He wakes up on the bed again, in the same motel room that's not his, and he feels the faint prickling in the air that he's come to associate with Castiel. This time, he doesn't wait to be told before he opens his eyes.

Castiel is sitting in the chair across the room from him, his eyes closed, elbows on his thighs and bent over like he's meditating. Dean knows he's not asleep. Dean figures he probably doesn't sleep. He's probably been watching Dean sleep. He's still fully decked out in his slacks, button-down, suit coat, tie, and trench coat, and although he looks a little rumpled, he's not so disheveled that he looks like he's been napping.

Nobody else is in the room—Giant Sammy and his older self are nowhere to be found. That reassures him somewhat, although he's not sure why, because it isn't like Castiel is less of a threat. In fact, probably way more of one. But at least he's the only Dean Winchester in the room, and at least he's not a foot shorter than his baby brother, and at least thinking about Castiel's existence doesn't hurt his brain.

He sits up and brings his knees to his chest, and Castiel raises his gaze gradually. His eyes soften when they reach Dean's face, and Dean shifts uncomfortably. He's not used to a look like that coming from an adult. Makes him feel weird.

"You have questions," Castiel says.

You're goddamned right is what Dean wants to say. Instead he hears a quiet "yes" in his voice.

"I know that you enjoy science fiction," Castiel continues, which seems like a crazy non sequitur, and Dean frowns. "I hope you'll understand, then, that there are things I cannot share with you. That...the others cannot share with you, or explain to you."

"Because of, like, paradoxes?" Dean asks.

The expression on Castiel's face isn't quite a smile, but it's close. "Precisely. But ask the questions that you feel you need to. I will answer as many as I can."

Dean only hesitates for a moment, to put away the questions he'd been turning over in his head—when am I, how did you bring me here, when will you bring me back. He doesn't need to think long about what question he does need to ask. It's the only question that he has that really matters. "Is Sammy okay? My Sammy. You said you'd warded the room. How long does the warding last?"

"No one will be expecting the type of warding I provided," Castiel replies. "He won't notice it, and anyone trying to find him won't know how to break it. Your brother will be safe. I promise you that."

"Does he know I'm missing yet?" Dean asks.

Again that soft look. "I will endeavour to bring you back early enough in your timeline so that he does not worry," says Castiel. "Which should also answer your concern about my warding fading." His half-smile drops, and suddenly he looks deadly serious, which sends a shiver down Dean's spine. The fear he feels is a little confused when Castiel adds, "I protect the Winchesters, Dean. It's what I do. You and your brother—anything I can do to keep you safe, I will."

"Why?" Dean isn't sure where the question comes from, or why he's questioning it, but a lifetime of suspicion and paranoia doesn't go away overnight.

Castiel's voice is even as he replies: "Because you deserve it."

That doesn't make sense, so Dean just picks at the pilling blanket that's draped over his legs. He's tired of people tucking him in. He's not a kid and he's not an invalid. But he's also too tired and too confused to really make a fuss about it.

The motel room is chilly, and he shivers a little, his thin button-down too little barrier against the cold. He wants to curl back up under the blankets, but he doesn't want to look like a baby or, really, to take his eyes off of Castiel. Not that he thinks he could fight him, but it just goes against all his training to let a potential enemy out of his sight.

There's a flash of hurt across Castiel's face—well, maybe hurt is the wrong word. It's a pained look, that's for sure, but there's not a lot of offense in it, just sadness. He stands and reaches into one of the drawers in the dresser next to him, and pulls out another blanket. Wordlessly, he walks to Dean, unfolds the blanket over his shoulders, and sits on the other bed.

"You are vulnerable to illness right now," he says, like he's trying to justify himself. "When I found you, you had been exposed to the cold for a long time. The stress of traveling here, and the emotional trauma of meeting...the others...have taken their toll. You should stay warm, if you can. When you are ready, there is food."

