Putting one foot in front of the other had never felt so difficult as it did now, feeling at odds with the limbs he had spent the last five years negotiating amicably with that were now so unnervingly connected to his being, feeling every jarring step as he quickened his fumbling pace through the sparse forest. He felt heavy, weighed down in such a way as he had never felt before, even when his Grace had been sealed at the end of the Apocalypse.

Castiel froze as he exited the copse of lush pine at the edge of Lake Clinton, staring up in unbuffered horror at the night sky as hundreds of brilliant balls of fire streaked down from the Heavens in a dazzling display that, if he didn't know exactly what it was, would have been indescribably beautiful.

I did this, he thought to himself, his vision blurring as his eyes welled with tears, Naomi was right - I destroy everything I touch...

"Damn you, Metatron!" he shouted to the Heavens, though given what he was seeing, he doubted anyone could hear. "This isn't what I wanted! I would have never..."

He trailed off into a sob, his throat still burning from the phantom pains of having it slit open by the angel who had played kindred to him and betrayed him, stealing his Grace and sacrificing it to wreak devastation. By extension, Castiel felt that he was just as culpable, allowing his desperation to fix his home cloud his judgement, trusting Metatron simply because he had heard and transcribed the word of God. He had been made into a weapon after all, despite his best efforts to break free from Naomi's control - used to commit the worst atrocity Heaven had seen since Lucifer's betrayal.

A dry sound escaped his lips as he stared skyward, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides as rage and sorrow waged unbridled war within him. He felt his breath quicken, a white-hot burning rising in his chest, expanding until his vision narrowed, time slowing as it burst in his throat, erupting in an anguished howl of fury at the brother that had led him to believe he could fix his home, could help him atone for his sins, instead preying upon his desire to do good in the face of everything he had ruined.

He fell to his knees on the muddy shore, unable to control the quaking in his chest and shoulders. "Why didn't you just kill me, you bastard‽"

Castiel watched as the last of his brethren fell to their fate, his world shattering apart under the weight of his grief.

A month had passed since the night the angels fell, and regardless of the public hysteria in the aftermath of the event, things were starting to get back to some semblance of normal.

Despite having aborted the third trial just short of the finish line, Sammy was recovering, slowly but surely. The trials had taken their toll on him, emotionally as well as devastatingly physically, but his strength had been steadily returning over the last few weeks, and Dean finally felt like he could breathe a little. Everything had been shaky as hell, what with Sam insisting that the mass fall was all the more reason to finish the trials and shut the gates of Hell once and for all. Without the angels to balance out the scales, everything was way out of whack in the supernatural world.

They still hadn't heard or seen hide nor hair of Cas, and after Dean had called the dozen or so hospitals, it became apparent that it was going to be easier said than done to find their feathered friend. ERs across the nation - across the world - the influx of injured and dead overwhelming; thousands of missing persons who had literally fallen from the sky, explained away by the powers that be as a bizarre terror attack by radical Jihadists. The light-show was similarly rationalized to the population at large as a freak meteor shower, or debris from a smashed satellite grazing the atmosphere. The phenomenon of hundreds of reportedly miraculous pregnancies was ignored by all but fringe religious groups and tabloids. If only they knew that, or so Dean figured, they were hundreds of fallen angels who hadn't taken vessels, cast down to Earth with nowhere else to go but the start of a new, human life.

Dean sighed as he drummed his fingers on the wheel in time with Boston's Peace of Mind as the Impala barreled down a nearly deserted stretch of Kansas' SR59 North of Lawrence. Sam dozed lightly in the passenger seat beside him, easily exhausted still, even though it was barely two in the afternoon and the last few days hadn't exactly been strenuous. To say that the past weeks had been tumultuous would have been a real freaking understatement. Despite getting a heads up here and there, there really wasn't jack shit they could do for the plethora of fallen angels. The majority of the angels who had survived ended up in 'long-term care' facilities, better known colloquially as nut-houses.

Dean kept his ear to the ground, picking up tips from the hunter's network that trickled down through Garth and keeping an eye on national headlines for news on any of the fallen angels, but so far none of them had been Cas. Garth sent a half dozen or so pictures to him every day or two, but the rebel angel hadn't turned up so far.

Dean prayed to whoever that Cas hadn't been one of the unlucky ones, but so far it wasn't looking good.

