Chapter Four

57 hours. 12 strongholds. 163 dead or exorcised demons. 46 injuries ranging from minor scrapes and bruises to broken bones, a severe concussion and a stab wound that almost bled out before Dean was able to make it back across the wards. 12 healing sessions requiring more Grace each time.

No Sam.

Dean continued to power on with all of his trademark tenacity, but exhaustion and despair were creeping in on him, slowing him down, dulling his reflexes. Castiel knew he would keep going, keep fighting, keep searching until he reached the limits of human endurance and he would not stop even then. But Dean was not invincible and Castiel feared that this crusade would kill him, whether because his body gave out under the strain or because a demon managed to break through his faltering defences to deliver a mortal blow. Either way, if Dean fell beyond the wards Castiel would not be able to reach him, would not be able to save him. Every time Dean entered another warehouse alone, Castiel worried he would not come back.

His worst fears were almost realised when Dean staggered out into view, his face ghostly pale and his clothes soaked with blood. He collapsed before he made it two steps towards Castiel – Dead? No, Father, please not dead-

With a blur of wings Castiel was by Dean's side, flinging out his Grace in desperate haste to drag Dean's soul back from the brink, flooding him with so much healing power that his body actually glowed pure white. The wounds vanished and his heartbeat returned, but the grey pallor of his skin did not improve. Too much blood loss. Too many miracle healings in such a short period of time. Too little energy to spare. His body couldn't cope.

Castiel pressed his Grace in harder.

Dean gasped in a breath, green eyes flashing open. "Cas-"

Castiel had the sudden, overwhelming urge to wrap his arms tightly around the hunter and never let him go. He barely restrained himself.

"-close one," Dean puffed. "Thought I was a goner that time for sure."

Castiel felt a pang, deep in his chest. "Dean…"

"But I'm – ungh – good to go, now. C'mon, help me up."

Although it went against his better judgement, Castiel obediently took Dean's proffered hand and pulled him to his feet. The human swayed, forcing an alarmed Castiel to catch him before he could fall.

"I'm fine," Dean protested, trying to pull away from the angel's intractable grip.

"No, you're not," Castiel growled. "Enough, Dean. This ends here."

"You don't give me orders."

"And I don't obey yours when you are being stupid!" Castiel shot back, suddenly furious. "You are killing yourself, Dean, and I will not stand by and watch you do it!"

"Why not? You stood by when Crowley took my brother, didn't you?"

"I didn't have a choice!"

"You could have saved Sam!"

"I could not let you die!"

Dean was shocked into silence. Wide green eyes stared at him, stunned, as though seeing him for the first time.

"I couldn't," Castiel repeated, and he hated how weak he sounded. But it was the truth. He had meant to save Sam, to grant what would have been Dean's final wish, but when face with the immediacy of Dean's death he couldn't do it. He couldn't lose him. "I can't," he repeated. "So yell at me all you want, hit me if you must, but I am taking you back to the bunker whether you like it or not, because you need to rest."

Dean's mouth parted, but no words came forth. After a moment he blinked, blearily, and Castiel realised that without adrenaline pumping through his veins he was too fatigued to even nod his consent.

"Okay. That's settled. We are leaving now." He had expected more of a fight, but Dean was too far gone. Even as he spoke, Dean began to slump forward and Castiel slipped an arm around him. "We will do it this way, then," Castiel murmured.

The angel spread his wings and launched into the sky, flying across the continent with the hunter cradled safely against his chest.

He banked smoothly as he passed over the border into Kansas and drew to a neat stop within the bunker.

"You're home," he said, but there was no reply. He looked down to see that Dean was fast asleep.

Quietly, Castiel flitted into Dean's bedroom. He was gentle as he set his charge down, using a slight nudge of his Grace to shift the blankets over to one side. He untied Dean's boots and tugged lightly to remove them, but decided any further efforts to make him more comfortable would only make Dean uncomfortable when he woke, so he let the clothes be. He pulled the blankets over Dean's sleeping form, tucked the edges in carefully and smoothed out the creases. Absently, he brushed his thumb across Dean's lips to remove the trace of blood from a healed wound, but his touch lingered longer than was necessary. Faint puffs of air brushed over his skin; reassurance that Dean was alive, still here, still breathing.

It was calming, the sight of Dean asleep in his own bed, safe and sound. The hunter's life was in a constant state of turmoil, filled with movement and stress and violence, and it was rare to catch a glimpse of Dean at peace. But in those precious moments after sleep claimed him, before his subconscious inevitably pulled him into the land of dreams and nightmares, Dean was free. The worries and cares faded from his face, leaving him looking years younger, and lighter somehow. Unburdened. His breathing was slow and even, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheeks.

He was beautiful.

Castiel knew that Dean would object to the description, but nothing in all of God's creation could compare to the beauty of this perfectly flawed man. Castiel would gaze into those emerald green eyes for hours if Dean would let him. He would be entranced by the fluidity of his movements when he fought if he was not so busy trying to keep him alive. He would melt at Dean's charming smile if it were ever directed at him instead of a woman. He would count the freckles sprayed across his nose over and over again if he had not been told that staring was socially unacceptable. And he would kiss Dean with all the passion of the Pizza Man if he was not so afraid that Dean would push him away.

