Dean woke up in a crappy hotel room, dazed and confused and very alone. He stared up at the ceiling, blinked a few times to try to put it in focus. Had it all been a bad dream? He wondered. The Leviathans, fighting Dick, being blown into Purgatory?

He groaned and tried to sit up but immediately lay back down again. Every muscle in his body had protested the movement; he felt as though he'd run a dozen marathons. Back to back. It was either that or….

Images blazed painfully through Dean's mind. Trees, dirt, a rough, unforgiving terrain. It was all grey, monochromatic, the life leeched out of it. It was purgatory. He had really been there.

More images came to him unbidden. He saw flashes of red. It was the only other colour that existed purgatory. And he only saw it when he made a kill. There were weapons, unearthly blades wielded by the monsters that hunted him and soon enough by Dean himself. Everyone and everything was out to kill him. If he didn't gank them first he was dead. Vampires, werewolves, shifters, they were all there.

But most of the memories were just of running. He barely slept, barely ate, he could not afford the time nor the vulnerability of it. He was constantly running, always in motion, trying to find safety where none existed.

Dean shuddered and tried once more to sit up. Once more he failed. His exhaustion was purely too extreme. He wondered, as consciousness slipped away from him, just what the hell had happened. And where on Earth, if it indeed was Earth, he was.

When Dean awoke for the second time he was instantly aware of another presence. Easing his heavy eyelids open, he stole a glance around the room, trying to scope it out. Unfortunately for him, it was nearly pitch-black. Only the faintest trickle of light made it in through the blinds from outside.

Dean felt cold and shivery, almost feverish but was relieved to feel that he was all in one piece. He took advantage of the darkness to quietly check himself for weapons. He came up empty handed. Even the knife in his sock was gone. Then again, so was his sock. What was going on?

Suddenly, the light in the room switched on. Dean blinked furiously and braced his tired, aching body, preparing to fight any monster or demon that came at him. To his surprise, nothing came at him. Standing over his bed however, was Castiel, Dean's friend and an Angel of the Lord, with a grave look upon his face.

"Dean" the angel said seriously, "How are you feeling?"

Dean blinked some more and struggled into a sitting position. Castiel frowned but said nothing more, just waited, apparently anxious for Dean's reply. He did not need to wait for it long.

"How am I feeling?!" Dean exploded at Castiel, confusion taking on the pretense of anger, "I feel like crap, Cas! I've been running for months, and I feel like I haven't slept or eaten in years," he almost shouted at him, his voice gruff and croaky. He did not understand what was going on, how he was here… wherever here was.

"Dean," the Angel said in his normal, serious tone, "please calm down. You are going to be Ok. However your body needs its rest. You should not be sitting up so soon." Dean took a couple of deep breaths and lay back down, mainly due to the throbbing in the head and the dizziness that was coming over him, not Cas' words.

Though he was lying down he by no means looked relaxed. His entire face was screwed up in a frown.

"You have questions," Castiel ascertained from the expression.

"Of course I bloody do! The last thing I remember I was in purgatory. In fact, I thought you got blasted there as well, but when I came to, I was alone in that stinking shithole." Dean stated, the accusation hanging heavy in the air.

Castiel sighed lightly. "It is true that I was 'blasted', as you say, into purgatory with you too, however I was there for only a short, indeterminable amount of time before appearing back in heaven. I believe God was responsible for rescuing me. I believe he is back, but there will be time to discuss that later. Here,' he offered a glass of water to Dean, 'Please hydrate yourself.'

Dean drank, questions buzzing around in his head. He tried to sort through his memories and figure out what he needed answers for first. His exhaustion, however, was still very strong. As he slipped from consciousness and his body relaxed, Castiel caught the glass he was holding before it fell.

The Angel stood over his friend as he drifted into a world of dreams. He then switched off the light and sat by Dean's bedside. When he was sure the hunter was asleep he lightly brushed a hand over his forehead, moving some hair that was tickling his eyelid. Dean's hair was as long as he'd ever seen it and his face was more weathered and lined since last they met. Castiel knew that it was his fault. So he would stay as long as he was needed. As long as it took, he vowed.