OMG THIS STORY WAS UPDATED! That's right gang, you're finally getting an ending! And if you're new to the story, hello! I've been torturing some of your fellow readers for a very long time now :)

Exhaustion filled him. He knew he couldn't find the Winchester's, he needed to go somewhere where they could find him. The answer easily presented itself, and soon he crashed against the side of a familiar house, falling into the scattered scrap and gravel that lay scattered around it.

Castiel opened his eyes and checked out his surroundings. Everything seemed safe. All the barriers and wards were still in place. The house was protected, even against him. His head fell back against the worn paint, and he breathed, doing his best to calm the rushing of his vessels heart.

Soon pain drew his attention to his hands. They were painted a violent crimson. Dark red streaks traced down, coating his coat and pants, and adding to the mess his other wounds were causing. If he was human he would have bled out by now, but as he was, he was simply left lightheaded, waiting for his body to regenerate itself. Considering the nature of his injuries he knew that would be a long time coming, and he considered finding bandages or perhaps a needle to take care of his palms and whatever else he could reach, but in the end he decided against it. It was too much effort. He slumped back against the broken wood and let his eyes flutter closed.

They'd come here eventually. He knew they'd come.

As quietly as he could he curled into a ball, making himself as small as possible, using all the energy he had left to mask his presence from the angels looking for him.

Dean flicked the curtain aside, checking the empty lot for movement. They'd left the state, running as far as the stolen car would take them, and then found a town. It wasn't so small that new commers would be noted, but at the same time it wasn't so big they had to risk any high tech software a motel secretly or otherwise to keep a physical record of the coming or going of their potential clients. Dean knew he was probably being paranoid about that, but getting caught again so soon was the very last thing he wanted.

It took them a few tries before they found the perfect place to hide. Sam pulled over at the first pay phone they saw, one that had a ratty phone book dangling by its spine. He flipped it open and found the first motel listed and they set off. Mr. and Mr. Rockford, checking in.

Sam let out his breath the second the door of their room swung shut behind them.

"What do you think the chances of them following us are?" Dean asked, dropping their bags by the bed.

"I'm not sure I want to bet at this point," Sam answered.

Dean grunted and stationed himself by their window, peering at the street through the dirty blinds, waiting for anything suspicious.

Sam's phone rang in his pocket. "Bobby. We're good. Okay, thanks. Yeah. Bye." Sam tossed the phone onto his bed. "Alright, some guys owe Bobby a favor, he's going to get them to tow the Impala back to the salvage yard."

Dean didn't answer.

Sam nodded, more to himself than anything. "Want me to grab some food?" He wasn't particularly hungry, but a quiet Dean was never a good thing, and when in doubt, food was the best way to reach him. This time it proved in effective. Dean just shrugged, his eyes never leaving the street.

"He'll be fine, Dean."

His brother looked at him.

"Cas is always fine."

Dean frowned and his eyes returned to the street outside the window. "Think he'll know where to look?"

Sam knew what the truth was. That Cas would have had to have known they'd find a car, judge how much gas they'd have, which direction they'd pick, how far they'd travel, and which town they'd pick, and then would have had to use their code to discover their hide out. But the truth wasn't what Dean needed to hear. "He's Cas. He'll find us. He always does. If not here, then at Bobby's."

Dean nodded, but his eyes never left the street.

Bobby dumped his things into the passenger seat and fired up the old truck he'd taken out of the salvage yard. His place was almost a days drive away and he figured he'd better get started. The sooner he got out of New York the better.

The drive was long and rather boring. He was pleased to note he wasn't followed by any of New York's Finest this time.

The sun had set by the time he reached the salvage yard, and all of the lights were out. He opened the door and dropped his keys on a nearby table and froze. There was a sharp metallic smell in the air. He supposed a normal person might have missed it, but for a man who hunted things for a living it was unmistakable. It smelled like someone had died somewhere in the darkness.

Bobby moved slowly and grabbed a shotgun full of salt. He moved a few steps further and grabbed a pure silver knife. The smell seemed to come from the kitchen. Bobby knew this house well – he'd lived in it almost his whole life – so he knew where to step and where to avoid to make a soundless trip to the kitchen.

