Sam didn't see the child until it was too late. They tugged on Cas's coat and Sam watched as the being turned rigidly, his hand twitching like he was about to manifest an angel-blade. Oh shit. Sam jerked forward slightly, about to intervene, but then Cas looked down and his face softened and Sam froze.

Cas crouched down to put himself closer to the little girl's height. "Hello," he said, and the grit in his voice was that of a lakebed instead of a mountain.

Dean turned. His eyes went hard and he looked like he was about to step forward, so Sam grabbed his sleeve and held him back, watching the interaction intently.

The little girl smiled at Cas, cheeks bulging. Her hair was a ratty mess, her coat sleeves stained with something unidentifiable.

"Sara," Cas said, softer than Sam had ever heard him, "wasn't it?"

Dean's eyes went wide. So did Sam's.

The little girl nodded her head up and down, her hair bouncing. She grinned like she'd just gotten a pony on Christmas. "You remembered!"

He nodded carefully back, but without the awkwardness Sam had come to expect from the angel.

"Without the 'h'."

Her smile brightened so much it had to hurt, and, in a move that set both Winchester's rigid, she tipped herself forward and threw her arms around Cas.

Cas didn't hesitate in returning the embrace, wrapping his arms around her in a loose hug.

"Thank you," she whispered, and her hands fisted in his coat. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

A few minutes later, she trailed over to a tired looking woman, who took her hand and led her away.

The Winchester's don't ask. Cas doesn't tell.

Dean trailed away from the char marks on the floor and shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders up to ward off the cold. He didn't realize until he was already in the car and leaning over to shove his duffel in the backseat (the trunk was drowning in holy oil) that Cas was still in the house. Dean frowned. He'd usually fluttered off by now.

Dean was an inch from putting the keys in the ignition when he sighed and looked back over at the open door. Cas was crouching now, his torso twisted so far that his head was practically on the floor, and he had a hand reaching beneath that horrible old couch. The one that looked fit to fall apart.

Dean shoved his keys back in his pocket and got out of the car, twisting up his collar. A moment later, his feet were planted right in front of the angel's face.

"Whatcha got there Cas?"

Cas didn't flinch. Just inched closer to the couch, and his arm had disappeared up to the elbow. His head dropped sideways to the floor and his gaze followed his arm. "It's nothing, Dean," he finally said, reaching further, "go back to your home."

There was something in the way he said it, home, like it was the most sacred thing in the world. It reminded Dean of the way Sammy used to talk about going to college, before their dad had screwed it into some kind of betrayal, and even after, when it had been seemingly unattainable and the excitement had turned into something deeper. It had been something he'd wanted desperately but resigned himself out of, and his love for it, even the idea of it, had made him smile and talk for hours on end. That's what Cas sounded like, like it wasn't something Dean could possibly pass up—going home—and for a moment, Dean was taken aback.

Then something—not quite a creak and not quite a howl, but scary in it's in-betweenness—seeped up from the couch.

Cas pulled his hand back, and Dean caught a glimpse of red scratches before they were gone.

He swallowed. Was there such a thing as baby hellhounds?

"Whatcha got there, Cas?" Dean repeated, and something must have given him away, because Cas tilted his head up at him.

"A small feline," he said.

It took a moment before Dean understood and relaxed. "A kitten, Cas?"

"No, I believe he is full-grown. Just small." Cas stuck his arm back under the couch.

"Okay. So...what are you doing with it?"

"He's cold. And hungry."

"So just leave it, man. Cats can fend for themselves."

"He shouldn't have to," Cas said, and there was definitely something deeper here but Dean was tired and cold and he didn't want to figure it out.

Another horrible sound drifted up from the couch, sort of like the ghost had earlier, and Dean had to force himself not to take a step back.

"We'll he's never gonna come out. Not with you jamming your arm under there like that."

Cas moved his arm beneath the couch, still staring below its base. "Well then what would you suggest Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe some cat-food."

Cas froze. He glared at Dean. Then he moved his arm deeper, sweeping it toward the back of the couch. "Unfortunately, I don't have any cat-food."

Right. Yeah. Cas didn't even eat human food. Dean wondered if he even knew how to get any. "Well was it the ghost dude's?" Dean pointed to the charred area of the floor. "Maybe there's some in the kitchen."

"Help her!" Dean screamed. "Cas you sonuvabitch, help her!"