Dean glances at the kitchen, and sees a few boxes of take-out on the counter. He huddles down beneath the new blanket, and Castiel smiles faintly but warmly.

"What did that thing want with me?" Dean blurts, and Castiel stills, the smile fading instantly. "In the alley. The thing you saved me from. What did it want? Why me? I know it was me, too. I mean, Dad and I have hunted things that go after hookers before, because, obviously, go for the ones nobody will miss, but it knew my name."

Castiel winces at that. Like physically flinches. He murmurs, "Dean, please do not imply that you would be unmourned if something were to happen to you."

The silence that falls between them is exactly fifty percent stunned, fifty percent miserable. Dean's providing all the stunned. "I didn't really mean that," he replies, although if he's honest he didn't really not mean it. But no. Sammy would miss him, for a while. He's pretty sure. "I meant, you know. Statistically. Hookers and homeless."

"No life goes unmourned," Castiel says, but he doesn't look at Dean while he says it. "Yours least of all."

Dean lets the silence hang for another minute before he presses: "You didn't answer my question."

The creature in front of him takes a deep, fortifying breath, and answers, "He was trying to get rid of you before you become a threat to his plans. He was trying to kill you because you are important, and you are more powerful than he assumed. So he decided to get rid of you as a child, because it would be easier and because he is a coward."

"I'm not important," Dean breathes.

Castiel laughs, a single, huffed breath. "You're very wrong."

"You don't know that."

"I know everything about you, Dean." Castiel's voice is fervent, hard as concrete, and more than a little intimidating. "Down to your molecules. You are important."

"You know me like that?" Dean asks, making his eyes go wide. Castiel nods solemnly. "How?"

Castiel's face falls. "I can't tell you, Dean."

"Why won't you just tell me what you are?" Dean knows he's jumping all around the conversation, and he knows that he sounds petulant, but he just cannot be bothered to give a damn about either fact. He kind of enjoys the fact that Castiel seems to have a hard time keeping up with his leaps of logic. Makes him feel like he has the smallest little bit of power here.

"My kind were not on Earth yet, when I found you," Castiel explains patiently, though Dean can hear the edge of irritation in his tone. "You can't know about us. Not by name, at the very least."

Dean frowns, settling farther back into the bed, tilting his head back and staring up at the waterstained ceiling. It doesn't sit well with him, not being allowed to know. Especially when Castiel knows so, so much about him. "I can't trust you if you don't give me anything to work with," he mutters.

There's a long silence, long enough that Dean gets uncomfortable and looks over at his companion. Castiel is staring at him, those uncanny blue eyes boring into him like he can read Dean's soul. Castiel smiles faintly, tilts his head, and says, "I don't need you to trust me, Dean. Not now. You will, one day."

Dean looks past Castiel and out to the door, which doesn't open like Dean halfway expects it will. Castiel follows his sightline. "Your older self and your brother are out. They aren't coming back for several hours. They have business in town."

"Hunting business?" Dean asks. Castiel nods, and Dean ducks his head, picking at the blanket again. "I guess I don't get out, then. Neither does Sammy."

"Dean."

"It's cool." Dean swallows hard. "I didn't figure I would. Kind of thought Sammy would."

"It is complex," Castiel says, and Dean hates the pity he hears in his voice. "Many lives have been saved because you and your brother did not 'get out'." Dean can hear the quotation marks, and his lips quirk up involuntarily. Castiel's expression brightens incrementally in return, so Dean rubs his hands over his face to break the girly moment.

"Whatever," he mumbles, and swings his legs off the side of the bed. "So what do we do until they get back? We got research or something?"

"No," Castiel replies. "Simply rest. I will be able to take you back to your time soon."

Dean pauses at that, waiting for the rush of elation.

It doesn't come.

