Disclaimer: I only own this storyline, not Supernatural or Sam and Dean!

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review!

Firstly I feel I should apologize for the shockingly mean cliffie in the last chapter... anyone who's read any of my other stories will know how much I love cliff hangers! Just can't help myself! And to those who actually let themselves believe I would kill Castiel off so coldly... come on!! Sorry, but I just love him too much to let him go yet! Besides, he hasn't had time to thank Sam and Dean for their daring rescue yet. And I think Anna deserves another appearence - just a few sentences in one chapter is all she gets? I don't think so. She doesn't seem to have much to do in the fifth season, just kind of vanished into thin air after the last bit after she was dragged off by the angels. Ah well... people live on forever in fanfiction!

Anywho, for fear of rambling about the flaws in the seasons for the rest of this update, here's the next chapter. Thanks again to those who reviews. This chapter is dedicated to all of you!


Sam clasped his hands together on his knees, rocking unconsciously back and forwards, praying with everything he had to whatever cruel god existed. Castiel's face remained still, his chest remained motionless. Sam shut his eyes tightly. From the bathroom came a soft crack as Dean completed the ritual, breaking the rod, but still nothing happened. Sam balled his hands into fists, rammed one down into the floor in greif and fustration.

"NO! Come on, Cas! Come on..."

Dean appeared in the bathroom door, breathless, his hands wet with blood. His eyes moved from Castiel to Sam and back again. Then he swore under his breath and pressed his forehead against the doorway.

Silence stretched between them, their failure as loud as an alarm bell in their heads.

Sam felt the first heavy sob building in his chest and sniffed, wiping furiously at his eyes. No, he was not going to cry. This wasn't over yet. He couldn't give up. He leant forwards, grabbing Castiel's shoulders once more and shaking the limp body roughly.

"No, Cas, no! I'm not letting you do this! Wake up, damn it, wake up!"

"Sammy..."

Dean's hand came down on his shoulder. Sam tore away, placing his hand against Castiel's face and jostling the angel again. God, he was so cold. The coat didn't seem to have done anything to warm him. Should've given him my jacket... should've done more...

"Sam, stop."

"No!" Sam whipped around, glaring at his brother with eyes that were red with tears. "We're not losing someone else, we're fucking not! He's going to come back, he's going to wake up!"

Dean just looked at him. His brother looked devestated in a way that only Dean could - shoulders slumped, hands hanging loosely at his sides, face completely expressionless. Beaten. Sam had only seen him look like this a few times, none of them happy. Dean shook his head slowly.

"Come on, Sam," he said hoarsely.

Sam felt himself rising slowly to his feet, looking back down at Castiel. He took a few unsteady steps away, the lump in his throat thickening. He glanced down at himself, taking in the wet blood streaked over his shirt and skin. Castiel's blood. Sam shut his eyes tightly, turning his face away. He and Dean stood together, neither brave enough to look at him a moment longer. Castiel. The one person they had been able to count on in this crappy hole of a world, the angel who had given up everything to help them, the one who had saved their necks time after time. And they hadn't been able to save him in return once. Not once...

"Its not fair," Sam whispered.

The words sounded so childish, so complaining and selfish, and yet Dean nodded steadily.

"No," he said gruffly. "Its not. Its our god-damned curse."

Sam sniffed again, doing his best to hold back the tears that were on their way out. "What... what now?"

Dean took a deep breath, but Sam still didn't miss the tremble in his voice as he spoke. "Torch his corpse, I guess. We could take him to Bobby's, do it properly..."

Sam just shook his head. He forced himself to turn, to look Castiel in the face once more, opening his mouth to apologize to the body for everything he had done wrong. Castiel's eyes stared straight up at the ceiling above him - and blinked.

Sam's heart juddered to a halt in his chest, his eyes widening in shock. Dean was still speaking, saying something about cleaning up and getting the car, but Sam was no longer listening. As he moved forwards, hardly daring to believe it, Castiel suddenly jerked harshly and let out a wet cough, his head rolling to the side. Dean flinched, swearing loudly, and Sam lurched forwards. He dropped to his knees beside the gasping angel, taking hold of his upper arms as his body shuddered, twisting on the concrete floor.

"Cas! Cas, you hear me? Castiel?"


"Cas! Cas, you hear me? Castiel?"

Castiel was nintey percent sure that he was dead. He couldn't feel anything. He couldn't think. His head was full of a thick, black fog, rendering him nothing but a simple being floating through space. He wasn't angry - he welcomed death after everything that had happened. Zachariah must have finally ended his life, taken pity on him. He was surprised. He'd thought Zachariah would have kept him alive as long as possible, kept bringing him back from the brink for more questions. But, now that he truly thought about it, his last moments had not been with Castiel. They had been lying on a hard floor, listening to someone shouting his name, feeling warm hands gripping him tightly, anchoring him. Shouting with a voice strangely like the one he could vaugely hear now, holding him with hands oddly similar to the ones that were on his arms. And, now that he thought about that, he wasn't so much floating as lying on his back, pain screaming through his body in sharp, sudden pulses that nearly tore him to shreds each time.

