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Learning to Drive	By : karmascars Category: Supernatural > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 998 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor do I receive any monetary recompense for this work of fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Learning to Drive
- 1
Learning to Drive

Summary: The demons have a new trick up their proverbial sleeve, and after a pitched battle Castiel finds himself stuck in mortal mode, with two badly injured hunters. There's only one way to get them to safety.

A/N: Sort of, kind of, not really and yet a bit of implied Destiel, because I just love it so damn much, but this isn't a sexy-type story. I guess it's mid-to-late S4, but could also be considered AU due to the fact that this has nothing to do with the canon timeline. Title inspired by below Pink Floyd song, which is also what comes on the car radio.
Thank you so much, Mistress Whimsy, for being my lovely beta! This (and the forthcoming sequel) wouldn't be awesome without you.
Please review? I love feedback.

A soul in tension that's learning to fly

Condition: grounded -- determined to try

Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies

Tongue-tied and twisted; just an earth-bound misfit, I
Pink Floyd, "Learning to Fly"
- - - - -
Something felt off about this particular band of demons from the very beginning.
Hell-spawn were always overconfident -- but this time they weren't just cocky, they were practically gloating. Castiel didn't think anything of it as he waded into the fray beside the Winchester brothers. Familiar, righteous fury sang through his grace as he placed hands upon demon after demon, granting them undeserved oblivion. Dean was wielding Ruby's knife with experienced ferocity, sparking corpses littering his wake, and Sam was doing his level best to keep from passing out as he exorcised demon after demon with his mind.
They were laying the black-eyes to waste.
So why were the damned things still laughing?
As he drew his own blade, jamming it up through a demon's throat into its skull and watching impassively as it died, Castiel suddenly felt a burning, crisping of the flesh on his vessel's lower back. He twisted, yanking his dagger from its previous victim and lancing this new foe, who dropped its odd metallic weapon and died in much the same way as its fellows. The fiery pain in his borrowed flesh slacked, and in moments it was forgotten as the angel fought his way through the grinning horde to where Sam and Dean stood back to back.
The elder Winchester was shielding his brother, and spared a slightly relieved glance when Castiel rejoined them. "Welcome back," Dean grunted, spearing another demon through the heart. His grin as it died was vaguely feral. Behind them, Sam let out a low moan and Castiel felt him stagger. He knew without looking that blood was running from the younger hunter's nose. He was about to reach his limit.
More demons piled out of the hole.
Castiel lost track of time. He never had much grasp of it to begin with, the way humans measured minutes and days by the passage of the sun. But here in a warehouse, surrounded by fiends, when everything was simply strike and stay alive, there was no time. Conceptual, or otherwise.
The swarm of host bodies didn't let up. The Winchesters began to suffer more and more serious injury, regardless of how Castiel sped his slaughter around them. Sam cried out when he fell, bloodless, and Castiel heard Dean growl as he scooped his brother up left-handed, backing against the wall and driving the knife forward. The stinking vermin were everywhere, pressing from all sides. More than once they drove a wedge between him and the brothers, a few precious feet widening into yards. Castiel snapped his head around as he slammed two demons' heads together and realized he'd been driven across the room – just as Sam disappeared from view and Dean let out a strangled cry.
Hoping they could hear him, Castiel roared: “SAM, DEAN! COVER YOUR EYES!”
And he flexed within himself, to loose his grace and rip the demons to shreds with golden fire –
– but nothing happened.
For one, clarifying instant, Castiel was shocked to his core.
Then one of them pounced on his back, another tackling his midsection, intent on dragging him to his knees. Grunting, Castiel swept a foot out in front of him, slinging the one around his legs backward into a group of others. They went down in a heap. He pulled the leg back, pushing off in a forward roll as he drove his dagger over and behind his head, straight through the skull of the one on his back. The roll carried him through a few others, and they scattered. He heard them cackling, and anticipating a regroup he sprang to his feet, one hand habitually extended to smite.
They were gone. All of them. A few spent hosts dropped as he stared, and final vestiges of black smoke wisped away through the broken windows. Around him lay scattered the bodies of the fallen, some looking for all the world like sleeping humans with holes in their clothes.
Still shocked by what had transpired, it didn't occur to the angel to realize that he couldn't sense the two souls across the room.
A groan echoed in the emptiness, followed by the sound of something heavy sliding slowly. Castiel looked around shocked to see Dean hit the floor at the base of a long, red smear on the concrete wall. Beside him, Sam was little more than a crumpled mass in bloody clothes.
The angel barely noticed that he didn't just disappear and reappear next to the boys. He simply ran, his vessel's hard-soled shoes striking the concrete floor in counterpoint to his racing heartbeat. He skidded to a stop and plunged to his knees, lifting Dean's head and feeling for a pulse. At the sudden jolt the hunter moaned, his hands scrabbling weakly at the floor as he tried to push himself up. He was still grasping the knife but didn't seem to notice, like it had become a part of him.
