them clears its throat, very, very quietly.

“I’d like the couch.” She says; a short woman, her skin light brown. Her pale pink dress is torn and muddied; at the shoulder, it’s either stained with rust or with blood; Dean can’t tell.

“Okay. Cool.” He walks over to her, and hands her a pillow, and some bedding. She takes them like he’s handing her a bomb; or like his hands are dirty. That doesn’t make much sense, either, because hers really are; how would she knows where Dean’s have been?

Her expression – distasteful – rankles him a little, but he lets it go. He looks at them again. “C’mon, guys, we’ll be here all night. Couch or floor?”

They get it organized, eventually; the angels are quiet, and they don’t like it when Dean comes near them, but they’re mild and they’re generally obedient, even if they do visibly tense whenever Dean comes close.

He gets them onto the couches, and set up on the floor. They lie so still tat it’s like they’re in hibernation, or cryogenically frozen, not sleeping. In some ways, they remind him of Cas, but in others, not at all. The man in question returns a little later, whilst Dean is hanging in the doorway to the living room, watching over his new charges. When he speaks, his voice is pitched low.

“Sam went to bed. Are they alright?”

“Fine. I don’t think they like me much.”

Castiel makes a noise, neither agreement or disavowal. He’s warm at Dean’s side.

“Where are you gonna sleep?” Dean asks him, and Castiel shrugs.

“I could watch them, in here.”

“Cas, you look like shit. You’re not doing that.”

“No beds left, though.”

“No.”

Dean looks at him, slowly. Last time they saw each other, things were – stressful. He’s had some time, though, and he’s not angry anymore, just confused, mostly. He doesn’t know what this means, what they are; why it hurts so much when Castiel is gone again (and he’s always gone). He’s got an inkling, though.

“You could bunk with me. I could take the floor, we could alternate. You’re not gonna be here for long, right?”

Castiel’s expression turns carefully neutral at that last, and Dean mentally kicks himself. “Of course. That would work.” He pauses, and looks long at his brothers and sisters, lying quietly in the living room, before turning from the room and walking down the hall, to Dean’s room, Dean in tow. Dean finds himself surprised that Castiel remembers the way; he’s only been here once before.

“You want pyjamas or anything?” he asks, once they’ve made Castiel a slim bedroll on the floor, out of blankets and pillows; Dean’s coverlet, folded in half.

“I’ll cope.” Is Castiel’s only reply, and Dean feels a strange tension in the air when he finally lies down in his bed. Usually he’ll splay himself right in the centre, but with Castiel in the room it doesn’t seem right, and instead he lies on his front on the left side, about as far from Castiel as he can get.

“Okay. Well.” The pause is uncomfortable. “Night, Cas.” He murmurs into his pillow, and he thinks he hears Castiel laugh gently from the floor.

---

Dean wakes before Cas does in the morning, and he basically flees the bedroom as soon as his eyes crack open. He trips out as fast as he can, feet light, bare, on the cold floors.

In the kitchen, Sam is already awake; and so too are six angels.

“Morning!” Sam calls, always chipper no matter the fucking hour, and Dean lifts a hand in greeting, heading straight for the coffee maker. The angels, perched at the counter, blink at him in unison as he walks past them.

“Coffee?” he asks them, lifting the pot and sloshing it a little; their gazes, taken slightly aback, are otherwise impassive. They’re silent. Sam catches Dean’s eye as he pours himself a glass of orange juice.

“They haven’t said a word all morning. I asked them if they wanted breakfast, but they just… look at me.” He says, quietly, so they won’t hear. “Where’s Cas?”

“Sleeping.”

“Oh.” Sam pauses. “Where’d he sleep?”

“My room. My floor.” He says, quickly, and Sam nods, slowly.

“Right. Obviously.”

It’s really awkward, being in the same room as these creatures that look so much like people, the creatures just staring at them.

 Dean wonders how it worked; did they plummet to earth in approximations of their chosen vessels, or quickly get permission as they fell? Did their souls fill the churches and the midnight masses, the homes of the devout, and push the human worshippers from their bodies, apologising as they went? Were they human now, or some sideways approximation; was Cas the same as them?

He sighs, and goes to the cabinet; gets out six bowls, six spoons; milk from the refrigerator, some of Sam’s granola from above the sink. He glances back at the line of angels sitting at the counter, says “You guys get Sam’s stuff. S’good for you.”, then pours out six portions of cereal into the bowls, and adds milk.

He sets each bowl down in front of each angel, and hands each of them a spoon. They sit there; they stare down at the cereal, then back up at Dean. “Eat up.” He says, for lack of anything else to add, and they stare back at him, motionless, before one of them takes initiative, and does as he says.

