(7) A Winter's Tale

"It's eight a.m., dude."

Dean jerked awake on the little cot. Sam was shaking his shoulder gently, saying, "Wake up. We gotta clear out for a bit. They gotta give Cas some lung x-rays and stuff and they need the cot folded up."

Dean immediately glanced over at Cas. Cas was on his side again— he'd shifted in the night and now was facing Dean— and he still had his eyes closed. Looked like he was still asleep. Some hospital staff were clustered by the curtains chatting softly outside, with a big machine on wheels visible just beyond the curtains.

A bright sunshine was shining through the room's little window. Past dawn, then. Dean still felt groggy with sleep; he'd practically been drooling on the mattress.

He sat up and wiped his mouth. Okay, so he had been drooling on the mattress.

"He okay?" whispered Dean, tottering up off the cot to get a closer look at Cas again.

"Yep," whispered Sam back. "Fever's almost gone - not totally, but, it's only like a hundred or something. But they want to check him all over and do some x-rays and diagnostics and clean him up. They say it'll be a couple hours. We're supposed to be out in five minutes."

Dean peered down at Cas. Cas actually did look a little better. More color in his face, and he looked more like he was in a normal sleep.

"Cas?" Sam said in what seemed a very loud voice, reaching past Dean to touch Cas's hand.

"Don't wake him!" hissed Dean, knocking Sam's hand away.

"The nurse said they're gonna wake him anyway," explained Sam, "In five minutes. And that it was okay if we woke him first to explain that we'll be back later. That is... if he can wake." He turned back to Cas. "Hey, Cas? They're gonna do some tests on you. Dean and I will be back in a couple hours."

Cas's eyes opened.

And this time, for the first time, he actually looked awake for real. Weak and groggy, blinking up at them, but his eyes seemed clear. And he immediately focused on their faces.

"Sam? Dean?" he said, squinting up at them each in turn, as they stood side-by-side by his bed. He glanced briefly around the room in some confusion and then looked back at them. "Is this a... hospital?"

His voice was just a hoarse, faint whisper, nowhere near its normal growl, but it seemed the most beautiful sound Dean had heard in a long time. Cas was awake. Awake and talking. For real.

"Yep, it's a hospital," Sam was saying. "Jeez, Cas, it's good to hear your voice!"

Dean leaned close, patting Cas's hand as he added, "We're taking you back to the bunker soon, Cas. Soon as you're ready to travel." It was the same thing he'd been telling Cas all night, through Cas's feverish delirium, and it still seemed like it was the thing he should clarify first.

"Oh," muttered Cas, blinking up at him. "Oh, really? That's... that's... marvelous. That's... really?... Dean, I... really?" Then he frowned, squinting at Dean. "Wait. Did you... did you tell me that already?"

About a hundred times last night, thought Dean. He said, "A few times. You've been kind of out of it."

Sam put in, "How are you feeling?"

"Tired..." said Cas. His voice was a little slurred, and he wasn't moving much, just barely turning his head slightly to be able to look at them. He also seemed only able to get out about two words at a time. "Very tired... it's... strange... how tired." He took a breath to say something else, and then curled up in a fit of coughing. Dean flinched at the harsh sound, patting him uselessly on the back a few times, and a nurse poked her head past the curtain to check in on them, but the coughing fit was short and soon ended on its own.

After the last cough, Cas drew a wobbly breath and said to Sam and Dean gravely, as if informing them of some unexpected news, "I believe... I may... be sick."

Sam said, with a gentle smile, "We know, Cas."

Dean explained, "You had the flu and then you got pneumonia. You've been really sick, actually. But you're getting better. And soon we'll take you home."

Cas looked back and forth between them, and then said to Dean, in that faint, weak whisper, a few words at at time, "Dean... I think I may... still have... some useful... combat skills, and... I can—"

"You can wash dishes and my car and you know Enochian," interrupted Dean. "I know. Listen to me, Cas. You've got ten million other skills too that you kind of forgot to put on that list, but you don't even need any of that. We're taking you back to the bunker no matter what. Even if you had zero skills, which you don't, we'd be taking you back to the bunker anyway. You understand me?"

Cas looked at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Dean's face.

Then he said, "Could I stay for... several days? Just till... I'm better? I don't... eat much...."

"Oh, jeez, Cas," Dean said, his hands knotting.

"You can eat all you want," said Sam.

Dean said, "We're taking you back for good, is what I meant. Not for just a day or two. You can stay as long as you want. Long after you're better. Forever, if you want."

Cas's forehead creased in puzzlement. He glanced at Sam and then tried to hitch himself a little closer to Dean, and he whispered, "Sam won't... mind?"

"Cas, Cas, I want you there," Sam broke in, "I was never mad at you—"

One of the med staff outside pulled the curtain halfway open and whispered, "Hate to interrupt you, but we've got to come in for the x-rays now."

