A/N: For Miyth, who wanted at least one hug in addition to the perfection of episode 12x12. So here's a hug, and some other stuff, because I'm apparently incapable of not delving deeper into these guys' traumatized psyches. Spoilers if you haven't seen the episode.

Also, did anyone else notice that Mary's contact name for the BMOL is "Hobbits"? Lol.

"Too Close"

Sam watched carefully as Cas shuffled his way out of the barn, moving slightly unsteadily on his feet, despite his miraculous healing only a few moments before. Dean apparently noticed as well, because he took hold of Cas's elbow to draw the angel to a stop.

"I'll bring the car around," he said.

Cas furrowed his brow a fraction, that dazed look still on his face. It had been too close, for all of them, but even more of a jarring shock for the one abruptly pulled back from the brink of death. The Winchesters would know.

"I need to retrieve my truck," Cas said, which he had parked next to the Impala when they'd first come out to this wretched place.

Dean shook his head. "Sorry, Cas, but I don't want you behind the wheel right now. We'll come back for it, okay?"

"I'll drive it," Mom spoke up.

Sam watched his brother tense at that, knowing Dean would be feeling the need to keep them all close for a bit. Not that Sam felt any differently.

Mary met his gaze first, then Dean's. "I'll be right behind you."

Dean's throat bobbed, but he nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Cas slowly fished the keys out of his pocket, his bloodstained shirt, coat, and tourniquet a glaring, macabre reminder of what had just happened, of what had almost happened. Sam's jaw tightened.

"We'll be right back," Dean said, glancing at Cas, then at Sam, lingering fear in his eyes.

Sam nodded, and watched Dean tear himself away and head up the road with Mom. He set the weapons bag down and turned to Cas, eyeing him critically. The decomposing lines were gone from his face and neck, but his complexion was still pasty and there was still a glazed look in his eyes. Cas was also swaying slightly, as though a light breeze would be enough to knock him down. He was probably exhausted.

Sam stepped closer. "Can I look?" he asked.

Cas craned his gaze toward him, his reaction time continuously slower than normal. He glanced down at his stomach, and seemed to go a shade paler, if possible. He didn't answer, so Sam gingerly reached out to undo the tourniquet, letting the bloody fabric fall away. Sam exhaled audibly when he lifted the hem of Cas's shirt and found nothing but blemish free flesh. Like the grotesque wound and its effects had never been there at all.

Except it had, and the scars would be more mental than physical.

Sam reached up to clasp Cas's shoulder, feeling the slight tremor in the coiled muscles. "Hey." He pulled Cas into a hug, wrapping both arms around the angel and cupping the back of his head. Cas let out a shuddering breath, and weakly lifted his arms to try to return the embrace.

Sam held that position for a long while, heedless of getting blood transfer on his clothes. He had knelt at Cas's feet and watched his best friend choke on bile in a horrible, excruciating death. And there was nothing he'd been able to do except tell Cas they were there, that he wasn't alone. It had left Sam with an acidic burn in his throat and jagged fissure in his heart.

And yeah, like Dean, Sam didn't want to let Cas out of his sight for a single minute.

He finally pulled back when he heard the rumble of the Impala coming up the dirt road, announcing Dean's arrival before headlights arced across the side of the barn, followed by a second pair of Mom in Cas's truck.

Sam took Cas's arm and guided him toward the car, but around the front to the passenger seat instead of the back where he normally rode. Cas flashed him a confused look.

"Shotgun's more comfortable," he said.

Cas's expression softened with fondness. "Sam, you don't need to—"

"Humor me," he interrupted, opening the door for the angel. But then Sam frowned at the bloody attire. "Dean, trunk?" he called.

Dean slid the key for the back off the ring and passed it over. Sam went around and opened the trunk, then dug through his go-bag for a flannel shirt, which he pulled out and brought back around to Cas, who had slid into the passenger seat. Sam crouched down inside the door.

"Why don't you change into this," he suggested.

Cas's gaze dropped to his clothes, and something haunted flitted through his eyes. His hand lifted slightly to hover over the bloodstains as though to mojo them away, but they didn't disappear. Cas started shrugging out of his coat, and Dean reached over to help.

Cas let out an exasperated huff that at least sounded like himself. "I can manage, you know."

"Let Dean mother-hen you," Sam replied.

"I do not mother-hen," his brother retorted, though he nevertheless continued pulling Cas's sleeves off.

Sam's lips twitched. This was familiar. This was what they needed to get back to, to get over the shock that had gripped them all in that barn.

