A/N: Okay, I have an extremely good reason for not posting in...3 weeks?! Wow, best part of living in the great white north, sudden, spontaneous internet loss that lasts for weeks until you can book a repair man, especially over the holidays. So, yeah, sorry for the mega delay, have not abandoned this fic and have no plans to. Enjoy :)


Dean thinks he's being sneaky when he checks up on Castiel, but neither Bobby nor Sam miss the look on his face. At some point Bobby spirits away to his own room, leaving Sam, Dean and Castiel on their own, but not without telling them, not so subtly, to holler if need be.


The night is dark save for the white glow of the bright half moon filtering in through the window. Sam sits up, looking around, hardly a sound to be heard.

For a second he thinks he must have imagined there was any problem, but he hears a small groan followed by the rustling of blankets. Sam peers from his bed on the floor into the other room to see Castiel, twisting in the blankets as he rolls onto his side.

"Cas?" Sam calls.

There's no response from the angel as he writhes. Sam rubs his eyes and goes to him. He's lying on his side, rolling onto his stomach in fitful rest, hands gripping the sheets, face pinched in pain.

"Cas, wake up."
Sam gives the angel a gentle shake, when that has no effect he taps his cheek with the back of his hand. Castiel drags his eyes open, looking no less in pain than when he was asleep.

"Sam…did I wake you?"
"No, no, I guess the morphine wore off. How bad is it?"

"Very bad." The angel mutters, shifting again as he tries to find a comfortable position, but flinches instead. "It shouldn't be burning…"

"Hold on, I think we have something around here for that. Give me a second."
Sam quietly shuffles around the downstairs in search of ointment, finding it in Bobby's pantry. He goes to the kitchen, retrieving the key and opening the locked box Bobby showed them, where he keeps his more serious painkillers. A delicate glass vial is sitting in a cradle of foam, full and ready to go. Loading the vial into a needle, he returns to Castiel. He's taking deep, shaky breaths, eyes locked on the floor. The look in his eyes when they meet Sam's tells him he's in agony. He fidgets, looking away from Sam in what can only be called embarrassment. He needs help, but he doesn't want to ask for it.

"Here,"
Sam untwists the blankets and pulls them back, exposing Castiel's back to the blue moonlight streaming in the window. The bandage on his back is pink with sweat and blood as Sam peels it off. The wound is inflamed and puckered, oozing a sick dark red blood. Sam would be taking him to a hospital if it were anyone else. He's not sure if infection is a factor with angels, but, either way, it looks like it hurts.

"Man, Cas, this looks bad. This looks worse than earlier."

"It feels worse…I don't know…"

He closes his eyes and takes another half breath.

"Give me your arm."

Castiel opens his eyes, looking at Sam with a weary and questioning look. Sam holds up the needle.

"Something to make you feel better. Does it even work on you? I mean, it seemed to knock you out pretty good last time."

"I'm not sure. If it's the same as last time I'm sure it will. It's hard, not impossible to drug an angel." He says.

Castiel holds out his arm and Sam takes it, pushing the needle into the vein along the inside of his arm. Castiel watches with mute fascination as Sam retrieves the needle and tapes a patch of gauze over the small blossom of blood.

Sam returns his attention to the sword wound. He dips his fingers into the white balm and carefully applies it to the edges of the wound, rubbing gently. Castiel clenches his teeth, eyes narrowing to slits as he takes slow, calming breaths. The white layer of the ointment masks the ugly redness of the wound and Castiel seems to relax a little, face less strained and he's not twitching and fidgeting anymore. Sam doesn't know whether it's the ointment or the morphine (most likely the morphine), but he's glad it worked. He fits a clean bandage back over it to seal in the moisture, taping the edges down. The bruising that once covered Castiel's shoulder blades has begun to fade, but it's still a dark grey across his skin.

"Cas, does this hurt?" Sam asks, putting two fingers gently to the edge of the bruising.

"No, that's fine. Its just damage to the vessel, it heals faster than an injury inflicted by an angel blade."

"So, aside from that, you're still pretty beat up."
Castiel gives him an almost exasperated look.

"Let me take a look at your leg. Is it hurting?"
"Not as much as my back."
"But that would still put it in the territory of majorly painful, its still hurting a lot, right?"
Castiel nods, looking away.