Sam and Dean nodded at them, and Dean bent over Cas one more time, saying quickly, "There's been a lot of stuff going on that I couldn't tell you about before. I'll fill you in later. For now you just gotta know, it's all over and everything's okay now and we're taking you home." Dean shot another glance at the med staff who were starting to inch into the room, and said, "The doctors and nurses are gonna do some x-rays on you now, and check you out and clean you up, and make sure you're getting better. We'll be back later, okay?" But Cas began to look worried all over again as soon as Dean and Sam took a step back from the bed. He even tried to struggle up. Dean took a step back and pressed him back down—it turned out to be all-too-easy to hold him down with just one hand lightly placed to his chest— and said, "We'll be back. I promise. I swear. We're not leaving you. I promise. We'll talk later today, okay?"

Cas relaxed a little, sinking back against his mattress, and he nodded. Then a nurse firmly shooed them away.

Dean and Sam grabbed their coats and walked out to the hallway, watching the med staff roll the x-ray machine in. A tech soon pushed Cas's little cart out into the hallway, with the leather bag still sitting on it looking fairly vulnerable, so Dean grabbed the bag for safekeeping.

"He woke up!" said Sam. "He actually woke up. He looked good, don't you think?"

"He looked great," agreed Dean. "He looked awesome."

Sam pointed out, "Aside from being unable to even sit up or speak more than two words at a time."

"Well, I mean, he looks awesome for someone at death's door," Dean said. He heaved a sigh. Though it was heartwrenching to see how worried Cas still was about coming back to Kansas, it had been an immense relief just to see him able to focus on Dean's face, and able to talk at all coherently. Dean knew he still was going to have to explain the whole horrible Gadreel story to Cas, and he still had all the apologies stacked up ready to burst out. And he wasn't at all sure Cas would ever truly forgive him— or whether Sam would either, for that matter.

But now Dean really felt some hope.

Dean said, "He looked so much better. He was really delirious all last night, Sam. But the fever broke at midnight."

Sam nodded. "They told me. I got some intel, actually. C'mon, let's head to the cafe."

At the cafe Dean suddenly found himself ravenous. He got a large coffee and two sausage-muffin breakfast sandwiches, inhaling the first in about two bites and slowing down only slightly on the second. Sam chipped away at some yogurt-granola thing, eyeing Dean from across the table as Dean gobbled down the sandwiches.

"Looks like your appetite's back," said Sam drily.

"Holy hell, Sam," Dean burst out, pausing in the middle of the second sandwich. "I know he might never forgive me, but just to have him back at all! Just to know he's probably gonna be okay... I feel about a thousand times better." He took another huge bite.

Sam said, "Well, listen to this then. I got an idea that I think you're gonna like." Dean glanced up at him to find that Sam had a rather bright-eyed look now, and even a little smile; Sam was excited about something. Sam stuck his spoon back in his yogurt and leaned forward to say, "So I got here an hour ago, and since you and Cas were just conked out like a pair of Sleeping Beauties, I've been talking to the doc. She says it was really critical this morning to see if he would be lucid at all, that that would be a major turning point, and I would say that's a big yes now. So here's the deal: it turns out that just three days of IV antibiotics often does the trick, with the kind of pneumonia he has. I guess patients can really improve fast once the antibiotics kick in. I don't want to jinx things or anything, but the doc was kind of hinting that if he looks good today — like, lucid and eating and able to stand a little — he might be releasable tomorrow! He'd still be pretty weak, and he'd still be on antibiotics, but, he might be to the point where we could take care of him ourselves."

Dean looked at him in surprise. Cas, released tomorrow?

Sam added, with a grin, "And today's Christmas Eve-Eve."

It took Dean a moment to realize what he meant. "Christmas Eve-Eve", the eve of Christmas Eve, was their old childhood name for December 23rd. Sam went on, "Which means tomorrow's Christmas Eve. And wouldn't it be cool if we could get him home tomorrow? I mean, for..."

"... for Christmas Day," Dean finished for him, setting the last of his sandwich down.

"Yeah, exactly!" Sam said. "That was my idea. I know it's a long drive, and I'm not sure Cas'll be up to it, but... maybe we could at least think it over, huh?"

Dean looked at him.

It was actually pretty strange to hear Sam calling anywhere "home." Sam had once sworn the bunker would never feel like home.

But maybe things had changed.

And it was also kind of amazing to hear Sam saying "we" at all, these days. Let alone in phrases like, "we could take care of him ourselves". Was Sam thinking of him and Dean as a family again? Or at least as a team? Even if it was just a temporary truce, just to take care of Cas, it was awfully nice to hear.