Cas maneuvered out of the overcoat, suit jacket, and finally the dress shirt, which left him shivering in the cool night air. Sam quickly handed over the flannel shirt for him to put on while Dean got out and took the bloody clothes to the trunk. They could launder them back at the bunker, unless Cas's mojo was all recovered by then.

Sam jogged back to retrieve the duffel bag of weapons, which he stowed in the trunk before slamming the lid closed. Dean had grabbed a blanket and was back in the driver's seat, wrapping it around the angel's shoulders.

Sam turned at the sound of the truck's door opening behind him.

"Is he okay?" Mom asked, casting a worried look through the Impala's windshield.

"Yeah," Sam said, and it was finally beginning to sink in. Cas was okay. "We'll see you back at the bunker."

She hesitated, and looked as though she wanted to say something more, but ended up turning around and climbing back into the truck. Sam went and slid into the backseat of the Impala. It wasn't the most comfortable fit for his long legs, but at least from back here he could keep an eye on Cas and Dean, both brothers under his watchful gaze.

Castiel clutched the edges of the ratty blanket against his chest as he gazed out the window at the nighttime vista. Normally the darkness would not have been impenetrable to his celestial senses, but right now he was too worn to see past the blurred reflections in the glass. His vision was slightly fuzzy, too, as the hooks of exhaustion burrowed into his very marrow and tried to drag him down into oblivion. He was terrified of it.

It wasn't as though Castiel hadn't had brushes with death before, hadn't died before. But all those times had been quick, a split second, in most cases. This time…this time he had felt the corruption eating away at him from the inside in a way that couldn't even compare to when Lucifer's toxic presence had been burning him out. He'd felt it, even before Crowley had told them about Ramiel and the Lance of Michael, but the confirmation had filled Castiel with terror. To die in such a slow, agonizing manner with no cure…not even when he had been captured and tortured did Castiel have to face the inevitability of such a gruesome and excruciating end.

Coupled with the fear of watching the Winchesters futilely defend him and die…of them having to watch him die…it had been too much. For the second time in the span of only a few weeks, Castiel had poured his heart out, desperate to say all the things he treasured deep down in his core, because he'd learned to be human and the one mercy—and further torture—of a drawn-out death was the chance to say goodbye, to express the depths of his gratitude and love for the family that had taken him in as one of their own.

And then he had begged them to leave, tried to muster the strength to make a last stand. It's what would have been expected from a soldier of God.

But not what was expected of family.

And Castiel was ashamed to say that their stubborn, hardheaded…heartfelt refusal to leave him had almost crushed him as surely as the pain corroding his vessel and grace, because he didn't want to leave them.

There had never been any question that Castiel would willingly give his life to protect Sam and Dean and Mary. But he didn't want to die.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. The chill seeped down his spine, eliciting a shudder.

"Cas, buddy, you okay?" Dean spoke up. It had been mostly quiet on the drive back to the bunker.

"I'm healed from the wound," he replied automatically.

Dean was silent for a beat. "Yeah, that's not what I asked."

Castiel craned his neck to look at the hunter, who was flicking sidelong glances between him and the road, worry heavy in the lines set around his mouth. Castiel felt bad for causing them. And yet at the same time…he was still filled with overwhelming gratitude.

"I don't know," he admitted honestly. He'd bared his soul to them in that barn; what point was there in keeping anything back now?

Dean nodded as though he understood. Maybe he did. He'd died as often as Castiel had.

"Thank you," Castiel added quietly.

Dean quirked a confused brow. "For what? Crowley's the one who figured out how to save you." He still sounded flabbergasted by that, as was Castiel. But that was a thought he'd have to revisit when he had more mental capacity to deal with it.

"For not leaving," he whispered, as though he were confessing a scandalous sin, a grave weakness. He was an angel who loved, who felt fear…and selfishness. For in those last moments, he hadn't wanted to die alone.

The leather in the back squeaked as Sam shifted closer, reaching over the bench seat to squeeze Castiel's shoulder. It made his throat constrict.

We're fighting for you, Cas.

Castiel had led armies, garrisons that had followed a similar mandate, but never with the depths of devotion and love as the Winchesters back in that barn, when the odds were stacked against them and the chances of saving him were impossible. On some level, he had expected them to leave, because that's what anyone else would have done, even his angelic brethren.

Sam and Dean weren't anyone else.

We don't leave family behind.

