Leochoir dodges back but his sword flails wildly, slitting Castiel's throat without even meaning to. Castiel's hands fly to his throat, one hand groping for Dean's necklace. His fingers lock around the pendent as he spreads his wings and flies away.


He crashes into the front of the Impala, doubling over the hood as he hacks up water, jarring all his injuries. He moans as he desperately clings to the hood to keep from sliding to the ground. He feels like he's suffocating, one lungful of fought for air not enough, no where near enough for him. He stops breathing for a moment, putting all his concentration into putting his punctured lung back together. He channels his grace, gathering all the tattered edges and pulling them together, rebuilding extra tissue where he can't find the original. It feels like an eternity before he's able to breathe again, both lungs accepting air now. He lies like that for a long time, too long, sucking in as much as he can until the burning in his lungs subsides. He wants to let go, just lie down and sleep but somewhere in his still functioning brain he knows that's a bad idea. If he goes down here he'll never get back up. And Dean could very well run over him if he passes out in front of the Impala in this darkness.

He lifts his hand to his throat where Leochoir's sword cut him. He was sure it had cut right through but apparently it only sliced through layers of flesh and muscle, just shy of severing his trachea. He says a little prayer of thanks for that, because if that had been the case, he wouldn't be breathing at all.

The burn has left his lungs, letting him focus on the many other pains plaguing him. He lets himself breathe, getting a grip before lifting a weary head as he surveys his surroundings.

The Impala is parked in a very deserted parking lot outside a 24/7 diner. Castiel can't see them through the windows from this distance, big, ferny plants sheltering the view. It sends a pang of hurt through him. He can't go in there, not like this, not without causing quite the stir and prompting human intervention. He doesn't want that, he just wants to get to Dean and Sam. And in a small way…for once…he just wants to be taken care of, not have to run away and heal in some secluded place, possibly dying there and no one ever knowing. He knows Dean and Sam wouldn't be happy to hear he's been doing that, he's had more than one altercation with his siblings as of late, but never this bad, nothing he couldn't fix himself or just give it time to heal. Seclusion is not an option this time, these wounds are too severe. He leans heavily on the hood, clutching at Dean's necklace and calling out to him mentally, trying to connect with him.

Dean, Sam. Help. I need help.

He's not even sure if the message got through but he's too weary to send another one. Too weary to walk, talk, even breathing is creeping its way onto the 'too hard to do' list growing in his head. With his last bit of strength he flutters his way inside the car, settling in the back seat as he slumps against the door. Before he can totally forget he gathers some blood on his fingers from the worst wounds on his stomach, swiping heavy fingers across the glass as he draws the warding symbol. He has more than enough blood to decorate the whole car in sigils if he so desired, but the one will do. As his bloody hand falls back he vaguely thinks that Dean will be mad at all the blood on the upholstery, but it's a fleeting thought as he closes his eyes. He can always fix it when he's better, good as new. A shiver works its way through him, causing him to frown. He's never shivered before, though he's seen humans do it when they're cold. He's not cold though, at least he doesn't think so. His thoughts become jumbled and a touch mundane as he absently reaches out beside him, fingers hooking into a pile of clothes on the back seat. He glances at the mound of material then very slowly works two coats from the pile, draping them over himself. Though it brings no warmth to him and the shivering doesn't stop he feels some comfort from the objects before he lets himself drift off into oblivion.


Dean is slurping down the last of his coffee when he feels a sudden cold rush over him and an uneasy feeling wrap itself around him. Sam fidgets too, feeling the same eerie sensation. The brothers look at each other, understanding instantly.

"Ghost?" Dean says, hand instinctively gravitating to his gun.

Sam sneaks out his EMF detector, turning it on. The dial doesn't even jump beyond normal.

"Maybe it's a draft?"
"Accompanied by a bad feeling? I doubt it." Dean says.
"Should we clear out?" Sam asks.

"Yeah, let's get out of here."

Dean pays for their meal while Sam keeps his eyes peeled for anything suspicious but nothing catches his attention, just a quiet diner with a sleepy cashier and one other patron sitting innocuously in the corner. As they're crossing the parking lot the feeling only becomes stronger and it's starting to really set the hunters on edge. Sam's hand is on Ruby's knife and Dean is about a breath away from shooting the first thing that moves.

"This is bad. I'm getting such a bad feeling from this." Dean mutters.

The darkness and eerie quietness of the highway parking lot is doing nothing to help the men's nerves so Sam quickly opens the door to the car when Dean suddenly stops, staring intently at the hood.

