Dean wasn't sure whether the next few days passed slowly or quickly. Cas was spending more time awake, but still wanted Dean nearby. Touching, preferably. Though the nurses had told him he wasn't actually allowed to sleep in the bed with Cas (their knowing smiles making his ears burn), he'd managed to spend a few more hours here and there lying on top of the covers with Cas nestled up against him.

On the one hand, it was great. He knew he wasn't going to have this much intimacy with Cas, probably ever again. And so he savored every moment he got to spend with their fingers entwined, or Cas leaning up against him, or his hand in Cas's hair. It also seemed to be doing Cas some good. He seemed a little more sure of himself, and a little happier too. (It was hard to tell, though. Dean had never really seen Cas happy.)

On the other hand, it was incredibly frustrating. He wanted more than the occasional touch here or there. He wanted Cas to be his, to hold him and touch him even when things weren't so bad.

He had to remind himself over and over that whatever it seemed like, no matter how Cas wanted to be near him now, that Cas did not feel the same way. That, in all likelihood, Cas never would. And even if he did, it would be really screwed up of Dean to make any sort of move on him after all the shit he'd just gone through.

All in all, he was both a little disappointed and a little relieved when the doctor finally told Cas he was cleared to go home.

Cas had thanked him, stiffly, before slumping and avoiding Dean's eyes the second the doctor left.

"What is it?" Dean asked. On a whim, he reached out and touched Cas's chin with his hands, tilting his face up to meet Dean's eyes. It disturbed him a little how easy such an intimate movement had become over the past few days. He'd have to get used to reeling it in again once they were back at the bunker.

Cas cleared his throat, but kept his lips pressed together. The split in his lip was mostly healed now, but the bruise at the corner of his mouth was just reaching the stage where it turned all sorts of purples and yellows. Dean resisted the urge to run his thumb over it and dropped his hand.

"You gotta talk to me, man," Dean said.

"I am free to go home," Cas said, in the same stiff, formal voice he'd used on the doctor. "Dean, what you said weeks ago… about… about taking me with you…"

As he trailed off, staring awkwardly at the bedspread in front of him, Dean realized just what his problem was. "You're coming back with me," he said firmly. "Hell, even if you wanted to go back to that gas station, I wouldn't let you. You gotta heal up, and Sam's got the place all ready for you, you hear?"

"Yes," Cas said, his eyes shining. "Yes. Thank you. I won't inconvenience you. Much. Also, I don't eat very much, I think, and I can pay you back after for the food. Is that all right?"

"Oh my God," Dean groaned, "Cas. What part of I want you there don't you get?"

Cas stopped short, then seemed to choose his words carefully. "When I first lost my grace I had thought that I would be allowed to stay with you. I admit that I don't entirely understand why you asked me to leave in the first place."

For a long moment, Dean considered telling him everything.

"Because I'm an idiot," he said.

"You're not an idiot," Cas told him.

"I am." Dean took Cas's hands again, feeling the warm, callused skin of one palm and the scratchy cast covering the other, and stared at him straight in the eye. Cas jerked in surprise. Still, it was as if Dean couldn't stop himself. The phrase now or neverseemed to be echoing distantly through his mind. "I should never have told you to go. There is no one who wants you around more than me. Cas, I—I care about you, I mean I really—I would do anything for you." I love you. But those words were never going to come. They never could.

"So let's blow this popsicle stand, huh?" Dean added.

Cas nodded, but didn't answer.

It took them a little while to get all of the paperwork and Cas's medications and the wheelchair—which thankfully, Dean's borrowed insurance covered—figured out. By the time they'd gotten Cas in the wheelchair, and had everything in order, the ex-angel looked utterly exhausted, and his face was pinched in pain.

"Doin' all right?" Dean asked. He was finding it impossible not to check in every few minutes, and he couldn't tell if Cas was exasperated with him or if he appreciated the thought. Each time he told him the same thing.

"I'm fine."

But as Dean finally wheeled him out into the sunshine, he could see that Cas's jaw was clenched and his good hand was gripping his thigh tightly just above where the thick line of the cast was visible through the sweatpants he was borrowing from Dean.

