It was sheer luck that the weather that year had left the roads open into early October, allowing Dean to access the trailhead needed to hike the higher alpine trails in Glacier National Park. A hike for the experienced at any time of year, this late, basically past season, it was something few attempted, between the cold, unpredictable fall weather, the removal of the guidelines and bridges of summer, and the increased bear activity before hibernation. He'd sent an email to the park office to check in and detail his itinerary, then skimmed the list of cautions sent back, fully intended to discourage him.

The past few days had suited Dean's mood just fine. The first day, the landscape had been covered in fog, and it spit cold rain the entire time. Overnight, icy winds froze it all into a glimmering coating that made him give every step his attention until temperatures rose enough for it to melt again. As he hiked higher, the backdrop of green grass fading into burnt reds and yellows was increasingly dominated by gray rock, until he was winding his way along a narrow, worn path on the steep mountainsides. Flakes of snow occasionally appeared as the temperature dropped that second night, swirling and floating away, never seeming to touch the ground. By the third day, it was obvious they were in a cold snap, and he was wearing every layer he'd packed, hands and feet still starting to numb up if he paused too long. Dean wasn't worried; he knew how to handle cold-weather backpacking.

The events that had sent him all but bolting from Kansas constantly whirled through his head. It had been chance, really, scrolling down Facebook, seeing that tagged post, following the conversation to a recent obituary. Dean felt like he was spinning and spinning, unable to find something to hold onto, incapable of feeling anything other than his own regret and guilt. Logic tried to tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he had done the best he could at the time, but he couldn't help feeling as though, if he had done things differently, it could have been avoided. A life could have been saved.

He was having another good session of beating himself up and berating himself for being so damned selfish, something he never should have been doing on the section of trail he was on. There would have been a guide cable running along the rockface during peak season, but there was nothing within reach when he misstepped and his boot slid out on loose scree. Totally unprepared for the shift, he was caught with his back foot lifting off the ground and went down hard, landing on his hip and hearing his teeth crunch on the side of his mouth as his cheek bounced off a rock in a way that was going to hurt like hell when he had time to think about it. But his body was still sliding, and pulling up his head, his heart pounded to life as he realized there was a rapidly approaching edge with nothing to see behind it but open air and the far off valley. He flipped and starfished, digging in elbows and hands, heels and thighs, ignoring the sharp jabs of pain as jagged edges pressed into him through layers of clothing. His slide slowed, then finally stopped as his boot soles caught enough of the surface to create some resistance.

Dean lay there, breathing hard, heartbeat hammering in his ears. As the roar of the adrenaline rush subsided, he dared to lift his head and survey the situation. There was about four or five feet between him and the edge below. He could see areas where the rock debris was shallower or absent to either side, but he took a few long minutes to breathe and plot out a safe course back up to the trail before he started moving. He rolled over and crawled up on his belly, rather than getting to his feet, keeping his weight spread out until he was well away from the drop off. Sore spots and pricks of pain told him he probably had a few good bruises and scrapes going under his clothes, but nothing seemed twisted or broken. The worst pain point was where he had bitten the inside of his cheek. A swipe across the side of his face brought a smear of blood away on his glove; he must have split it on the rocks.

He sat on the trail for a while, having some water, trying to let the shaky feeling in his legs fade. Eventually, his feet and butt started going numb from the cold though, so he forced himself back up and began moving again, a bit more slowly. His hip and knee ached on the one side, but it was workable. He wasn't going to get stranded up here.

You're an idiot, he told himself. It suddenly seemed like an incredibly bad idea, tackling this trail when his head wasn't on straight. Unfortunately, there wasn't anything to do but complete the loop at this point; it was farther to turn back than continue. He'd stick to his plan and finish out the next day. He wasn't sure what came after.

Reliable cell service didn't make an appearance for another day and a half. Dean checked his messages at a rest area a short way outside the park, and his eyebrows rose higher and higher as he listened to the last voicemail message from Sam. In the silence after it ended, a good, solid F-bomb ringing in his ears, Dean stared out Baby's front window, not really seeing the road beyond.

Shit. Cas.