The girl was a choking writhing mass on the floor, some horrific result of demons and witches trying and failing to join forces—and she couldn't breathe. Couldn't Cas see that?

Uriel was a glowering, dark presence behind them. "Castiel," he said, steady and demanding. "Help her."

Cas looked between them. They were asking for very different things.

Uriel stepped closer, an angel blade dropping into his hand. "Help her or move aside."

Cas leaned out of the other angel's presence, but he didn't actually move. His eyes were on Uriel's blade. "Brother, don't do this. She can still be saved."

"She's an abomination, Castiel. She doesn't deserve your pity."

"She deserves more than this."

"Move aside, Castiel."

A look passed between the brothers, indeterminable but fierce. Then Uriel broke forward and Cas quickly slunk to the side.

"What the hell, Cas!"

"Castiel, please." Sam took a step forward. "Please just help her."

Uriel plunged the blade forward. "He is."

Dean started to notice.

Most of the angels were rigid and stiff and Cas was too, but differently. The way he held himself was closer to 'it hurts to move' and 'don't draw attention to yourself' than 'I am immovable and don't require human functions such as breathing'. But Cas was breathing. Looked like it, anyway; his chest folding in and out. The other angels' ribcages were eerily still.

Dean frowned.

Another angel—Uriel, actually—moved up beside Castiel and Dean really didn't like the way the smaller angel shied away. It was hardly noticeable, just a small shift of balance. A half-step to the side that made off like he was trying to block the exit, but he'd been a solid block of granite the moment before and Dean just stared at him.

Cas didn't care about personal space. Cas didn't notice personal space… Did he?

Then Zachariah came up on the other side of Cas, babbling some nonsense, and Cas actually leaned noticeably away, features twinging in almost panic. He took a slow step back in Uriel's direction, as though to make room for the other angel, staying small and still—and when had he stopped breathing? Cas's head jerked just slightly, like his lungs were vying for air and he'd denied them. Dean really, really didn't like it. He'd never seen Cas this docile, this self-conscious, this… what was this?

Dean's gaze shifted to Zachariah, and he wouldn't've noticed before, but the archangel was pressing into Castiel's space, waving a hand close to Cas's face and the angel was watching it carefully, almost as though his life depended on it. Dean didn't hear what Zach said next, but he saw the way Cas swallowed and inhaled and somehow shrunk even smaller.

The room had gone silent. Dean looked back over at Zachariah, who had an eyebrow raised, waiting expectantly.

"No." Dean said, because it didn't matter what the bastard had said or asked or suggested. All that mattered was that suddenly Cas was breathing again, his lips twitching toward a sad little smile.

Zachariah stepped forward and Cas shied carefully, minutely backwards, his face once again blank, his chest still.

"No?!"

Dean forced his eyes back to Zach. "What?" he snapped, tired and frayed and sick of being on edge all the time.

"You don't tell me 'no'."

"Whatcha gonna do about it, Zach?"

Dean didn't miss the way Cas's eyes flicked to the side, his head twitching like he wanted to look behind him. His shoulders had tensed just enough to be noticeable.

Dean narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd of angels, trying to find what Cas couldn't turn to look at. Unfortunately, nothing stood out. It managed to set Dean even more on edge nonetheless.

He turned his head to check on Sam standing next to him.

Sam was looking at him, waiting.

Dean just stared blankly back. "What?"

Sam looked pointedly to Zachariah.

Dean followed his gaze. "Did you say something?" he asked. And if he managed to sound annoyed and demeaning, as though he'd heard what the angel said but had been ignoring him, so what?

A muscle clenched in Zachariah's jaw. Cas took another careful little half-step back. Dean clenched his fists. What the hell had he done to make Cas react like that?

"Maybe I should show you instead." Zachariah said, breaking forward, and Dean frantically patted his pockets for a weapon, his mind too spaced to remember if he even had any.

But then Sam was stepping between them. "Forgive us, Zachariah. Dean didn't get much sleep last night." He shot a glare at Dean. "I don't know what's wrong with him. But if you'll give us a couple days to consider the offer, I'm sure we can come up with something."

Zachariah was still staring at Dean, whose eyes had been drawn back to Castiel. Zachariah followed his gaze, frowning. "Right," he said, and then he straightened, eyes still on Castiel—and crap, Dean had drawn attention to him. "Two days. You won't hear from us before then."

The angels vanished.