A sudden warmth bubbled up in his throat and a rank taste entered his mouth, pushing out through his lips. He heard a cry, felt the hands turn him onto his side as the substance flowed from his lips, uncontrollable, his body flinching and retching to remove it. There was a second pair of hands now, too. A palm held his forehead, keeping his head level and fingers were braced against his back, rubbing it in a way that seemed to ease the self-destruct retches that his body was trying to execute. The feelings suddenly faded, and Castiel felt the hands ease him onto his back once more. They were calling to him, these people crouched around him. He could sense them now, one kneeling at his side, the other crouched near his head. One on the right, one on the left.

"Okay, Cas, all over. Just all the trauma to your body, s'all."

"Cas? Castiel, man, c'mon give us some kinda sign here."

"Yeah, something. Can you talk?"

"Can you squeeze my hand if you can hear us, man?"

Fingers closed over his right hand. Castiel tried to remember how to move... he managed to twitch his fingers downwards. He felt a tremble run through the hand on his; relief.

"Thank god, thank god!"

"He do it?"

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, lets get him into the bedroom."

"Yeah, right, you take that side."

The hand let go, and then suddenly both pairs closed over his arms and pulled him upwards. Agony shot through him as his arms were once again lifted, and he heard a weak scream that tore at his own throat. Had he made that sound? He couldn't have. He didn't make sounds that terrified, that agonized... the hands held him carefully, wrapping around his back, pulling him forwards. His legs weren't working. They didn't seem to mind.

"Sorry, man, sorry... just a little further, 'kay? Be there soon."

"Jesus, he's looking bad, Sam. He needs a doctor."

"We can't."

"I know... but shit, Sam."

"I know, I know. Just a little further, Cas."

"Think we should ring Bobby, call in a favour?"

"I don't think we should move him so soon. He's not strong enough."

Sam. The name stirred something in his mind, something that he already knew... Sam and Dean Winchester. He caught a flash of memory, embedded with pain, of opening his eyes to see Sam pulling him down from the metal bar, talking to him, telling him to 'stay calm'. He felt calm... or just plain numb. No, not numb. The pain was there, darting in and out like the snap of a viper, like lightning snatching at the ground. But they were with him, Sam and Dean, they were at his side. He wasn't alone anymore...

"Here we go, alright, Cas, going down now, okay?"

The hands began to lower him. He touched down on something soft which dipped slightly beneath him. The hands pulled him onto it, pulled him up slightly so that his pounding head was resting on something padded. Head... he had eyes in his head. He cracked them open, experimentally. It was dark around him, but he could make out a mop-haired figure beding over him, pulling back his coat and prodding gently at his shoulder and chest. He blinked a few times, his eyes aching dryly. And there was someone else, standing just beside the first figure, watching him carefully.

"S-Sam... 'ean..." God, was that really what his voice sounded like? He sounded like a child, weak and rasping, half dead. He licked his dry, split lips. They must have taken on Zachariah... he must have hurt them, torn them apart... they should have known better. "Sh-Shouldn't've c-come," he mumbled, remembering his earlier wish for a saviour. He wasn't worth that kind of risk.

"Bullshit," Sam said harshly. His voice faded in and out, like a fumbling radio. "We weren't just gonna leave you. How do you feel?"

Castiel's eyes were beginning to sting - he squeezed them shut, wincing. How did he feel? Well, if he thought about it, everything hurt. Every inch of him seared and throbbed and trembled with pain.

"Ev'rythin'... hurts..."

It was a statement directed more to himself than to anyone else, but Sam nodded.

"Just hang in there, Cas, we're gonna patch you up."

"Go to sleep, man," Dean added. "You don't wanna be awake for this, trust me."

Castiel wanted to ask what he meant, but his head was beginning to pound furiously. And for the first time, 'sleep' sounded so good, even though he had never slept before in his life. So, slowly, he let his grip on the world come loose and drifted into the darkness once more, the raging pain retreating to a dull simmer. Bearable. Within twenty seconds he had lost consciousness once more.


"He out?"

Sam nodded, moving his fingers upwards to press against Castiel's neck. He paused, and then straightened up, shoulders heaving in a small sigh. Dean understood without needing to ask - Castiel's heart was still beating. He ran his hand through his short hair, nodding. He was still trembling after the sudden shock of Castiel bouncing back to life. That sudden cough... Christ, he had not been expecting that. Almost given him a damned heart attack. Things just don't stay dead around us... But this time, he was thankful that death had failed once more. Because, angels and demons aside, they needed Castiel.

He shook himself, trying to get his thoughts straight. This was no time to get misty-eyed. They still had blood and pentagrams all over the floor and weapons scattered over almost every surface. The last thing they needed now was someone knocking on their door, threatening to call the police. He glanced again at Castiel, still covered in blood and bruises.

