Dean gives him one night.

After the devastating blow that Dean's words have struck, Castiel doesn't even expect that much. But then, he never expected what's just happened, either. He figured Dean would be angry when next he saw him. That he'd say hurtful words, maybe. Yelling… certainly. Cas wouldn't even have been surprised if Dean threw a punch or two. After what he's done, the mess the Winchesters will surely be cleaning up for months because of him, the damage he's done to Heaven and earth – again – it's the least of the punishment Castiel deserves.

But – being thrown out, with nowhere to go and countless enemies hunting him...

This is the last thing Cas would ever expect from Dean.

Dean's still talking when Cas pushes his chair back, the abrupt scrape against the floor loud and jarring as he leaves his half-finished burrito on the table, already forgotten. What he's already eaten is roiling in his stomach, anyway, making him sick. He's moving away, backing away from the cruel verdict coming out of Dean's mouth as if it's some monster that can be escaped or fought; and a moment later he feels Dean's hands, his grip firm on Cas's arms as he stops his retreat.

"Cas, Cas, no, wait a minute, dude," Dean insists, and the concern in his voice, the way it trembles, only makes it hurt more. "Not – not right this second, okay? I'm not sending you out there in the middle of the night with nothing, are you crazy?"

Daylight or dark makes no difference to reapers, or angels…

But Cas can't make the words in his head come out, and he can't lift his eyes to meet Dean's, doesn't want to know what he'd see there.

"Stay the night," Dean insists, his voice low and soft but still so unsteady, as if he is on the edge of tears – or maybe that's just Cas, imagining that Dean is feeling what he is, because his eyes are burning and he feels a hot ache tightening in his chest. "Just… get a good night's sleep, and – Sam and me, we'll get you some supplies together, some credit cards, head out to one of our safe houses in the morning, all right?"

Cas nods without really even processing the words. He thinks if he had any courage left, he'd leave now, not impose a moment longer on the kindness of the only friend he thought he had left. Dean doesn't want him here, clearly, and if he's not welcome, then he should leave; but Cas can't make himself reject the offer, desperate and ashamed as it makes him feel.

A few more hours in the warm, safe quiet of the bunker, a night spent without worrying if someone is going to slip up on him in his sleep and end his life before he has time to open his eyes…

He knows it makes him weak, and pathetic, but Cas can't turn it down.

"You know I haven't got a choice, right?" Dean insists, his voice anguished, pleading, his body shifting closer – uncomfortably close, with every nerve, every emotion in Cas's entire being on the verge of flying apart in a dozen different directions. "Sammy – he's not up to this kind of a fight yet. If they find you here – another reaper, or – or something worse… I can't let anything happen to him, Cas. I can't take the chance…"

Cas is rigid, trembling, swiftly feeling claustrophobic under the restrictive, desperate grip of Dean's hands. "I understand," he manages to get out at last, but his voice wobbles dangerously. "I know, Dean."

One of Dean's hands eases its grip, becomes something almost like a caress, sliding along the back of Cas's arm gently, and it's too tender, it's almost protective, and insanely, Cas wants to laugh, but if he laughs he'll be sobbing and maybe he is going insane again, and all he can get out is a hoarse whisper.

"Please…" He pulls back, sliding out from under Dean's hand and pulling away, though Dean's grip on his other arm remains firm, keeping him from getting too far. Cas holds up a hand in a silent plea for distance, eyes locked onto the table just beyond Dean as he adds, shaky and desperate. "Just… please don't…"

Dean lets him go then, and Cas flees to the room they showed him earlier – the room he foolishly thought would be his beyond this night. He closes the door and locks it, ignores the knocking he hears a few moments later, and just lies down on the bed in his freshly laundered clothes. He wonders how many nights he'll have before the smell of their detergent, this clean scent he always associates with Sam and Dean, fades away.

He wonders if he'll even live that long.

He's still wondering, but the knocking has stopped, by the time the tears start to flow.

Cas doesn't sleep.

It's hard enough to fall asleep when he isn't hovering on the edge of panic, his mind racing with all the possible fates that might come for him, from Dean's decision – none of them good. Cold and discomfort and hunger keep him awake most nights – and he doesn't usually mind.

He finds exhaustion preferable to dreaming.