"What is it?" Sam asks.

Dean reaches down, fingers skimming the hood and coming up darkened. Sam retrieves his flashlight shining it at Dean's hand, red smeared over his fingers.

Blood.

That's when Dean spots the dripping blood sigil on his side in the back window. He doesn't recognize the symbol which means his gun is out and he's advancing on the back. He yanks the door open, gun snapping up to point at the slouched figure there.

"Who are you?" He demands, not recognizing the bloody figure huddled underneath the coats. "Wait, Cas?"

Two blue eyes open, looking up at him, pain ingrained in them.

"Dean?" Castiel croaks.

"Cas?" Sam says from the front, coming around and opening the other door.

"Dude, what happened?" Dean says, putting away his gun and squeezing into the cramped spot next to Castiel. Sam slides in on the other side a second later and the angel turns to look at him, pleading with his eyes. It doesn't take any convincing for the brothers to help him.

"Sammy, bandages." Dean says, peeling away the coats that have glued themselves down with blood. Dean doesn't miss the fact that is Sam and his spare coats Castiel chose, not the blanket in the pile beside him.

As Dean tosses the coats aside he notices the blood cascading down Castiel's neck, turning the neckline of his shirt a bright crimson. He cups his hand against Castiel's neck, feeling his heart leap into his own throat at the surge of blood that fights against his palm.

"Cas, can you breathe?" Dean says, face desperately anxious.

Castiel can't find the words as Dean braces his other hand against the back of his neck, putting just enough pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding, but not enough to make it harder to breathe. Regardless though, Castiel is having trouble doing just that but at least he is getting air and isn't suffocating from a slit throat.

There's a lot more blood than just from the neck wound, Castiel's shirt is almost completely red with his own blood and torn, sagging under the soaking weight. Dean stares angrily at the rips, wanting to open them up and take a look, but he can't while he's holding Castiel's neck together.

"Who did this to you? Was it angels?" Dean asks, glancing at the sigil on the window in dark red, arterial blood.

"Zachariah." He manages to mutter.

Dean has to quell a surge of anger for the nasty, son-of-a-bitch angel who's now number one on his shit list.

"Okay, okay, don't talk anymore. We're going to fix you up. Just rest, okay, we'll take care of everything. Breathe, Cas." He reminds him.

Castiel looks up at Dean, eyes tired and pained as he manages a small nod. Dean holds that stare for a second longer before Sam nudges his shoulder, bandages and towels in his arms. Dean snags a towel from his hand, replacing it under his hand and pressing down once again over the still bleeding slit. It's bloodied instantly and that upsets Dean more than he'll ever admit. Sam has gotten back in on the other side, working on peeling back Castiel's blood soaked coat and then tearing open his dress shirt.

"Oh, my God, Cas, this is bad." Sam says.

Dean sees the layers of red lines carved across Castiel's stomach and nearly chokes, feeling anger surging up in him, powerful and red hot. Just the seeing his friend like this and knowing who did it makes him want to hunt down that son-of-a-bitch and roast him alive. He pushes the rage back down though, it's not what he needs right now, he needs to focus. He needs to focus on Castiel to be able to help him. Sam is clearing away the dried blood, still wet blood oozing from the three gashes he's unearthed. He's doing a hap-hazard job, just trying to clear enough of it away so he can see, that's when he notices the circular puncture dead center on Castiel's chest.

"What's this? What happened here?" He asks, pressing the towel down on it.

"Punched…a hole…in my chest…pierced bone…and my…lung." Castiel gasps.

"Is it okay? Have you healed it?" Dean asks.

Castiel manages some sort of half nod, eyes hooded.

"Might…not hold."

Both brothers glance at each other. Sam only spares a second on it, preparing more towels and folding them double over each other, placing them on the slashes across Castiel's stomach and chest.

"Okay, Cas, hold this down, press hard." He instructs.

"I…can't." Castiel says.

"What? Why?" Dean asks, checking the blood flow from his neck to find it's lessened.

Castiel lifts his hands for the first time, holding them up in the air like he has no idea what to do with them and the brothers see the damage there as well.

"Jesus!" Dean growls.

As far as injuries rank on Dean's mental scale, holes in hands are pretty low compared to slit throats, cut up stomachs and chest punctures but he knows from experience they hurt like a bitch and are rather debilitating. Sam is on it before he even has to ask. Dean moves his other hand to press on the towels at Castiel's stomach while Sam takes a roll of bandages and hastily wraps them around his hands. It's not ideal but right now it's all far from ideal.