"Its nothing to be ashamed of Cas. Let's get you turned over."
With only a little help Sam has Castiel propped up against the arm of the couch, a pillow behind his back as he takes a look. The wound doesn't look anywhere near as bad as the back wound, in fact it's healing up quite nicely for something they didn't even stitch. Sam treats it with the ointment and rewraps it.

When he finishes he looks up to find Castiel's eyes are only at half mast as his head rests against the back of the couch. Sam leans over, pulling the bandage from his shoulder with practiced hands. For a stab wound that went straight through him, and an angel blade at that, it's showing a remarkable recovery rate, the same as his leg. It's completely sealed over by a large scab, the smaller exit wound on the back is the same. He decides it would be best to air it out at this point so he leaves it be. The lines of stitching that covered Castiel's front only a few hours ago have faded to silvery lines, punctuated with dark knots where the stitches have yet to be removed, the same as on Castiel's neck. That worries Sam for a moment, because it looks like the stitches have actually become apart of Castiel's skin, but he figures if they've already done that Castiel can handle it.

"Hey, Cas…are you going to be okay?"
The angel opens his eyes and looks to Sam, almost inquisitively.
"I…appreciate all you've done for me. You didn't have to."
"Of course we did, Cas. You're our friend. I actually think…in a way, you've become family." Sam says.

Castiel frowns a bit, but not angry or angelic, it's confused and humanly vulnerable.

"Why?"
It's a simple question. When did Sam start to care when Castiel looked worried? When did Bobby start telling him what motel they were camped out in, trusting him without a second thought? And when did Dean start looking so worried when Castiel wouldn't answer a phone call and so relieved when he finally picked up or winged in? Honestly, Sam isn't sure, but he is sure that Castiel is family, and family looks out for each other. It's the Winchester code.

"I don't know, Cas, but you are."
Castiel looks overly solemn for the revelation, solemn and sad.

"Thank you, Sam. I'm glad to know I have at least one family."
Sam nods and lays a gentle pat on his shoulder.

"You okay? Mind if I go back to sleep?"
"Not at all, Sam."

"Call if you need us. And you'll stay here?"
He nods.
"I'll be here." Castiel says.
Sam returns to his mat on the floor, sinking down with exhaustion at the days events.

Castiel doesn't go to sleep after. He watches Sam drift back off while Dean continues to snore softly. He sits like that for a while, feeling the ancient wood of the house breathe, the warding symbols pulsing against his Grace with every heart beat. After a while he slowly raises himself up into a sitting position, his good leg over the side of the bed, injured on bent slightly as he looks at it. The blood that soaked into his pants has dried, making it stiff and uncomfortable. The edges where Sam tore are dry and crusted, stark against the white bandage wrapped underneath. He runs his hand over the ripped fabric, the cloth re-knitting, the blood disappearing. When he removes his hand its like nothing ever happened.

At least to the pants.

Underneath the unmarred fabric is still an angel wound. Gingerly, he flexes the muscles, but finds they're tense and sore, unwilling to cooperate fully. The injury to his shoulder is slightly better, a dark mark that throbs occasionally and is nowhere near as painful as it was. He wonders how he managed to ignore such injuries in that last mad dash to escape, how he could possibly run with an angel sword in his back, dragging Sam on a near useless leg and then flying with his wing half disconnected from his body.

He's lucky to be in the shape he's in.

Now that his clothes are repaired and he feels more comfortable he sits on the edge of the couch, watching the moon glow bright in the sky through the window. He's not sure how long he sits like that, the darkness doesn't ebb any so it can't be long, but he becomes aware of a pain building in his back.

No, not his back, in his wing, where the joint connects to the Grace stored in his vessel. He shifts around, squaring his shoulders then slumping them in an effort to find a comfortable position. Nothing he does helps at all so he opts to lie down, spreading himself out on his stomach, resting his head on the pillow and closing his eyes, not to sleep but to concentrate. He imagines heaven, remembers the more interesting events throughout history, he even goes so far as to hold conversations with his brothers and sisters, some he's actually had, trying to make them understand, trying to make them see.

It doesn't seem to help any, the pain only gets worse till it's a near constant throbbing pain, every heart beat of his vessel agitating his Grace against it and permanently distracting him. The earlier relief the ointment and morphine brought is completely forgotten under the onslaught of this new pain, something they morphine can't touch. At first he was hoping it was merely residual pain from such a severe wound. It's clear now something more is definitely wrong. He sits up, gingerly swinging his legs off of the couch and tottering to his feet. He's appalled at how weak he is, his limbs trembling with this small effort. He's an angel, he can't be this weak.

