His first thought upon waking was that his skull was coming apart. Cracking his eye open seemed to confirm it – there was an ice-pick-wielding madman laying siege to Castiel's head. Confronting the pain head on, he bravely kept his eye open to take in his surroundings. Hemmed in by thin green curtains on a metal track, with soft ambient light coming from an embedded wall fixture; cool air on his bare chest…he was in a hospital. He'd been in one before, but he was fairly certain he hadn't been a patient at the time. Castiel raised his arm to feel whatever it was that was preventing his other eye from opening, but found that his arm was attached to a needle and some tubing. He followed the tubing back to a young man asleep on a bed next to his. They were tethered together, and yet he had no idea why, or who the other man was.
The pounding in his head was gradually lessening, and he was now becoming aware of other pains. His leg was in agony, and there was a searing pain in his back, just below his ribcage. Using his free hand, Castiel's fingers explored his face, prodding the tight, swollen skin around his left eye and then upwards where a cottony-soft bandage was wrapped around his forehead.
He was confused. Disoriented. Vital memories kept skating just out of reach, taunting him. There was a reason he was here, and it was extremely important. He was needed somewhere…a battlefield. Had he been wounded in battle? It seemed unlikely that anything on Earth possessed the power to cripple him so devastatingly. In his experience, only an archangel wielded that kind of power, and yet, if that were the case, he would not have been left in his vessel to suffer. No; there would have been far worse suffering in store for him in Heaven if the angels had decided to take him out.
Then there was the nagging issue of why he wasn't healing the way he should be. Normally, his vessel mended itself almost instantly. Now, however, he had to focus his entire will on mending his injuries, and it seemed like his efforts were scarcely making a dent.
The only viable explanation was unthinkable. He'd lost his Grace.
Castiel had the overwhelming urge to rip the needle out of his arm and go off in search of answers, but something stayed him. A tiny, almost inaudible voice inside his head was begging him not to leave; calling him a son of a bitch? The voice was familiar and struck a chord deep inside him. A name slowly began to surface through the fog in his mind: Dean.
His gaze slid sideways towards the unconscious man next to him. He still couldn't say definitively that he recognised the man, but there was a strong emotional tug when he looked at his face. Emotions like the kind he was now feeling were dangerous and may well have been the cause of his current state, especially if he'd been foolish enough to act on them. Had his brothers decided to punish him? Had they shunned him to teach him a lesson?
It was frustrating not being able to remember. The harder he concentrated, the faster the memories fled from his reach. He was left with nothing more than fleeting images and the general impression that he was being hunted. One thing he now knew for certain was that he was not safe where he was. Ignoring the pleading voice in his head, Castiel eased himself into a sitting position, slowed by the sudden onset of dizziness and nausea. He had to leave; get as far away from this place as possible, and never look back. And maybe, if he could prove he was worthy, he could convince the angels to take him back.
Dr. Clark composed himself, taking a deep breath for courage. Of all the duties he was required to perform as a doctor, this was the worst; having to tell someone their loved one was likely beyond help. He held in his hands the results of his patient's CT scan, and it was a worst-case scenario. The images showed a massive intracranial hemorrhage, which, when combined with the patient's current comatose state, was tantamount to a death sentence. They would attempt to alleviate the pressure, of course, but the damage was already done. Cas was undoubtedly brain dead.
As Dr. Clark slid the curtain back on its track, prepared to confer with the young Mr. Winchester, he was stunned speechless by what he saw. Sitting up in bed, his patient was carefully unwinding the bloodied bandage from his head. It wasn't possible, he knew, and yet his eyes were telling him a different story. The man whose brains had been all but liquefied was staring unblinkingly up at him.
"You must unleash me from these contraptions," said the man in a deep, gravelly voice. "I have to leave this place at once."
