Warnings: The Dirty Jobs contains descriptions of anxiety/panic attacks and mentions autism spectrum disorders.

The Dirty Jobs
Part Five: One of Us

Sam picked up one of Dean's cell phones.

"Hello?"

"Hello," said a familiar voice.

"Cas?" Sam asked.

"Yes."

"You're alive? You're – where are you?"

"Trinidad, Colorado."

"Okay, that's not far from us. Do you know the address?"

"Yes, I – "

"Okay, give it to me, and Dean and I will come get you."

"Come get me?" Cas asked.

Sam's voice faltered. "I just sort of... assumed you'd want to come home. I mean, back to the bunker. We've got plenty of room."

"I do, but – do you – are you sure you want me there?"

"Cas, are you kidding?"

"No, I just – I – "

"Then give me the address."

Sam drove the Impala as Dean shifted, agitated, in the passenger seat. He took out the Metallica tape and put in AC/DC, which he quickly swapped for Led Zeppelin.

"Dude, pick something and let it play," Sam snapped.

"Shut up."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Nothing to talk about."

"Okay."

Led Zeppelin filled the silence before Dean stopped it and dropped Metallica back in.

"Do that one more time, and I'm putting in The Who and invoking the cake-hole rule," Sam warned.

After Cas hung up the phone, he felt excited, almost happy. The weight of his humanity flickered out, and for the first time since he arrived, his motel room appeared to be little more to him than a temporary living space.

In the next instant, his heart started palpitating. Dean and Sam would ask him why he was here, in this motel room. They would ask him about his new cloths. They would ask him how long he'd been here. What would he say?

It took him two hours to recover his composure, and he was only able to do so by concentrating on the numbers, completing the books for Steve. This would be the last accounting he would do for The Willows Beard.

"Cas has been staying here?" Dean asked as he parked the Impala.

"This is the address he gave me. Room 102."

"What the hell?"

"Dean, we're the only people he really knows."

"So why is he here?"

"Because this is what we do. Rent motel rooms."

"Let's go," Dean said as got out of the car.

Knock, knock, knock!

"Sam? Dean?" came Castiel's voice from the other side of the door.

"It's us," Dean said. "Open up."

The door swung open, and Cas stood empty-handed in front of them dressed in a pair of black jeans and a light blue t-shirt. He looked so... human.

Dean didn't take long to register this, though. He pushed by the former angel with his favorite silver-and-white handgun at the ready. He went through the room checking under the bed, behind the doors, in the bathroom, even inside the cabinets.

"I am the only one here," Cas said.

Sam entered, apologetically tucking his own handgun away. "Dean, it's clear."

Dean seemed to accept this, as he desisted looking under every movable object. He produced a flashlight and moved very close to Cas, shining the light in his eyes, trying to gage his pupil response. The former angel flinched at the brightness and backed away.

"Have you been doing drugs?" Dean asked loudly.

"Drugs? No."

"What about orgies? Have you been having orgies?"

"Dean, what the hell?" the younger Winchester snapped.

"No, I haven't," Cas replied awkwardly.

"Why are you here?" Dean demanded. His trip to 2014 showed him that a fallen Cas was lost, hedonistic, and empty. He'd be damned if that would happen to his Castiel. The former angel's confusion manifested in his expression: gap-jawed and wide-eyed. Clearly, he had embraced his humanity on a level his angelic self never achieved.

Cas had expected questions, but certainly not the first two, and none at such a high decibel. He struggled to find an adequate answer.

"I needed a room," he finally replied.

"You've been here? For weeks?" Dean asked. "As a human? What the hell Cas?"

"I was, uh, and – someone offered me a job and I was hungry and, uh," Cas stumbled. "I was lost and didn't know what else to do."

Sam said, "It's okay, man, you did the right thing – "

"The right thing was to call us," Dean interrupted, finally stowing his gun. "What the hell, Cas? Angels falling from the sky, and you can't pick up the phone and fill us in?"

"I'm sorry, I – didn't know what I was doing, and I got your messages and called – "

"Why didn't you go back to the bunker?" Dean asked.

"I – my powers were gone and I was afraid I'd be unwelcomed."

"Unwelcomed? What gave you that impression?" Dean asked, his anger obvious.

"You did," Cas replied quietly. "And I didn't – Metatron didn't tell me if Sam would survive and – "

"Cas, it's okay," Sam interrupted, breaking the tension.

"So you ran away because I was mad at you?" Dean asked.

"I ran away because I failed you. Again," Cas replied. "And I didn't know how to tell you I was sorry. Again."

Dean curbed his anger. Castiel perceived that the tension in the room was still elevated, so he said to Sam, "You look well."

He nodded his head, yes, and replied, "Blood transfusions."

"I'm sorry that I can't examine you as I once did," Cas said. "To see if your molecules are back to normal."

"They are," Sam said. "I can feel it."

Dean had remained quiet, which made Cas uncomfortable. Part of him believed that the older Winchester would leave him behind, disgusted with his choices.

"Dean, I am – I just don't know, and I'm sorry," Cas repeated awkwardly.

Dean took a moment before he replied. "Listen to me, you sorry son of a bitch. I don't care if you broke purgatory open again or lit the Pope on fire. You pick up the damn phone and you call us. You come home because you are one of us. Yeah, we'll give you Hell for screwing up, sure, but that's not the same as not wanting you there. Do you understand me?"

"I – most of what you said," Cas replied.

Dean smiled. "Don't think you've heard the end of this, Cas."

Cas glanced over at Sam for approval. Despite the words Dean utilized, his brother seemed glad.

Dean continued, "Now, you got your stuff packed? Because we're hauling your ass home."