He hobbles away to the bathroom, leaning against the walls to ensure he doesn't fall over. He flips the switch and a bright light illuminates the small room, a faint hum coming to life with it. It seems even brighter than it is with the stark whiteness of the walls and counter. He's not sure what he's doing here, but it's always where the Winchesters' go when they're hurt.

Seeing his face in the mirror is actually quite the shock. He's pale, like someone bleached all of the colour from his vessel's already pale flesh. The harsh light of the bathroom makes his chest look like someone did impromptu exploratory surgery and a clumsy job of sewing him back up. Several red lines mar his neck, already in the advanced stages of healing so he can no longer feel the pain there, nor do they bother him, but he remembers it. Remembers the thought that his brothers where going to slice open his neck and leave him to choke and drown on his own blood in a ditch on some godless road.

He doesn't want to think about it any more as he turns his back to the mirror and peers over his shoulder to get a look at his back. White gauze covers the wound, gray bruising spreading from that point all the way up his back to the base of his neck, dark tendrils against his skin. The impact of his brothers slamming him into the Impala had fractured his spine and dislocated his shoulder, but they had quickly healed in his less damaged state, these bruises all that remain of that attack.

Despite all this, the wounds he can see with a mere glance are the least of his concerns. They're only markers on a vessel, the real damage is to what can't be seen with human eyes. The Winchesters have done an admirable job of aiding his slow healing vessel and he is appreciative, but this is something he has to do himself.

He steels himself before closing his eyes. He connects with his Grace, slowly feeling out all the connections and power ebbing and flowing through his vessel and his true form. Where he was stabbed there's slight blocks in the flow of his power, but they're healing. Those are nothing compared to the complete stop in his wing. He can feel the Grace and power pulsing through his left wing, still there and connected to his entire being, but nothing from his right, swirls of energy lingering where there should be a wing. Harnessing his Grace he pushes it through the channels of his body and into his wing.

His vision goes white and when it comes back he's face down on the floor, his back on fire and breathing hard. He crawls to his hands and knees, forced to stay there until he can catch a little air. He reaches up and grabs the edge of the counter and uses it to drag himself upwards.

Half doubled over and gripping the counter, he bows his head, trying to steady himself from the sudden and unexpected blackout. He gets his breath back, but the pain in his back, more specifically, his wing, doesn't go away, stronger than ever. He glances in the mirror, but quickly looks away, swiping away a trail of blood from his mouth. He notices a small pool of blood on the floor where he fell, the red liquid a stark contrast to the white and beige linoleum.

Once he has his bearings again and is prepared, he eases his Grace back towards his wing. He's careful this time, gently probing the wound. With each 'touch' a sharp stab of pain rocks him, his fingers curling into the counter top till they're white. Nothing he does can get his Grace to connect with his wing, no matter how much pain he endures or how hard he tries.

The realization of what has happened dawns on him and it makes him sick. He cups his mouth with one hand in time to start coughing. He tries to control himself, but his body won't cooperate, won't obey his commands. He ends up doubled over the sink, blood pouring from between his fingers until he has to use his hand to support himself. He retches up more dark, thick blood. When he finally stops his legs are so weak it feels like his iron grip on the sink is all that is keep him upright. He watches the blood drain slowly, leaving an ugly red slick on the white ceramic.

Memories, memories of angels with damaged wings, long ago, how they died slow agonizing deaths, unable to help themselves or anybody else to help them. How long would an injury like this take to kill him?

A week?

A month?

It's not bad enough to kill him outright or quickly, it only leaves him damaged and broken enough to suffer a prolonged death. He closes his eyes and prays.


Dean is having a rare dreamless sleep, quiet, comfortable and most importantly, peaceful. That's not to say he isn't half awake, Hunter's instinct. He vaguely hears Sam get up, hears voices, him and Castiel talking. He thinks about getting up to go check on him but before he can act upon the thought his body is already back to sleep.

It's the loud thump that wakes him up. On instinct his eyes snap open and he's reaching for his gun. He's halfway to his feet and the weapon up and ready. His eyes slowly rove over the dark and now silent house. He stands there for a moment, assessing, going over all the possibilities. That's when he hears the wet coughing and then the retching, coming from the direction of the bathroom. His eyes flicker to Castiel's bed.

He's not there.

Dean lowers the gun, but keeps it ready, just in case, and goes to the bathroom. The horrible choking sounds have stopped, but the closer he gets the heavier the breathing he can hear.