Dr. Clark literally shook his head, as if by doing so he might wake up from the dream he was having, because there was no way what he was seeing could be real. There had to have been a mix up – clearly the results he held in his hands did not belong to this patient, even though he knew for a fact that the CT scan couldn't have come from anyone else. The machine must have malfunctioned. It didn't really matter, though, because right now all that mattered was keeping the man in that bed until he had a clear understanding of what was going on with him.
"You can't leave," Dr. Clark said, his voice squeaking slightly in disbelief. "By all accounts, you shouldn't even be alive! We need to run more tests. We need to…"
"I need to leave. Now," the man demanded sternly.
Dr. Clark swallowed, feeling the weight of his patient's glare on him. "Sir, you need to understand that you have suffered a severe head injury. I honestly don't know how you're even awake, to be frank, and I cannot possibly allow you to leave in your condition. Do you even know where you are?"
The man cocked his head at him, considering the question seriously before answering. "My memories will return with time," he answered. "But I am not safe here. I have to go."
Dr. Clark saw Cas going for the IV needle and dropped his clipboard in his rush to stop him from pulling it out. "You're in no shape to go anywhere," he insisted, prying the man's fingers off the IV just in time. "You were stabbed, and you lost a lot of blood. Luckily your boyfriend happens to have the same blood type as you."
The man's eye widened and darted away to look at his friend, who must have passed out while he was giving blood. When Cas looked back again, it was with confusion and a touch of fear.
"You don't recognise him?" Dr. Clark guessed.
"He is Dean," the man answered with a slight frown.
"That's right. His name is Dean Winchester."
A spark of recognition flared in his patient's eye, followed by an even brighter spark of fear. "I was sent here to protect him. What have I done?"
Clark's eyes tracked back to the unconscious Dean Winchester. "I wouldn't worry. It's not uncommon for someone to pass out the first time they give blood. A little sugar and he'll be right as rain."
Castiel felt like he was freefalling. More of the puzzle pieces were falling into place, but nothing made sense. He had been charged with protecting Michael's vessel in preparation for the final battle, yet somehow he knew it wasn't just demons that were after the man. The angels were also hunting him. But why would they be hunting down the vessel of Heaven's greatest weapon in the war against Lucifer? His head throbbed as he concentrated on clearing away the cobwebs that obscured the answers he sought.
The man in the green pyjamas was telling him they were not allowed to leave this place, but Castiel sensed that the longer they remained, the greater the danger that they'd be caught by one side or the other. In such a public place, and in such a weakened state, he was in no position to protect Dean. And he knew deep in his soul that his choice was righteous – even if it had resulted in his fall from Heaven.
Castiel tuned out the noise around him, closing his eyes and allowing his energy to focus on healing. His leg was his first priority. He needed the mobility in order to escape. The rest could wait until he and Dean had found more secure shelter. The itching pain was good; it meant his efforts were paying off, albeit slowly. He could visualise the bones in his leg knitting together, and the muscle and tendons following suit. The long, jagged gash along the outside of his leg had been stitched closed, so he didn't need to worry about infection or blood loss. The superficial mending of his flesh could wait until later.
With his leg now capable of supporting his weight, Castiel re-opened his eyes; or at least the one that actually would open. The pyjama-clad man was attending to Dean at the moment, which left Castiel free to remove the needle from his arm. A little pressure and the tiny puncture was gone. However, blood was still coursing through the rubber tube and out the needle, and it only now dawned on him that he had Dean's blood flowing through his veins. And that Dean was bleeding and unconscious, and in no way fit to make a swift escape.
"Hey!" the man hovering over Dean exclaimed when he realised what Castiel had done. In a flurry of activity, the man was joined by a tall, dark-skinned woman, and the two of them quickly removed Dean from the blood-letting device. Frustrated glares were aimed in his direction as more people arrived to clean the mess he'd made. Eventually, however, the traffic in their little cubicle died down and only the first man remained.
"It is imperative that Dean and I leave now. You will administer the sugar he needs to regain consciousness," Castiel demanded as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He considered asking for clothing as well, but it seemed that everyone here was dressed in sleepwear, so there was really no point.