Dean sighs, and leans back, watching them; his hands braced against the counter. It’s exhausting trying to prompt them to do things, and he isn’t sure how comfortable he is with giving them orders; they’re free now, surely? Shouldn’t they be making their own choices, picking things, making a mess? If he was them, and he’d been given his agency after so fucking long – centuries – without it, he’d be… holed up somewhere jerking off, or stealing cars, or following Metallica around, or something. These guys just seem to sit, and stare; they haven’t even got their own clothes. The angels sit there quietly, and by the time Castiel wanders into the kitchen, still in his shirt, tie and suit pants, they’re chewing gingerly on spoonfuls of cereal, and Sam and Dean are still standing in front of them, watching. They lift their heads, when Castiel comes in.

“Hey, Cas. Sleep well?” Sam asks, and Castiel mutters something to his brothers and sisters in a low, soft tone before he answers. They reply in kind, albeit quieter.

“I think so.” He says, “Are you making coffee?”

Dean nods. “You want some?”

“Please.” Castiel says, like he’s very, very tired. Dean catches his eye, and tries not to flush when he smiles. He looks at the other angels, instead.

“What about you guys? Coffee? Last call.”

One of them, timid as anything – and with a short glance at Castiel, first – raises his hand. He’s short, slightly overweight; a mop of thin blonde hair barely covers his wide forehead. Dean grins at him to reward him – the angel frowns in response – and none of the others speak up.

He makes the coffee – finds out that Castiel takes his with milk, no sugar – and hands it out. For a moment, there is silence again, as they drink; Dean watches the face of the angel who asked for coffee.

“You like it?” he asks, and the angel looks stricken around his mug, and turns to Castiel for confirmation. Castiel laughs, and murmurs something indecipherable at him, quickly – the angel nods at Castiel, then looks at Dean, and shakes his head.

“Well, at least he’s honest.” Dean says, under his breath.

Castiel walks over to the little cluster of angels, and talks to them in a low, measured voice. Dean’s worked out, by now, that the way Castiel talks to them isn’t in English; it doesn’t sound like Enochian, either; but it’s certainly nothing he’s heard on earth before. After Castiel speaks to them, the angels get up from their spots at the counter, and file out of the kitchen. The angel who asked for coffee leaves his half-full mug behind – Sam smirks as he picks it up and takes it to the sink.

“What language is that, Cas?” Sam asks him, and Castiel takes a spot at the counter, himself.

“It’s a –“ he pauses. “It’s enochian. To an extent. It’s hard to explain, it’s a little like…” he pauses, drinking his coffee. “Like pidgin English. Pidgin enochian. It’s a simplified, more colloquial version.”

“Why don’t they just speak English?”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s difficult for them. I don’t think they’re ready to ‘go native’ just yet.”

Dean frowned, remembering how they’d reacted to him, the night before. “Yeah, actually, I was gonna ask – how come they’re so …twitchy?” he pauses, to find the words. “Did something happen to them?”

Castiel shakes his head. “They’re alright. Some of them had some brushes with danger, but I found them fairly quickly. I would imagine any hesitation they have about you and your brother is because they think you’re dirty.”

Dean tries, and fails, not to be offended. “Dirty? They’re the ones who look like they’ve come here straight from the junkyard!”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s the way they’ve been taught. We all were. None of them have been to earth, before.”

“None of them?” Sam asks, and Castiel turns to him, and nods over the edge of his coffee cup.

“Before Dean and I met –“ Dean barks a laugh, because met is not really the word, “We hadn’t been on earth for thousands of years. I’m fairly sure I was one of, if not the, first.”

“So these guys – they’ve been in heaven forever?”

“Until now, yes.” There’s a slight, wistful twist to Castiel’s voice. He sighs. “You have no idea how much this means to me. To us. I’m sorry if their behaviour is …offensive.”

“It’s okay, Cas.” Sam says evenly, and Dean nods along. “It’s totally understandable.” He pauses, “So, uh – what’re you gonna do with them?” He says, and Castiel is quiet, for a moment, looking down.

“I’m not sure.” He says, soft. “I just couldn’t leave them behind.”

Dean gets it. He clears his throat. “Well, look. How about the easy stuff, first? We’ll get them some clothes, we’ll help them… settle. Show ‘em some of the good things about being here. Maybe help them get over their human-phobia a little.”

Castiel looks at him thankfully; Dean squirms under his gaze, and again wishes acutely that he’d stop. “That’s a good idea.” He says, and pushes himself out of his seat. “They should all be in the living room. We should talk to them, as a group.”

Dean and Sam nod, and get up from the counter to follow him after – but Dean lets Sam go through the doorway first, and stops Castiel before he can follow, with a hand on his arm. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes?”