Dean is a little shocked to see Castiel, head down as he clutches at the sink, blood on his hands and lips, eyes closed.

"Cas?" He says quietly.

The angel slowly opens his eyes and looks to Dean. Castiel knows he can't tell Dean what's truly wrong, he wouldn't take it well. He'd want to try and fix it. And he can't fix it. So Castiel can't tell him.

"I'm fine." He mutters, straightening up.

It's perhaps not the most believable thing he could have said.
"You sure as Hell don't look fine." Dean growls, stalking toward Castiel.

He spots the blood on the floor and stops.

Castiel uses this momentary distraction to try and stand tall, only getting half way.
"Dean, I'm fine. It's nothing…just…."

Castiel realizes with undying certainty that this is beyond anything he can possibly handle by himself or try to explain away.

"Cas, you're bleeding." A hint of urgency stains his voice
Castiel suddenly becomes aware of the hot wetness pouring down his back. A second later Dean is by his side, grabbing his arm and all but holding him up.

"Cas?!"

Castiel looks at Dean, legs growing weaker with each second

"It's too much…" He mutters.

His eyes close and he begins to drop.

"Cas?!"
Dean manages to loop his other arm around Castiel's waist, holding the angel to him. Blood wets his fingers and soaks into the sleeves of his shirt where they touch his back, warm and nauseating.

"Sam!" Dean shouts, dragging Castiel out of the cramped bathroom.

Sam hears the alarm in Dean's voice and is up, bolting to where Dean is, his brain firing a hundred different scenarios and reactions. When he sees Dean outside the bathroom holding up Castiel's limp body like it's a bomb and the blood running down his back Sam goes into emergency mode.

"What happened?"

"I don't know! I found him in there and he just passed out. He was puking blood."

Sam notices the blood, too much, running down his back, and his fingers and lips stained red too, a trickle running over his chin and down his neck.
"Get him back to the couch, the stitches probably broke. That and whatever other damage we didn't see."

Sam reaches out to help, his hand lightly brushing over the angel's shoulder. Castiel lurches forward like he's been electrocuted.


Castiel is conscious enough to be able to feel the hands on him, on his back. Despite the fact he knows the physical hands touching him can't reach his wings he feels violated. Nobody should be touching his wings. He struggles, trying to push away but the hands grip him tighter, fingers digging into his sides and arms. He stiffens, his breathing picking up.

Who is this? What are they doing to him? Why won't they let him go? His wings…why? Summoning his strength he tries to wrench away from the arms encircled around him. His arm shoots out, nailing something solid with his elbow. It goes careening back. With half the weight holding him gone he rallies against the other, charging forward, driving a solid body into the wall. The impact jolts him, the arms around him loosening just enough for him to lurch away. He collides with another body, but he gives that one a shove and it's out of his way again.

The adrenaline powering his attack is suddenly gone and he feels his legs giving out. He crashes back against something hard, sending a shocking jolt through his spine. His lungs lock, unable to draw a breath for a moment as he doubles over onto his hands and knees. He can feel them coming for him again so he screams, but it comes out half strangled.

"Don't touch me!"


Castiel retaliates suddenly and violently. He flings his head back and shoves away from Dean. Sam is right behind him, arms locking around him.

"It's okay, calm down. Cas, it's us!"

A sharp elbow is driven into his stomach with all the force of a sledgehammer and he's propelled backwards, collapsing with a groan and curling inward.

"Cas!" Dean shouts.

He throws himself at Castiel, arms wrapping around him as he grips him tight. He struggles for a second before throwing all his weight forward, driving Dean back so fast and hard he can't stop before his back hits the wall with a dull thud and a grunt. Castiel pulls away from him, but Sam is back on his feet in time to get shoved down the hall and land on his ass.

Castiel suddenly falls into the wall, dropping to the ground like a sack of rocks.

"Cas, hey-" Dean is leaning down, about to grab his arm when Castiel rasps.

"Don't touch me!"

"Cas, what's wro-"

That's as far as Sam gets before Castiel passes out, collapsing in a crumpled heap against the wall.
"Cas?" Dean shouts, kneeling by the angel.

He checks for a pulse and finds it. He's also breathing, but not very well.

"What is it?" Bobby shouts, reappearing in the living room doorway, gun in hand.

"It's Cas." Dean says.

Bobby looks from the boys to Castiel all bloody on the carpet and then back to their terrified faces.

