Dean is having trouble quantifying what it’s like to have Castiel back from the Empty. Have him back from the dead. Again. It’s a weird miasma of guilt, joy, terror, something else sharp and stabbing that hits him every now and then when Castiel glances at him. Notices Dean watching, and gives him that small smile that’s mostly in the crinkles around his eyes.

It hurts.

But it also doesn’t.

Not always.

The thing is, Dean knows that Castiel can take care of himself. That for all his running off by himself, he’s powered up. And he’s become as bitter and distrustful as Dean. Which… kinda sucks, but it sure washes with the relief of knowing his angel won’t step in it just because he wants to believe in the good that doesn’t exist in their world.

But that sharp stabbing never goes away. It’s a knife when Castiel looks at him. A dull burn behind his sternum when he’s off doing his own thing. A corkscrew twist when he hears that rough voice on the phone. Something warm and softer when the metal bunker door screeches open and he hears the distinct sound of dress shoes on the stairs. Something that wells up behind his eyes and in his throat when Castiel says, “Dean,” in that nice way.

There’s really only a limited amount of when it actually feels bad. That sick, terrible dread that squeezes around the burn, his brain only being able to translate it as hot rage.

Like now as he presses his palms on the wooden table in the library so hard that his wrists ache, penning in his cell phone. “Say again?” he demands through clenched teeth.

“I’m in trouble,” comes the response, breathless and tinny through the speaker. “It’s… it’ll take me longer to get back. I’m injured.” Almost as an afterthought, an added, “Slightly.”

As if that makes any of it better.

“You stupid sonofabitch!” Dean yells, throat raw.

“Dean.” When he says it that way, nothing good wells up.

There’s nothing to stop it now, so Dean keeps screaming, sort of dreading that he won’t be able to stop until either Castiel hangs up on him, or he shouts himself hoarse. Castiel never hangs up on him.

“You listen to me, you ass! You’re finding a way to come home now, or so help me Chuck-God-whoever, I will find you and slap some fucking sense into you, you get me? Haven’t you done enough?! Hasn’t it been enough?! I thought I lost you for real this time, and now you’re injured?! Going off who know’s where to get yourself killed again? How many times do you think you’re gonna come back from the Empty, huh? ‘Cause I ain’t taking that risk!”

“Dean.” Again.

“No, shut up!” Dean rages. “You can’t do this to me! To Sam! To us! I love you and if you’re taken away again, I won’t survive it!” The only reason the burning isn’t bringing him to his knees is because his arms are still strong enough to support him.

The silence makes his ears ring. And as always in the immediate aftermath, he feels like a dick for yelling. He stares at the phone, not even seeing it anymore.

“Dean, I’m coming home.”

The call disconnects. A breath later the storm door screeches open. Hands are on Dean’s shoulders hauling him up. The scent of blood and dirt and clean air.

Cold chapped lips pressed hard against his, and Dean can’t muster up even the smallest desire to protest. Not after all this time. Not now that Castiel took pity and did what Dean had been unable to for so long. His hands fist into the angel’s filthy trench coat, dragging him close.

When it’s too much and they break apart, Dean settles for tapping their foreheads together. “You can’t do this to me,” he whispers.

“Yes, I can,” Castiel answers, low. “I love you.”

Yes, they can.