A/N: I'm SO sorry for the delay! It wasn't a question that I was going to continue this piece of writing, even after all the wonderful reviews you posted! But writing my master thesis really ate up all my time:S Anyway, if you're still interested, here's the next part! (Sorry for the possible mistakes, I'm not a native English-speaker, but I try my best.)

Thank you for all the heartwarming reviews, they made me very happy and gave me a LOT of motivation! (just so you know:)

- Part 2 -

The faint sound of Dean Winchester calling his name echoes in his whirling mind over and over again. He has brought this sound with him when he launched himself out and away from Lucifer's crypt, and he's holding on to it with all of his consciousness, because deep down he cradles a need to keep hearing it for as long as possible. Dean's voice is the island in an endless black sea, the anchor in the eye of the storm, the only solid point in the whole spinning universe. It is firm and strong and kind against Naomi's furious and demanding one that is still scratching somewhere in the back of his skull. He has not managed to cast her out entirely; now he can feel her reaching towards him, coming after him, refusing to lose his track.

She is never farther than one step behind.

His flight is aimless. He has no particular idea of where he could go, only knows one thing: he has to keep moving. Luring Naomi away from the crypt, giving Dean and Sam some headstart to get away with the tablet is still the best he is good for. And he can feel her attention on him, which means she did not go chasing after the Winchesters. Only one thing is left to hope for: that Dean has kept his wits about him and gotten out of that damn place.

He almost chuckles when he realizes he just used the word 'damn' mentally.

Drifting through the atmosphere is starting to exhaust him, so he touches down on the top of a volcano in Japan to catch his breath. The planned break is cut short however, as momentum tilts him off balance and he stumbles forward, only being able to stop himself with a few more wingbeats, and then he is already far above the Asian mainland. The incident makes him getting aware of how weakened and uncoordinated he is, how little control he has over his body; and it is not only because of the injury. He has not been at his full powers since he got back from Purgatory – it is not like he has been completely whole before that, but he refuses to think about that now. The power withdrawal must have also been Naomi's work; the angel woman seems to have made settings on him as if he was some soulless machine, and though the connection feels half broken, he still has not regained all of the control.

The thought is dreadful enough to force him to stop again.

It is a small village this time somewhere in rural France. He overbalances the landing again, stumbling in long grass until coming to a halt on his hands and knees, panting heavily. His left arm shakes with thundering pain and gives way so that Castiel collapses hard on his side. Quickly turning on his back to drain the pressure from the injured shoulder, he stays there for a couple of minutes, lying in the grass, letting his senses fill with the signals of nature.

The air is thin here and fresh, a light breeze caresses his face. He can smell at least thirty different kind of flowers and plants, some wild animals, nearby water, a hint of perfume drifting from the village and only minimal gasoline. The babbling of a small river can be heard along with singing of birds and occasionally, a cowbell ring. Everything is just so peaceful here; Castiel wants to become one with the ground and lose himself in the harmony.

The alarming feeling of Naomi's approaching presence forces him to gather his strength and stand, ready to move on. He is a fugitive, worn-out and wobbly; his heart is racing as he listens with every nerve to size up the distance of the nearing danger.

Stop running, Castiel!

She is already here, and he throws himself upwards just in time to evade the presence that cannot wait to embrace, squeeze, and in the end, drown him. He finds himself back in North America, having been led by his subconscious to look for something he is familiar with.

His vessel is practically a dead weight. He is dragging his body with him like old clothes that cannot be thrown away. Not that he could get rid of it – not at the moment at least. He would need a lot more power and a healthy grace to use his true form, not speaking of the fact that he would be standing out like a beacon in the night for Naomi if he did that. He still is, even if not that bright; the angelic power currently leaking from the stab wound is also making him easier for his kind to find. An injured angel's vulnerability is never too hard to spot.

Castiel cannot heal a wound made by a celestial sword, but he does not even want to. Though the pain is crucial, it reminds him every second that he has succeeded. That he turned back in the last moment, managed to tear his mind temporarily away from the control, managed to save Dean Winchester. And pain becomes sweet when it reminds him of saving Dean. As long as Castiel can hold on to this feeling, it is helping him to stay free of Naomi's domination. He does not want to let that go.

He comes to a halt over the East Coast, a faint hope telling him he will be more hidden amongst the feelings of millions of people; and he decides to give it a chance. His plan of mingling in the crowd of a busy street does not work out well as he misses the landing again and finds himself standing groggily in the middle of a wide avenue. It is the middle of the day, cars honk at him from all directions and he just needs a couple of seconds to clear his chaotic mind and comprehend his surroundings.

A car shoves him a little, sending him stumbling in front of another one that stops with screeching tires. The driver yells something at him that he does not understand; in fact he could not even tell if the man was angry with him or just asked if he was okay. He trudges away onto the sidewalk, finding a blessed wall to lean on. People stop and stare at him, some of them say something about drinking, others point a finger at him. Castiel understands they think that he is drunk, but then realizes it is not only that. Bluish white light is still gleaming from the hole in his shoulder, and though he clumsily tries to adjust the trenchcoat so that it would cover the wound, the blood is still clearly visible on it. Closing his eyes for a moment, he tries to summon up some of his feeble grace, only to make the bloodstains disappear from the trenchcoat, so people would stop staring at him and go back to minding their own business.

