A/N: Takes place early season 12 after Sam is rescued from the British MoL. However, I started writing this before season 12 aired, so several details won't add up with canon. Mary isn't in this fic because I wanted to get to know her character a bit more before writing her. I'd actually written that she went off for some personal time, though I'd had her do it under way better circumstances than the show whammied us with.

Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters aren't mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading!

Chapter 1

Castiel blinked blearily at a mottled blur of blues, greens, and browns filling his vision. He felt as though he were underwater, looking up at wavelengths of light being bent and refracted. Except he was not submerged, and the distinct aroma of pine was prickling his nose.

He blinked several more times, and the splotchiness began to clear. The earthy shades sharpened into crooked tree branches splayed with leaves, a hazy cerulean sky beyond. Castiel shifted; pine needles crunched beneath him and a few twigs poked into his back. He forced himself to settle, to get his bearings before moving. Woodland sounds echoed around him: the scuttle of a squirrel up some tree bark, the buzz of a wasps' nest, the rustle of flora. It would have been soothingly tranquil if not for the fact that Castiel had no idea where he was or how he'd gotten there.

He tuned his senses to the cosmos to orient himself, and realized with a start that he was in the heart of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in California, which was several hundred miles away from where he last remembered being.

A groan issued from his left, and Castiel turned his head to find Dean laying face down a few feet away. The angel instantly pushed himself up, teetering precariously when his vision swam. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness and crawled over to the Winchester.

"Dean." Castiel fumbled to grasp the hunter's shoulder and shake him gently. He didn't see any injuries, which was good, because with Castiel feeling this woozy, he didn't know if his grace was stable enough to heal at the moment. But he'd worry about his own condition in a minute.

"Dean," he tried again.

Dean's brow furrowed as he let out another low moan. "Ungh." His eyelids fluttered rapidly before finally opening, and he tried to lift his head. "Cas?"

"Are you alright?"

Dean craned his head around, and pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. Castiel kept a hand on his shoulder to help brace him.

"Yeah. Where are we?"

"The Sierras."

Dean gaped at him. "Why?"

"I don't know. I just woke up here." Castiel swept his gaze around the area. One thing he did know was that he had not been with the Winchesters when he apparently blacked out or whatever it was that had caused him to lose time. He squinted, trying to remember. He'd been hunting Lucifer when…he'd been attacked? It had happened quickly, maybe a figure had stepped out from hiding, and then a bright light and…nothing.

"Sam!" Dean suddenly shouted, lurching to his feet and staggering toward the base of a tree where the younger Winchester was laying half-concealed. Castiel had not even registered his presence with his brown jacket blending in with the surrounding mulch and dirt.

Dean dropped down beside his brother, who jolted into consciousness and tried to wrench away before recognition set in.

"Dean?" Sam spluttered, whipping his gaze around. "What the hell is going on?"

"No friggin' idea," Dean replied as he helped Sam sit up. "Cas says we're in the Sierras."

Sam frowned and glanced over Dean's shoulder to Castiel.

"Whoever brought you here apprehended me as well," he explained before Sam could repeat Dean's earlier question. "I don't remember much," he admitted. "What were you two doing before you woke up here?"

"Uh…" Sam gave himself a small shake as though to dispel the last of his mental fog. "We were on a case. Straight-up werewolf hunt." His brows knitted together as he looked at Dean. "We were approaching the den, right?"

"Or what we thought was a den," Dean muttered. "Seems a bit suspicious now."

"A werewolf would be an easy way to gain your attention," Castiel said. Just as a false trail for Lucifer would easily lure him, which suggested a culprit recently familiar with the Winchesters and Castiel. Unless it was Lucifer himself. But to what purpose? Why strand them in the middle of the mountains and not chain them up in some dungeon? That would certainly be more like the fugitive archangel's MO.

Castiel did a quick scan of the area, confirming it was just the three of them. He stiffened. "Where's Mary?"

Castiel knew how important it was to the brothers that they had their mother back, which put her at the top of Castiel's list of people to protect.

Dean visibly tensed. "She wasn't with us. She left on her own a few days ago, wanted some personal time or a spa weekend or something. You don't think…" He started looking around frantically.

"I'm sure if she had been taken, she would have been left here with us," Castiel assured him.

"But why are we here?" Sam asked, finally getting to his feet and turning in a half circle. He paused, and patted down his jacket before pulling out not only his handgun, but the demon-killing knife as well. Dean checked his person and found he was also still in possession of his weapons, which included a flask of holy water. Castiel's own blade was securely stowed away in the ethereal plane, but it did provide another mystery to this entire situation.