That didn't mean he was going to give up looking, or accept the very real possibility that Cas was-

It was a little after three when they pulled up in front of the bunker. Dean leaned over to shake his Sasquatch co-pilot awake, grinning privately at the way Sam jerked bodily as he jack-knifed into consciousness. If it wasn't for the fact that his little brother was still way too gaunt or the dark circles under his eyes, it'd be just like old times again and he could almost forget they were still short by one man.

"Rise and shine, Sammy," he greeted his passenger, giving him a firm pat on the chest before swinging the door open and climbing out of the car.

Sam huffed out a tired sigh of annoyance, but allowed himself a small smile as well. He knew that Dean's façade was just that - a mask for how much he was breaking inside. Somehow, they'd both managed to pull through this one intact, with neither one of them ending up in Hell or Purgatory or making any stupid deals on the other's behalf. He allowed his older brother to care for him because he knew it was the only thing keeping Dean sane while he looked for Cas, though by now Sam had almost given up hope that the angel would be found. If Cas had made it, he was either hidden away or avoiding them, the latter of which wouldn't be any great surprize, given the way Dean had treated him since he'd turned back up in the middle of the road, bloodied and broken after having the angel tablet taken from him.

He wondered if Cas even knew he was welcome back, or if, given he was hiding out, he thought that they didn't want him around.

With a heaving sigh, he hauled himself out of the car and followed his brother to the front door of the bunker, where Dean had stopped, staring down the stairs at a crumpled heap of fabric on the bottom landing, face pale and stubbled jaw hanging open in shock.

"Dean?" Sam called from behind him.

Without a word, Dean descended the steps, kneeling cautiously beside the lump of beige cloth and stringy, tousled, dark brown hair. He ignored the shaking in his hands as he reached out, placing a hand on top of the disheveled pile.

"...Cas?"

"Dean, is he-"

"Shut up, Sam," Dean bit back with more venom than he'd intended. He gave the rumpled heap a gentle shake and was rewarded with a miserable groan and a slight shift of limbs. "Help me get him inside..."

Sam nodded his affirmation at his brother's back, descending the stairs and unlocking the heavy steel door as Dean hauled the fallen angel upright, practically dragging him into the bunker. Cas weighed a lot less than Dean thought he should, wondering what the hell his friend had gone through over the last month. Despite his time around them over the last few years, Dean was pretty sure that the angel had no idea how to function as a human being on his own, and the state of him proved it. He was still in the same old suit and overcoat, though now he looked now as though he'd been dragged back through Purgatory with a detour in Hell for good measure.

The brothers half carried, half dragged the broken man into an empty bedroom - one that had been prepared shortly after the night the angels fell - and laid him on the bed after removing his soiled overcoat, suit jacket and road-worn shoes.

"God, Cas," Dean exclaimed, childishly waving a hand in front of his face, "you reek."

Sam shot him a tired glare, drawing the thin comforter over the now unconscious former angel. He knew it was Dean's coping mechanism in situations like this to crack an inappropriate, poorly timed joke, but that was just all the more reason for Sam to respond the way that he did. It made Sam the one in control when Dean could barely keep control of himself, letting Sam be the one to handle it maturely while Dean did his best to keep from breaking. Sam could take on the dour role to support his brother at times like these; the alternative was having to see Dean fall apart, and neither one of them could handle that kind of heartache right now.

"I'll go see what I can dig up out of storage for him," Sam supplied, stepping back to give his brother some space while he doted on his best friend.

"Yeah, you do that, Sam," Dean agreed, "see if you can dig him up one of those fuzzy robes. Man needs a fuzzy robe."

Sam gave him a wan smile before turning and leaving the room, pulling the door closed to just a crack as he stepped out into the corridor. As concerned as he was, Sam knew that Dean would be the first person Castiel wanted to see when he regained consciousness, and given his condition, his being in the room might overwhelm him. They had no idea what sort of frame of mind Cas would be in when he did wake up, but Dean would want to be the one to handle it.

They didn't talk about it, but Dean had been mentally kicking his own ass since Cas disappeared. The angel was the only real friend that Dean had ever had outside of Bobby and Ellen and Jo, more like family, really. They'd both lost so much over the years, and as fickle as Cas was at times, he'd remained a constant in their lives. He knew that Dean regretted being a dick to the guy, and that it ate him up not having made amends before Heaven came crashing down.