“Dean, save your strength,” Castiel urged, catching hold of Dean's hands and stilling them. The hunter's head lolled, and he made some indiscriminate noises before finally coughing and muttering, “Cas? Did we win?”
“We... did, Dean,” the angel said, smiling thinly. He shifted sideways, on a knee, to check on Sam. The younger Winchester was barely breathing, his face, neck, and the front of his shirt saturated with his own blood.
Dean was trying to push himself up along the wall and failing miserably. “Sam?” he croaked, his head thrown back and his teeth clacking in a grimace. He looked around, his eyes becoming wild, until he lit on the mostly motionless form of his younger brother. “Sam!”
“He's alive -- Dean, please stop moving,” Castiel said, catching hold of him, pinning him to the wall to keep him upright. He felt bloody cloth squish beneath his fingers and he probed Dean's abdomen only to earn a sharp cry in return. A fresh well of blood surged over his hands, and Dean's yelp choked off in a bubbling cough. “Shh,” Castiel said, “I've got you. I've got...”
He couldn't heal him.
He was completely unable to heal Dean.
He could feel his grace within him, but he couldn't access it. It lay dormant, coiled inside himself inside his vessel, unresponsive no matter what he tried. What little remained within his grasp wasn't nearly enough, and it would eventually run out, leaving him weak and less than useless. Blood that wasn't his seeped through his coat and suit, and Dean's breathing lapsed into short, panting gasps. From the floor Sam, still deeply unconscious, issued a pitiable whine.
I have to get them out of here, Castiel realized, or they will die.
Because I cannot heal them.
A thin trickle of purely human fear slid down his vessel's spine – his spine – as Castiel realized that he was, at the moment, undeniably mortal.
Shoving that fear deep down within him, Castiel slid his hands under the elder Winchester's arms, intending to lift him to his feet, but when he got about halfway his strength flagged – an entirely new sensation. He couldn't prevent a gasp from escaping as he staggered, pressing his weight against Dean to keep him from sliding back down the wall. His face squashed into Dean's shoulder for a moment. When he pulled back from it, he could feel all the hurt and dismay and utter disbelief he was reeling with being written across his face.
I have to get them out of here.
I'm the only one who can.
The hunter laughed, a cackling gurgle that spattered the angel's coat with more blood. “You gonna kiss me, Cas?”
“Now is not the time for untoward sentiment,” Castiel grunted, shifting decisively as he kept Dean pinned so he could hoist him on to his back. “Put your arms around my neck.”
Dean complied, moving like his limbs were sacks of wet flour. Castiel managed to get one of Dean's legs wrapped around his waist, then the other, and held them there with one hand while he laboriously bent down to retrieve Sam.
His muscles straining – yet another new sensation – the angel-made-man managed to pull the younger hunter under his arm and straighten as best he could. Then he began the slow, burdened trudge to the warehouse door.
Get to the car, he thought, get to the car. It became a mantra. No door had ever seemed so far away. His muscles burned, his lungs aching but unable to fill entirely. His charges weighed him down, slowed his progress, but he never stopped moving forward. He refused to stop moving forward.
The door was hanging by one hinge and he tumbled through into stifling summer heat, gasping for breath, his shoulders aching to shrug, re-situate, but he feared he might lose his tenuous grip on the brothers were he to do anything but keep moving forward.
The Impala sat at the far edge of the overgrown parking lot, glinting in the overbearing sunlight. She was the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever seen. As he stumbled toward her he fixed his eyes upon her, forcing every sense to numbness lest he collapse under the strain. Sweat began to drop down his face, stinging his eyes, tickling his skin. It made him itch.
Dean moaned, low in his ear.
With a mighty heave, the angel sped his pace.
After an eternity of endless moments, they reached the Impala. Castiel set Sam down gently on the cracked asphalt, where he sank with a pained sigh. Shifting Dean across his back, the angel tried the car doors, which to his great relief were unlocked. He didn't really want to search Dean's pockets for the keys.
He deposited the older hunter in the driver's seat, then set about arranging Sam in the back. He felt tired. How does humanity carry on in the face of such limited endurance? He thought them simply primates, once – but even a monkey will realize its limits and curl up on the ground, spent. Humans will keep pushing. Humans will refuse to give up despite all signs they should, despite their bodies giving out and their ceaseless feelings running rampant. Castiel understood all of this, then, and he slammed the back door, moving to kneel beside the open driver's side with his head bowed, chest heaving as he fought to regain the breath denied him.
“Cas?” Dean's voice was so weak. The angel's head snapped up and blue eyes met bleary green.