"Okay…" Dean tucked his gun back into his waistband. He pulled out his cell phone next, only to scowl and shove it back in his pocket. Castiel assumed it did not have a signal.

Dean turned to the angel. "How far away from civilization are we?"

Castiel focused on measuring the position of the stars to find their exact longitude and latitude. He frowned. "Thirty-five miles. It will take us approximately twelve to fifteen hours of nonstop walking, depending on the terrain."

If only his wings weren't broken so he could transport the Winchesters out of here. But that was an aspect of his grace that would likely never fully heal. He was as stuck as any mortal.

"Fan-frickin'-tastic," Dean grumbled. "Which way?"

"We're just gonna start walking?" Sam asked incredulously.

"You wanna wait around for whoever's behind this to show up?"

"Maybe they just want to talk."

"Then they can pop in on the way, but I'm not waiting for some dickbag to decide to screw with us more." Dean turned to Castiel expectantly.

Unfortunately, as difficult as it would be, they had little else to do about their situation. And so Castiel took the lead and turned to start heading southeast through the wilderness.

"Who do we know who's capable of doing this?" Sam asked, falling into step at the rear. "God? Maybe there's something out here he wants us to do."

Castiel couldn't help but bristle. Chuck had abandoned them too many times, including not that long ago to run off with Amara and work on 'family time.' God hadn't bothered to answer Castiel's prayers in years; if he wanted something now, he could damn well take care of it himself. Castiel had given his last by saying yes to Lucifer, and since that hadn't done anything in the end to actually help, and had only made things worse with Lucifer now being on the loose somewhere, Castiel was not inclined to try again. He would see the archangel back in his cage to clean up his own mess, but after that, he was done.

"I don't know," Dean hedged. "Chuck seemed pretty intent on taking an extended vacation. And now that we know who he is, don't you think he'd be a little more direct?"

"Okay, but it just doesn't make sense," Sam pressed. "Throwing us out here like this. Unless…maybe someone wants us out of the way for something, but doesn't want to kill us." He paused. "Crowley?"

Dean scowled. "I wouldn't put it past him, but last we heard, isn't he busy trying to reclaim Hell and hunt down Lucifer?"

"You…" Sam's voice lowered considerably. "You don't think this is Lucifer, do you?"

"No," Castiel responded. "Lucifer would be more overt in an assault."

Besides, the archangel had been laying low since Amara knocked him down a few pegs. He had neither the loyalty of angels nor reverence from demons to establish a kingdom in the wake of the Darkness's departure.

"So, then what?" Sam asked, sounding frustrated.

Castiel sympathized. He had no idea what to make of things, and it unnerved him greatly. Not so much for himself, but how could he protect the Winchesters if he didn't know what he was supposed to be guarding them from?

"The British Men of Letters?" Dean suggested after a minute. "They seem to have it in for us."

"They'd rather extract a bunch of intelligence from us," Sam pointed out. "Not send us on some weird camping trip."

Dean huffed, but fell silent. The topography was becoming more steep, and they were all focusing on navigating their way down the slope.

Castiel's thoughts turned to some of the other challenges they would be facing out here: no food, no water, and no shelter. Castiel might have been able to walk all the way out of the mountains without stopping, but it would be too hazardous for the Winchesters to try hiking at night, which meant it would take them at least two days, maybe more. And that meant that water would be a critical need. At least Dean had the flask of holy water, and Castiel could purify anything from a mountain stream to prevent the Winchesters from getting sick.

Food would be harder. Sam and Dean could go without, but it would help their energy and stamina if they didn't have to. Castiel would need to keep an eye out for edible berries and nuts.

Which left the last problem of finding shelter at night. If the weather remained fair, Castiel could at least cure chilliness and ward off hypothermia. And he would stand guard against predators while the Winchesters slept.

Yes, they would make it out of this. It would be a long and arduous journey, but Castiel would see the brothers safely returned home to their mother. Assuming there were no surprises along the way.

He should have known better than to think that.

Castiel heard the snap of twine and the whoosh of a projectile. He spun just as an arrow struck Sam in the shoulder, knocking the Winchester back a step. Sam let out a surprised gasp as he stumbled against a tree.

"Sammy!"

"Dean, don't move!" Castiel snapped.

Dean went rigid, eyes wild and desperate to reach his brother, but he held himself perfectly still, as though Castiel's voice had the power to paralyze him.

