A/N: So. Um. That last story, Waking Up, was like a scab; I couldn't leave it alone. I really, really wanted to, because I never write angsty stuff and I thought it hit a nice chord and didn't need further elaboration. However... I ended up writing this, very late at night and very spur of the moment. I didn't add it as a second chapter because I DO want to keep the integrity of it as a one-shot. So, this is my sequel, and it's pretty much the same flavor as the last one. I hope it doesn't suck. If you think it doesn't suck, puh-LEASE let me know in the reviews. If it does suck, then... um... review, but keep your review short. I feel it only takes a sentence or two to convey a story's level of suckitude.

ANYways, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy!

Dean stared at the television set, trying to focus his eyes on the late-night infomercial. The oily salesman kept pitching the low, low price, and the pretty blonde kept chirping about how easy to use the Turbo Chopper was. Does it work on vampires? an old part of him quipped.

He hated that part.

The weights on his eyelids dragged heavier and heavier, and his mind drifted into soft curious musings about that blonde and what she looked like under that fugly green apron. Suddenly, the atmosphere in the room shifted, the faintest breeze brushing over his skin.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. "I'm awake, I'm awake, I'm awake," he muttered.

"No you're not."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, every part of him tensed and wound tight like a coiled spring. "Go away."

Cas, being the bastard he was, just stared at him. He could feel it. He could feel that goddamn stare from a hundred yards.

"I'm really not in the mood, Cas." He chuckled bitterly, dull and hollow. "I've got a headache."

Cas's gravelly voice was flat and cold. "Then why are we here?"

Dean shook his head, a sarcastic sneer forming on his lips. "I don't know, dude, you're the angel, you tell me –" and then he opened his eyes.

They were in a dingy motel room. Dean was sitting on the edge of a queen bed, Cas was standing next to him, and lying unconscious on the other queen bed… was Cas.

Another Cas.

Dean stood, knowing consciously that he should feel much more disturbed than he felt. Instead, he felt – removed. An observer. He approached the dream Cas.

It was imperfect. Some parts, the parts that Dean had studied before, were absolutely correct; the way his dark black hair looked pushed back from his forehead, the way the edge of his mouth tugged downwards when he was in pain, the way his fingers curled slightly inwards towards his palms when he lost consciousness. Other things were wrong. His trenchcoat was a slightly wrong shade of tan, his skin a little paler, his blood a little brighter. His blood – he was bleeding at the temple and crimson stains pooled on his shirt. Besides all these minor details, the imitation Cas lacked a certain… something. A realness. A solidity. Nonetheless, he could feel himself succumbing to the dream as certain emotions took hold against his will.

"Your subconscious seems to have replaced me," Cas noted icily behind him. "Apparently, you prefer me beaten and broken."

"Shut up," Dean snapped, his fingers trembling and stretching out to Cas's neck. The dread and horror was creeping up his spine, clawing at his belly, squeezing at his throat.

Cas stepped closer. "What, Dean?" he demanded. "You expect me to be silent? You think I'll stand and watch while you dream that I –"

"Shut up, you fuck," Dean rasped. "This isn't a dream. This is a nightmare."

And that shut him up.

The door slammed open, and Sam barged into the room, sopping wet and with an obvious limp in his gait. "This is all we've got," he gasped. He dumped a pile of bandages on the floor next to the plastic medical kit.

Even though Dean knew it was fake, he knew it, he couldn't help but respond. "We've got to get him to the hospital," he barked hoarsely.

Sam's eyes were big and wide and pleading and pained. "There's no way – there's just no way we can move him, Dean."

A quick glance showed that he was right; there was too much blood, everywhere, all over. It was pouring out of Cas and dripping down the comforter, puddling on the carpet. The terror shot straight to Dean's heart, pumping it faster than he thought possible.

"Dean." That voice behind him, quiet but firm. "Look at me."

Dean stared at that corpse on the bed, still and cold and empty.

"No, look at me." A hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around.

Dean stood nose to nose with Cas, the real Cas, unbloodied and so goddamn there in a way that nothing his mind fabricated could ever be. A real hand clenched his arm, and the opposite hand clasped onto the side of his neck, steadying him and ensuring that he really was looking at the son of a bitch.

"Take us to Bobby's," Cas commanded. And boy, was it weird as hell that Dean was the one expected to magically teleport them.

It worked, though, somehow. Dean knew Bobby's place, inside and out, and his subconscious replica was picture perfect. They stood alone, in a cluttered living room that said sanctuary to Dean like nowhere else did, and a relieving calm washed over him.

"I'm sorry I misjudged you," Cas apologized in a low voice.

"You seem to do that a lot," Dean remarked.

Something like humor was gathering in those blue eyes. "I was never a good judge of character."

And in a flicker of a moment Dean was vividly aware of the warm hand still on his neck, and the fingers still pressing into his bicep. He closed his eyes momentarily, took a deep breath, and shrugged out of Cas's grip. "I meant what I said earlier, Cas. I can't do this anymore." He wandered over to an end table and picked up a book, flipping through it.

Cas stood stiff as a mannequin.

The book was Hop on Pop. For some reason, some part of Dean was sad about that.

"Why." It wasn't a question.

Dean couldn't explain what happened in the next few minutes, except for what everyone already knows: in dreams, emotions are volatile and capricious and powerful. Something in Cas's tone set off something deeply rooted in Dean, igniting and engulfing him, and he whirled on Cas and attacked like a provoked dog.

"Why do you think?" he snarled, dropping the book and grabbing Cas by the lapels. "I never wanted this, Cas! You keep showing up in my head uninvited, like you have some kind of goddamn right!" He shook Cas for extra measure, then thrust him away hard enough to make him stumble. He marched forward to close the new space between them and poked a finger into Cas's chest. "You made your choices. You chose your loyalties. If you wanted to stick around then you damn well could've but you didn't and I've moved on, pal. I don't need a sidekick, I don't need a stalker, and I don't need you!"

Cas's eyes flashed and his brow darkened. He grabbed Dean's wrist and jerked his finger away from his chest. "You think I want this?" he bit sharply. "You think this is something that the throne of heaven looks kindly upon? I am not your 'pal', Dean, and neither am I your lackey. I am an angel of the Lord, a warrior of heaven, and I have taken on a mantle far greater than any responsibility that you can fathom. The last thing I need is some twisted, corrupted – thing with a twisted, corrupted human!"

"Then we're agreed!" Dean shouted angrily. "This shit is OVER!"

"Over," Cas hissed.

They scowled at one another, the room almost seeming to pulsate with tension.

And then Dean's mouth was on Cas's mouth and his hands were roaming over him, all over him, and holy shit it was like the best thing in the world that had ever happened.

...

What seemed like hours later, they collapsed beside each other, and shared a quiet minute of companionable silence.

Cas's fingertips brushed against Dean's elbow. "Tell me where you are," he murmured.

Dean exhaled, the weight of the world slowly building back up onto his shoulders. For a long, quavering moment, that old, weak part of him that he hated almost gave in; that small part of him almost surrendered to the deep longing in his heart to regain a piece of who he used to be, the hidden desire to be the Dean that Sam had known and loved.

Almost.

"No."