"Cas...” the hunter said with some effort, “I can't... I can't feel my legs, man.” He shifted slightly, and the sound that choked out of him with that small movement wrenched Castiel's heart. He stood, knelt on the door step, leaning inside the car to touch Dean's face for no other reason than to reassure the hunter of his presence. Dean's lips slid upward in a small, sad smile.
“You're going to have to drive."
An icy spike plunged through Castiel's gut, every inch of him tense. The dash and headlights flickered on, and the radio crackled to life. "Into the distance, a ribbon of black...stretched to the point of no turning back ..."
"Cas," Dean said, and the strain was apparent, “I know you would have zapped us to the room already, if you could.”
The angel stared.
"Relax. You'll do fine." Dean coughed wetly. "Lucky for you she's an automatic." When he grinned, his teeth were red.
“I don't know what that --”
“Just – ah! – help me slide over,” and Dean braced himself on the leather seat. Castiel put pressure on the hunter's hip and slowly they got him over to the passenger side, where he slumped against the inside of the door with a frustrated moan. It was a mark of how grievous his injuries were, that he either didn't notice or didn't care about the blood soaking into the leather. His breathing was labored, and Castiel had to steel himself against worrying too greatly about it – or paying too much attention to the slick of red now painted across the leather seat – as he slid gingerly behind the wheel. He tucked his trench coat around his legs, and slammed the heavy door shut.
“My grubby halo, a vapor trail in the empty air...”
Another lightning slice of fear sizzled through his veins. The radio emitted bursts of static and changed stations once or twice, and a droning voice began to tell him about something called a restructured settlement. Suddenly overcome with a desire to shut that voice up the angel began frantically mashing buttons on the console, growing more and more frenzied as the voice continued and if he couldn't make the voice stop then how could he –
“Cas,” came a soft, strong reassurance, and Dean's bloody finger pressed the right button. The radio cut off, and Castiel heaved a sigh.
Then he realized what he'd been doing. I... was panicking, he realized, having observed humans in this state before. It was like an animalistic vice, holding me much too tightly. He never wanted to feel that way again.
Something warm and metallic pressed into his hand, and Castiel realized Dean was handing him the Impala's keys. He dangled them from his fingers, trying not to notice they were spotted with blood. “The silver one,” Dean murmured. “Put it in that hole on the side of the steering console.”
“The what?” Fear again.
“The wheel, Cas.”
Oh. He found the hole easily enough, but it took him three tries to fit the key in. His hand was shaking.
“Now turn it away from you.” It distressed him to hear the strength leeching from Dean's voice every time he spoke. Castiel turned the key with that flick of the wrist he'd seen so many times, and the Impala roared to life. Her well-tuned engine purred, vibrating through the floor and seat and into Castiel's flesh.
“I see why you like this,” he said without thinking. Dean's chuckle was lost as it became a pained cough, which in turn became a fading groan.
Castiel flexed his fingers around the rigid steering wheel, remembering in staggered flashes all the times he appeared in the car's back seat, watching Dean drive and Sam shift his legs against the confining dash – or, rarely, Sam drive, and Dean slouch indolently (sometimes nursing a hangover) in the other seat – in those peaceful moments before they noticed he was there.
He stared ahead out the windshield, lost in the reverie, and didn't notice right away when the ambient light dimmed. Then a runnel of black smoke twisted through his field of vision and he snapped to, realizing the air all around the car was full of disembodied demons. He stared, shocked to inaction, and when he saw a sluggish mist rising from the Impala's vents he started to shake.
His pulse echoed wetly behind his eyes.
Drive, drive! his mind screamed, but he didn't know how. Castiel gripped the wheel, slammed his feet down on the floorboards – he remembered seeing Dean's legs tense and the car jump forward – and when nothing happened dread settled deep in his lungs. The car idled with a low rumble, unaware.
“You have to put her in gear.”
The blood-soaked whisper barely registered through the pounding in his head. Castiel shot a wild glance in Dean's direction, saw the hunter's eyes barely open. “The pedals, by the floor,” he murmured. “Right is gas, left is brake. Use your right foot.” The words came out hurried, as though Dean feared he might not remain awake long enough to finish his thoughts. “Hold the brake down and use the lever just above the keys to shift. See the dashboard display, through the wheel?” Castiel peered at it. “Those letters in a line there: P, R, N, D... pull the stick through until D is highlighted. That's drive. That's what you want, Cas. Put her in... drive.” The last word came out in a sigh, and Castiel saw with a jolt that Dean was pale, so pale.
He slammed a foot on the left-hand pedal and threw the stick down.
Drive.
The angel hit the gas, slammed it straight to the floor. The Impala screamed with joy and shot forward, through the noxious cloud of demons and straight toward the open road.