He looks over at Castiel, who simply looks back at him, his eyes devoid of judgment, patiently waiting for whatever crazy thing the dirty, freezing kid he pulled out of the past was going to do next. He looks at the bed, at the blankets that had been spread over him, at the mattress he'd had all to himself. He looks at the kitchen, where food was waiting for him—food he hadn't had to do anything to earn.

He looks down and angrily shoves the heel of his hand against his eye.

"Dean." Castiel's voice is gentle, and it comes from the bed. He hasn't moved, hasn't approached Dean. He really must know him.

"I'm a shitty brother," Dean coughs, because he knows that whatever Castiel is, it's something that comes with mind-reading. Or something close enough. "I should want to get back to Sammy more than anything but I'm..."

Warm. Safe. Fed. Kept, like some kind of freaking dog, and it's enough to make him want to stay.

Disgusting.

A dry laugh makes Dean turn around, and Castiel is shaking his head. "You are not a bad brother," he counters. "In my whole existence, which is of considerable length, I have never seen a brother more devoted to his sibling. You are sixteen years old, Dean. You crave comfort and security—the comfort and security that was and continues to be denied you. That is no sin. Please, eat."

Dean swipes at his eyes once more before obeying, going to the kitchen and grabbing a box of what turns out to be take-out Chinese. He pops it in the microwave then settles down to eat it.

A few bites in, he calls, "Castiel?"

The creature walks over to the kitchen. "Yes, Dean?"

Dean spears a piece of broccoli and chews it, swallows it, slowly, before working up the courage to ask: "Am I okay? Now?"

Silence. "Are you okay," Castiel echoes carefully.

"Now," Dean repeats. "Um. I just—I, he, the other Dean, he seems…"

Dean trails off, but Castiel does not rescue him with a guess, simply stands by the wall, head tilted, waiting. Dean takes another forkful of rice and glares a little, but it doesn't prompt Castiel to help.

"What does he seem, Dean?" Castiel asks after two more forkfuls.

"Tired," Dean answers. "Miserable. Really—really sad. I mean I know our life's not easy. But he just looks...done. Like he's ready to give up." He looks down at the counter and feels a shiver pass over his body. "Like he's dead already."

Dean doesn't look up, and he hears Castiel inhale deeply, then exhale slowly. He picks at his food a little more. "I know it's bad. I asked him why a Hunter would pair up with a—" He breaks off, lifting his head abruptly to watch for Castiel's reaction to his words.

Castiel smiles wryly. "A monster?" he asks. Dean doesn't respond. "A creature? It's all right, Dean. I won't tell you what I am, so you must make assumptions." Dean feels his face warm with flush, and Castiel shakes his head. "You asked why he would associate with me."

"And he said it gave him half a chance of surviving the year," Dean finishes, keeping his eyes on Castiel, whose eyes grow shadowed. "So I know it's bad."

"When I met you, I told you that your problem was that you have no faith," Castiel says after a long moment. Dean frowns. "But that's not quite it, I don't think. You have endless faith in some people—in your father, in Sam. Sometimes in me. You have no faith in yourself. No compassion to spare for yourself."

And that's enough.

Enough of the pity, of the sad glances, of the fucking nostalgia. Maybe his present is these people's past, but damn it, it's his life, and he's not some starving kid in a charity commercial. He's a Hunter. And if he doesn't have compassion for himself, it's because there isn't room.

"That's because I screw up," Dean argues, slamming his fork down on to the counter and pushing himself standing. "It's what I do. I believe in Dad because he's kept us alive, kept us safe all this time. I believe in Sammy because he's awesome and taking care of him is my job. If I believe in you, it's because you earned it. But me? I get pulled along. I mean, look at me now—I couldn't even hook right without almost getting turned into tomato sauce in some alley. You don't even know me yet and you had to save my ass. I'm just a fuck-up. Apparently I stay a fuck-up."

