March 20-21, 1992

Fiery agony screamed along Castiel's left wing as he twisted away from the blade just an instant too late.

He threw himself to the side, tumbling over the broken asphalt of the alley and away from the angel trying to kill him. He crashed to a stop against a couple of foul smelling metal garbage cans. The pain in his wing blinded him momentarily, and he nearly panicked, afraid the injury would prevent him from flying to safety. Rolling to his feet, he caught sight of the angel again as it appeared behind him. He spun and dodged the swipe of the blade, narrowly missing having his innards spilled.

"Demon filth!" the angel sneered as she circled him again. "Why won't you hold still so I can kill you properly?"

Castiel didn't bother with verbal sparring. It was all he could do just to stay alive. Snagging the metal lid of one of the garbage cans, he brandished it as an entirely inadequate shield.

The angel bared her teeth and lunged at him, changing her angle of attack at the last second. Castiel saw her shift in weight just in time to avoid having the blade plunged into his gut. He brought the can lid across his body to knock her knife hand aside, then swung it roundhouse to strike her in the side of the head. The angel dropped, smacking her head hard on the asphalt.

Castiel didn't wait to find out if she still lived. He spread his wings and escaped, crashing down blindly into a prickly but spongy bed of pine needles covering a forest floor...somewhere. Gasping in pain, Castiel froze where he'd rolled to a stop on his side and waited for his body to tell him how badly he was hurt.

When no new pains made themselves known, he slowly and carefully pushed himself up to a sitting position. He examined himself with shaking hands, finding several shallow cuts inflicted during the fight and many scrapes and bruises from his less than graceful landings both on the asphalt and among the pines. Gingerly, he stretched his damaged left wing as far forward as he could. Blood saturated his feathers. A lot of it. He ran his fingers along the flesh of his wing, hissing when he discovered a deep laceration.

The adrenaline from the fight was wearing off, and the longer he sat, the worse he felt. He trembled, his body hurt everywhere, and an overwhelming exhaustion dragged at him.

He'd never had a direct encounter with an angel before. He'd always been so careful to keep himself concealed and well away from places he knew angels frequented. But today he'd been caught off guard, and it nearly cost him his life.

The shaking in his hands grew worse. His scrapes and bruises were uncomfortable, but minor. The injury to his wing was much more serious and needed attention. He considered what to do. Perhaps he could heal himself the way he'd healed the humans Dean and Sam. Closing his eyes, he focused on the deep cut. Though he could feel the same energy he'd previously tapped into moving through him, it refused to do what he wanted. Blinking his eyes open again, he wondered if it only worked on humans. He scowled at the injustice of that idea.

If he couldn't heal himself, he'd have to care for the wounds and let them heal on their own. He knew he should clean the cut. He needed water for that. Something to wrap it, perhaps? The cut was deep. Would it heal right? Would it heal at all?

One thing at a time. Pushing back his fears and closing his eyes, Castiel listened to the sounds of the forest around him. There was a creek nearby. Dragging himself laboriously to his feet, he staggered down the gentle slope toward the bubble and splash of water. When he finally reached the stream, he dropped painfully to his knees in the mud along the bank. Lowering his wing into the water, he washed away as much blood as he could.

As he cleaned around the cut itself, he realized it was deeper than he'd thought. It still seeped a steady flow of blood, and he had no way to stop it.

Frowning down at his ragged pants, he decided the weather had warmed enough that he could sacrifice some fabric to bind his wing. He stuck two fingers into the hole at one knee and yanked. With his teeth and a sharp edged stone from the creek, he eventually had enough fabric free to wrap the injury. It was awkward with the strange angle and having to figure out how to accommodate his feathers, but he got it done. At least now it had a chance to stop bleeding.

All the effort it had taken to shred his pants and bind his wing had left him utterly drained. He found a sheltered area near the edge of the stream with enough undergrowth to keep him hidden. Slithering under the foliage, he carefully arranged his aching body and throbbing wing as comfortably as he could and attempted to rest.

But of course it wasn't so easy. Castiel shifted around restlessly trying to sleep, but as the day wore into night, he grew more uncomfortable no matter how he positioned himself. Exhaustion eventually drove him to doze fitfully, and he was plagued with strange dreams that left him uneasy.

Castiel woke with a jolt, disoriented and sweating. He moaned and threw his uninjured wing as wide as he could in his hiding space. Morning had come, bringing heat with it. It seemed much too warm for this time of year, but he didn't actually know where he was, so maybe he was far enough south to explain the oppressive heat.

As he rolled to start wiggling his way out from beneath the underbrush, a sharp pain stole his breath away. His injured wing was worse, and agony lanced down from the wound into the muscles of his back and shoulder. Biting his lip to keep from crying out, he squirmed free of his nest and crawled to the creek's edge to check on his wing.

When he carefully removed his makeshift bandage, he was horrified at the condition of the wound. The flesh around it was hot and swollen, and some of his feathers had fallen out around the lip of it. The gash itself was angry red and seeping a yellowish fluid that had begun to crust in the feathers that remained.

Fear began fraying the edges of his mind, making it almost impossible to think. This was bad. Very, very bad. He choked back his panic. If the angel had just killed him outright, at least it would have been over quickly. He didn't want to die like this – like an animal in the woods.

A wave of dizziness left him panting on all fours in the dirt. He slammed his eyes closed, but tears still managed to escape, mingling with the clammy sweat on his face and running down his cheeks.

Castiel didn't know what to do, and it terrified him. He needed help.

Then a wild thought struck, and if he weren't so desperate, he'd have dismissed the idea without a second thought. There was exactly one being in this entire plane that might help him.

Dean.

Just making the decision to seek the human out calmed him considerably, though he was still dizzy and sick from pain. He let his eyes drift closed and opened himself up, searching for that subtle pull that would tell him where to find the boy.

Summoning every bit of his strength, Castiel staggered to his feet and spread his wings. Searing pain tore through him as he launched himself in Dean's direction, hoping desperately that he would be able to fly far enough.

He was unable to hold back a sobbing cry at the screaming torture of landing in a tumbling heap. He had no idea where he was – if he'd made it.

"Castiel!" He heard a distant voice, but it barely penetrated the haze in his mind.

Everything went mercifully black.