Christmas had never actually been Dean's favorite day. It always brought up too many memories of sad Christmases in motel rooms trying to cover Dad's absence. Trying to forget how much he still missed Mom, trying to keep Sam happy somehow. Once they'd both hit adulthood Dean had mostly ignored Christmas, as much as he could. Now and then, though, he did manage to get Sam some crappy gift or put up some half-assed decoration.

But sometimes, though he usually would never admit it, there had been a Christmas or two that had actually turned out pretty sweet.

Sam added, "He had such an awful Thanksgiving. Wouldn't it be cool if we could give him a real Christmas?"

Dean looked at Sam, and thought, Yes, that'd be very cool. And it'd be kind of cool to give you a real Christmas, too. Dean was suddenly gripped by the image of Cas relaxing on the sofa in the tv room, bundled up in a sea of quilts and pillows, and Sam kicked back too in the easy chair next to him. Maybe both of them could watch some doofy Christmas special while Dean plied them both with endless rounds of hot chocolate and Christmas cookies (well, and spiked eggnog, maybe).

"Dean? Are you listening?"

"Yeah, I definitely am," said Dean. "That is brilliant, Sam. We won't have time to do a tree or anything, but still. Just to get him back at all and settled would be awesome. We could set up one of the bedrooms for him."

Sam nodded. "Lined wall-to-wall with pillows and stacks of white towels. But, even if they're willing to let him check out tomorrow...." He gave a little grimace. "It might not work."

Dean looked at him. "Why wouldn't it work?"

"Well, he won't be comfortable in the Impala," Sam said. "Pretty squished actually. All three of us and all our gear? He'd have to sit up the whole way. And it'd be a hell of a long haul. Hard to do it in a single day." He gave a little sigh. "It'd probably wear him out too much. I guess it's really a two-day drive."

"Nah, we could do it in one," said Dean, a mental map of the interstates immediately springing up in his head. Pacific Northwest to Kansas, we've done that before; it was, what, eighteen or nineteen hours maybe? "Long day, yeah, but doable," said Dean, thinking through it out loud. "He could just sleep, and we could set up sort of a nest for him to sleep in, and if we started early, and go into the night—"

"But, problem is, he'd need to lie down," said Sam, "The Impala's pretty cramped in back, you know. But maybe we could rent a bigger car, or something?"

Dean felt a grin spread over his face. Sam didn't notice; he was staring down at his yogurt now, drawing little designs in it with his spoon, saying, "Or we could use one of those big old cars from the bunker. We could go get one and bring it back... " He finally glanced up at Dean. "What? Is that a smile? What are you smiling about?"

"You only read half his journal," said Dean. "Guess what Cas pulled off at the very end of November." Cas's bag was still slung over Dean's shoulder; he flipped it open, pulled out the car key out of the little ziploc bag, and waved it triumphantly at Sam.

"He had a car?" said Sam, blinking at the key. "Where'd he get a car when he was homeless? Oh— did he steal it? Or learn credit card scams?"

"He earned it, Sam," said Dean. "The old-fashioned way, one minimum-wage dollar at a time. He bought the thing fair and square. Apparently Cas developed this, like, moral code or something, about not cheating or stealing."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Then what's he doing hanging out with lowlifes like us?"

"You got me," said Dean. "Anyway, he managed to pick up some ancient Lincoln Continental for just five hundred bucks. Which means it's probably got a thousand things wrong with it, but it ran well enough to get him here from Idaho—"

"For him to get anything that runs at all, for five hundred bucks, sounds like a pretty genius move," said Sam.

Dean nodded, and said, waving the key again for emphasis, "And you know what Continentals have always been known for, right? What's the first thing that comes to mind when you think, Lincoln Continental?"

"Uh..." said Sam doubtfully. "Pimpmobile?"

Dean snorted. "Well, kind of, but there's something else that really should have come to mind first. I'm ashamed of you Sam, really. Have you forgotten everything I taught you? Didn't I, like, raise you on James Bond cars?"

"Oh!" Sam's eyes lit up. "Goldfinger! The gold bullion car! Of course! That car that the villain loaded up with a million dollars' worth of gold bricks. That was a Continental!"

Dean grinned. "That's the one."

Sam nodded. "I do remember that scene. And then that's the car that was dramatically crushed in the junkyard, in the movie, right? And Bobby and Dad were all, 'it's a sin against nature to crush a perfectly good car like that'."

Sam was smiling now over the memory.

Man, it's good to see him smile, thought Dean.

It felt good to just talk with Sam again about James Bond movies.

And about Bobby. And Dad.

Sam said, with a chuckle, "Remember Bobby and Dad and you got in that argument about whether the car's springs could have held up to the weight that many gold bricks? You had some kind of bet going with them that the springs would've failed. You even looked up the density of gold and calculated the weight of the average gold brick."