The speed, the ambient force of her. This car, humanity's crowning mechanical achievement, was far more than Castiel had ever imagined her to be, and he exulted in the surge of wonder as they moved – it was almost like flying, with bits still barely kissing the ground.
He soon discovered that driving, unlike flying, required a great deal of concentration and no small amount of visual balance.
There were so many dials, and they jumped constantly. He couldn't watch them and the road before him – when he looked too long through the steering wheel, he began to run off the road. And keeping the car on the road, even staring straight at it! The wheel was incredibly sensitive, and Castiel had to keep both hands white-knuckled around it, his back crunched tense and his eyes drying out, paying studious, straining attention to staying between those sloping edges.
He thought back to all those times he saw Dean driving with one hand – with two fingers – and frustration welled. It just wasn't possible.
Although, perhaps, with practice...
The trees that edged the road flew by at dizzying speed, and the Impala made a new noise, a whine heard over the vibrating roar. “Cas,” Dean growled thickly, his voice harmonizing roughly with that of his car, “you're running her too hot. Dial it back a notch.”
Castiel eased up on the pedal, and immediately the scenery slowed, the trees maintained more focus as they sped along. The treeline broke into farm country, varying shades of green and brown mixing in sideways continuous lines.
Soon he realized that was how one drove a car – the glances at the dials and the observation of one's speed and the way twitches to the wheel and pumps of the pedal mixed with all of that to form a complex symphony of utter awareness. He felt it becoming second nature, and allowed himself to minutely relax.
A pothole caught the Impala's right front tire and she bounced, leaped, and the wheel jerked as Castiel tried frantically to correct and to just stay on the road. Dust flew and when the traction caught, rubber burned, and the squeal – not to mention the smell – struck Castiel cross-eyed.
A long, low groan sounded next to him. Castiel looked at Dean and to his horror saw a bloody smear on the passenger-side window, and some of the same on the ceiling. Dean's head had struck them. But he was moving, at least he was still –
Green eyes flew open.
“Cas! Eyes on the road!”
Castiel wrenched his attention forward just in time to yank the wheel and narrowly avoid a telephone pole. They were in a field, forward momentum mowing down some kind of crop, running not-quite-parallel to the road. More poles. Castiel couldn't quite judge their distance, and when he ducked the car between them, aiming for the asphalt, he clipped one with the passenger-side mirror. It shattered and sparked, spinning away behind them.
Dean swore. “Slow down, Cas!” He struggled against the smoothness of the leather beneath him, slick with his blood, trying to sit up straighter.
The angel dared not regard him. His eyes were as wide as they'd go. “I don't know how,” he grated out, terrified. He wasn't even sure if they were still traveling in the right direction.
“Brake pedal,” Dean rasped. “Not too –!”
But he'd hit it with too much force already. He felt Sam's unconscious form strike the back of the front seat as everything slammed forward, Castiel's sternum striking the wheel at such a velocity that he cried out, Dean sprawling over the dash to hit the windshield with a sickening thump. A deplorable sound left the angel's lips before he realized that he was the one who made it, and he shuddered, his body going limp. His foot eased off the brake, and the Impala sidled forward at a crawl.
Pain, every time he tried to draw breath. He wondered if he broke himself.
Beside him, Dean slumped backward, breathing in hitched little stops and starts. There was blood everywhere, now – Castiel observed through a pained haze that the hunter couldn't have much more of it left.
Drive, he heard his fuzzed mind snap, drive!
Taking a deep breath despite the pain, Castiel threw himself back into the seat and punched the gas. The pressure of their momentum compacted across what he strongly suspected was his fractured chest plate, but they were going forward again. And now he knew how to slow down, when they finally reached their destination.
He found a speed that made the passing crops look like drip paintings without making him dizzy, and lost himself in the mellifluous rhythm of the drive.
Crops gave way to a one-stop town, a blur of color and a crossroads passing in the blink of an eye. Then more crops, then trees again, all of it blending and warping into a narrow point at the apex of his vision, the point where the two sides of the road met in a singularity.
Castiel focused on that point with all he had, added its harmony to the song.
He gradually became aware of a red smear, slightly to the left of that vanishing point. It grew, as he sped along, becoming a thumbprint, then a toy, and then it was a life-sized truck bearing down on him at much the same speed as they. A terrible noise like a chorus of dissonant trumpets filled his ears as the truck sped by with inches to spare, the driver's face in the window a mass of apoplectic rage.
Castiel didn't even have time to properly form a confused expression before the truck blew past him and was gone.
“Hnn...” He'd never heard Dean make that noise before. A desperate, stricken sound through his nose. A quick glance told him the hunter had tilted his head back on the seat, and that it was a mask of pain and panicked resignation. His teeth were bared. He looked like an animal not ready to die.
