The rain had been falling so hard and for so long that it seemed to have soaked into everything. The landscape was heavy with it. The branches of the spruce along the roadside were drooping, and sounds were muffled in the damp oppression of the air. The windshield ran with water, it bulged ahead of the wiper blade like a tiny tsunami, pushed across the glass.

The inside of the car was warm, heat blasting from the vents, fighting a constant battle against the misting humidity of the air. Headlights reflected back the droplets as they fell from the sky and danced back up off the slick road. It was only 5pm, but the combination of storm laden cloud and northerly latitude contributed to a darkness that spoke more of night than twilight.

Dean rolled his neck, and stretched his shoulders without ever once relinquishing his relaxed grip on the wheel. He yawned and glanced across at the road map. Another couple of hours and he could look for a place to stay, maybe find himself a road house and some easy company, either from a bottle or not, as the case may be. He rubbed at the bruise on his stubbled chin.

"Must be gettin' old," he said aloud to the empty car. A few years ago and even with three against one, he would've easily dodged the punch, instead of spiraling to the ground outside a dive bar.

He hadn't needed the sheriff to escort him over the town boundary, he was leaving anyway; goodbyes said, fresh laundry packed away in his duffel, fuel tank full, his meagre belongings already carefully stowed into the trunk. It was best when you made your living doing casual work and hustling, never outstaying your welcome. He had to admit, he'd reached the limit of goodwill in that particular town.

The guitar riff died away on the last track and the tape deck clicked and auto-ejected the cassette. He'd never felt the need to replace the old cassette player with a more modern stereo. His music collection remained frozen, a snapshot of happier times, when he was still part of a family.

He grabbed the box with a practiced hand, but his knuckles were stiff and sore from the fight, so he fumbled and dropped the mix tape. It hit the leather bench seat and bounced awkwardly somewhere under his feet. "Son of a bitch!" he snapped at himself, looking down and momentarily distracted.

"Fuck!" He was on the brakes, the heavy car slewing through the slick surface water, the vivid impression of a figure, face turned into the headlights, eyes and mouth wide o's of shock and horror emblazoned in his brain. He wrestled the wheel, adrenaline, reflexes and his instinctive ability to read every minute twitch and nuance of his car, letting him pull out of the skid and draw to a standstill on the side of the road.

He let the engine idle, and seeing nothing in his rear view mirror, undid his seatbelt and turned his upper body back to look through the back window. All he could see was a few feet of road and barrier highlighted red by his brake lights and beyond that the darkness and the subtle variation of colour between the treeline and the sky in the distance. "Son of a bitch," he muttered again under his breath. His heart pounding, he breathed deeply. He hadn't hit the man, but he had disappeared. He shrugged. It was none of his damn business what he was doing tramping down the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, in the pouring rain, but it could have cost them both… big time.

The box of tapes had been thrown into the footwell, but miraculously stayed upright, so tightly packed that they were all still in place. He scooped it up and fumbled under his feet for his favourite mix and swapped cassettes, pushing the box back into it's home under the dash.

He looked back again, but there was still no sign of anyone. Rolling his eyes with impatience, he grimaced. Every instinct told him to drive on. Not his problem.

"Dammit!" He pulled the gear stick back and dropped her into reverse.

He stopped when he saw the tell tale black rubber streaks of his own skid, gouged deep into the flat top, glistening back at him in the headlights. Maybe the guy had run off, spooked.

He cut the engine and opened his door. The only noise was the steady sound of a running stream somewhere nearby, the soft ping of the cooling car and the patter of the rain, which continued to fall with that curious gentle weight that real heavy rain possesses.

Tendrils of steam rose from the hot hood as the water evaporated from the gleaming paintwork. He was about to get back into the car, when he heard a splash, louder than than the steady flow, somewhere in the gloom beyond the roadside barrier.

"Hello?" he called, and walked to the edge of the roadway.

The ground dropped away from the road edge behind the barrier, presumably there to protect the unwitting motorist from careening down into the dip, before rising back up sharply into the bank of trees.

He peered into the gloom, and could just make out the figure of a man slumped against the bank, just above the line of water flowing down the gully. The man was trying to scale the bank, but each time he moved he slipped towards the torrent, feet dropping into the current with a splash as he sought purchase on the edge.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, scanning about him. If this guy fell into that fast flowing water, he was a goner. "Just stay there," he shouted, "I'll go grab something to get you out."

The man looked up. "It's not like I can go anywhere," the voice was unexpectedly deep and gravelly.