And Dean doesn't understand it when Castiel is suddenly right up in his face, his hands fisted in the collar of Dean's shirt, pressed up to him and pinning him against the wall. His breath starts coming fast and shallow because shit, he doesn't know what he said, but now Castiel's mad at him and he still doesn't have a weapon and why did he have to go and piss off a massively powerful whateverthefuck—

"You are not," Castiel growls, "anything short of an incredible human. You have no concept of the things you are capable of, the things you will do—no understanding of the things you've already done at your age."

"Castiel, please," Dean rasps, but Castiel isn't done.

"You have no idea how it grates to hear you speak of yourself like that," he continues, shifting his hands off of Dean's collar and onto his shoulders. "How it grates to hear you forgive everyone else in the world and keep flogging yourself for every misstep. I did not drag you, both of us burning, from the Pit because you are worthless, and I will not—"

He breaks off.

Dean stares at him.

Castiel carefully releases him and steps back, his eyes cautious, unwavering.

"The Pit?" Dean echoes.

Castiel says nothing.

"Like Hell?" Dean presses.

Castiel lowers his eyes.

"I go to Hell?" Dean's voice is now a hoarse whisper. "Why? I don't understand, what was that guy, then? A revenant? A shifter? Was that even me?"

"He is you, Dean," Castiel assures him, though he doesn't look at him.

"How can you tell me I'm not a fuck-up one second, then admit that I go to Hell in the next?" Dean demands, and his eyes are stinging from anger, not from tears, not from fear. "You don't go to Hell because you've been really awesome at life."

"You don't know what happened, Dean," Castiel argues, some of the fire back in his eyes.

"So tell me," Dean snarls, "and fuck the time line. You've already screwed that up."

Castiel laughs hollowly, hangs his head, and says, "Yes. I suppose I have."

"Tell me," Dean says again.

Castiel takes a breath, and at that moment, a key jangles outside and the door opens.

Sammy and Dean's older self walk in, Other Dean grinning lopsided and Sammy laughing. Both of them stop immediately when they see the scene in front of them: Castiel pale and slumped, Dean red-eyed with his shirt rumpled and his hands in fists.

Other Dean, whose shirt is torn over a bloody gash on his arm, speaks first, his voice tight as a violin string. "Anybody wanna volunteer to explain what in the merry hell is going on here?"

"Castiel was about to tell me what the fuck he meant by dragging me out of the Pit," Dean spits, still glaring at Castiel.

Sammy groans. "Seriously, Cas?"

"He angered me," Castiel replies, sounding petulant. "He was speaking ill of himself, and I forgot myself."

"Figure you'd be used to that by now," Other Dean mutters, wincing as he unbuttons his overshirt, his movements crisp and efficient. But Dean knows himself. He's paler than blood loss and pain would account for. He's scared.

Castiel lowers his eyes but presses his lips together, a thin, irritated line.

"I gotta go take care of this arm," Other Dean declares, and shoves past Castiel into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

That leaves Dean, Castiel, and Sammy in the room, and Dean tries his best to compose himself. He doesn't want Sammy to see him like this, snot-nosed and teary-eyed and out of control. He doesn't ever want any version of Sammy to see him like this.

"I apologize, Sam," Castiel murmurs. "My carelessness—"

"You'll figure it out, Cas," Sammy interrupts, sounding very calm. "Can you give me and Dean a minute?"

Castiel frowns, turns to Dean, who doesn't say anything, then back to Sam. He nods once, curtly, and disappears.

Just fucking disappears.

But Dean doesn't have the energy to be shocked, and he just walks over to the bed and sits down heavily. Sammy sits across from him, hunching over, making himself smaller and less threatening, and it pisses Dean off slightly more than it makes him feel better.

"You okay?" Sammy asks.

"No," Dean mutters.

Sammy nods. "I get it. Cas shouldn't have said anything. But he did, and you…" Sammy pauses, then sighs, and Dean looks up at him. "You want to hear a story?"

Dean doesn't.

He really doesn't.

But he nods.