"And I won the bet," Dean said, grinning now too. "Springs should've failed. But the point I'm trying to make is, the gold bars all fit! And then at the end of the movie Bond himself is chauffeured in a Continental to the airport to to meet the President. Bond's in the back seat, being chauffeured."

"Ah, right," said Sam, "Just before he parachutes out of the exploding plane with Pussy Galore."

"Yup. Also, then in "Thunderball" Bond's driving a Lincoln Continental around the Bahamas. Hell, Elvis had a Continental! So did Sinatra. Not to mention the pimps, and the reason a Continental makes a good pimpmobile, Sam, is that a pimp and three girls can all fit in the back seat together. The point I'm getting at is—"

Sam finished his sentence, grinning. "—if it can hold a million dollars' worth of gold bricks, and James Bond, and Elvis, and Sinatra, and a pimp with three girls, it can hold Cas."

Dean nodded. "It's a big roomy luxury car. Crappy power and crappy gas mileage, maybe, but that's because Continentals were built to be comfortable and spacious. That was always the entire point of having a Continental. So, Cas could stretch out a little more in his own Continental than in the Impala. We just have to figure out a way to get both cars back."

"One of us drives the Continental with Cas, one drives the Impala," said Sam. "And we stay in touch on the road."

"Yup. Though... if this is gonna work I have to find his car and make sure it's roadworthy." Dean checked his phone. "We've still got an hour and a half to kill, so how about I'll go look for it. It can't be too far away. His journal said he parked it by a library, and it's gotta be a library that's walking distance from here."

"Want me to come?"

Dean shook his head. "One of us should be here just in case. You stay on call here in the hospital, and I'll find his car. And if it needs anything, I'll fix it up. I sure I owe it to him, after all."

******

It took just ten minutes to find the library—it was the only library branch for miles around, and also it was just six blocks from the hospital. Has to be the right library, thought Dean, walking slowly along the streets nearby. Though at first he couldn't find the car. A couple inches of snow had fallen overnight, turning all the parked cars into large white lumps, and it was hard to pick out a Continental specifically under all the snow.

Finally, on a side street about a block away, Dean noticed a particularly long-looking heap of snow, a Continental type of length. Dean wiped a thick handful of snow off the front hood. Gold glinted up at him, and Dean grinned. He tried the key; it fit.

He managed to borrow a little snow shovel from a gas station on the next block (the mechanic there turned out to be a pretty decent guy). Dean then shoveled out the Continental's wheels (the tires needed replacing, he noticed) and the front and back ends, and as he wiped armfuls of fresh fluffy snow off the hood, trunk and roof, soon it emerged from its wintry cocoon.

A '78, thought Dean, looking it over. Not bad. Solidly built. Power'll be low, but that's okay. If memory served, the late-seventies Continentals only had about 150 horsepower, to the Impala's impressive 385hp. The Continental had never been a muscle car— as he'd been telling Sam, it had always been designed for comfort and not for speed.

Power'll be crap and it probably can't accelerate for beans, thought Dean, but according to Cas the thing runs. And it's got a ton of room and these old-model Lincolns were built like tanks. With its weight it'll have pretty decent traction, if I just get some good tires on it.

"You didn't do half bad, Cas," Dean muttered to himself.

He cracked the driver's door and looked inside. The ice on the windows turned the interior a ghostly dim grey, but he could make out the famous blue three-season sleeping bag, spread all over the back seat. It looked a little worse for wear and was in definite need of a wash. There was a litter of saltine wrappers strewn around the back seat too, along with some empty water bottles and a big heap of wadded-up paper napkins that Cas must have been using as free Kleenex. Cas's very few spare clothes— extra underwear, a shirt, the dark pants from his ill-fated "FBI threads" and a few socks — all lay strewn around in the footwells in the back. Cas probably hadn't had much energy to keep his few possessions tidy, in those last awful days.

Dean bit his lip at the thought of Cas alone here, with nothing but his saltines and water. Huddling in the sleeping bag.

It was awful to think of how close Cas had come to dying here, all alone in the cold, just two days ago.

But he would've died earlier if he hadn't had this car to sleep in, Dean thought. This car is actually what kept him alive.

Dean got in the front seat and fired it up. It started only after some coaxing. Battery's nearly dead, thought Dean; the car had been sitting for a week in the cold and it was probably an old battery anyway. The fuel gauge was right on E, empty, but it did seem to have a few last drops of gas in the tank. Dean managed to steer the car out of its snowy parking spot and onto the street. Where it skidded a few times. Yep, needs tires, thought Dean, as he inched his way along the street at a snail's pace, gently coaxing the big old car through the few inches of snow. And like I thought, it's got no power. It felt like the zero-to-sixty time would probably be a good leisurely half-hour.

But the car ran. The heater was kicking in, and the car was already getting warm. The seats were, in fact, pretty plush. It was roomy, and solid, and the handling wasn't even that bad.

Sure, it was a boat. But it was a comfy boat.