“You never did that whole – flinching thing. Not even when you first …met me.” They glance at each other, and Dean grins. He can’t help it. “Hell, I had the scar to prove it.” He falters, briefly, but ploughs on. “How come you didn’t -?”

Castiel looks surprised. His expression goes blank, for a moment, and then he smiles that tiny smile of his; it skirts around his mouth. “I don’t know.” He says, and he looks strangely thrilled by it, though Dean can’t really pinpoint why that would be. “I just knew.”

“About me?”

“About all of you humans.” He pauses. “But yes, about you.”

“Huh.” He doesn’t know what to say. Thanks, maybe? “Cool.” Is what he manages, instead, and Castiel’s eyes on him are only slightly mocking, as they go to the living room together.

---

They decide on a three-pronged plan of action; first, clean the angels. Second, clothe the angels. Third, figure out what the angels want.

The last will be the hardest, and Castiel looks dubious, even as Sam suggests it; after speaking to all the angels as a group, they find themselves in the corner of the living room, looking out over them. The angels are less structured in their sitting than the night before, but they’re not exactly lounging; they sit perched on all the chairs they could find; some are on the floor, some on the couch; but they all sit straight, and they seldom speak.

“How can they know what they want?” Castiel says, sounding genuinely concerned. “I don’t even know what I want.” He mumbles, absently, and Dean gets the sense that they weren’t really meant to hear. “They’re lost.” He says, and his eyes, when he looks out on the seated angels, are so heavy. “But it takes so long to adapt. And they’re young.” He looks at Dean and Sam, and smiles weakly. “Not young by your standards, but by ours, very.”

“First things first, Cas, okay?” Sam reaches for his shoulder, then pulls his hand back. He looks pointedly at Dean, but Dean just looks back at him – what do you expect me to do?  “We’ll get them all to bathe, and then we’ll find something for them to wear. Must be something around here somewhere, right?”

Dean nods, and hopes he looks as positive as Sam does. “Sure.” He says. “Me ‘n Sam’ll fill the tubs, you rally the troops.” He shrugs. “There’s at least two bathrooms; figure if we dip ‘em all real quick, we can have them dried in time for tonight.” He pauses. “’sides, there’s like a hundred Dead Guy robes in here, so there’ll be something for them to wear, at least.”

Castiel still looks hesitant, but he nods. “Alright. I’ll speak to them.”

---

Bathing angels turns out to be a lot easier than Dean imagined; the angels, to their credit, are nothing if not obedient. Castiel was obviously pretty specific with them, because they file into the bathroom one by-one; they undress while Dean averts his eyes, they drop their soiled clothes in the corner of the room; they get into the bath, and let Dean hose them down.

They’re so strange, the way they peer so curiously at themselves. Dean doubts they’ve ever even been naked before; most of them put their arms on the rim of the bath, entirely still, but some of them seem unable to resist poking at their own flesh, and they embarrass him with their tender, timid explorations; they touch their own hands, their own bellies, their own breasts; it’s not a sexual touch, but something naïve. Innocent. Dean washes them as quickly as possible – shampoos their hair, sluices them with the shower-head, bundles them into a robe, and sends them out – but it resonates with him, watching them. He can’t not think of Cas; wonder if he was ever like this, quiet and gentle and contemplative, and Dean just managed to miss it. He wonders how being human is taking its toll on Castiel; asking him about it seems to have fallen by the wayside, with so many charges to care for, and Dean worries a little for him, even though he seems relatively fine.

He wonders where Castiel fell, and if it hurt, when he did. Some of his brothers and sisters are bruised; one flinches when he pours water over her scalp, and when he parts her hair he finds a raw, red lump, from a blow. Luckily, most of them seem fine; but there are scrapes and bruises, and they’re telling. None of them could have had too easy a time getting here.

Eighteen angels and two tubs means nine angels to bathe, each; when Dean is on his last, his arms ache from holding up the shower head, but he doesn’t complain. With one last body in the bath, going pink from the steam, Castiel appears around the door.

He mutters something to the angel – a redhead, small and plump, freckles all over her shoulders – and she looks at him and nods, and replies dully in the same strange, ancient syllables. Castiel nods at her, satisfied, and then turns his attention to Dean.

“Is she your last one?”

“Yeah. How’s Sam doing?”

“Three more.” He wanders into the bathroom and, to Dean’s surprise, comes to kneel next to him, beside the bath. His sister’s arm lies on the edge of it, and he takes her hand; the gesture is so tender, so odd, coming from Castiel (usually so brash) that it makes Dean feel strangely hot, all over.

“Did they behave themselves?” Castiel asks him, and Dean laughs softly as he kneads his fingers in the angel’s fine red hair.