Castiel peeled his eyes against the camouflaged foliage. That shot had not come from a great distance, and he didn't hear anyone nearby. His gaze narrowed on something concealed within a bush only a few yards away. Cautious of where he stepped, Castiel moved closer and pushed the branches aside, revealing an old, frontier-style wooden crossbow mounted between two thick limbs. A trip wire ran from the trigger and down to the ground.

"Son-of-a-bitch," Dean swore under his breath, and started scanning the ground for more.

Castiel did the same, berating himself for not spotting it in the first place. He had walked through that opening first. He should have either seen it or taken the hit himself.

There didn't appear to be any more booby traps in the immediate area, so Castiel turned and finally moved toward Sam. Dean took that as his cue it was safe and rushed over as well.

Sam was leaning heavily against the tree trunk, his right hand up and clutching at his left shoulder, just underneath the wooden shaft sticking out of it. His cheeks puffed with strained breaths as he fought to keep his composure.

"Cas?" Dean said, both a question and a plea as he hovered worriedly over his brother.

Castiel did a quick assessment. Nothing vital appeared to have been hit, but the bolt had pierced deeply, though not all the way through; it had stopped when it struck Sam's shoulder blade.

"I have to take it out before I can heal you," he said.

Sam's chest heaved as he gave a shaky nod. "Do it."

Castiel flattened his palm against Sam's chest, his thumb and forefinger framing the shaft. Dean gripped his brother's other shoulder and squeezed supportively. With his other hand, Castiel wrapped his fingers around the thin piece of wood and yanked it out in one swift move. A pained yell tore from Sam's throat, and Dean ducked in to catch his weight as he sagged.

Castiel stared in dismay at the bloody, splintered shaft in his hand—the arrowhead had snapped off, and was still inside Sam's shoulder.

"Dammit," he cursed.

Dean whipped his head up. "What?" he demanded. His eyes widened when he saw the broken bolt. "But you can still heal him, right?"

Castiel gritted his teeth against the accusation and disappointment. "Not with the arrowhead still imbedded," he ground out. He may have been stronger than he'd been since running on stolen grace, but his own wasn't exactly whole when he got it back from Metatron.

Sam slid himself down the tree trunk until he was slumped on the ground. "Not like…we haven't…had to do field surgery before," he got out between pained breaths.

Castiel crouched down next to him, heart clenching at the Winchester's waning complexion. "I'm sorry… The pain won't last long," he promised. Because he had to at least be able to do that for the Winchester, since he was failing at everything else.

Sam nodded jerkily. "Let's just get it over with."

Castiel slipped his angel blade out from his sleeve, but handed it to Dean, knowing neither brother would trust anyone else for this part.

"I should get a Boy Scout badge for how many times I've had to do this," Dean quipped as he knelt down too.

Castiel frowned at him, but didn't bother asking what that was supposed to mean. He guessed by Sam's responding smirk that the jest was meant to distract Sam from what was coming. When the younger Winchester fumbled to get the buttons of his shirt undone, Castiel stepped in to help. He then tugged Sam's jacket and shirt down around his shoulder to expose the wound.

Dean angled the tip of the blade down to make an incision underneath the hole. Sam sucked in a sharp gasp as metal sliced through skin and muscle, and his leg jerked, nearly kicking Dean. Castiel grabbed Sam's knee to hold him still.

Dean finished making the cut below and above, then met his brother's eyes with a grim expression. "Here we go." He stuck his fingers into the wound.

Sam threw his head back against the tree trunk, gritting his teeth against a scream that tried to tear from his throat. Blood streamed down his chest anew, and Castiel yearned for the days when a trivial piece of lead could not impede his powers.

Dean's fingers squelched as he struggled to rotate and then dig the arrowhead out. Sam's pallor was turning ashen and he looked on the verge of passing out, which would have been a mercy if they didn't need to stay on their guard. Castiel pressed two fingers to the young man's forehead, bringing him back from the brink of shock.

"Come on," Dean muttered, and a second later he yanked his hand out, fingers and black spade of lead coated in blood.

Castiel immediately poured more healing into Sam, and in the blink of an eye, his shoulder and shirt were mended. Sam's eyes flew wide as he jerked back to full consciousness. He wildly patted his shoulder until he realized it was healed.

"Th-thanks," he said.

Castiel stood up and took a step back, giving the brothers room to assure themselves of each other's wellbeing. Sam should not have had to suffer through that, not if Castiel had pulled the bolt out properly in the first place. He needed to be more diligent.

Dean took Sam's arm and hauled him to his feet again. "Who the hell sets a booby trap all the way out here?"

