He had been on the road, chasing the sunset, for at least two hours before he let go of a little of the anger, and the guilt started to creep in.

His breath was still noisily harsh and his hands were headlined with white knuckles where he gripped the steering wheel. His heart had stopped pounding after a few miles, but even now his jaw was tight and the muscles up his back were tense with aggression and frustration.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

What the fuck had he been thinking, the guilt answered back.

This moment was when the knuckles coloured slightly, and the breath quietened down just the faintest bit.

Shit. What the fuck had he even said before he left? He winced as he corrected his thought. What the fuck had he even yelled before he stormed out of there?

A fuzzy memory of shocked blue eyes swam before him. The look of appalled surprise had been the only emotion he had registered at the time, but now he hoped to God his recollection wasn't too accurate, because the hurt he could see in his memory of those eyes was palpable.

No, not hurt. Devastation.

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. What the fuck had he done?

Hauling the steering wheel to the right, he pulled sharply into the side of the road, the grit flying under the tyres as he brought the car to a sudden and violent stop. For once, he didn't think about the damage he was doing to his car, his Baby. Instead, he slumped forward, head hitting the steering wheel as he tried in vain to breathe steadily, and banish those shattered blue eyes from his mind.

Breathing finally under control, he frantically tried to remember what he had shouted in his rage. After everything he'd already done to his friend in the past, all the times he had been cruel, or unthinking, what had he said that had caused such shock in such an unshakable being like him? If his memory was accurate, how had he caused that much pain?

Another memory hit him, of the anguish-filled eyes glazing over and shutting down, emotion pushed out as a mask was firmly put in place. He remembered a brief nod, then watching as his friend turned and walked away, every inch of his back held stiffly as he walked out of the room. That was when getting out of there and driving for hours had become the only solution.

A phrase whispered through his head, followed by another, and another. All adding to the horror he felt as he sat at the side of the road.

stupid

make everything worse

useless

why are you even fucking here

No, fuck! No, no no! He couldn't have said those things, could he? All because of, what? A fuck up that was down to all of them. He punched the steering wheel before launching himself out of the car and pacing beside it at the side of the road, light fading fast as the sunset finally got ahead of him.

His phone rang in his pocket for the fifth time since he'd left. It would be Sam.

He didn't want to speak to his brother; he didn't want to have to explain his anger, or what he'd done, or why he'd done it. He wouldn't know how to answer anyway. He had no idea why he'd gotten so angry, or why he had launched a verbal assault on the angel. He didn't know why he'd left, or why he wasn't getting straight into the car to return home and make it up to them both. He'd never found apology easy, but today - today he should be able to do so without any trouble. Rarely had he been aware before of needing to apologise so badly for what he'd done.

Guilt had been his friend for a long time, especially since his little trip 'down south' a few years ago, but this kind of guilt? He stopped pacing and slumped down against the side of the Impala. His phone beeped. A text message, again.

With a shaky breath he opened his phone and scrolled through them. Six. All from his brother.

Where are you?

What the fuck happened?

Dammit, Dean, where the fuck are you?

Dean you need to come back. Now!

Answer your goddam phone.

The last one was longer, but he couldn't face reading it. He got as far as You fucking asshole, then gave up.

He fired off a quick text instead. Sorry. Am fine. Will b bck sn. And turned off his phone.

Sam threw his phone onto the kitchen table with a growl of frustration. Now the asshole had switched off his damn phone. He still had no idea what the hell had gone on earlier. He hadn't gone on the hunt with them, the job had seemed simple enough that he had elected to stay at home and clear out some rooms at the bunker. An accident blocking the road home had meant his trip to the grocery store lasted longer than expected, and when he got back to the bunker they had been robbed.

Well, he had thought they'd been robbed for about ten seconds, until he realized that their strange brand of security meant this was next to impossible. And yet the war room had been practically destroyed, with furniture thrown around, books all over the floor, and the remnants of what looked like his dinner dishes strewn around. His next thought was that something seriously unwanted had somehow gotten in through the various protections they had adorned the place with, a thought that was seemingly confirmed when he heard a bang echoing through the corridors of the bunker. He moved quietly, reaching for his gun, before it hit him.

Where the hell were Dean and Cas? They should've been home by now.

Another noise told him that whoever was in the bunker was in the kitchen. He approached the room cautiously, gun still drawn. The noises continued, various bangs and clatters as things were apparently moved around carelessly. Something smashed.

Sam sprang into the door way, then quickly lowered his weapon as he recognised the dark head of the man standing over the sink, arms straining as what looked like heaving breaths wracked through him.

"Cas?" he asked cautiously. He watched his friend stiffen in surprise and Sam was immediately worried. He had never been able to sneak up on Cas before. Who could sneak up on an angel?

"Cas? Are you alright?" He stepped into the kitchen, carefully. He noticed out the corner of his eye that a smashed coffee mug was on the floor by Cas' feet. "Did you, uh, what happened to the war room, Cas?"

Still Cas didn't say anything. He didn't so much as twitch.

"Cas, you're scaring me a bit, man. Where the hell is Dean?"

"He left," came the whispered reply.