Dean inched it down the street to the gas station that he'd borrowed the shovel from. He filled the tank, returned the shovel and got a look under the hood. This soon led to a long conversation with the mechanic, who won Dean over totally by turning out to be an Impala fan.

Dean shot a quick text to Sam: Any news? Found the car. Needs a little work though.

Sam replied quickly: They took him away for more tests and then they're moving him out of the ICU. They say at least another hour, maybe two.

There was some further bonding with the mechanic, a guy named Bill, over muscle cars, and soon they were trading car stories, and then Dean found himself saying to Bill, "To tell the truth, my best friend's in the hospital in intensive care and he's really been on hard times lately and this car's all he got. I was hoping to fix it up for him for Christmas." (Dean heard himself saying this and was startled to realize that though it sounded exactly like one of his classic sob-story scams, it was actually 100% true.) Ten minutes later the Continental was in a service bay, and Bill was loaning Dean a set of tools.

Dean gave the Continental a quick oil change and swapped out the battery for a new one while Bill put on a set of new tires. It went fast, and in less than an hour the oil change and battery change were done. Dean asked Bill to do a few longer jobs as well (a tune-up, changing a dicey-looking belt, and giving it a wash-and-detail), and arranged that he'd come back and pick up the car later that afternoon.

Finally Dean cleaned up all the saltine wrappers and napkins and tossed them all in the trash, bundled all of Cas's clothes into a plastic bag, and wedged the sleeping bag back into its little stuff-sack.

Dean stepped back from the car at last, carrying the bag of clothes in one hand with the sleeping bag tucked under his arm. He took a critical look at the car.

The gold's not bad at all, he thought. I bet with a little polish that would really shine.

"See you this afternoon, Goldie," he told the Continental, giving it an affectionate pat on the trunk. "And thanks for taking care of my friend."

There was still a little time left, so Dean touched base with Sam and then headed back to the ICU to pick up the rest of Cas's clothes— the clothes Cas had been wearing when he'd first been admitted. Soon Dean had the whole bundle of clothes, including the trenchcoat (which turned out to have Cas's cell phone in it) along with the striped sweater that Cas had selected so carefully at the Idaho thrift store. Then Dean headed to a laundromat.

To wash all Cas's clothes, and the three-season sleeping bag.

I can wash things too, Cas, Dean thought. I can wash YOUR clothes, and wash YOUR car. Maybe I don't know Enochian, but I can be useful too. I swear. I swear to you.

******

By noon Dean and Sam were camped out in Cas's new room— in a regular ward now, instead of intensive care. The tests had all apparently looked good. The doctor had said Cas's lungs were looking clearer, his vital signs stronger, and his bloodwork looked pretty good too, and she'd even said a few encouraging things about possible release times tomorrow morning.

Cas had been asleep ever since Sam and Dean had been allowed into his new room. They'd been sitting with him for a few hours, eating a take-out lunch from the cafe and chatting idly. At first Dean had felt almost fizzy with excitement about having found and fixed up Cas's car, but as the hours ticked by he began to feel more and more worried about what Cas was going to say when they finally got a chance to talk. Dean was slouched back now in one of the chairs, trying to look up Continental specs on his phone but glancing constantly over at Cas.

Sam was sitting next to Dean in another chair, his laptop propped on his knees, pecking away at some shopping site or other. As soon as Dean had told him the Continental was going to be in pretty good shape for a long drive (if, in fact, they got the go-ahead to check Cas out tomorrow) Sam had suddenly shifted gears into some kind of long-dormant Christmas-shopping mode.

"Look what I found!" Sam whispered, spinning the laptop around at Dean. Dean peered over at the laptop. Sam had pulled up a Target Christmas-sale webpage of flannel pajamas, and was pointing to a set of warm-looking men's flannel pj's, covered with... Spiderman pictures.

"Spiderman?" Dean said, a bit dubious.

"Aren't they awesome?" Sam whispered back. "He'd love 'em, wouldn't he? They're flannel! They'd be so warm!"

"Sam, he's not going to have a clue who Spiderman is. Also, he's not five years old."

Sam looked a little crestfallen. "Huh... Yeah, I guess he won't know about Spidey. Damn. Aren't they cool though?" Sam looked at the Spidey pajamas a moment longer, gave a little sigh and clicked through a few more pages. "Look! Dean! BATMAN PJ'S!"

"Sam—"

"Okay, yeah, yeah. Oh hey, how about a elf pj's! An elf, just picture Cas as an elf?" Sam started grinning.

"Sam. He's not five."

"Sure he is. If you count in billions of years," said Sam. Dean glared at him, and Sam leaned over to Dean to whisper even more quietly. "Okay, no elf outfit. But seriously, we gotta get him some stuff. And today's kind of the only day. I've been thinking. How about I take off now, take the Impala, grab some stuff. We'll need some bedding for the car anyway, for him to lie down in."