It wasn't that Dean hadn't thought of letting him know—in fact, Cas was the next person to come to mind after Sam. But, at the time, everything had been choking him, threatening to spill out of him the way it had wanted to back in Estes Park, when Cas had asked him about his father. He had, for an instant back then, looked into those earnest eyes and wanted tell him everything. And he was afraid that if he called or even texted, and Cas asked him what was wrong… He hadn't trusted himself to keep it locked up. So he just shut off his phone and headed out, convinced that maybe nobody would notice a tiny blip in conversation, just assume he got busy. In the past, it would have been easy; sometimes, people didn't hear from him for weeks, and that was totally normal. But things weren't like that now, especially not with Cas, and Dean, if he had been thinking more clearly, would have known that he'd worry.

There was no escaping it; he'd have to call him. But it would hold until he was off the road, he reasoned. The damage was already done. He kept driving until he got far enough back onto the main roads that he could find a reasonable motel that wasn't closed for the season. Dean took his time after he checked in, stripping, showering, and doctoring up his various injuries. An ugly-looking purple and red bruise had developed across his cheek, centering on a split that he closed up with a few steri-strips. His right side was similarly decorated, especially the top of his hip. The knee on that one side was too warm to touch and swollen. He'd have to ice it all later. The rest was superficial, although it certainly stung and oozed at points.

When he had himself situated, he made some decisions about what he was going to say to Cas. He felt calmer now, if not really better about anything, and more equipped to face him without having his will just dissolve. A time check showed him that, at least in New York, the work day was finished by a few hours. Dean blew out a breath from between his lips slowly, then hit the button to call.

Cas's voice sounded gravelly as hell, almost garbled. "Dean, are you all right?"

Dean checked the time again in confusion, making sure he hadn't messed up the calculation and caught Cas in bed. "Hi, Cas. I'm okay. Sorry I didn't let you know I was going to be out of touch for a few days."

"We were worried, Dean." There was a rasp of drawn breath over the line following the accusation.

"Yeah… Yeah, Sam left a message. He was pretty mad I didn't let you guys know." That was a vast understatement; Sam had sounded angrier than Dean had heard him in a long time. "Guess I'm too used to dropping things and going where I want half the time. I didn't even think about it." Liar, his brain helpfully added.

"Sam said… well, he thought something might be wrong. Did something happen?"

Dean swallowed. "I—uh, let's just put that on the can't list for now." He blinked and cleared his throat, taking a breath. "I, um, almost got myself killed up here, so I figured that was probably a good point to wrap up and head home." There, that should send the conversation off in another direction.

"What?!" There was a gasp and a series of heavy, wet coughs that went on for several seconds, after which Cas could be heard breathing hard.

"Jesus, are you all right?" Dean felt a wave of alarm.

"Yes, I just have a cold," Cas growled, recovering. "What do you mean, you almost got yourself killed?"

"I, uh, took a fall on the trail, almost slid my ass right off a cliff."

Cas responded in a whisper. "How close was it?" There was an edge to it; Dean couldn't decide if it was anger or horror.

Dean thought about lying, but the impulse to tell the truth won out. If he wasn't going to be truthful about some other things going on, he should at least give this much. "Oh, about five feet…" His voice wobbled a bit on the last part, outside his control, and Dean blinked in confusion.

There was silence. Dean's eyes started to burn, and the next instant, he was shocked to realize tears were sliding down his cheeks. One ran across the cut on the right side, making it sting. He felt incredibly grateful that Cas couldn't see his face, even as he simultaneously wished they were in the same room.

"I'm so glad you're all right."

The simple statement, Cas's deep voice colored rough by his cold, was probably the tenderest thing Dean had heard in years. The tears ran faster, and he concentrated on keeping his breathing steady. Jesus christ, I'm a mess. This was a mistake. But even as he thought it, it didn't really ring true. A bigger part of him wanted that reassurance on the end of the line than wanted to crawl away and hide. "I'm sorry, Cas," Dean muttered. He didn't have the composure to continue; he just hoped Cas would know he meant it about a lot of different things.

"I—Just remember that I'm here, Dean. Even if you feel you can't talk about what is bothering you. I'm here." There was another round of coughing, muffled as though Cas were trying to smother the sound.

"Yeah. I'm here too, Cas." Dean wiped at his face and nose, trying to get a grip. "That cold sounds like a hell of a bad one. Wish I could send you some soup or something…"

"Well, it can't last forever. Cold medication and bed rest are on the agenda."

"All right. You take care and rest up. I'll call you again tomorrow."