Sam ran a shaky hand through his hair. "You think it's just coincidence, or was meant for us?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it," Dean said, casting a wary look around at the woods, which suddenly loomed more ominously than before.

"We should be careful moving forward," Castiel said. He did not want to imagine what other injuries the Winchesters might incur that Castiel would have difficulty healing.

Crowley pulled open the heavy oak door of the hunting lodge, purportedly closed for the season, and was immediately greeted with discordant chatter, boisterous shouts, and the clink of glasses from the bar counter. Well, well, well, this was quite the gathering. He surveyed the clientele—pagan deities, handfuls of demons, and even some vampires and werewolves high up on the pure blood chain. All arguably powerful players, gathered together in an isolated resort in the mountains. They had to be up to something. Something Crowley had evidently not warranted an invitation to. He'd only heard snippets of plotting through the grapevine, and given his precarious position in Hell after Lucifer's usurpation, he wanted to know exactly what these miscreants were up to.

Upon first glance, however, it looked little like a military coalition and more like the playtime resort it was to the humans during the winter. Drinks were being served, along with platters of delicacies ranging from Brioche Rounds and Caviar to strips of raw meat and human entrails. There was a large screen mounted to one wall, an information display system showing lists of names with numbers that fluctuated as it was updated. Right below it was a long table manned by three guys who appeared to be exchanging betting slips with people.

Crowley's curiosity was definitely piqued. How long had this place been in operation? Surely not long, as he would have heard of it before. And he couldn't imagine some bloke setting it up while the Darkness had been running around threatening to obliterate them all. Perhaps this was some kind of celebration at averting the next Apocalypse. Who was in charge, though? And why had Crowley been snubbed from attending?

He moseyed through the crowd, still cautious and keeping his eyes and ears peeled for whispers specifically about or against him. One voice rose louder than the socializing din, and Crowley veered toward it. Within one of the adjoining common rooms, he found a group gathered in front of a small platform, upon which stood a demon and a hellhound.

The demon had one hand on the hound's flank, the other under its chin to hold its head up. "Notice the perfectly toned muscles, built for speed and taking down large prey." He moved to pull the beast's lips up, revealing a row of ivory fangs. "Canines, naturally sharpened and able to rend limbs with a single bite."

The animal's red eyes lolled around at the spectators, though it did not move under its master's hold, enduring with only a snarled impatience as its handler prodded it to turn this way and that, giving everyone a good view of its sleek, inky black form and sinuous muscles.

Crowley maneuvered his way to the front, though off to the side, just enough to catch the demon's eye. Malloy faltered for a second in apparent surprise before his mouth curved upward in a grin. "Think it over, folks," he said to the crowd, and then strode over and jumped down from the platform. Without his presence, the hellhound began growling low in its throat at the spectators.

"Big Boss Man," Malloy greeted. "Been a while. How's Juliet?"

"She's fine," was Crowley's clipped reply. Though, in truth he hadn't seen his prized hellhound since Lucifer's return. Hopefully she was safely away guarding one of Crowley's crypts. He'd have to check on her.

Malloy nodded. "Good to hear. I'm afraid she was the last of Ironhide's brood. The old brute got killed by the next alpha not much after I sold you Juliet." The demon sighed, his gaze taking on a nostalgic glaze.

"Is this where you sell your stock now?" Crowley asked, casting a distasteful look around the place.

Malloy shifted his weight, demeanor changing. "Er, no. I mean, there hadn't been much call for hellhounds…um, lately. But I ain't selling to these hoi polloi. I was just asked to provide some prime specimens for the games—for a cut in the betting profits, of course."

Crowley arched a brow. "Betting on what, exactly?"

"On that." Malloy stepped toward the doorway and pointed to a television monitor mounted on the wall perpendicular to the betting screen. Crowley had dismissed it earlier as a scenery screen saver with its woodland backdrop, but now that he was looking, he spotted three familiar figures trudging through those woods.

"Betting is now closed," a loud voice announced, magically amplified to fill the entire lodge and adjoining rooms.

A figure with long black hair and Navajo features stepped forward, his presence instantly silencing the clamor. "Release the hellhound."

Malloy ducked back into the room and returned with his animal, which he led to a back door. Two ushers opened it, and Malloy smacked the beast's rear, sending it off into the woods at a mad run.

Everyone started pressing forward to watch the television monitor that showed the infamous Winchesters and the angel Castiel trekking, apparently unawares, down the mountain.

Crowley stared at the screen. "Bollocks."