Cas clung, white-knuckled to a root, feeling it beginning to loosen and give under his weight, he pushed himself flatter against the muddy grit of the slope. Something smacked against his shoulder and then thudded down his back, before dropping alongside him and he grabbed at it.

His hands slipped down, and he felt the texture of rope as it burned into his palms. He swung away from the bank, his feet and lower legs sucked along the gully by the pressure of the water. Ignoring the pain in his hands, he used his upper body strength to haul himself up, and managed to brace his legs against the bank, wrapping the rope around his back and leaning into it. He paused, breathing heavily.

"Are you ready?" he heard the call and looked up again, the man loomed above him, silhouetted against the lights of a car. "I'll start to pull you up."

His feet still slipping he walked gradually up the bank, until strong arms gripped his and with one last heave he slid over the barrier, and they collapsed into a heap on the roadside, both panting heavily, the rain pattering loudly on his back.

"Do you think, you could… erm…" the man was trying to move underneath him.

"Sorry," he realised he was still lying heavily across his rescuer. He lifted himself gingerly, untangling himself from long denim clad legs.

The rain dripped from his hair down his nose. He sat back, on his heels, as the other man stood up. He squinted against the brightness of the light from the headlights, still unable to make out any features, beyond height… and bowed legs...did he get rickets as a kid?

"I'm sorry, man. I didn't see you, with the rain and the dark clothing…"

"It's also far easier to see what's in front of your car when you look through the windshield," the words had escaped his mouth without check from his brain, but 'the dark clothing!' Victim shaming or what? He realised how rude he sounded and bit the inside of his cheek. The guy had at least come back.

The man huffed, it might have been a laugh, it was hard to tell with his face shadowed as it was. Cas squinted through the rain and against the light.

He was a hot mess. Covered in mud, soaking wet, hair and face running with water, but 'hot' was right. Even in this state, he was an attractive guy. Improbably blue eyes, a few days growth and those bubblegum pink lips, skewing sideways as he bit the inside of his cheek. The sass drew an embarrassed laugh as his clumsy attempt to make excuses was skewered with simple accuracy.

The dark head cocked sideways and blue eyes narrowed into a squint, as if he was trying to unpick a mystery. Goddamn it; he was cute.

"Where are you heading?"

"Honestly?" The squint was gone and the guy shrugged in his wet clothes. "I have no idea."

Dean sighed. Against every instinct, he held out his hand. "Dean."

The man stared at the extended hand for a moment, and then took it. "Steve." It was a lie. Dean knew instantly. It had taken the man time to think of it. Not that it mattered. Dean had used enough aliases in his own life. Dammit, sometimes even he forgot what he was supposed to be called. They shook hands and 'Steve' hissed quietly through his teeth, his hand freezing mid-shake.

"Get in," Dean nodded towards the car.

Cas opened the passenger door with difficulty and looked at the immaculate leather of the bench seat. He realised just how filthy he was and hesitated. The rain was still falling heavily and a dribble ran down his neck under his shirt like an icy finger tracing his spine. He shivered, and climbed in. Dean had disappeared behind the car and he felt it dip as he slammed the trunk.

He turned to face him as he climbed in behind the driver's wheel. Dean flicked on the interior light, and put a battered tin on the seat between them. "Lemme see," he said. Cas held back. He dropped his voice, softer, kinder, "Your hands, lemme see."

Cas bit his lip, and extended one arm, slowly, reluctantly, wincing as Dean unfurled his fingers to reveal skin raw and bloody from the rope burns. He cleaned the burns with swift efficiency, wrapping them in clean soft bandages, wordlessly moving from one hand to the other.

"I'll fix those properly later. Take these." He held out a bottle of pills. Cas shook his head.

He knew it was irrational, that they probably were just innocent painkillers, but… He shut down the memory of three nights ago. Was it really only three days?

A flashback, vivid and harsh, forced its way into his thoughts. The determined, cold look on his brother, Raphael's, face as he entered the kitchen, the shock as he was grabbed and forced down onto the floor. The harshness and tight pinch of the hands gripping him as he fought against them. His satisfaction at breaking one arm free and the crunch of cartilage as his elbow made contact with a face short lived and spoiled by the roughness with which his sleeve had been yanked up. The deep burning scratch on his arm, then everything was swimming away… his last proper recollection his brother's voice instructing them to 'make sure there was no trail, no mistake.'

He blinked. Dean was staring at him, still holding the back of his hand lightly in a surprisingly gentle grip, shaking two pills out and balancing them on Cas' fingertips. He caught his gaze and smiled, giving a tiny reassuring nod. Cas looked away, and pulled his throbbing hands into his lap, staring at the little round white tabs.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"You're welcome. Now stop squirming so goddamn much, you're making a mess of my Baby's seats," he stroked the wheel affectionately, and there was a hint of humour in the voice.