"You think you can take care of him?"

Sam nodded, turning to face him. "Yeah. Well, see how bad it is. I'll do as much as I can."

"Okay. I gotta go and clean up, make sure no one's gonna come calling."

"Right."

Dean watched as Sam reached for his bag, dug in it for their first aid kit. His brother drew it out, placed it on the bedside cabinet, then rose to his feet and strode quickly from the room. Dean retreated to the doorway, leaning against it and watching Castiel's motionless body, until Sam returned with a pile of towels in one hand and a plastic tub full of water in his other. His brother returned to the bedside, spreading his things out around him, preparing. Dean tore his eyes away, turned out of the room.

"Call me if anything happens," he called over his shoulder. "Anything!"

He closed the door softly behind him, then faced the mess he needed to clear up.

The pentagram in the centre of the room was smudged, candles snuffed out and on their sides, blood glistening in pools around the chalk drawing. The contents of Castiel's stomach were soaking into the carpet beside it - a sickening mess of yellow-white... Dean quickly stopped looking. He moved across the room, veering around the pentagram and snatching up the duffel bag lying by the floor. He crossed to the table dragged an arm across it, sweeping the weapons and plans into the bag. He tossed the bag into the corner and then made for the bathroom, collecting the towels Sam had left behind. He returned to the main room, got down on his knees. He scowled.

"Hunters don't do housework," he muttered.

He got to work. The process was slow and gut-wrenching. The sight and smell made his stomach turn, especially when he thought about who it had come from. Castiel just wasn't supposed to be hurt. He was supposed to be the untouchable soldier he was when Dean had first met him, impermeable to bullets and knives alike. And there was so much blood here, and there had been even more of the stuff back in the warehouse. None of it pointed towards a happy outcome.

But Cas was alive. As long as he kept remembering that, he could keep going.

He finally managed to get as much as he could off the floor, and faded the stains on the carpet to pale smudges with much scrubbing and swearing. He threw the towels behind him into the bathroom, then rolled the square of carpet back down. He sat back and studied his work. It was good enough to pass un-noticed by an unexpected visitor. It was still there, but at least now it wouldn't provoke a drop in from the police. Dean rose to his feet, wincing at the creak of his knees, and walked back into the bathroom. He paused for a moment, hesitating, and then crouched down and shoved the soiled towels into the cupboard under the sink. They weren't planing on staying long anyway, and he definately wasn't planning on cleaning them as well. He rinsed his hands.

The sight of the motel room looking far more inconspicuous made him feel a little more relaxed as he crossed to the sofa, pulling his mobile from his mobile from his pocket and slumped down, his eyes aching dully. He was so ready to just sleep... but he couldn't yet. He knew it was late, but Bobby would kill him if he didn't call to let him know they were okay. So he pressed speeddial and put the mobile to his ear, leaning his head back against the cushions of the sofa.

Bobby picked up on the third ring, his voice rapid and hopeful.

"Dean? You boys alright?"

"Yeah," Dean replied, smiling at the sound of a familiar voice that was non-demonic, angelic or anything else that might cause trouble. "We're good. We've got Cas back."

"Good, good," Bobby said, his relief clear in his voice. "Nice work, Dean."

"Not all of it. He's not in the best shape."

"The rod?"

"Yeah. We lost him for a second when we got back. And thanks for that voodoo spell, by the way, it really saved our necks."

"Great. I told you it would work."

"Yeah, I know, I know. We had a little help from someone else, too. Anna."

"Anna? You're kidding me."

"Exactly. She saved our necks."

"She get out okay?"

Dean hesitated. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I think I saw her vamoosh just before we did."

A muffled noise from the bedroom made him pause, tensing, but there was nothing but silence following. He looked over his shoulder, watching the door, but still nothing happened. He slowly relaxed once more, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Christ, Bobby, it's been a rough night."

"Morning, you mean."

"Hmm?"

"Its two am, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Course it is," he muttered. "Listen, Bobby, you think we could spend a few days at yours? We really need somewhere safe for Castiel to get his strength back, and I don't want to stay in this town any longer than we have to. Won't be long before Zachariah comes knocking."

"Sure," Bobby said at once. "You boys are welcome whenever you need to be, you know that. When do you think you'll be down?"

"Ah... maybe some time tomorrow evening, probably late."

"Right, sure..." Bobby paused. "So, how bad is he?"

Dean shook his head. "Sam's checking him out now. He didn't look good at all."

"Well, now the rods out, theoretically he should heal like normal."

"Yeah, well, theoretically, he isn't. We'll just have to hope he gets back on track soon or we're gonna have to call in a doctor."

"Angel on the operating table doesn't sound good."

"Yeah, got that right." Dean swallowed hard. "Bobby... I'm really worried."

Another chapter over. Anyone want more? Please review!

SUPRNTRAL LVR.