Once he had his back pressed to the wall in question he took a breath, then burst into the kitchen, gun raised and ready to fire. The empty room made him pause. Bobby flicked on the light. Everything was as he'd left it before the trial. Law books were open on the table, and a list of contact numbers were pinned to the fridge. He stepped further into the room carefully, tense and waiting. He followed the smell all the way to the back door. He raised his gun and opened the door.

The angel was slumped just outside, his head lolling back against the wood, his hands bundled in fabric and pressed tight to his stomach. Bobby kept his weapons raised as he did a quick sweep of the yard. Normally he loved the salvage yard, but in the deep shadows of the night it was impossible to tell if any angels lurked just outside his vision. "You alright, boy?" He whispered.

Castiel didn't move from his slumped position.

"Balls," Bobby muttered. He turned his back on the stacks of cars and hurried to the house, breaking a seal so the angel could enter. The second Castiel was within he hurriedly fixed the symbol, locking down the house once more.

Under the bright lights of the kitchen Cas looked deathly pale. The hunter dumped his weapons on the table and crouched down next to the angel, his hands moving to check for a pulse. He hissed when he touched Castiel's skin. It was cold as ice. Blood still moved sluggishly from every wound, staining the linoleum tiles. He knew that it was impossible for an angel to die without the use of a knife… or he thought he knew anyway. They had never really gone over what was fatal for an angel. "You better not die on me, boy." He squeezed Castiel's shoulder, just in case he could feel it somewhere in there got to his feet and went for his med kit.

It was well passed 3am by the time he was done sterilizing and sewing the boy back together. He nodded at his handiwork, then delved back into the kit and took out a few lengths of white cloth and bound every wound tightly.

Bobby breathed easy once he was certain the angel wasn't about to die. He looked fragile in his crisp white bandages, and to be honest the hunter wasn't even sure if the medical attention would help these kinds of wounds in any way, but he felt better for doing it, and at least to his eye Castiel seemed to be doing better with it.

"Time to get you to bed," he muttered, standing. He slung Castiel's arm over his shoulder and lifted, swearing as he did so. Getting the angel in the house had been easy with adrenalin pulsing through his veins, but without it Castiel proved difficult to move. Bobby managed to get him to a couch in his library before he gave up. He'd meant to bring him up the stairs to an actual bedroom, but there was no way that was happening. He patted the angel's shoulder as he stood and situated himself in his own chair with a tumbler of whiskey. He considered calling his boys and letting them know their angel was alright, but it was far too late - or early depending on which way you looked at it - for that kind of phone call. It could wait until the sun was up.

A key in the lock woke him up. Bobby jerked, nearly dropping his glass. He winced at the bright light flooding the room. His pristine handiwork from the night before seemed ruined by the light. Blood streaked bandages covered Castiel's hands, but at least he looked less like death, and more like a normal man sleeping.

The door opened and Bobby's hand hovered by his shotgun for just a moment while he waited to identify his new guests. Sam's heavy tread and Dean's low rumble had him dropping his hand and moving to greet his sons. They were in the main hallway speaking low. Dean frowned at his surroundings while Sam tried to press something. Bobby cleared his throat and they broke off, smiling at. Or trying to.

"You might have to do a little research on angels." Bobby said. He looked at his empty glass and moved to the kitchen to rectify the situation.

"How's that?" Sam asked. The brothers shared a look and followed.

"Well, we can't have your boy dying, now can we? You're going to have to figure out how the hell those winged bastards heal themselves. He's out of the woods, but he sure could use a hand."

Dean turned on his heel and rushed to the next room, stopping when he saw his angel stretched out on the couch.

Bobby stepped up behind him, passing over a glass of orange juice. "The boy will be fine. He's survived worse then this."

Despite himself, Dean found himself smiling.

As to why the Law and Order folks don't get their own ending... well, that show leaves you at crappy cliffhangers all the time, so I'm just being true to their canon ;)