Castiel's heartbeat sped and his foot twitched down on the gas pedal. “Hold on,” he grated out, “just hold on.”
They couldn't be more than – oh, what was that word? Miles, that's it – a double handful of miles out. Castiel thought he recognized the scenery. That was, until he realized it was just another broken town in the middle of some unnameable crop. They all looked the same. The Impala blew through this town with all the grace she possessed, a slick black streak with chrome and power around her edges. Castiel had a brief – the briefest – moment of revelation as he met the eyes of someone on the sidewalk and saw him seeing her through her eyes. The car was a deadly miracle, he was a madman. He felt reciprocal terror.
Then the instant passed and the car was naught but dying wind and a bright spark of memory. Castiel edged the gas pedal closer to the floor, smearing the crops into abstraction again. He imagined he could feel Dean dying.
Another voice groaned and with a jolt Castiel remembered Sam, just as a hand came to rest on the seat back and a tousled head of bloody hair followed it. “Dean, what happe --”
Sam's voice choked off. “C -- Cas?!”
“I am driving,” he said solemnly. He almost felt Sam's gaze travel to the pale form of his brother, slumped in his own blood. “Oh God, Dean!” the young man shrieked, hauling himself forward over the seat to feel for a pulse. “Dean, Dean, wake up!”
“He has lost too much blood,” Castiel offered, wishing he could actually look at them as he spoke. The road was lined with trees again, and seemed narrower than before. A smudge of color appeared to the left of his focal point, like before, and this time he twitched the wheel and hugged the right side of the road. The other vehicle, something small and green, passed by without incident.
He exhaled, not realizing he'd been holding his breath.
Dean stirred slightly in the seat next to him. “Sammy?” It was little more than a whisper.
“Dean!” Sam threw his arms around Dean, seat and all, but quickly withdrew when the embrace elicited a stark cry. “Oh God, Dean...”
“I'll be okay, Sammy,” Dean managed. Castiel huffed, a sound between a laugh and a sigh of relief. He felt the seat move as Dean shifted against it. “Looks like you managed not to wreck us so far, Cas,” he said, his rough murmur barely audible over the growl of the engine.
“Where are we going?” Sam asked. There was something wrong with his voice. It sounded... slurred.
“To the motel where we will meet Bobby Singer tomorrow,” Castiel answered, really wishing he could look at the brothers. He felt the air move behind him as the younger Winchester swayed, shook his head. “That's good. Cas, I don't – I don't feel --”
He felt the thump of a body hitting the space between the front and back seats, and as Dean called piteously for his brother for the barest moment the angel closed his eyes. Father, someone, anyone, let them live through this, Castiel prayed desperately, and stomped the gas pedal to the floor.
The quality of the light outside had been steadily changing, as he drove, and now it was apparent that the sun was beginning to set. The trees took on an amber hue, and shafts of pure, golden light interspersed with the sliding greens and deepening browns. The air coming through the vents had changed as well, filling his nostrils with scents of undergrowth, and the height of summer, and the coming night.
Castiel became lost in thought, in the symphony of the drive and his own beleaguered pondering as he allowed himself, for the time being, to wonder what had happened to him.
He replayed his memory of the battle, searching for clues. Small pains, that odd, sharp burning – had that been it? He twisted in the seat, trying to feel it any part of him was tender, but all he could feel was the constriction in his chest. Breathing was easier than it had been upon first impact, but any movement aggravated the injury until it was all he could feel. He shook his head, frustrated. Despite any number of suspicious circumstances, he couldn't rightly recall anything in the history of ever that would allow a demon to lock away his grace.
Shadows deepened around the vehicle as she sped her precious cargo along. The endless transcendental illustration of flashing scenery took on more somber hues, and the stretch of trees began to sparkle with independent dots of light – the very edges of civilization. As Castiel came back to reality, shaking off the thrall of memory, he became aware of a dull ache in his foot, tingling numbness in his fingers – and a very odd sound.
"Dean, what's that noise?"
There was no answer.
"Dean? Dean!"
But Dean was unconscious, still slumped against the passenger door. Castiel couldn't hear him breathing, which should have been easy, since for the majority of the trip Dean's breaths had been ragged, harsh things that bubbled ominously. The angel steeled himself, locked his fingers around the wheel and his arm in place, and leaned over quickly to press trembling fingers to Dean's jugular.
There was a pulse. Thready, but there. Castiel let out a sigh of relief, and refocused on the road.
The noise hadn't stopped -- in fact, it was growing louder. It seemed to be coming from behind the car. Castiel tried in vain to turn around far enough to see out the rear window, but all that accomplished was a very scary few seconds with the right side wheels in the grass.