Dean pulled the Impala into the bunker's garage and turned off the engine. Cas had finally succumbed to exhaustion, his neck cricked at an awkward angle over the back of the bench seat. It was weird seeing him in the flannel shirt, and Dean didn't like the red color Sam had randomly grabbed. It was too close to the shades currently splotching the angel's usual get-up stuffed in the trunk.

He got out and went around to the passenger side where Sam had already opened the door and was coaxing Cas into wakefulness. Cas pried his eyes open slowly, pupils cloudy, and he sluggishly turned his head to take in his surroundings.

"Come on, we're home," Dean said, wanting to get Cas to a proper bed.

With what looked like some effort, Cas pushed himself upright and started scooting out of the car. Sam took his arm to help him stand.

"Where's Mary?" he asked blearily.

"Right there." Dean nodded to the headlights turning into the garage. He hadn't driven as fast as he normally would have on the way back, afraid of losing her even for the briefest moment around a bend.

Mom parked the truck behind the Impala and got out. "Everything okay?" she asked, gaze going straight to Sam's hand still on Cas's arm.

"Nothing a good night's sleep can't fix," Dean replied, affecting an air of false optimism. Because if he didn't, if he let himself dwell on what had happened…

He'd had that entire drive to be embroiled with haunted images of Cas writhing in pain in between pleas for them to just leave him there. Because he was a stupid, selfless son-of-a-bitch who would always try to make the heroic play, and Dean had been powerless to do anything to help his best friend. He'd had to watch Cas scream and choke on that viscous sludge, eyes wide with agony and terror.

Dean gave himself a sharp mental shake. No, Cas was fine. They hadn't lost him. Not this time. Not again.

Cas didn't contradict him with a pointed, 'Angels don't sleep,' which proved how exhausted and traumatized he really was by this whole ordeal. Dean could see it in his eyes, in the slight tremors running through him as he started hobbling his way toward the door, Sam hovering behind like an overprotective sentinel.

Dean snorted. Yeah, like he was the only one with mother-hen tendencies.

He turned to his mom. "You want to get cleaned up first?" There was dried blood in the grooves of her fingernails.

She nodded mutely, but didn't move, not until Dean shut the car door and headed inside. He needed a shower, beer, and sleep, maybe not in that order. But he was going to forego all of them in favor of making sure Cas was tucked in safely for the night.

Dean stopped in his room first to grab a pair of sweats and gray t-shirt, something that would fit Cas better than Sam's flannel and would be more comfortable than the angel's slacks, which probably had some blood on them. He found Cas and Sam in one of the bathrooms, Cas sitting on the toilet seat with his shirt off and wiping small smears of blood from his skin while Sam watched, ready to help if needed.

"Here," Dean said, passing over the clothes.

Sam set them on the back of the toilet and backed out, closing the door to give Cas some privacy to change.

"How's he doin'?" Dean whispered.

Sam's expression pinched. "I think he's still in shock."

Well, that was understandable.

Dean eyed his brother. "You okay?"

Sam made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and shook his head. "Honestly? Not really."

Dean nodded in understanding. "Why don't you hit the sack. I'll finish up here."

Sam leveled a pointed look at him.

Right.

"I will go change," Sam said, stepping around Dean to head down the corridor.

The bathroom door opened a few moments later, revealing Cas dressed in the change of clothes, his hair mussed and damp in places where he'd rubbed out traces of blood. He still looked ready to fall over.

"You good?" Dean asked.

Cas nodded slowly, and began making his way to his room. Dean followed closely, and stepped in to draw the sheets down so Cas could climb under the covers instead of lay on top like he usually did. Then he dragged the chair from the desk over and took a seat.

"Dean," Cas mumbled, exhaustion already tugging him down. "You need sleep too."

He did, but that didn't matter. "Still not leaving," he said. Promised. Because it broke a piece of him that a part of Cas thought they would have, back in that barn. And their declaration otherwise had nearly brought Cas to tears. Castiel, the most staunch, unshakeable being Dean had ever met.

Eight years ago, that stoic soldier of God would have never said the words "I love you," to anyone. He never would have thanked the Winchesters—humans—for making his life worthwhile, despite all the crap and pain they'd been through together, that they'd put each other through.

No, Dean wasn't leaving him. Not then. Not now. Not while his best friend was still so shaken by the trauma—not while Dean was still reeling from the horror of watching him almost die.

Cas was asleep by the time Sam came back with another chair, ready to join Dean in his vigil. The two of them took turns tag-teaming after that, one going off to get themselves cleaned up, changed, and fed while the other never left Cas's room. Because that had been too close, and until they were both sure Cas was completely recovered, they weren't letting the angel out of their sight.