Getting him into the Impala was another ordeal. Cas had to keep his leg elevated, and he couldn't bend his knee. His ribs were still in bad shape, and changing positions, even slightly, still made his breath hitch. Every other inch of skin was either bruised or cut or burned, and the doctors had used phrases like ligament damage to describe what had happened where the demons had driven sharp blades or pokers into Cas's shoulder, elbow, and other joints. For the first few days, especially after he'd started cutting down on the meds, Cas had barely been able to move at all without tears coming to his eyes. A week and a half later, he was healing, but he looked like hell. Still, Cas had insisted he was ready to go, and that he would be fine heading back in the Impala.

And so, Dean had borrowed a few blankets and pillows from the hospital and set them in the backseat of the Impala, where he figured Cas could sit sideways and stretch his leg out.

"Ready?" he asked Cas, positioning himself to help Cas up out of the wheelchair and into the car.

"Yes."

So he hooked his arms under Cas's and heaved, not quite expecting the strangled scream that Cas let out as his ribs shifted and his broken leg slid off the wheelchair and hit the pavement, or how Cas's other leg turned to jelly and he sagged into Dean's arms with a groan. Gritting his teeth, Dean dragged him the short distance to the open backseat of the Impala and, for lack of a better word, stuffed him in.

"What the hell, man?" he exploded without meaning to, as soon as Cas was on the seat.

"I'm—sorry," Cas said haltingly. He was breathing hard and had turned roughly the color of milk under his bruises. His fists were clenched.

"I didn't mean it like that," Dean said, embarrassed at his outburst. "Why didn't you tell me how bad it was?"

Cas gave him a look, which was either I thought it was obvious or Obviously I wasn't going to tell you. What he said aloud, in a raspy, pain-choked voice was, "I'm fine. I was merely—startled. Don't worry about me."

Sighing, Dean leaned over and started adjusting the pillows around him so that he'd hopefully be more comfortable. As it was, he was sitting at a slightly awkward angle and his good leg (good being a relative term) was hanging off the seat.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked. "I mean, I can take us back to the motel for a few days. Kansas is a good day's drive."

"Please," Cas said quickly, his eyes widening. "I would like to go to the bunker. I won't complain. Please."

"That's not…" Dean started, but dropped it. If he couldn't convince Cas that he welcome, he'd just have to show him some other way. He leaned into the backseat and cupped Cas's face and ran his thumb lightly across Cas's cheekbone, ignoring the thrill that shot through him. Then he dipped his head and gave Cas a peck on the forehead.

His ears were burning as he pulled away and stood, but for the first time since they'd left the hospital Cas's face seemed to relax slightly.

"Need anything before we hit the road?" Dean asked awkwardly. "I got a whole bottle of happy pills here with your name on them."

Cas shook his head. "I'm fine."

And so they set off. It was weird, Dean found, after days of being so often in close contact with Cas, to be separated even by the barrier of the seats for so many hours in a row. He found himself glancing in the rearview mirror every few seconds. Each time he did, he grew a little less sure that this was the right call. Cas looked like shit warmed over. He winced or gasped every time the Impala hit a bump in the road. His good hand was gripping his thigh again, while his other arm was wrapped around his chest. For long stretches of time, he'd close his eyes as if in concentrating on keeping the pain at bay. They stopped a few times, but Dean didn't make the mistake of trying to pull him out of the car to get out. Cramped quarters, he thought, was better than whatever pain Cas would feel if they tried that maneuver again.

They talked a little, but honestly, Cas seemed too miserable to hold up his end of the conversation, even after he finally acquiesced to take a few pain pills. It grated on Dean and made him frustrated and unreasonably angry. Cas should have realized that it would be okay for them to stay a few more days in Illinois. And Dean should have realized that Cas wasn't ready for a damn cross-country trip. That no doubt, he'd been so afraid that if he didn't take Dean up on his offer to go to the bunker today that he might not hear that offer again.

Eventually, thank God, Cas fell asleep.

Sam greeted them back at the bunker when they pulled in around ten in the morning the next day. It was a good thing too, because as it turned out, sitting nearly in the same position in the back of a car for eighteen hours was enough to make anyone stiff.