"Left? What do you mean, he left? For where?"

Cas turned abruptly from the sink and walked towards Sam, not looking him in the eye. As he passed he mumbled something that sounded like "my fault, Sam. So sorry." Sam watched, mouth agape as Cas walked away up the corridor, towards the room he had been using as his own. He glanced down at the angel's arms as they swung by his sides, noticing with horror that they were bleeding, quite heavily.

"Cas, your hands!"

Again, the angel said nothing as he walked away, disappearing into his room and shutting the door firmly. Sam wondered idly about following him with a first aid kit, until he realised that of course the angel could heal himself – he was clearly just choosing not to.

That's when he first tried to phone his brother.

"Please, Dean. Don't, don't ask me to…."

"Just get the fuck out, Cas. I don't need you anymore. I never did."

Dean woke with a gasped cry, the empty Jack bottle rolling off the lumpy bed onto the not-so-clean carpet of the motel he had dragged himself to the night before. The dream had shaken him, and it took him a few minutes of panicked breathing to realise that he definitely had not said those things to Cas. Whatever else he might have said, he never would have done that to Cas, or to himself.

He reached for his phone, groaning as he sat up, his head swimming fuzzily. It had been a while since he had necked half a bottle of bourbon before falling asleep. Phone finally located, he pressed tried to check the time, frowning at it as he realised he hadn't switched it back on since the evening before. He swung his legs over the bed to sit up properly, glancing over at the curtains where faint daylight seeped through their considerable weight, telling him it was probably mid-morning already. Taking a deep breath, he switched his phone back on, watching as it lit up slowly, everything falling into place before him.

He was considering whether to text or call his brother, or whether he was brave enough to call Cas, when a succession of beeps sent through a bunch of messages. He decided these were perhaps preferable to facing up to things straight away, and decided to start where he'd left off.

You fucking asshole, where the hell are you? I'm going out of my damn mind here. I can't believe you would take off on me and not say where you were going, not after everything. What the fuck happened to Cas? He's fucked up, and I have no idea what the fuck is going on. The idiot is bleeding and as far as I know still hasn't healed himself, but I don't know because he won't let me in. What the hell happened on that hunt? Answer your fucking phone.

Dean flinched at the word 'bleeding', and read through everything else quickly.

Are you 7, Dean? I can't believe you've turned your damn phone off.

Cas still won't talk to me. What the fuck did you do? He only ever gets this upset when it's about you.

Won't switch your phone back on, fine. Here's what you left behind.

Dean opened the attachment to see a photograph of what looked like a totally fucked up war room. Had he done that? No, his anger had all gone to Cas. Which meant… shit.

Shit Dean. You need to come home.

Now, you jackass!

The last message had been sent at 1.12am.

Shit, shit, shit. Quickly, Dean dialled for Sam. He answered on the second ring.

"Dean, what the fuck? I've been trying to get hold of you since yesterday!" Sam sounded furious.

"I know, Sammy. I just read the messages."

"What happened? Did something happen on that hunt? Are you hurt?"

"Sammy, I'm fine," Dean said quietly.

"Good, then you can get back here and fix whatever you did, you asshole."

"I know, Sam. I fucked up, ok?" Dean tried to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Sam sighed down the phone. "I still don't even know what happened."

"I'll tell you later. Just tell me, Cas…" he trailed off.

"What?" Sam's voice was sharp.

"Is he still… hurt? You know, bleeding?"

"Jesus Christ, Dean! Did you do that to him? I assumed he'd…"

"No! For God's sake, Sammy. I would never-" he bit the end of the sentence off, knowing it was a lie. He had hurt the angel too many times in the past. But never in his right mind. Never, when he knew what he was doing. He sighed, and finished speaking more softly. "I read your messages, remember?"

"You need to come home, Dean."

Alarm bells were ringing louder than ever in Dean's head. "What-, is he…?"

"He's not bleeding anymore, Dean," Sam interrupted. "At least, he wasn't. Last time I saw him."

Dean went cold. "What d'you mean, Sam?"

"He's gone, Dean."

"Gone? What the fuck do you mean, gone?"

"I mean he took a leaf out of your book and took off, Dean, what else would I mean?" Sam snapped.

Fuck. Shit, shit, shit.

"Where the fuck is he?"

"How the hell should I know? He left when I was sleeping. I saw him about 1am, when he appeared into the war room, but he left again when he saw that I had cleaned everything up. He wasn't bleeding then. He was gone when I woke up this morning."

"Shit, Sam. I never meant…"

"What the fuck happened, Dean?"

He ignored the question. "Did he say anything, when you saw him?"

"No," Sam sighed. "But he left a note this morning. Thanks for everything, Sam. Tell Dean, I'm sorry. I'll fix it."

Dean said nothing, but just let the guilt flow in. He took a shaky breath, which he realised Sam would hear down the phone.

"Come home, Dean," Sam's voice was soft, for the first time.

"I'm on my way," he said, hanging up the phone. He let it fall from his hands and put his head in them instead.

What the hell had he done? Cas was family. He had to fix this, somehow. Before the angel got himself in too deep.

Shit, Cas.

Don't do this. Please.