"Is he dead?" Bobby says, hesitant and unsure.

"No, he's alive, he just-"

Sam snaps out of it, grabbing Dean as he leans down. Together they carefully hoist Castiel to his feet and drag him to the couch. Bobby follows, still a little unwilling to relinquish his weapon.
Once they manage to get the angel back to the couch he's moaning and only half conscious. He's mumbling something under his breath that they can't make out.
They lay him down on his stomach and Sam tries to address the wound. Dean disappears, Bobby following him.

The bleeding has stopped, leaving copious amounts of wet and dried blood down Castiel's back. Sam picks up a cloth, dunking it in the tepid water from earlier. The second he tries to wash some of the blood away Castiel's shoulders stiffen, his face scrunching and tightening at the soft touch. Even unconscious he looks stricken, his face burdened by so much intense emotion that Sam doesn't know how to approach him.

"Um…Cas, hey, can you wake up?"
He gently shakes his arm, but quickly withdraws his hand when his stomach gives a painful protest at the thought that Castiel might freak out again and resorting to blows. Even this injured, he's still an angel.

Castiel groans but his eyes drag open, meeting Sam's slowly.

"Cas, is it okay if I fix this?"

"Sam?" He asks, like he's not sure why he would be seeing him.
"Yeah, it's me, Cas."
"Sam…I need you to…please don't…"

"I won't hurt you, Cas. Just tell me what's wrong."
The angel looks away, embarrassed.

"Its…I…" He stops, trying find his voice. "My…wings. The damage was more than I thought. It's…"
He sighs, practically deflating.

"I'm…weak…it's too…sensitive…I think it broke open."

"Yeah. It's okay. I'll take care of it."

Castiel tries not to react to Sam's touch, no matter that he's trying to help. It's irritating, but as the blood disappears he feels better. He's not sure when he starts to drift off, but before he knows it he's sailing off into the darkness of unconsciousness.


Castiel is far from comfortable, but the darkness seems to mask that annoying little fact. He's in heaven, his favourite one, a lush green park, the occupant of this heaven flying a brightly coloured kite in the perfect wind. He's aware of other angels, he would call them friends, but angels don't have friends, only brothers and sisters, only duty. At least, normal angels do.

Suddenly everything goes dark, despite the sun still high in the sky, a shadow has been cast over the ground. The other angels are gone, evaporated into the air. Castiel turns around, but it feels like it's in slow motion

Zachariah looms above him, impossibly tall and too powerful. He feels the blows rain down on him, never ending until he's a broken and bleeding mess on the ground. Silver flashes and pain flares. He cries out incoherently, voice long gone as his wings drag down his back, crumpled, a horrific dead weight. Zachariah grabs him and shakes him, sending sharp molten pain through his shoulder and back. He shouts, Zachariah disappearing, replaced by Dean. He lurches up in a panic, pain scouring him. His body gives in, but he doesn't fall, Dean's hands holding him up, one on his shoulder and the other under his arm and looped around his back. Against his clammy skin he can feel the warm heat of Dean's arm, practically burning in its heat. A cold sweat cools on his skin, making him shiver.

"Cas, are you okay? Man, you're ice cold." Dean asks, eyes large and worried.

He's about to tell him that he's fine, but he twists away, blood spewing from his mouth onto the floor before he can stop it.

"Cas!?"
He coughs again, another gout of blood working free from his throat. The action wracks his body so badly he hardly notices the hands holding him up as he grips the edge of the couch. When he manages to stop he stays there, breathing hard, tasting the tang of his own blood in his mouth. A hand suddenly comes to rest on his back, just to the left of his wound. He groans at the spark of pain followed by that same comforting warmth, the hand disappears only to grip his shoulders tighter, giving him a bit of a shake.

"Cas? Are you alright? What do we do?" Dean shouts, looking desperately at Sam and Bobby standing by his desk, a little stunned

"Nothing…there's nothing…" Castiel coughs, weakly cupping his hand to his mouth. Blood drips between his fingers.

"Cas?"

Dean's grip on his shoulders tightens again, straining his wounds.

"Dean." He says.
Sam steps in, loosening Dean's grip and supporting Castiel enough so he doesn't hurt him or fall down. That doesn't stop Dean from lingering close, hands still lightly resting across his shoulders, unable to pull away in his concern.

"Cas," Sam catches his eyes. "What did you mean, 'there's nothing?'"
"…nothing you can do…I'm…dying."

TBC