Dean nodded. He'd been thinking the same thing, about the bedding at least. And Sam was right; they really should get in gear and come up with some kind of Christmas presents for Cas.

"Okay," Dean whispered back. "Decent plan. You do a run now, and how about, you also deal with the bedding issue, and I'll make sure the car's ready. You be back at, like, three pm, then I can maybe go pick up a few things myself. Okay?"

Sam nodded, and started to pack up.

"But Sam," Dean whispered, as Sam was walking out. Sam turned to look at him, and Dean said, "No elf outfit. It would be hilarious, I agree, but, he wants to fit in. It's been bugging him that he doesn't know how to buy guy's clothes. He wants to fit in more."

"Those pesky little details of trivial importance," Sam said— a direct quote from Cas's journal. "No longer quite so trivial, huh?"

"Exactly. So don't confuse him! If you get clothes, make sure it's clothes that'll actually make him look good. Stuff that's, you know, reasonably cool looking. That probably means, no Spidey or Batman pj's, okay? "

Sam nodded reluctantly, and headed out. And Dean thought, with a grin, Don't buy any Spidey or Batman pj's... cause that's what I'm buying for YOU.

******

Dean was in the middle of scrolling through some information about Continental timing belts on his phone when a rough whispered "Hello, Dean," made him nearly drop the phone.

"Cas!" said Dean, spinning to look at him. Cas's eyes were open. "You're awake!" said Dean, stuffing his phone into his pocket and scooting his chair closer.

Cas looked around the room, a worried frown coming over his face. "Sam— did Sam leave?"

"Oh, no, it's not that—" Dean said. He patted Cas's hand. "Sam just went to do some errands. I swear he's coming back. We've been taking shifts with you the last couple days. He'll be back pretty soon, actually."

Cas looked back at him. "He said he wasn't... mad at me... but... then... why..." He paused, and said, looking at Dean, "Dean, three weeks ago... you said we couldn't work together..." He seemed to be having to take little breaths between every couple of words, but he soldiered on: "I'm so glad that... you changed your mind... but Dean... I don't understand."

"Cas, listen, um..." Dean hitched the chair as close as he could get it, till he was right up next to Cas's bed.

And then he sat there staring down at the sheets, mute, trying to think how to even tackle it. There was so much to explain. And Cas was still so weak; it obviously was exhausting him even to talk at all. But Dean had to explain the crux of it, to make clear that he had never wanted to send Cas away at all.

"Dean?" Cas said. "Are you okay? Is Sam all right?"

**

1. ask if he is ok / Sam ok

**

Dean didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Cas," said Dean, forcing himself to look Cas in the eyes. "Something's been going on. Something bad. Ever since that night of the trials actually, that night the angels fell. And I couldn't tell you. It's why I sent you away. I never wanted to send you away. So, um, Cas, basically, I really fucked up."

Cas was starting to look more and more puzzled. Spit it out, Dean ordered himself, and he took a breath and said, "I let an angel named Gadreel possess Sam, without Sam's consent, and—"

He didn't get any farther than that. Cas's eyes had gone wide, and he drew in such a sharp breath that he went into a coughing fit.

A few minutes later Cas was finally breathing evenly again, curled up in a ball on his side now, taking slow, careful, ragged breaths under a nurse's supervision while Dean fidgeted guiltily in the corner. "Do not upset him," the nurse hissed at Dean, once Cas finally was settled again. Dean nodded, and at last the nurse left.

"Did you say Gadreel?" Cas choked out, as soon as Dean got back to his side. "And without Sam's consent?"

"Uh," said Dean. "Yeah."

"How could you do that to Sam?" Cas said. "And, Gadreel? Of all angels? How did that even happen?"

It took a while to explain the awful story. Which sounded even worse now that Dean was telling it from the beginning. Why the hell hadn't he told Cas everything at the time, back when it had all been happening? It was becoming very clear that Cas would have been able to tell right away that "Ezekiel" wasn't acting like himself.

And then Dean had to break the news of Kevin's death. Cas covered his eyes at this, murmuring, "Oh, Dean. Oh no. Not Kevin..."

Dean thought, watching Cas mourn for Kevin, How was I ever thinking that it would make anything better to give his car an oil change? What the hell is wrong with me? This can never be fixed.

"I could have helped," Cas muttered, finally lowering his hands. "Dean, I could have helped, I know I could have—"

"I know that now. I know, I know," Dean whispered hoarsely, crouching close by Cas's bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands knotted together under his chin. "I couldn't see it at the time. I screwed up so bad. And—I—okay, look, another thing I gotta tell you is, I read your journal, night before last, I hope that's okay—" Cas screwed his eyes shut and seemed to curl up into an even tighter ball.