Castiel woke in an unfamiliar place, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling.

His sleep-fogged mind struggled to replay the events leading up to the point where his consciousness had stopped, a flurry of disjointed images and half-formed memories.

He had spent innumerable days since Heaven fell simply wandering aimlessly through the back country of Kansas, his innate compass broken when his Grace had been ripped from his vessel, overwhelmed by just how mortal - how human he was. Many days he spent hungry, thirsty, exhausted and drowning in his grief. Every couple of days or so he would happen upon a kind farmer or a welcoming church that would invite him in and offer him food and drink. Always they would welcome him to stay, but he would nonetheless leave them without a word, paying his thanks in some small way.

He couldn't remember when he had left the congregation of the small church in Baker City behind. It felt like an eternity, but had probably only been a matter of a few days. He had set out aimlessly, simply following the first road that his feet set upon, until...

He had stumbled upon a vaguely familiar place, with high concrete walls, nestled back into the woods in a small town that felt irrationally like home. It was ludicrous, really. His home was gone, inaccessible. He was truly alone, for surely if he encountered any of his brothers, they would hold him accountable for the horrors he had committed and their subsequent expulsion from Heaven. Not that he would shy away from their retribution if it came - he would welcome their vengeance with open arms.

This was no church, however, nor was it any farmhouse, barn or abandoned place in which he had sometimes woken up when human frailty had claimed him and forced him to rest. He pushed himself up and found that someone had divested him of several of his layers and laid him in a clean bed in a sparse, utilitarian room. Briefly, he wondered if the authorities had arrested him and placed him in a prison, or perhaps another asylum.

Glancing to his right, he found a bottle of water and a sandwich covered by a white, cloth napkin, a note resting atop the latter which read 'go get yourself cleaned up and come down to the library. -D'

He frowned at the note, pulling himself up from his reclining position to sit on the edge of the bed.

He felt bone tired and soul weary, his limbs shaking to keep him upright. He contemplated following the instructions in the note, slightly nauseated at the idea of consuming the sandwich, but was shaken from his thoughts as the door quietly swung open, revealing the last person Castiel thought he would see again.

"Hey," Dean greeted upon seeing the former angel sitting awake on the bed, "how uh, how're you feelin'?"

Castiel kept his eyes turned to the floor, unable to bear looking at the friend he had betrayed so often. No matter his good intentions, or the fact that he hadn't exactly been in control of his actions since Purgatory, he had hurt Dean Winchester in more ways than he could count. He shouldn't be here, burdening this man's life when already he had so much responsibility.

"Cas?" Dean prodded, eyeing the other man worriedly. The fallen angel looked like crap, his normally disheveled hair beyond 'messy', his white shirt torn and filthy. The tie was long gone, and everything that was left hung off him even more than before. If it were possible, he looked even more ragged than he had after a year in Purgatory.

Dean sighed, sitting beside his friend on the bed, hands folded between his knees in front of him. Cas seemed surprized by the action, blinking up at the hunter with questioning blue eyes filled with pain and guilt. The angel remained reticent, though - turning away after a moment and letting out a bitter sigh.

"What the hell happened to you, anyway," Dean wondered aloud, "we thought you went back upstairs... I didn't know if you were alive or dead, man! You should've freakin' called, or something!"

"Dean," Castiel began, his throat dry and more coarse than usual from disuse over the course of the last month.

"Look, whatever, man," the hunter cut him off, standing and pacing a few steps away before turning back to the angel, arms crossed over his chest. "I know you're messed up, but I wish you'd let us know. I told you, you're family. Just 'coz I'm pissed at you doesn't change that. You don't get to pick your family, and like a good man once said, family don't end with blood. Just because I call you on your bullshit doesn't mean I don't still need you, Cas."

"It was my fault," the former angel rasped, trying to ignore the hot, prickling sensation in his eyes as his throat tried to constrict on itself. "All of it. I did this. Metatron..."

"Metatron used you, Cas," Dean interrupted again, moving to crouch in front of his friend. "Yeah, ya done goofed. More times than humanly fuckin' possible. But you know what?"

Castiel timidly lifted his eyes to Dean's face, keeping his head bowed to the floor.

Dean sighed, trying on a tired smile. "A friend of yours once told me, and I think he was right, 'too much heart was always your problem'."