"Cas, is there anywhere else you're hurt that we can't see?"

"My back…cut…and my wing…"

Dean's heart just about stops.

"I can…fix the wing…but…"

"Okay, okay good, not ready to play angel-medicine-woman on you. Don't try too hard though. We've got your back."

Castiel doesn't get the joke, mainly from the fact he can hardly see straight let alone decipher the complexity of Dean's speech patterns. That and blood is still lethargically trickling down his throat, collecting in his stomach which is starting to hurt. He lets himself relax all the way back against the seat, forcing his taunt muscles to smooth out, trying to ignore the blistering pain that's slowly numbing parts of his body. He can't feel his fingers and his legs are only an after thought. He can feel Sam's arm work around the hollow in his back, locating the wound and working a folded towel behind him to cover it. With each agonizing breath he can feel Dean's hand rise above his throat, he can feel Sam's hands pressing down on his chest through the cloth that is quickly soaking with blood, and despite his desperate situation he draws some comfort from just having the two of them there. His eyes are closed for all of five seconds before Dean is shaking his shoulder roughly, at least as roughly as he can for someone whose throat he's holding together. None the less, it jars his punctured breastbone and the cuts across his chest, making him wince as he sucks in a sharp breath.

"No checking out Cas, stay awake."
"I am awake. I was…resting."

"Rest with your eyes open." There's a pause. "Cas, are you ever going to stop bleeding?"

His voice sounds small, worried, almost like he didn't mean to say it out loud. Dean tosses a second towel aside, replacing it with another, pushing harder which only serves to make breathing that much more difficult, rasping more than anything else. After about a minute of that Sam is about to tell Dean to quit choking Castiel when he pulls his hand away and the towel with it. The blood flow has lessened a little, down to a trickle.
"Sam, bandages."
Stitching it up is the first thing that comes to Dean's mind but right now there's too many other open, bleeding wounds to focus on And he's never stitched a neck wound before and, honestly, the thought terrifies. And that Castiel should be his first try at it makes his throat go dry. The guy is so wounded, he doesn't need an inexperienced surgeon screwing him up more than he already is. So, Dean opts to get it wrapped up, if only to make it look better, but he thinks there isn't much else he can do right now, short of completely cutting off Castiel's air by pressing harder. The bandages are handed to him and he begins threading them around Castiel's neck, wrapping them tight and praying not to see any blood leak through. To his surprise, none does and his breathing seems to even out to a better pace, still too short and shallow but at least not grating and painful sounding. Its only now that he notices Castiel's near trademark blue tie is absent.

Castiel tries to stay awake as the brothers continue to tend to his injuries, pushing and prodding at him in a way that only sends pain through him. As it goes on he becomes worse and worse at hiding just how much pain he's in. More than once a groan escapes him, often followed by a wince till he knows his face is continually contorted is pain and he can't stop the small gasps that escape him at nearly every touch, his mind overwrought and his body too sensitive. At some point he stops bleeding and he hears the Winchesters whispering solemnly and urgently.

"We have to get him to a hospital. What can we do for him here? He's too injured."
"What if he instant heals in front of all those doctors?"
"It's better than having him die in the back seat! Miracle of God, anything will do for an explanation!" Sam argues.

He tries to block out their arguing, unwilling and unable to offer his own input. He doesn't want to go to a hospital. He knows from experience though, through watching the Winchesters, that the injured party never gets a say. They're too often delirious. And he's not sure he's too far from that either. The sigil on the window that he's been staring at for some time seems to be warping, peeling off the glass and floating in the air. He's so obsessed with the wayward mark that he doesn't even notice his breathing ratchet up a notch, each draw of air becoming harder and harder to get to his lungs. The Winchesters are still arguing quietly (well, Sam is) when Castiel yanks his attention away from his hallucination with a harsh cough that splutters out, jerking his whole body painfully and tearing at his throat. Now he knows for certain he's not getting enough air, lungs burning as he tries to recover, to breathe one easy breath. God, is it too much to ask for the ability to breathe?

"What's wrong Cas?" Dean asks, sounding alarmed as he crowds Castiel once more.
"I'm…"
He frowns, like he can't believe it. But it's all too real, the gentle swell of blood in the bottom of his lungs, the rasp of each breath through his throat and the continual ache of his wounds.

"I'm…having trouble…breathing." He gasps out.

A surge of pain rockets up his spine and he knows no more.

TBC