Dean didn't have the energy to move after hanging up. The room felt cold, and the idea of icing his side now seemed completely unappealing, although he was sure he was going to pay for skipping it tomorrow morning. He made a text group consisting of Sam, Cas, Charlie, and Kevin, and sent a single message, a combined apology and notice that he was back in touch. The inevitable storm of sarcastic responses followed almost immediately.

Kevin - 17:20

Well, I didn't see any stories about a hiker getting eaten by a bear in Montana, so I figured you were ok.

Charlie - 17:22

Who is this…?

Sam - 17:25

… So you DO know how to send a group message. I am stunned.

17:26

Bear wasn't hungry🤷

Dean Winchester, friend and/or jerk

and/or fucking idiot

Charlie - 17:27

And/or self-absorbed ass

Sam - 17:27

And/or bitch AND (not or) jerk

Kevin - 17:27

And/or meat popsicle

Cas - 17:29

Welcome back. It's good to hear from you again. I will take this as proof that you did not, in fact, lose your fingers to frostbite.

17:30

Youre supposed to be resting

Dean looked at the messages, struck suddenly by the feeling of having them all gathered around him. It pushed back the emptiness of the motel room, made the things gnawing at him feel less like a tidal wave. Whether he deserved them or not, these were his friends, and they were there.

Dean went home, rescheduled the tour he had cancelled, and generally forced himself to get back to normal. He couldn't change anything that had happened; all he could do was keep moving forward.

Some hours were easier than others. He tried not to lean on Cas as much as he seemed to want to. The man was still trying to shake the aftereffects of his cold. The past few days, most of their conversations had been via text messages; too much talking aggravated Cas's cough and left him winded. Dean missed the sound of his voice.

Wednesday found him on his way to Kansas City to meet up with Sam. He wasn't really sure if he still owed his brother an apology—his brother's voice over the phone had that bland, forced nonchalance that could be masking just about anything—but one look at Sam's face when he got there would settle that.

Sam's new place was inside a rather stately old building in the residential sprawl on the Kansas side of the Kansas River. It had been a school at some point in its past. Now, they had converted it into cheap apartments. Things were brown and gray this time of year, looking all the more rundown without the benefit of green grass and leaves, but the place was affordable without being unlivable. On a good day, without traffic, the apartment was a ten-minute drive from the Bureau, although Sam had refused Dean's offer of the truck in favor of a half-hour ride on public transit.

He pulled up to the curb and waited for Sam to lower himself into the Impala's passenger seat. "Hey," he greeted.

"Hey." Sam looked over at him. His mouth was purposefully slack, eyebrows slightly raised in that way he did when he was making an effort not to glare, but it turned to shock a moment later. "What the heck happened to your face?"

Yep, Dean needed to work in an apology at some point that evening. "Uh…" The cut was still healing, and the bruise across his cheekbone had added mottled green and yellow to the mix at this point. "I took a header up in Glacier. Nothing too serious, but I get to look like the idiot I am for a few weeks…"

He negotiated with his brother over food, trying to push Sam to pick some vegan or sushi place, but Sam was determined that they were going to do barbecue. Uh oh. When Sam wanted to do 'Dean food', that usually meant he was in for some heartfelt conversation.

When they'd picked a spot, found street parking, and were seated with a couple beers, Dean glanced around, taking in the glossy wood and sedate crowd. "How you liking your new place?" he asked, trying to get the small talk rolling.

"It's nice." Sam scratched at the side of his nose and looked over at the bar. "Good being able to go out after work and check out events without worrying about the drive back later. People in the building are pretty quiet—haven't met too many of them yet." His eyes bounced to Dean's face and then to the tabletop. "…How are things going for you?"

"Ehh, pretty good." Dean shrugged. "Getting into the next wave of bird tours, going to be busy through end of November at the rate things are going."

Sam nodded; his lips pursed before twitching flat again.

Dean sighed and picked up his glass for a few gulps of beer. When he'd set it back down and wiped his mouth, he focused across the table. "Okay, I'll start. I'm sorry for bugging out and leaving you to do damage control. It was a shitty thing to do. None of you deserved it. I just… wasn't thinking."

Sam's head had come up, and his eyebrows couldn't seem to decide whether to be confused, surprised, or suspicious. "Dean…" He shook his head. "I dunno, these past few years, I think I've heard you make more apologies than you did the first three-plus decades of our entire lives. Something's changed."