The man gawked at him. "It doesn't work that way," he sputtered. "The sugar is for after he wakes up, and in any case, your friend isn't responding. He should have come around by now."
Castiel's frown deepened. He could see Dean's chest rising and falling with his steady breaths, and the pulse at his throat was visibly strong. The man was right – there was no reason why Dean should not be awake by now. It would seem Dean was being obstinate in refusing to wake up.
He didn't have time for this. His skin crawled with the certainty that their window for escape was rapidly closing. Praying that the angels had left him with his basic defences intact, Castiel raised his hand, gently tapping the stranger's forehead with two fingers. As he'd hoped, the man dropped instantly, crumpling to the floor before he could call out for help.
Feeling hopeful, Castiel reached across to the adjacent cot and tapped Dean on the forehead. Sadly, his good fortune had come to an end; his attempt to transport them to a place of safety had failed. His shoulders fell as if a great weight had been laid across them. They were going to have to do this the hard way.
Castiel slid off the bed, landing barefoot on the cold laminate floor. The cotton gown they had dressed him in gaped open down the front, which was most disagreeable, so he made do by wrapping himself toga-style in the blanket with which they had covered him.
His damaged leg ached horribly, but it was holding up under his weight. The question was whether it would hold up under the combined weight of both him and Dean. It was a struggle he was doomed to lose. For a brief moment, Castiel had managed to lift Dean from his cot, but the fire in his leg forced him to relinquish his hold on the other man. He needed another option.
Hobbling over to the curtain, Castiel stuck his head out of the cubicle long enough to get a sense of the room's layout. It was chaos out there, and that was something that would work in his favour. A quick scan revealed a folded wheelchair leaning against the wall opposite – all he had to do was retrieve it without being detected.
He recalled what Dean had once told him about going unnoticed: the trick was to display absolute confidence. People will automatically assume your actions are above board if you give them no reason to think otherwise. It was a deception that Castiel found distasteful, but was useful under the circumstances, nevertheless.
Striding out of his cubicle with a purposeful limp, Castiel headed directly for the wheelchair. No one batted an eye in his direction as he unfolded it and wheeled it directly back to the cubicle again. His heart pounded in his chest as adrenalin rushed through his body. It had been far easier than he'd anticipated. But there was still need of more deception, and it was vital that he remain composed.
With the same feigned confidence, Castiel levered Dean into the wheelchair and pushed him through the maze of cubicles and desks that made up the hospital's Emergency Room. He received a few odd looks as he headed for the door, but he was careful not to meet anyone's gaze. Unbelievably, no one stopped him as he pushed the wheelchair through the sliding doors leading outside. No alarms were raised. No men in uniforms came running after them in pursuit. It appeared as though they had managed to escape unnoticed, just as Dean would have predicted.
However, now that they were outside, there was the minor issue of what he was supposed to do now. He was barefoot and half naked, pushing an unconscious man in a wheelchair. They would not get far in that condition no matter how confident Castiel appeared. And with demons and angels honing in on their location, escaping on foot was foolhardy at best and suicidal at worst.
Dean had a car. He was fuzzy on a lot of things, but of that he was certain. Dean had a car, and his fondness for the vehicle was bordering on unnatural. It was black and large, if Castiel remembered correctly.
He kept walking as he scoped the cars parked in the lot next to the building. As soon as he saw the car, he knew he'd found the right one. It was sleek and polished to a mirror shine; black and monstrous next to the compact vehicles surrounding it. He aimed the wheelchair towards the car and picked up his pace just as he heard a woman shouting behind him.
"That's him right there!" A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that his absence had not gone entirely unnoticed. The tall, dark-skinned woman he'd seen earlier was pointing in his direction, and a burly man in a security uniform was staring directly at him.
Castiel sprinted the last few yards to the car, banging the wheelchair into the passenger door when he failed to stop in time. He cringed inwardly at the long scratch the chair had left in the black paint, instinctively knowing that it was a bad thing he'd done, and that Dean would not be pleased with him.