As carefully as Dean and Sam tried to pull Cas out and slide him into the wheelchair, it was clearly agony. His face clenched and he made gave a low, muffled groan that turned into a sob halfway through. The sound tore through Dean and made him want to tear every bastard responsible limb from limb…but of course the demons responsible were dead and the only other guy he could possibly blame was himself.

Back in the bunker, things got a little better. They transferred Cas to the bed in a room Sam had made up for him—more smoothly this time, thank god—and Sam started puttering. He poured a cup of tea for Cas and started heating up a bowl of soup, because apparently his idea of how to care for someone who was injured only involved hot liquids. Cas seemed grateful, though, if a little ashamed. Ezekiel didn't show his face.

Dean loitered awkwardly in Cas's room, not sure that his company would be welcome after eighteen hours together on the road, but so used to being by Cas's side over the past week that he couldn't think of anywhere else to be. Cas watched him warily, his eyes narrowing as Dean gave a mighty yawn.

"You don't have to stay with me," Cas said shortly.

Of course, it was the same thing he'd been saying the whole week before he'd asked Dean to get a little closer.

"What if I want to?" Dean countered. That much was true.

"You have your own bed, now," Cas pointed out, his voice tight. "I'll be fine. I know that demons can't get in here."

Undoubtedly, Cas meant to sound reassuring, but all his words did was remind Dean that if he'd only let Cas stay, none of this would have happened. It was because of that thought that he answered a bit more sharply than he'd intended, "Shut up, Cas."

Cas's mouth snapped shut, and his face took on a blank expression that Dean was coming to realize was little more than a mask for the emotions roiling underneath.

So he said, a little more calmly, "If you want me to go, I'll go. Otherwise, I'm staying."

It looked like Cas wanted to say something. But apparently he was taking Dean's directive to "shut up" a little too literally. A little spasm crossed his face but it was only a grimace of residual pain.

"Look, I'm sorry," Dean said, frustrated with himself for screwing this up just like he'd screwed up the rest of it. The fact that he'd slept about ten hours over the last week combined, and not at all in the last twenty-four, was not helping his mood. "I don't want to leave you, okay?"

Just then Sam came in with a bowl of chicken noodle soup, which he set on the night table in Cas's reach. "Need anything else?"

Cas smiled slightly. "No, Sam. Thank you."

Sam looked between Dean and Cas, apparently catching on to the fact that something tense was going down between them. "I'll, uh, leave you to it, then," he said. "But it's really great to have you back, Cas. Really. And if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask. Okay?"

"Okay," Cas said.

When he'd left Dean was silent a few moments, feeling that he'd been thrown off course, and a little annoyed that Sam had managed to pack more caring and goodwill into about thirty seconds than he'd managed in the last week. The salty smell of soup filled the air, but Cas ignored it. Dean glared at the bowl, feeling irrationally that it was mocking him.

"I don't want you to leave," Cas admitted.

Dean was too surprised to react, but Cas went on.

"When I'm alone, I…I still…" Cas shuddered. "I don't think I can stop feeling like I'm back there. Even here. And when I do, I keep trying to tell myself that you're not going to come, and that it's better that way. But I know, really, I know that it's not. I wanted you to come, Dean, even though it was a trap. I wanted you there."

Whether it was an effect of Sam's hospitality or exhaustion from long, painful drive, or both, Dean didn't know, but it was the most Cas had said about his experience since they'd rescued him. It made Dean's stomach knot. He could too easily imagine Cas, strung up for days, trying to convince himself that it really was a good thing that Dean's didn't give a rat's ass about him. And the way Cas said it—like he shouldn't have hoped for a rescue—made it even worse. A sick feeling of mixed guilt and hatred rose up in him again. He loved Cas. Cas meant more to him than just about any god damn person in the world (well, except for Sam, who didn't count) and everything that had happened to him was Dean's fault. He wanted to throw up. He had to do something.

So he did the only thing that had ever worked at all. He sat down on Cas's bed and took his good hand in one of his own, cupping Cas's cheek with the other. Cas's eyes widened in surprise briefly before he relaxed into the touch. Emboldened, Dean pressed his lips against Cas's forehead, then dropped his head so their faces were level and inches apart. It would be so easy to close the distance, so easy to kiss him like he wanted to, but he let the moment stretch out, his fingers still resting on Cas's bruised cheek.

"Dean?"