Nostrils flaring he focused every bit of his intent upon the road before him, refusing to look anywhere else, knowing that if he did he could kill them all. Sparks of red and blue fringed the edges of his vision, stark against the now robust shadows as the sun all but disappeared. He frowned, shifted his gaze to chase the sparks, and realized after a moment that they were reflected on a small rectangle attached to the windshield.
It allowed him to see through the rear window.
Realization dawned. This was how Dean managed to drive and see objects behind him but never turn around.
He added the flicker of his eyes to and from this little reflective miracle to the swelling orchestral masterpiece of this thing called driving – this thing he would never, ever again take for granted. The lights seemed to be growing brighter, which perhaps meant they were moving closer. They were such interesting colors, red and blue, flashing in a repetitive pattern. The noise grew louder as the lights drew closer, and Castiel began to grasp that they were most likely one in the same.
He also realized he was having trouble seeing the road.
Swirls of now-familiar anxiety played up and down his arms, danced across his injured chest, slipped down his legs. The dash lights flickered, and so did something on the front of the car, and for one blessed moment he could see –
– well enough to see the coming curve in the road that he was about to miss entirely.

He yanked the wheel to the right, fear coursing through him and kicking adrenaline into overdrive, which in turn surged through what little grace his body had left and in to the car. The headlights blazed, the Impala tipped on to two wheels, and Castiel made the turn with his bottom lip shredded between his teeth.
The left-hand tires met the asphalt again, and as the angel breathed a sigh of relief the headlights flickered out.
Panic. Lights.
This is not working, he thought frantically, his hand moving to fiddle with the switches on the left of the dash as he thought he remembered Dean doing. He found a knob and pulled it – and the lights stayed on, even when he cautiously allowed himself to relax.
The red and blue lights were filling his mirrored rectangle, now, even brighter and more garish as the last of the daylight slipped away, and something else was audible over the horrible wailing noise. A voice, heavily filtered through one of those – what was it? – amplification systems.
Gradually his sadly limited mortal ears were able to discern one from the other. Pull over now, the voice was saying, or we will be forced to stop you by any means necessary.
This, though, did not fill Castiel with fear.
He pushed the Impala to her limit, ignoring with a grimace the high-pitched whine that entered the roar of her engine, and watched the red and blue lights begin to dwindle.
Then they were back, gaining on him again, and his heart clenched as it occurred to him that perhaps there were cars that could travel faster than the Impala. He never would have thought it possible, not after watching the scenery blur as it had today – but there was the evidence in the little reflective rectangle.
Up ahead, bright lights appeared in the dark, at the point where the road met itself. Castiel's brow furrowed.
His knuckles felt as though they were splitting, he was already gripping the wheel so tightly, but he clutched it tighter still, his focus narrowing until all he could see was the rapidly approaching roadblock, the white cars with their red and blue lights parked sideways, across the road.
They intended to stop him.
He had no intention of letting them.
They were mere feet away when Castiel realized all he had to do was push – once, hard, perhaps harder than he could right now with the tattered remnants of his grace – on the road beneath the Impala's front wheels, and she bucked up, rear end scraping and sparking as she rode the push and charged up, on to, and over the white cars. The world skewed horribly for the longest moment, the jostling more than intense, and Castiel almost lost his grip on the wheel when they were nearly vertical – he heard Sam's arm strike the back window and Dean's legs catch beneath the dash – but then they bumped, jolted down, the front end striking the road, and the tires found traction with a howl and they sped into the night.
Castiel watched with no small amount of satisfaction as the confusion they'd left behind faded from the rear-view mirror.
It was only a few more miles to the motel. A sign no human would have had the speed of focus to read flashed into view and gone, and Castiel allowed a fraction of tension to release from his shoulders.
The car didn't sound any worse for the wear she'd suffered. As more and more houses, then squares, then actual commercialized buildings came into view, Castiel eased up on the gas, mimicking the speed of other drivers. There were other drivers, now, even at night – something about urban centers and insomnia, Castiel thought, harried. He passed through one crossroads, then another, barely paying attention to the colors and sounds that flashed in and out of his cognizance, until a familiar noise hailed him. The same noise that red truck had made.
He was doing something wrong. Oh, what now?
He barreled down the main thoroughfare, more lost in his worry than he'd have cared to admit, so beside himself he didn't realize the car ahead of him had stopped until he as almost on top of them and then it was all brakes and screeching and almost touching and dead stop. Adrenaline spiked almost as an afterthought, dulling the renewed ache in his chest from where he'd struck the wheel again.
At least the Winchesters were soundly unconscious. Castiel winced. He'd felt Sam slam into the back of the front seat, and Dean was crumpled against the dash. The angel raised a shaking hand and gently pushed him back, so that in the stark dips of electric shadow he appeared to be merely sleeping.