Dean's jacket pocket yielded a set of keys that looked promising, and Castiel was relieved to find that one of them did, indeed, fit into the door's lock. Castiel unceremoniously heaved Dean into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut before skirting around the front of the car to get in on the opposite side.
His splinted leg was nearly his undoing. The contraption that was meant to hold his bones in place was so bulky that it hindered his attempts to get into the car. With no time to remove the splint, Castiel did the next best thing and left his foot dangling out the open door. He fumbled with the keys before finding the right one to start the engine. Vague recollections of watching Dean drive sprang helpfully into his head, instructing him to turn the key and put the car in reverse.
The pedals at his feet proved a mystery at first, and he nearly backed into a parked car before determining that the pedal on the left arrested the car's progress.
From there, it was relatively simple. The machine was designed logically, and his body seemed to have a muscle-memory when it came to steering it. He found that other drivers along the town's streets gave him a wide berth, as if sensing his desire to move quickly through traffic.
Without a particular destination in mind, Castiel drove steadily westward, figuring that eventually he would reach the outskirts of town. And once they were out of town, he would put as much distance between them and the hospital as he possibly could until they either ran out of gas or found a safe place to hole up.
It wasn't long before they ended up on a long, deserted strip of highway, and Castiel was able to coax the car up to its maximum speed. Through the open door, Castiel could see beyond his splinted foot to the road beneath them as it blurred past in an almost hypnotic way. It was an overcast night, and there was so little light to guide them that Castiel almost missed the narrow dirt road that branched off the highway, disappearing into a tangled arch of overhanging trees. The brakes squealed in protest as he made the sharp turn at a speed that was probably unsafe.
He was forced to reduce his speed along the rutted, overgrown road, or risk damaging the underside of the car. Several roads branched off in both directions, most of them little more than two narrow tracks of mud snaking off into the blackness. Castiel chose one at random, creeping down the dirt track as branches thwacked and scraped at the windows and doors on either side of the car. More than once, he feared the ruts and bumps might be too much for the vehicle to handle, but they soldiered on until they at last came upon a clearing in the foliage.
It was a dead end. In front of them stood a quaint summer cottage with bleach-white aluminum siding and a tidy front porch. No light emanated from the dwelling, and from the looks of the driveway, it had been a long time since anyone had visited the place. It was by no means the safest place on Earth, but it would do for now.
Castiel turned off the ignition and faced the unconscious Dean Winchester for the first time since leaving the hospital behind.
"What am I going to do with you?" he asked his silent passenger. As he'd expected, the man didn't answer him. Castiel sighed and mentally prepared himself to drag the man's dead weight up to the little cottage.
His energy reserves were running dangerously low, and as he took a moment to close his eyes and recharge, he startled himself with a sudden recollection of when he'd first woken up in the hospital. Like a slap to the face, he remembered with absolute clarity hearing Dean's voice inside his head as he was waking up. For reasons he could no longer recall, Castiel must have drawn Dean into his mind, and now he was trapped in there.
Knowing now what he had to do to bring Dean back, Castiel cleared his mind of all thoughts of danger and pursuit, and allowed himself to relax into a meditative state. His breathing gradually shallowed out, and soon he felt the car and the cool night air melt away. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself looking directly up into Dean's face.
His head was cradled in the man's lap, and the hand running through his hair stilled as Dean realised Castiel had awakened. Castiel wondered at the redness in the other man's eyes, and the parade of emotions that crossed over his face as he stared mutely back at him.
"Where the hell have you been? You son of a bitch!" Dean barked at him out of the blue.
A surge of doubt nearly crippled Castiel. This was the man who had cost him Heaven? The one who had made him turn his back on his brothers?
And then two fat tears rolled down from Dean's puffy red eyes. "I thought I lost you."
A relieved smile tugged at Castiel's lips.
"Asshole," Dean added, gruffly rubbing the tears away with his free hand.
Castiel's smile broadened as a floodgate opened and his memories returned in a torrent. How could he ever have forgotten this man?