Castiel felt his face flush at the words, dropping his eyes to the floor again and wondering vaguely who had said such a thing and when.

"All right," Dean concluded, straightening up again and grabbing a pile of clean, folded cloth from atop the dresser. "I'd think about giving you a hug and all that hippie crap, but dude. Seriously, when was the last time you took a freakin' shower?"

"I don't recall. Several days, a week..."

"Christ, no wonder," Dean chaffed, dropping the pile of clothes in the fallen angel's lap. "Go get cleaned up. Shower room's all the way at the end of the hall, dead ahead. I swear if you come out wearing that goddamn suit I'm burning it off of you."

Castiel sat still, staring down at the soft, grey robe on top of a folded pair of jeans and a t-shirt and felt his eyes beginning to burn again as Dean took his leave of him with further instructions to come down to the library when he was done. He didn't deserve kindness, not like this. Not after what he'd assisted Metatron in accomplishing, after everything he'd done on his own.

So then why did he feel such gratitude? Why did he feel such peace and contentment at Dean's unspoken forgiveness? It shouldn't make such a difference considering the weight of his sins, but it did. Dean's acceptance, the knowledge that the elder Winchester, the Righteous Man, held such concern for his well-being, had looked for him after Metatron's treachery, had understood him - he felt absolved, somehow.

He hadn't intentionally stayed away from the Winchesters, but now, after finding himself in their care as though he had done them no wrong, forgiven insofar that they accepted him into their newfound home when he was powerless and had nowhere else to go, he wished he had sought them out.

It seemed like hours before Cas finally emerged from the dorms out into the main foyer of the bunker, freshly showered, hair towel-tousled in a pair of Dean's slightly too large jeans and a plain white t-shirt, the gray monogrammed robe billowing around him in a semblence of the old familiar trench coat. Sam was sitting alone at the oblong map table in the 'operations centre' portion of the library, glancing up from his laptop as the fallen angel quietly ambled down the stairs and flashing a brief, sympathetic smile.

Castiel made a weak attempt to return it, as usual more apparent in his eyes than anything, but Sam could still detect the guilt and sorrow in his expression, the near hopelessness that clouded his features.

"Sam," the former angel greeted, nodding to the other man. "You're looking well."

"Uh, thanks," the hunter replied, giving a small chuckle. "You're looking... better."

The sentiment was only superficial, however. Despite being freshly showered and shaved and wearing clean clothes, Sam thought that their friend looked like hell; too gaunt, sunburnt and haunted. Not to mention that, as odd as it was that before everything that Cas had never worn anything but that ill-fitting suit and coat, it was even stranger seeing him in jeans and a t-shirt. There was no familiarity here - despite the familiar face and the too-old blue eyes, Castiel barely resembled himself now.

"Dean's in the kitchen," Sam offered, clearing his throat after an almost uncomfortable moment of silence, "dinner'll be up soon."

Castiel nodded and glanced around the vast room, trying to discern which doorway led to the kitchen.

Sam must have picked up on this, pointing toward an archway on the opposite wall.

"Thank you," Castiel said, making his way in the indicated direction.

Dean seemed not to notice as the fallen angel entered, his back turned as Castiel hovered near the door, simply watching the human shape ground red meat into circular patties with his hands and flopping them down onto the heated surface on the stove. He was humming to himself, a tune that Castiel was unfamiliar with, but sounded very much like Dean's coveted 'classic rock'.

He was content just to watch for a moment, appreciating his friend - that he even had friends that would care for him. His heart at the thought that the vast majority of his brothers and sisters had never bothered to make such connections with any humans, that most of them were likely now wandering, alone and confused and wounded in the aftermath of losing their home. Perhaps some had found each other, banded together for survival, but likely many had simply gone mad at the loss of their Grace.

Worse still was the number of human lives sacrificed, the souls of the vessels that many of his brethren wore evicted from the flesh when the angels fell, squeezed out of existence by the presence of the beings that they had agreed to assist in God's work. It was an old wound re-opened - his grieving for his own vessel's soul long past, but he was just as responsible for the loss of all the others, for his role in Metatron's revenge.

All the more blood on his hands.

"Hey, Cas," Dean's voice snapped through him, green eyes less than a metre from his own, brow furrowed in concern.

"Sorry," he murmured back, shaking off the dark thoughts, "I came to see if you needed help."