The glare of the red lights hanging above them colored everything bloody. Castiel trembled, peering at the scene before him, wallowing in his confusion. Why is that car stopped? Are they doing something that concerns me? Should I have simply driven around –
Then the lights turned green, washing everything the sickly color of artificial plant life, and as the car in front of them pulled away Castiel believed he understood. A signal, he thought tiredly, it was a signal.
The truck-noise must have come from someone trying to tell him he was ignoring the signal. It was most likely something that should demand his attention.
So many things demanding his attention. He had no more to spare.
The symphony of the drive became cacophonous as he continued through the city, the stop-and-go of these seemingly arbitrary signals bursting through the rhythm and turning it into something raucous -- civilization uncivilized.
And Castiel was so very tired.
It felt as though eons had passed by the time he recognized the tawdry, glowing sign for the motel. The Alice Inn at Wonderland, it said, and he didn't even waste a thought on his incomprehension. Castiel swung the wheel around like a pro and slid the Impala around obstacles in the parking lot, the serpentine movements making him feel more alive. Even as tired as he was, he felt his lips forming a grin. He loved the idea that perhaps, just maybe, he was getting good at this.
Castiel recognized where Dean would have parked, in this situation – on the very end, in front of a room that looked vacant and that he intended to demand they occupy. First floor, abutting the thick hedge that marked the edge of the property. There was no tall lamp illuminating this corner, either, just the small light outside the room – so no one could look in the car and see two unconscious, bloody men draped unceremoniously within.
A moment's hesitation, then he remembered, and Castiel kept his foot on the brake as he slid the gear shift through to P. P is for park, he thought obtusely, and for a moment just sat there, breathing, feeling the dulling pain in his chest and reveling in the feeling of not moving for the first time in hours. It was a heady feeling, the very slowness of it trawling through his limbs, replacing tension and residual fear with the overwhelming desire to sleep.
That was what shook him from his stupor. Angels didn't sleep. I have to get them inside and figure this out, quickly.
He twisted in the seat, hissing as his chest contracted and the pain flared to life, as his thigh caught beneath the wheel, but he reached despite his discomfort to all but bury two fingers in Dean's neck. For a moment he didn't feel a pulse, and the bottom dropped out of the world, but then there is was, slow and faltering but there. He shifted, up on to his knees, to reach down behind the seat and find Sam's as well. His pulse was stronger, steadier, but he didn't move when Castiel touched him. Castiel turned back around, sank down into the seat.
Gathered his nerve.
His hand was on the door handle before he remembered – money. There was always money involved with motels and rooms.
He eyed Dean's motionless form for a moment, remembering how the hunter reacted to close proximity and unwarranted touching before he figured, well, he'll never know. A slender hand slipped beneath Dean's jacket and into his back pocket, for the wallet Castiel knew would be there. Sometimes it was in his jacket pocket, but he'd specifically seen Dean put it in his jeans when they left the diner, this morning ten thousand years ago.
The angel-made-man unfolded himself from the car with a sigh and a very welcome stretch. It was a warm night, and on impulse he shrugged out of his trademark trench coat – it was most likely covered in blood, anyway – which left him in a rumpled business suit. He slipped the car keys into his pants pocket. With a sad smile he tightened the tie, remembering those few times the brothers had done it for him, and strode toward the sign that flickered Office.
“I require a room.”
The attendant, a world-weary human woman of middling years, looked at him over the rim of cheap, plastic glasses. She appeared unimpressed. Castiel tried to summon some dignity, but he was exhausted, so he simply stared back, knowing his eyes looked dead.
“Let me see what we have,” she began in a nasal tone.
“The first-floor room on the end appeared unoccupied,” Castiel said, trying for helpful but just sounding wooden. “That is where I... parked my car.”
I parked my car. Sadness and giddiness at odds with one another over that one.
She raised an eyebrow. “Forty-five seventy-seven, then.”
He opened the wallet, warm leather comforting against his fingers, and counted out bills. She handed him a key with a purple cat attached, and gave him what Dean would call 'the stink-eye' until he exited.
Moving back to the car was a blur. He went straight to the passenger side, opening the door slowly so Dean didn't topple out. The hunter was so pale, and barely breathing, and Castiel's strength was tapped, but he managed to crouch and get Dean's arm around his shoulders, and walk him to the room.
Once the elder Winchester was laid on one of the twin beds – rather unceremoniously, to Castiel's chagrin, but he knew it couldn't be helped – the angel went back for Sam. It was difficult lifting him from between the seats, and walking him in to the room made Castiel feel very small and human indeed. He'd always known why Dean called his brother things like mammoth and Gigantor – he always had to look up at Sam when talking to him -- but now he had firsthand experience with the feelings that difference elicited.
He slid the younger brother on to the other bed. By the light of the weak bedside lamp, the circles under Sam's eyes looked like they'd been carved there.