He dreams about angels, screaming and burning as they fall. He dreams about gleaming metal that pierces and trying to cry out in pain, his voice helplessly silenced. He dreams about invaders under his skin, that he invited in, tearing at him in their rage to escape, violation and shame and horror and rejection…

More than once, he's had a dream that goes almost just like this.

The clock on the nightstand says 3:15 when Cas finally gives up and gets up. He doesn't have any possessions, only the clothes he's already wearing. He slides his sock-covered feet into the shoes tucked under the edge of the bed, tucks his angel blade into the inside lining of his jacket, and quietly unlocks the door. He thinks slipping out now is preferable to waiting, preferable to facing Dean and Sam and the way they'll look at him in the morning.

His feet are quiet on the stairs as he makes his way toward the door, wondering as he nears it if opening it will set off an alarm. He's inspecting it closely, eyes narrowed to make out the details of it in the dark, when a bristling at the back of his neck warns him – too late – that he's not alone.

Strong hands grip him, one at his waist, the other on his shoulder, and spin him around to press his back up against the door. His heart lurches in his chest before he recognizes the feel of the hand that's slid accidentally under the hem of his t-shirt at his side – warm and callused, strength restrained into gentleness.

Dean.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" Dean demands, his voice harsh and oddly uneven in the darkness. "'S not morning yet."

"Yes, it is," Cas insists, his own voice sounding tired and defeated in his ears, even as he realizes, "And… you're drunk."

"Am not," Dean retorts, petulant and offended, but Cas can smell the alcohol on his breath, wonders how long he's been sitting down there alone in the dark, drinking. And then, Dean adds in a trembling, tearful whisper, words that make Cas's heart leap and then sink just as quickly.

"Don't – don't go…"

Cas closes his eyes, his throat aching, and he thought he cried all the tears he had, earlier, but he feels them seeping out into his lashes, cooling on his face, just the same. He's grateful for the darkness, tries to keep his voice controlled as he replies.

"Dean… don't."

Dean's thumb is rubbing slowly back and forth against his skin, and Dean's hand slides up from his shoulder, cupping the back of his neck. Dean's body is so near, and Cas's t-shirt is soft and thin under his open jacket, and he can feel the heat rolling off Dean as he presses in closer, his head dropping for a moment onto Cas's shoulder. Cas is surprised to feel Dean shaking against him, and he raises a hand automatically to rest against Dean's back.

"Dean," he says softly, because even their hushed voices feel raw and harsh in the stillness. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," Dean cries, despairing words muffled against Cas's jacket. "I wish there was… somethin' else, but there isn't… another way, but… there's nothing I can do, you know? It's – it's Sammy…"

Cas knows he shouldn't bother – knows that the words Dean speaks now will be meaningless in the light of day anyway, but he's desperate and weak, and tears streak his face as he struggles to speak past the ache in his throat.

"You… you don't have to, Dean," he whispers, pleading. "The bunker is warded against angels. I'm warded against angels. This bunker – nothing can get in or find it unless you want it to – right?"

Dean laughs through his tears, raising his head to meet Cas's eyes, and Cas is struck by the way his eyes shine even in the darkness. "I tried telling him that," he admits. "But he won't listen…"

Cas frowns, confused. "Sam?"

Dean's hands tighten a little, and his fingers dig into Cas's side, almost painful, clinging, as he lowers his head again. "He's scared and – and he'll leave, Cas, and I can't let him leave…"

Cas is more confused than ever, shaking his head a little as he tries to make sense of Dean's words. "Sam would never leave you, Dean… just as you would never leave him…"

And I would never leave you… I'd do anything for you… please, don't do this, Dean…

Dean's hand gentles at Cas's side, and his voice is hard and disgusted, though Cas knows it's not him it's directed at, when he replies harshly, "Yeah… and where does that leave you?"

Cas can't answer, swallows back a sob – and then his breath hitches in his throat a little as Dean's hand at his side slides down and around a little, and the touch is more intimate than any way Dean's ever touched him before. Dean's hand at the back of Cas's neck curves so that Dean's thumb is tracing up the line of his throat, gently possessive. Cas looks up into Dean's eyes, uncertain, and they steal his breath, piercing and intent, glittering in the dark as Dean studies him.

Whatever Dean sees on Cas's face slowly softens his expression, understanding dawning through the haze of alcohol in his eyes, and it makes his voice hoarse and thick as he asks, "How long have you loved me, Cas?"