"All part of my 'be a less shitty person' effort…"

Sam made a wobbly smile. "Not saying you don't have stuff to work on, but you were never a 'shitty person', Dean."

Dean looked away, focusing on the rows of bottles over the bartender's head. "Yeah, well, you wouldn't know that given some of the shit I've pulled on you…"

"Maybe I should be the one apologizing," Sam muttered. "You know, I moved out, concentrating on this image of how I wanted my life to be, and I never really considered how it might affect you…" He cleared his throat. "…I didn't really think whether it might be hard for you, this time of year, uh, being alone…"

Dean saw where Sam was going, heard the guilt underneath. "No, Sammy. That whole Glacier thing—it wasn't you leaving."

"Then what was it, Dean? You can talk to me. Did someone give you trouble in town…?"

His lips jerked into a frown. There had been a few things he didn't mention to anyone this past year. Like the way a few of the cashiers at the grocery store now fixed him with cold stares when they had previously laughed and smiled at his easy charm. And the way Ed had none-too-gently told him to find another place to work on the Impala—Dean had kept a friendly acquaintance with the guy for years and used his lifts to do oil changes and tire rotations. There was no explanation given for the overnight change of heart. When Dean had come out, he had visions of men yelling slurs at him in bars and angry Christians with signs. The reality was more sinister—an unmistakable hardness with no clearly stated purpose.

"No, nothing like that," he told Sam. "I… I don't really want to talk about it, honestly." He held up a hand when Sam made to protest. "I get it, Sam. You're there for me. I just… don't feel comfortable with it." He put his hand down on the table and fixed his brother with a look of resolve. He could do this. It was setting boundaries, right?

"Have you… considered a therapist, maybe?"

Dean examined Sam's face, but it wasn't meant as a joke. His brother looked concerned, with a slight wariness, as though worried the suggestion might trigger an outburst. "Not really…" Dean grumbled. "Just trying to work through it on my own for now."

"Running off into the wilderness isn't really a solution, Dean." A bit of anger crept into Sam's voice.

"Sam—" Dean paused, recognizing the surge of defensive ire before it grabbed the reins from him. He took a breath, going over the motion of setting up a shot and pulling the trigger in his head to give himself something else to concentrate on. Calmer, he continued. "I've worked through a lot in my life out on the trail. Don't underestimate the power of nature to heal what's ailing you." Or to smack you over the head with a life-threatening situation when you're wallowing too much…

Sam's mouth pinched into a flat line. "All right… as long as you know you have options. You don't always have to do everything on your own." He took a swig of his beer and stared at his hands for a moment. "Anyway… thanks for the apology, but the person you really need to apologize to is Castiel."

"Already did," Dean replied, glad to be able to slap down that bit of sanctimony at least. "Called him before I even sent out that text."

Sam let out a breathy laugh. "Geez, he got an actual phone call, and I got relegated to the group text. Guess I know where I stand now…"

"Oh, please," Dean scoffed. "You think I was going to give you a call after that voicemail you left? Figured I'd give you some time to cool off."

Sam winced, then smiled. "At the time, I was so sure you'd had some emotional freak out about Castiel and made a run for it… I'm glad that wasn't it. I know I haven't said it yet… but I'm happy for you. Happy that you found someone."

"Hey, not like we're dating or anything, Sam." Dean fiddled with one of the extra coasters, frowning. "Like I said, he doesn't see me like that."

"Fine, whatever you want to call it, however you want to describe it… He's your person. Like on Gray's Anatomy."

Dean glanced up, surprised before he remembered that Sam had caught him watching the show at least a couple different times while they were living together. Cas being his person… that felt right. And he was pretty sure he was one of Cas's, even if they'd never be anything else to one another. "What about you?" he asked Sam.

"Well, I'm your brother… and one of your other people, I guess."

"No, Sam, I meant… you ever feel like you're missing something?"

Sam made a face of disgust. "Oh god, don't start that. I get enough harassment from Mom."

"Hey, I'm serious. I… want you to be happy."

"So, what, I can't be happy without my 'one true love'?" Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll pass, thanks."

"I know we're not 'apple pie life' kinda guys, Sam, and your 'one true love' is your job… I just don't want you to throw yourself into work so hard that you feel like you missed out later on."