Dean watched him for a long moment, debating whether or not to hand the guy a sharp object.

"Sure," he settled on finally, motioning for the fallen angel to follow. "You woke up just in time - I'm making my famous burgers tonight."

Castiel raised an eyebrow at this as Dean led him to the counter, giving the hunter a strange look. "I did not know that your cooking bore renown," he intoned with a note of awe.

Dean chuckled lightly at this, relieved that, apparently, some things would probably never change. "Shut up and slice the tomato, doofus."

The fallen angel allowed himself a smile and picked up the long knife, the particular weight and balance of it strange in his hand after eons of wielding a Heaven-forged blade. This was a tool made not for wounding or killing; though it was capable, it was specifically made to assist in creating, to contribute to life and livelihood. While it was true that it could be used to kill and maim, that was not its intended purpose.

As he sliced into the bright red fruit, cutting it into even widths, he thought to himself that angels were much the same; they were not created with the intent to kill or destroy, though certainly they were more than capable of doing so. They were meant to be protectors, and for thousands of years they had all but ignored their father's purpose for them, blunting their edges on bone and flesh they had never been intended to cut into, and now the full weight of that folly had come to fruition. All because they had forgotten their purpose - to protect God's greatest creation - out of jealousy and mindlessness.

He hadn't noticed his tears until he realised he was holding his breath, forced to take a choked, sobbing gasp, setting the knife down as he braced his hands on the countertop to keep himself from sinking to the floor in anguish. Everything he had known for centuries was lost not only to him, but to every other angel as well, save for the treacherous Metatron.

"Cas?" Dean called from across the kitchen, setting down the spatula he'd been using to flip the burgers and moving to his friend's side. "Hey, man, you all right?"

"I should have listened to you, Dean," the former angel half sobbed, head bowed to his chest, fingers clenched into fists on the counter. "I should have listened to you from the start... I... I am so- this is my fault, Dean! Had I heeded you before I opened Purgatory, before the tablets were unearthed, I- I wish he had killed me when he took my Grace... when I-"

"Hey," Dean said firmly, "you're gonna knock that shit off right the hell now, you got it? I am so sick of my fuckin' family telling me they want to fuckin' die! Now you didn't show back up here just to throw yourself a goddamn pity-party, and man I sure as hell ain't gonna let you. You came here for help, Cas, and you want it? You got it. But I ain't gonna let you fuckin' tear yourself apart because you think you caused Cloud City to go down like Atlantis!"

Castiel turned to his human friend, ready to refute the consolation and reiterate his responsibility when he suddenly found himself in the hunter's embrace, his face buried in the slightly taller man's shoulder with his arms hanging limply at his sides. It wasn't the first time Dean had hugged him, but this time, Castiel felt compelled to hug back.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he murmured, burrowing further into the flannel-clad shoulder as his fingers clawed desperately at the fabric at the hunter's back.

"Yeah," Dean responded, "we'll work on that. Along with getting you better."

"Thank you," Cas mumbled into his friend's shoulder, feeling a bit more control over his burgeoning sorrow, "for not turning me away."

"Dude, that's what family does," the hunter chirruped, patting the former angel's back comfortingly, but not pulling away yet, even though the hug had just officially gone on long enough to enter awkward territory. "Family's a pain in the ass, but we look out for our own."

Castiel nodded, beginning to understand truly, for the first time, what that really meant.

Yes, he was a blade, forged in Heaven - a tool once capable of striking down foes efficiently and with ease, a soldier in God's army.

But his purpose, the reason he was made, was to protect and preserve - to contribute to life and livelihood. The angels were his brethren, but the Winchesters were his family, and now they were all he had left.

He could do both, to serve his purpose as both a tool and a weapon, to protect and preserve his new human brothers, now as one of them. And maybe, one day, he might even be able to pay reparations for the devestation his poor decisions in the past had caused.

~fin

(A/N: So, this was supposed to just be a little drabble of my mind's wanderings after the season finale, and it kinda ambled off in a direction of its own. I'm sorry it's kinda depressing, but not really sorry :P I promise I'll be getting on with the multi-chapter stuff soon... I just had to get this one-shot out of my head before it drove me insane. There's a new chapter of Ride the Lightning coming soon, as well as the second part of Wandering Stars [once I iron out a couple of kinks].)