"I know," Dean said, but he didn't let go. "Too much. I'll back off, it's just… I…"

There was so much he wanted to say, so much he couldn't say. The tempest of emotions raged inside him, holding him motionless, unwilling to let go but unable to let any of it out.

Cas blinked at him. "Dean, are you…?"

"Am I what," Dean breathed, unable to move. He could feel Cas's stubble under his fingertips and longed for him. Now that they were finally alone, out of the hospital where they could be interrupted any second, he found himself leaning in against all his better judgment.

"No. I'm wrong," Cas murmured, sounding more like he was talking to himself than anything else, despite the fact that their faces were inches apart. "I don't know how to read human social signals. That's why I was wrong about Nora. Dean, please just tell me what you want."

He was starting to sound panicked, but Dean's heart was hammering in his ears too hard for him to really care. So Cas was onto him. Finally. But did Cas want him to come closer? He couldn't tell, he couldn't risk it, but he sure as hell couldn't let this moment slip away.

"I love you," he blurted, then drew back immediately because it wasn't what he'd meant to do. He was Dean Winchester. He didn't do this. Didn't say those words to anyone, not even Sam, not even Lisa, not even his dad.

Cas blinked owlishly, and he seemed perplexed by Dean's quick retreat as Dean had been by his own outburst. For several interminable seconds, neither of them said anything, and Dean began wishing desperately that he could disappear into thin air and never have to show his face around Cas again.

Then Cas spoke.

"I love you too."

"What?" Dean said stupidly.

A classic Cas head tilt. "Is that…the wrong thing to say? I'm sorry. I thought you were. I was wrong. I should have learned my lesson from Nora, I know you didn't meant it that way, I'm sorry, please don't leave me—" As he spoke, his voice sped up, and the note of panic in his voice returned in full force, and Dean did the only other thing he could think to do.

He leaned forward and kissed Cas right on the lips.

It caught the ex-angel by surprise, since he was still in midsentence, but Dean was gentle and it was only seconds before the soft, warm lips beneath his were returning the kiss, parting slightly, sucking ever so slightly until down there gave a mighty twitch of excitement. Dean pressed himself against Cas, mindful of his battered body, and let one hand roam through his hair while the other traced down his neck and shoulder and ribs, rough with bandages. Cas moved against him, slowly and gently at first, then harder. Then he stopped with a gasp.

"Cas?" Dean said, pulling away, flushed but worried. Cas had seemed into it but maybe he had gone to far, maybe this wasn't what Cas really wanted, maybe after everything this would be the end of their friendship because Dean couldn't keep it in his goddamn pants.

Cas was wincing, his face screwed up in a tight grimace.

"Cas?" Dean repeated, trying hard not to panic a little himself.

"I'm sorry," Cas said, relaxing his face with an effort.

"For what?"

It was Cas's turn to be puzzled. "You were enjoying that. Weren't you?"

"Yes—I mean, obviously," Dean said, flustered. "Were you?"

Cas nodded. "I was. It's just that I'm—I'm a little sore," he finished lamely. "I'm sorry. It's…it's distracting. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," Dean snapped. Some part of his brain, he recognized, was still screaming incoherently that this was happening at all, but somehow the rest of his mind seemed very much okay with it. And, better yet, Cas seemed okay with it. The relief that surged through him drowned out almost every other emotion. He cupped Cas's cheek again, and dipped his head in to kiss Cas gently, his eyes closing. "I don't need anything from you, man," he murmured, and found that it was absolutely true. Cas knew that he loved him, and Cas loved him back. Not to mention, injuries aside, he was a damn good kisser. Obviously, he hoped there would be more of that in the future, but Cas healing was more important for the moment. They could take things slow. "I said I'd take care of you and that's what I'm gonna do."

"You don't have to—" Cas began, but Dean cut him off with another gentle kiss.

"Course I don't," he said roughly. "I want to? You know I don't throw that word around, man. I meant what I said. I—I love you, and I'm gonna be here for you from now on. Okay?"

"Okay," Cas said. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out with his good hand and laced his fingers in Dean's, and squeezed.

And, for perhaps the first time since he'd called the Gas-N-Sip and found out that Cas was missing, Dean felt like it actually was going to be okay.