Sam tilted his head, and for a moment, Dean got the feeling the roles had flipped around, and suddenly Sam was the one making decisions about what to tell his prying brother. "Everyone doesn't need apple pie, Dean. Some people like pumpkin pie, or pecan pie, or cake, or…" he trailed off, raising his eyebrows.

Dean snorted, then rubbed a hand across the side of his face that wasn't currently sporting an injury. "You know, outta the two of us at this table, you woulda thought I would be the one making a pie analogy…"

"What I'm trying to say is…" Sam paused, and Dean swore he saw a suppressed shake of the head. "…I will happily pass on the apple pie."

"All right, all right…" Dean waved a hand, not wanting to beat the topic to death. He sipped his beer again. "Just take a vacation or something once in a while. Please. The job don't love you back."

Sam looked amused. "For your information, I am taking a vacation next year. To Nashville."

"…You suddenly develop a love of country music I should know about? What's in Nashville?"

"CrimeCon." Sam grinned.

"CrimeC—" Dean stopped. "Wait, the Kevin thing? He actually got you to agree to go?! Son of a—You just cost me twenty bucks!"

Sam laughed vindictively, then finished off his drink in a long pull.

Dean shook his head. "Whatever. Whatever! I don't care if it's jogging or museums for the blind or wacko conventions. Just get out of the office."

"You want to come?" Sam's smile was teasing. "Not too late to book an extra room…"

"Nooo thank you. I get thinking too much about all the crazies out there, stalking women and stuff, I start itching to take my gun on the road for some very illegal hunting, if you catch my drift…"

"Like Dexter?"

Dean glared, causing Sam to laugh again and tap his empty glass lightly on its coaster.

They ate and had a second round, and by the time Dean dropped Sam back at his apartment and headed home, he felt more settled, as though some part of him that had been dragging and throwing sparks had snapped back onto its tracks. Dean watched the first stars emerge after the sunset, letting them guide him down the highway and back home.

The next night, Dean was sitting on the coach, fiddling with some passages in his new story. He'd let the initial draft sit a few months, and first look after that was proving horrifying. His fantasies of being able to send it off to Benny this year had been replaced by hoping to at least get the plot in working order before year end.

His phone rang, and Dean's eyes jumped between Charlie's name and the timestamp, 23:26, before he picked up.

"Charlie?"

"Dean! Hey! Uh, so, don't panic. I'm calling because I thought you should know, and Castiel can't—um, can't call, not can't know. Because, obviously, he knows. I mean, I think he does—" Her voice was tight, warbling, and she was going at least twice her normal speed, which was virtually supersonic.

"Charlie, whoa, slow down. Take a breath."

She huffed audibly over the line. Is that Lamaze breathing? "Okay, let's try this again. Dean, don't panic, but Castiel is in the hospital."

Dean's lungs seized up, and it took a second for him to figure out how to suck in enough air to demand, "What?"

"He texted me, like, a few hours ago because it was getting hard for him to breathe. He was, like, trying to say maybe I could walk with him there, which was ridiculous because his lips were, like, basically blue, and he could barely talk. I think he was delirious?" Her voice spiked up into a squeak at the end, and Dean heard the gasp of a repressed sob before she went on. "So, I called 9-1-1 and made them send an ambulance…"

Dean took a breath, then another, then another, trying to absorb it all as she kept rambling, talking about everything they had done in the emergency room.

"...and the dilator stuff helped, but they said they needed to admit him to the ICU. Gabriel is here now, and they are going to run some tests to see if the meds are the right thing. We won't know anything else until they get the results back."

Charlie finally paused, and Dean swallowed. "Charlie, I—thanks for the call. Means a lot."

"Okay. Okay, I should, um, send a message to everyone. I mean, Gabriel is here, but I just—I can't leave. I don't even think they'll let me see him. Oh god, what if—No, no. He's going to be fine. He's going to be fine."

"Yeah, Charlie, he is." Dean kept his voice steady, firm, knowing that was what she needed from him at that moment. "You did the right thing and got him there. They're going to take care of him now."

He made sure she sounded calmer, reminded her to sit down and get herself something to eat and drink, and then closed with a request to keep him posted when they got an update from the doctors.

In the silence of his living room after, he stared out the front window, into the empty black beyond, taking breath after breath. Then, he stood abruptly. The laptop tumbled onto the floor and did a cartwheel on the carpet, ignored, as he spun and strode toward the back of the house, already pressing Sam's name in his contacts.