There's no point in lying – not about this. They've both known it's true for so long now; it feels like Dean should already know the answer, even if Cas isn't quite sure that he does anymore.

Cas doesn't look away as he confesses, simple and honest, "I can't remember not loving you."

"When you pulled me out?" Dean muses, more to himself than a real question for Cas to answer. "When you rebelled?" Dean's shoulders shake and he leans in, rests his forehead against Cas's, crying silently as he chokes out, "When you fuckin' died for me? God, Cas, I don't wanna… I'd give anything… for you to not… not to have to… make you…"

Not anything, Cas thinks, but doesn't say it, because it wouldn't be fair.

It'd be hurting Dean just to hurt him back… and Dean's clearly already hurting so much. Dean's hurting, and all Cas can do is try to ease it a little.

"It's all right," he whispers, raising a tentative hand to touch Dean's hair, his fingers trembling, because this is new and he doesn't know what he's doing and he'll never get to do it again, so Cas brushes his fingers carefully through Dean's hair and assures him, "I understand. It's all right…"

Dean pulls back slowly, just a little, and he looks stricken, as if Cas just slapped his face instead of offering him forgiveness. Then, abruptly he pulls Cas in tight against him, a firm hand at the back of Cas's head holding him in place as Dean's mouth crashes into his, claiming with fervent, almost brutal intensity.

This isn't calculated and seductive like Meg, who was trying to distract him to disarm him, and ended up enjoying it in spite of herself. It isn't soft and careful like April, who used gentleness as a lie to ensnare him. This is raw and violent and tender and honest and Cas can taste the salt of Dean's tears and the bitterness of the alcohol he's been drinking and he aches with the despair and longing that Dean's trying to pour into him, to communicate with this, because words, as always, have failed him.

And then, Cas's hand in Dean's hair tightens until he feels Dean wince against him, and Cas's lips twitch with an involuntary smile, because this isn't fair, either, what Dean's doing to him right now, allowing him to taste this, to hold it in his hands the moment before it's all to be snatched away. It hurts, damn it, and it's so much hurt and so deep down that Cas wants Dean to feel it, to know how he's destroying Cas with this final blow.

But Dean's hands are on Cas's body now, sliding under his shirt, one knee rising to press between his thighs, and Cas loses his grip on Dean's hair, loses the ability to think at all for a few seconds, and desperately tries to forget that this is all he'll ever have of Dean – a consolation prize, a last sweet mercy thrown to a dying man.

But he is just that, now – a man, and dying – and he can't forget.

"Please," he gasps out, wrenching his mouth free from Dean's kiss and placing his hands on Dean's shoulders to push him back. His voice is wrecked, ragged and aching with loss as he forces himself to say, "Please… stop…"

Dean does, instantly, his hands stilling before they slip out from under Cas's shirt, his leg sliding down again as he puts his arms around Cas and rests his face against his shoulder again.

"I want… want you…" he struggles for words, and Cas can't tell anymore if it's the drink or the tears that make his voice so rough and slurred. "Want you to stay, Cas. So damn much. I…" He hesitates, and his shoulders fall with defeat – and Cas's hopes along with them. "I'm so sorry," Dean whispers. "So fuckin' sorry…"

All at once, even with the heat of Dean's body pressed up against him, Cas feels cold and desolate and alone. He doesn't push Dean away, but his body is rigid and shaking, and he knows Dean can feel it when Dean slowly withdraws, looking like a shamed schoolboy, his downcast eyes red-rimmed and tearful, shifting uncomfortably as he offers a weak, final attempt.

"I – I'm sorry, Cas…"

"Damn you," Cas whispers fiercely, turning his face away, hating the hot, fresh tears that streak his face.

And then, Dean laughs – but it's a desolate sound, hollow and aching with regret – and Dean says softly, "I know, Cas. I am." He pauses a moment before adding, "Damned."

Cas looks up at him again in spite of himself, startled, alarmed. Dean looks so sad, almost as lost as Cas feels, as he shakes his head slowly in despair, though there's still a sad smile on his lips as he raises a hand to brush over the trail of a tear on Cas's cheek. His voice is soft, aching with sorrow as he asks a question without an answer.

"And who's going to pull me out this time?"