“’Course they did.” He lifts the showerhead, and cups the angel’s hair back from her forehead with a hand as he rinses the shampoo out, so it doesn’t get in her eyes (not that she’d complain, if it did). He brushes her hair back with his fingers, making sure the suds are all out – thank god he’s had practise of long hair like this, with Sammy – and then touches her on the shoulder.

“Okay. You’re done.” He looks at Cas. “Can you get her a towel?”

Castiel nods mutely, and rises to his feet; he plucks one of the large towels from the pile Dean has made by the door, and brings it over. Dean stands up, in turn, to take it; he unfolds it, lets it unfurl in his arms, and as Castiel gently helps her step out of the bath, her hand in his, Dean steps forward and wraps the towel around her.

She looks at him curiously. They all seemed incredibly small with the towel over their shoulders, feet bare on the tile, and she's no different.

Castiel goes back again and gets another towel; he drapes it over her head, and rubs gently at her hair, to get it dry. Then he takes it away, and – in another move which surprises Dean entirely – leans down, and kisses her cheek.

He mutters something to her, softly, and she nods; Dean passes him one of the long bathrobes that he gave to the others, and looks away as Castiel helps her shrug her way into it.

Castiel tucks her hair behind her ears. He mutters something to her – she laughs – and then she wanders out of the bathroom and away, after where her brothers and sisters have gone.

Dean's staring. He swallows. “Um.” He gathers himself. “I’m gonna go and see if we’ve got enough food for everyone. No one’s a vegetarian, right?”

Castiel laughs. “I doubt they know either way. Are you alright?”

Dean’s still staring at him; it’s like a different side of Castiel has been suddenly revealed to him; like Dean only ever saw one part of him, all this time, and suddenly that part has been pulled away; but moreso is the realisation that this isn’t new at all. He remembers, dimly, Castiel at his bedside, after Alastair; and he remembers his touch, tender though it burned, in hell. He tries not to remember it; wouldn’t describe it, if prompted; but in the flashes of remembrance, sometimes what comes through is a touch that was far and away from holy wrath and more like the careful hand of a friend. He remembers that hand on the side of his face, in the crypt.

“Fine. You’re, uh – good with them.” He says, for lack of other words, and Castiel smiles.

“They’re my family. I love them.” Plainly, without artifice. Dean is struck, again, by how much he’s missed him.

“I can tell.” He makes for the door, then pauses. “How about you? Bathtime?”

Castiel looks at the bathtub, draining its water away, and nods. “I think so. It’s been a long journey.” He goes for the buttons on his shirt, and Dean lingers a little too long, watching the nimble trip of his hands as they move.

“Okay.” He’s embarrassed. He edges out of the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Castiel looks at him, raises a brow, and smiles. “Of course.” 

---

That night, with Dean taking the floor this time, Castiel in the bed, Dean can’t sleep.

“Cas?”

“Mm?” Christ, it’s like a fucking slumber party. Dean and Sam made dinner for twenty-one people today (well, nineteen fallen angels), and it’s taken it out of him in a way he really never expected. The search for clothes has turned up nothing, yet, but they’re hopeful; the bunker was built for way more than two, after all; and the angels seem satisfied with their robes, at least for now. Castiel’s voice, above him, is careful.

“Are you okay?”

He promised himself, when he came back from purgatory, that he’d do this; talk. It’s harder than he expected it to be, but he’s determined. Talk to me. Maybe once he starts getting people to talk to him, he can start talking back. It’s the root of things; talking. It’s one of the reasons, he thinks, that he and Cas fell apart in the first place. When their relationship began, Castiel was honest to a fault; and Dean can’t fight the notion that somewhere along the line Castiel learned from him to lie.

So he’s trying to fix it, just in case.

“Me?” Castiel replies, perplexed. “I’m fine.”

“I mean, about …not being an angel anymore.”

“Oh.” Silence pervades the air; Dean shifts a little, where he is, on the floor. “I’ll be fine.” He says, which isn’t exactly what Dean was hoping for.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Castiel hums a sigh.

“You’re a good brother, Cas.” Dean says, for lack of anything else to add, and Castiel chuckles softly.

“I haven’t been.” His voice is soft. “But I’m trying.”

Dean falls asleep to the long, shallow breaths that Castiel takes, and imagines he can see, or feel, the heaving of his chest.

He thinks of Castiel, like the angels, looking at himself for the first time, and for the first time being nothing other than skin, organs, and beneath that; a man.

It’s not pity that he feels for Castiel, in this moment, but admiration; these angels are unequipped for humanity, true; but Castiel has been here a long time, and has done so much alone.

He thinks of the first time Castiel took a breath, in a body that was solely his; thinks of him, stranded alone by some roadside, freshly human.

He thinks of Castiel’s fingers on his own flesh, fingertips dipping into every line and ripple of him.

He’s sorry that he missed it.