"Oh, hell, Cas," said Dean, feeling nauseated now. "I shouldn't be upsetting you. I should leave. I'll leave— I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll leave, you just rest—"

"Don't leave," said Cas, opening his eyes and almost grabbing at Dean. "Please don't. It's okay that you read it— I think I wrote it for you actually. I just wasn't expecting it—"

"Cas, I feel so bad, just, so bad what you went through; I didn't know it was that bad! You should never have gone through all that, never! I should have called you but I was all panicked about Sam and Gadreel, just, constantly worried... ah, Cas, it all went so wrong; Gadreel kept threatening to let Sam die, whenever you came near or whenever you showed signs of sticking around. And I've been so friggin' terrified, trying to just grit my teeth and paste on a smile and get through it somehow and pretend it would all be all right, and it turned into this, just, endless nightmare... I'm so sorry, you should never have had to go through all that alone—"

"You weren't okay," murmured Cas, gazing at him now. "You weren't okay. All along... you weren't okay. And Sam wasn't either. I had the feeling... all along... that something was wrong."

"But even so I should never have let you walk away like that. Somehow I thought you'd just, be okay, 'cause you always are; I should've thought of how hard it was gonna be. I should've realized. I should've found some way to help you, I'm so sorry, Cas, I just didn't know... I was just trying to save Sam's life! I was trying to save his life, but... " Dean gave a ragged sigh, shaking his head. "I've never let Sammy down like this, this bad, ever. He was ready to die and I hauled him back and forced him to be possessed... Cas, he's never going to forgive me. I've never seen him this angry at me. Like, ice cold. He's never going to forgive me. And Kevin, Kevin died, Cas, Kevin died, and it's my fault that Kevin died, it's my fault, he died, he trusted me and he died, and I just have to live with that somehow and I don't know how. I keep seeing him lying there... And now I find out you were going through friggin' hell out there and I didn't even know, dammit, Cas, I'm just so friggin' sorry, I'm just so sorry. And I know I can never make it up to you— I have been a fucking terrible friend to you, Cas—"

At that point Dean learned what Cas had meant, in the journal, by "out of nowhere I started crying. And I couldn't stop."

Dean was not a crier, of course. Not at all. He could only even remember crying at all a very few times in his life. But the terror of Sam nearly dying, the long nightmare of Gadreel, the horror of Kevin's hideous death, the guilt about Cas's suffering... All the misery of the last several months came crashing down on Dean all at once, and Dean had to hide his face in both hands.

"I'm such a sucky friend," Dean managed to gasp, his face buried in his hands. "I don't know why you kept thinking I was any kind of a friend worth staying in touch with at all. Ah, goddammit...I'm not supposed to stress you... you're supposed to be resting... I just want you to get better..."

He felt a feather-light touch on his shoulder.

"Bow..." Cas said. "... your head."

"Wh-what?" said Dean, looking at him.

"Bow your head," repeated Cas. "Close your eyes. Bow your head."

Dean was too confused to think of questioning him. He wiped his face on his sleeve and then did as Cas said, closing his eyes and letting his head drop down, almost all the way down to the edge of Cas's bed, his breath still uneven.

A moment later he felt both of Cas's hands settle on his head, one resting on Dean's forehead and the other on the nape of his neck.

Cas started whispering something. A hoarse low whisper, barely audible.

Enochian.

Dean said, "What are you doing?" He opened his eyes for a moment and looked sideways at Cas. Cas was curled on his side, facing Dean so that he could get both hands on Dean's head, and his eyes had been closed too. Cas opened his eyes and shot Dean a brief glance.

"It's a ritual," whispered Cas. "Close your eyes. Don't interrupt."

"What ritual?"

"Absolution," whispered Cas.

Dean blinked at him.

"Wait— forgiveness? Wait, Cas, no, I don't deserve that, I don't!" Dean tried to lift his head out of Cas's grasp, but Cas held on with surprising strength.

"I'm the one who... decides that," said Cas, narrowing his eyes.

"But, an Enochian absolution ritual, Cas, really? I don't..." Dean's voice faltered, and he had to finish in a whisper. "I don't deserve it," he confessed to Castiel, and in that moment, all Dean's sins seemed to crowd around him. The abandonment of Castiel, Kevin's death, the betrayal of Sam's trust. And more than that, too. Everything he'd failed at. Everybody he'd hurt. Going back years. All the lies, all the stupid decisions. All the people who'd died, all who'd been wounded. Bobby, Lisa, Ben, Jo, Ellen, all of them, and more too.

All the way back to Hell.

"I don't deserve it," whispered Dean. "Cas, I don't. The things I did, you don't even know... not just abandoning you, other stuff too..." He'd never really told Cas about Hell. "Like... years ago...."

Cas whispered back, "Dean. I know every one of your sins. I know everything you did in Hell."