He overestimates his own strength; the effort nearly makes his legs give way, resulting in him stumbling and blindly groping at the wall for support. He has never felt as weak and pathetic as the moment he opens his eyes and sees that the red smudges on his coat have not gotten any smaller. This won't work out… he needs rest, needs peace, needs to be alone yet hidden in the noise of souls.

Someone walks up to him, but Castiel does not wait for the person to reach him. He does not even care that there are too many eyes on him; just takes a deep breath and flutters away, the gust of wind his wings create stirs up some discarded newspaper pages from the ground and makes them dance in the air for a while, even after he is long gone.

At least his wings still remember how they work.

Castiel finds the spot he is looking for only a couple of miles away. A humble church, and inside it, the nearing end of a mass. Overcoming his draining strength he tries to plant himself lightly in the last, empty pew, and to his surprise, he almost succeeds. The thudding sound he makes turns out to be softer than he has expected, and he bumps with his left shoulder into the pew in front of him so gently that only an old couple turn back to look at him. He mutters an apology and drops his gaze, trying to act normally, trying to become nobody.

As he listens to the priest, Castiel finally feels true peace descend on him. His injured shoulder, the one he has just managed to hit against the pew, feels like it is on fire, and there is an uneasy numbness in the end of his fingers, but the angel welcomes it because it all reminds him of his victory. It all reminds him of Dean.

A new droplet of blood oozes from his eye.

Castiel wipes it quickly with the sleeve of his coat; the least he needs is to creep out the people around him. The throbbing headache returns, the one he felt shortly after refusing to kill Dean. Naomi is raging; Naomi does not want to let him go; even if she is not here, he can feel her power and compulsion, trying to force her will on him. Castiel struggles against it, thinks of Dean, thinks of turning the blade away from him. More blood seeps from his eye as he grits his teeth.

The Lord's prayer is coming up and Castiel finds himself mumbling the familiar words with the congregation. He finds relief in these words, though he is unable to recall the last time he actually prayed to God. Even if God is still around somewhere, He has most likely stopped listening to him, stopped caring about him, stopped being aware of his existence. And even if God is long gone, the words He once taught to men still give support and solace, and Castiel gladly succumbs to them.

He must have fallen in some kind of a trance, because when he comes to, he is faced with a group of people staring worriedly at him, with the priest himself at the front. He stares back at them, confused, eyebrows pulled in a frown, wondering if they are waiting for him to say something. He opens his mouth to explain himself, but realizes shortly after that he has no idea what to say.

"Are you okay, son?" The priest asks; it sounds like he has already asked it a couple times before. He puts a reassuring hand on Castiel's arm, gaze wandering sideways, and the angel suddenly understands why they are all looking at him like that. He lifts his right hand and slowly covers his shoulder wound, his bleeding, shining, damned wound that is definitely not an acceptable feature to wear in a church, or in anywhere at all in this world of humans.

He looks down and mutters, "I'm fine," and cradles a faint hope that it will be enough for him to be left alone.

"You look like you need help." The priest speaks again. He's all goodwill and kindness, but Castiel almost chuckles at the thought of what this friendly old man would think if he knew that there is, in fact, a real angel of the Lord sitting in his church, who is actually in need of help, only this kind of help cannot be given by humans. Nor even angels.

Castiel is not sure if there is anyone at all who would be able to help him right now.

But he does not say a thing, just shakes his head and looks away, with a sadness embedded in his eyes so deep it even makes the priest lean back.

"What do you need then?"

The angel looks back at him and just stares. A moment of silence passes. "I just need some rest." Castiel tells him in a low, raspy voice.

"That's all right, son. You can find all the rest you need here." The priest nods and steps away obediently, nodding to the other people as well, who follow him like sheep do their shepherd. Castiel takes a deep breath and almost goes back to the calm numbness, when he becomes aware of the small object in the old man's hand.

He knows this object. He used to have one when he wanted to find Dean and Sam Winchester, calling them first to ask for their location when the spell he burned on their ribs prevented him from locating them. A cell phone, they used to call it. He has never fully understood how it worked, but he knows what it can be used for.

Which is what the priest obviously does, holding the little thing to his ear and talking to somebody. Castiel cannot make out most of his words, but at one point the man turns around to take another look at him, and that is when he makes up his mind.

He cannot stay here.

So he glances back, guilty, trying to apologize with his gaze before unfurling his wings once again and stealing himself away, shooting up into the sky, having not decided yet where to aim next. He lingers there, between earth and sky only for less than a moment, a split second, pondering about what kind of place to look for, where he can be safe –

And that is when an unrelenting weight crashes into him, making his world explode in a rush of shock and hurt.

A/N: Surprise, there will be a next chapter. And maybe another. Okay, several more probably:) Tell me what you think!