Castiel went back out to the car, shut the back door, and made to shut the passenger door when the rumpled cloth in the driver's seat caught his eye.
Swiping up the bundle, he slammed the door closed and ducked back into their room.
Just inside he stopped, letting the door swing shut, for a moment just breathing in the semidarkness. His muscles ached, his chest was dull fire, and his eyes felt like they were full of grit. He couldn't look at the brothers, mostly motionless on their beds – it made the grit swim and his lips tremble.
Castiel fingered the familiar khaki trench coat, the worn fabric much abused with blood stains and irreparable wrinkles, and made to put it on, perhaps as a comfort – only to stop and stare at the circular hole burned straight through the back.
Something clicked, in his mind, and his hand flew to his own back. Felt the hole burned straight through his layers of clothing, and the raised, tender edges of the brand over his kidney.
Those sinuous denizens of the pit had branded him.
Castiel felt the old familiar fury rise from deep within him, that which drove him to sing through the slaughter of demons, during the righteous battles against Heaven's enemies. He felt familiar essences swell, only to choke off suddenly and leave him doubled over, breathless.
This has to stop.
His gaze darted to the brothers, so pale and bloody. I have to be able to heal them. This has to end.
He remembered Dean's stained fingers clutching the demon knife like it was a part of him, but then so much happened he had no memory of where it went after that.
Perhaps –
Castiel trod softly, swiftly to the side of Dean's bed. The hunter was mostly on his left side, his lips parted, a dribble that was mostly blood escaping them. Jammed into his belt was the knife, and Castiel had never before been so happy to see an invention of darkness.
No hesitation, just fluid dexterity as he slid the blade from its makeshift sheath and brought it to bear on his back, barely grimacing as it parted seared flesh. The power housed within it tickled a little. He felt his vessel's blood bubble forth, but that mere physical sensation was lost in the sudden fiery, liquid, completing rush of his returning grace.
Tiredness, fear, pain – all those washed away. He felt nothing but serene.
Dropping the knife, Castiel crouched between the beds, placing one hand on each of the brothers. He didn't even have to close his eyes – the healing began immediately, color returning to Dean's cheeks, Sam gasping and sitting up.
“Castiel?” It almost wasn't a question that wanted an answer. Castiel didn't look at Sam, just continued funneling strength and wholeness into Dean, willing him to open his eyes.
“Is he...?”
Then Dean's lips parted further, and he drew his first unhindered breath in hours. His eyes squeezed even more tightly shut, his face a vision of consternation and confusion, and then they finally opened, and the wonder in them sent a song through Castiel's very grace.
“Cas...” he breathed, and Castiel canted his head to the side, a small smile on his lips.
“What is it, Dean?” As though nothing in the past day mattered, or had even happened.
The hunter breathed a sigh that sounded very much like glad to be alive. “You're glowing.”
So I am, Castiel realized with some amusement. “I have regained control of my essence,” he said by way of explanation. He could feel Sam behind him, now, feel the younger Winchester's confusion and awe.
Dean chuckled, sitting up quickly then outright laughing. “All right! Score one for angel juice.”
Then his head whipped quickly to the door. “Is the car --”
“The car is fine, Dean,” Castiel said gravely. “Perhaps a few scratches, but --”
“Scratches? What did you do to her?” Dean scrambled off the bed, threw open the door. “CAS!” he roared. “You trashed my baby!”
Now that Castiel looked at her, it was apparent the journey had been hard. Deep scratches marred the hood and front fender, and the grille, now dented, had collected quite an assortment of grasses and twigs. One of the mirrors was gone. Remembering their impromptu high-speed crawl over those white cars, Castiel winced. He could only imagine what the underside must look like.
He stepped around the bed, hand outstretched, mouth dropping open, wanting to placate but not knowing what to say.
I – did I fail? Despite...
Dean started to stalk outside, then stopped, and turned. In the half-light of the parking lot, one eye was in shadow, but one glittered wetly.
“You drove us to safety, didn't you?”
Castiel could only nod.
Lithe as any predator, Dean closed the distance between them and swept him up in a crushing hug. “Thank you,” he murmured into Castiel's collar. “You did it, Cas, you saved us.”
As his ears discerned Sam turning on the faucet in the bathroom, Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean and returned the embrace. He felt far removed from the desperation, the emotions of that day – but he vividly remembered feeling them. He also knew he'd do it again, every time.
He focused over Dean's shoulder, out the door, on a familiar beautiful presence.
The symphony of the drive would never stop singing through his veins.

FIN

A/N: There will be a Destiel sequel to this, because Mistress Whimsy demanded it (and I was already thinking that this needed to culminate in smut, anyhow), so stay tuned!
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Learning to Drive