Dean flinched, twisting his head out from under Cas's hands to look at him. Cas was gazing right at him, with that blue-eyed stare.

Cas repeated, his voice suddenly much stronger, "I know everything you did in Hell. I know all your sins. I always have. I flew you out of Hell, and that means I held your soul, and that means I became your guardian, at that moment. Ever since, I've been your guardian angel. I never made that clear to you because I wasn't sure you'd like it. And that means I know you. And Dean, I've made even worse mistakes, you know I have. So... please let me just do this ritual. It probably doesn't mean anything, because I'm not an angel anymore, but..." He sighed, a wistful look coming over his face. "It's always been a ritual that seraphs have the right to perform. Seraphs have that right, that ability: to decide who's worthy of forgiveness. Essentially it's a way of saying the angel knows all the sins and has seen the entire soul of that person and still has faith in the human anyway. Faith that the person is a good person. Which I do, Dean; I have that faith."

Dean stared at him.

"I have faith in you," Cas said. "I know you, and I have faith in you. And, though I know I'm not an angel anymore, though it's probably pointless, I'd like to say the ritual anyway. If you don't mind?"

Dean looked into Cas's eyes. I'm not an angel anymore, Cas had just said.

Yet Dean felt certain he was looking at an angel.

Maybe there were no wings. Maybe no halo. Maybe there was no grace, no power.

But there lay someone whose greatest desire had been to follow the word of God; and when that had failed, he'd devoted himself to trying to save the world, and humanity, over and over again. Sure, there'd been a lot of mistakes; harsh lessons learned, lives lost. But even after all that had backfired, Cas had devoted himself to trying to fix Heaven, trying to reverse all his mistakes.There lay someone who'd seen the whole vast sweep of human history; who'd held Dean's very soul in his hands, and remembered everything he'd seen, everything he'd learned, for all those long millennia. There lay someone who, when he'd had nothing left at all, had just wanted to be useful to his friends, and had fed his last crumbs of food to the sparrows. There lay someone who, at the very end, when he'd thought all his efforts had failed, when he'd thought all was lost and knew he was dying alone, had held to one last thought:

Always your friend.

Dean was looking at an angel, and he knew it.

"Bow your head," said Castiel. "Close... your eyes." His speech had obviously tired him out, and his voice was once again weak and whispery. But he still had that determined glint in his eye.

Dean nodded, and bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

Cas's hands settled on Dean's head again, and Cas began to chant once more, starting over from the beginning. Dean sat very still, feeling Cas's hands on his head, listening to that familiar rough whisper.

It didn't seem to be a magic spell. Nothing that dramatic. There was no whooshing feeling of forgiveness, no sudden sense of elation, no Heavenly white light or anything. It was just Cas chanting something, and Dean sitting there listening. Dean listened to his friend's voice, and felt the warmth of Cas's hands on Dean's head, and Dean thought, An angel's forgiving me.

My angel.

My angel is forgiving me.

Deep in Dean's chest, something relaxed.

******

Cas's voice got even weaker during the chant; Cas had talked far too much, Dean knew, and he resolved to make sure that Cas shut up and went back to sleep after this. Cas paused at one point, and Dean somehow knew, from a faint sound at the door, a change in the air of the room, and a shift in Cas's hands, that Sam had hesitantly poked his head in the door, seen that something important was going on, and that Sam had gotten an "It's okay, but give us a moment," glance from Cas, and had retreated.

Finally Cas stopped talking. "That's all," he said. "I'm done. Thank you, Dean."

Dean slowly lifted his head. It took a few moments to be able to meet Cas's eyes.

Cas was just looking at him calmly. He looked very tired now, but there was only peace in his eyes.

"But... I hurt you," whispered Dean.

"I've hurt you... too. In... the past," said Cas, his voice pretty faint now. He'd had to revert to just saying a few words at a time. "And you... forgave me."

"But," said Dean. "Don't I have to, like, do penance or something? Make my errors right?"

"That's up... to you," Cas whispered. "But in my eyes... and the eyes of Heaven, perhaps... you are free of blame."

Dean shook his head. "I still gotta make things right with Sam somehow."

"That's... for you... to figure out... with him," said Cas, nodding. "But I believe, you won't... make the same mistakes again now... right?"

"No, I'll make all-new mistakes," said Dean, and suddenly he was laughing. Cas even managed a faint smile.

"That's what I do," whispered Cas. "New mistakes... every time. More... variety that way."

"No wonder you understand me so well," said Dean, wiping his eyes. "Cas, I gotta say something. I don't think I really deserve your friendship."

"I don't deserve... yours either," said Cas. "So we're even."

Dean laughed again. But Cas's eyelids were fluttering now, so Dean told him, "Close your eyes, Cas. Just rest." And he sat there by Cas's side, watching Cas as he slid into sleep.