Dean did not feel the same way he did. Dean didn't even like him right now. He was angry with Castiel for abandoning Sam, and the angel had just forced him to do the same, even if it was only for one night. With all the mistakes Castiel had made – too numerous to count, but each one hurting Dean more than the last – Dean had every right to hate him.

The only way to earn Dean's forgiveness was to bring Sam back to him.

Castiel was going to do whatever it took.

ooOOoo

Dean was not usually one for sleeping in. As a small child, the excitement of beginning a new day had seen him bouncing out of bed in the early hours of the morning, much to his parents' chagrin. After John began hunting, Dean was expected to wake early to go through a training and exercise routine before making breakfast and getting Sammy ready for school. As a teenager, Dean had found that the morning was the only time he had to scrape together his homework assignments, because the afternoons and evenings were filled with driving Sammy around to friend's houses, cooking dinner, hustling pool, doing research and hunting with Dad. By the time he reached adulthood, sleep had dropped so low on his list of priorities that he only squeezed it into his schedule when it was absolutely necessary.

But now, as he drifted closer to consciousness, he found himself reluctant to emerge from the haze of warmth and peace suffusing his mind to the cold reality of the waking world. For the first time in a long time, he felt comfortable and well-rested. He didn't want to lose that feeling.

By the time he finally convinced himself to open his eyes and glanced at his watch, he discovered that he had been asleep for 15 hours straight.

Save for a few dosed-up hospital stays, Dean could not recall ever having slept for so long. It felt incredible. But, for some reason, it made him feel intensely guilty as well.

Then he remembered. Sam.

Dean scrambled out of bed so fast he nearly passed out from the sudden vertigo. He yanked on his boots, not sure when he had taken them off, or how he had even made it back to the bunker-

Castiel.

Dean swore under his breath, doing up his laces quickly before storming from the bedroom.

"Castiel? Castiel! Get your feathery ass down here right now!"

Only silence greeted him.

Dean drew in a breath, fully prepared to launch into a long, abusive prayer-rant when he caught a whiff of warm pastry coming from the kitchen. He went to investigate and found, to his utter disbelief and amazement, an apple pie sitting on the bench. Not just any, corner store bought, run-of-the-mill pie, but a real pie, like the ones made by hand in a little Alaskan bakery called Slice of Heaven… Dean's jaw almost dropped when he caught sight of the little 'Slice of Heaven' logo imprinted on the crust.

"What the hell…?"

When he could pull his eyes away from the pie, he noted the sheet of paper set next to it.

You were right, it read. Nanna McPherson is a lovely old woman. She remembers you; when I told her who the pie was for she baked it specially, with extra pastry and cinnamon the way you like it. She wanted me to pass on her congratulations – for what, I am unsure. But she was very friendly. After all the effort she put into making this pie, I think you should make sure you eat all of it. You have not eaten for 4 days. My Grace should be keeping it fresh and warm for you.

Before you decide that searching for your brother takes priority over food consumption, rest assured that the efforts to recover Sam continue unabated. I have come up with a new strategy.

Eat. I will return when I can.

Cas.

Dean had to re-read the note a few times before it really sunk in. He remembered how, a few years ago, Castiel had accompanied the brothers to a diner that just so happened to have the worst tasting pie Dean had ever had the misfortune of putting in his mouth. For at least ten minutes, Dean had ignored the case they were supposed to be working in favour of ranting loudly about how pies were sacred and no one but expert bakers like Nanna McPherson should be allowed to make them for the sake of taste-buds everywhere. He was stunned that Castiel had not only recalled the name, but actually sought out the woman's bakery and purchased a pie from her to bring back for Dean, all to ensure that Dean actually ate something.

His anger faded, just a little. Castiel shouldn't have let him sleep so long, and he shouldn't have left him behind, especially without explaining what his 'new strategy' for finding Sam was. But Dean did feel much better for having rested properly for the first time in a long time, and he was hungry.

Cas had bought him pie.

Against his will, a small smile curved his lips.

In the end, Dean ate all but one thin slice of the best pie America had to offer, savouring every morsel. He was tempted to eat the last sliver, too, but he didn't think it was fair that the angel had brought the pie all this way without trying any himself, so he covered it carefully in Saran Wrap and placed it in the fridge for Castiel to eat later.

Without hunger, pain and exhaustion clouding his mind, Dean found he was able to think much more clearly about the matter at hand. They had been operating under the assumption that Sam would be locked away in one location, and that by raiding each warded building they would eventually find him. But once they cleared out a warehouse and moved on, there was nothing stopping Crowley from sending more demons back there, or making more buildings just like it. The truth was, a demon of his power and station could vanish with Sam at the first hint of trouble, fleeing to any one of the defended buildings just as Dean and Castiel got close. If they continued the way they were going, Crowley would always be one step ahead of them.

Castiel was right; they needed a new strategy. But they had nothing to hold over Crowley's head, nothing to threaten him with, nothing he wanted…

Oh.

ooOOoo