Cas risked a glance, and saw a faint smile quirking the handsome face, clear green eyes gazing at him.

"Apologies," he cleared his throat, shaking himself free of the shock and returning the smile. "Next time I leap out of the way of a speeding maniac, I'll be sure to land somewhere cleaner."

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, the warmth and the rocking motion of the drive, combining with sheer exhaustion and the numbing effect of the pills to overcome the pain and discomfort. One minute he was gazing at the road stretching ahead in the lights, listening to Dean softly humming along to Def Leppard, or Metallica or whatever track was playing low on the tape deck, and the next he was jolting awake with a start as the engine died away, and the bright halogen of a security light hit his face.

For a moment, he was not sure where he was, and he pulled his arms protectively against his body, wincing at the protest in his muscles and the pain in his hands. Giving up the warmth of the car was going to be unpleasant. As he moved and the cloth in contact with his body in various places shifted he could feel the cold wetness of the fabric. He would have to find some way of getting dry, or he was going to get hypothermia.

He turned back to Dean, a hesitant little smile forming on his face. "Thank you for the ride. I'm sorry, I've got no money for gas…"

Dean regarded him thoughtfully. "So where were you planning on sleeping?"

Cas shrugged. He'd spent last night under the trees at the side of the highway, but it hadn't been so cold and he hadn't spent all day walking in the rain.

"Ok, Steve," the tone of Dean's voice made it evident he knew the name was fake. "You've got no kit, no dry clothes, no money and you don't even know where you are. I'm not judging here, shit I've been in some scrapes, done my fair share of running, but you'll catch your death if you don't get out of those wet clothes. When did you last eat?" The lack of response spoke volumes.

Dean sighed heavily and shook his head. "Wait here."

The bored looking kid behind the desk was not in the slightest bit interested in the tall man who walked through the door and asked for a twin room. He paid in cash and accepted the key with a muted thanks. The kid barely turned his attention away from the TV in the corner.

"Towels in there." He nodded towards a hamper in the corner of the tiny lobby. "Hot water evenings til 10, and mornings 6 - 8. Check out by 11, unless you buy another night."

The room was clean at least, it smelt fresh even if the decor was nothing special, soft cream walls, dull brown furnishings and a single wood panelled wall. Dean was mildly relieved. He had seen far too many themed rooms over the years. He tested one of the beds, surprisingly comfortable and the bedspread was soft. 'Steve' stood quietly just inside the door, looking about him as if it was the first time he'd ever been in such a place.

Dean stood back up and began sorting through his bag, pulling out a t-shirt and joggers.

"These should be easy to get into," he said, dropping them on the bed nearest the door. "Hot water's off in an hour, you best go first." He sucked his cheek between his teeth. "Shit, your hands…" He ducked into the bathroom.

His voice slightly muffled, he called back, "it's got a bathtub, think you can manage if I pour you a bath?" He stuck his head back around the door. 'Steve' was stood by the bed, finger tips gripping the fabric of the clothes. "Well?" Slowly he nodded, eyes still fixed on the clothes in his hands.

Dean gripped the back of his own neck, and then decision made, he dipped back into the bathroom, the sounds of running water following a brief clank of the pipework. He returned, kicking off his boots and gently took the clothes, placing them back on the bed. He took the collar of the sodden coat and said softly, "I'll help you." Sensing the tension under his hands he added, "No funny business, I swear."

He felt 'Steve's' shoulders relax, and he peeled the coat from his back and down his arms, easing it gently over his bandaged hands. He knelt down and removed the sodden dress shoes, and socks. The skin of his feet was icy cold to the touch. "You, OK?"

"Just cold," Steve muttered, through clenched teeth. "If you can pop my buttons, I can manage from there. I'm sorry. This is… kind… I just…"

"Dude, it's OK. This is partly my fault, after all. And I told ya, I've been there, OK."

"Partly?" Steve arched an eyebrow and his mouth tweaked into a lopsided grin. Dean smirked back, holding up his hands in mock defence. He scooped the clothes up from the bed and strolled back into the bathroom.

"Right, water's good. Soon as you're in, I'm gonna change quick and go pick us up some take out."

The tub was old, and deep, set into a bay of antique tiles. It was a beautiful bathroom, incongruous in its motel setting. The black and white mosaic of the floor, whilst he was no expert on cheap motels, was a world away from the linoleum that Cas had expected to see. The sink and toilet were art deco in design.

He had perched on the seat, the effort of stripping the rest of his wet clothes had left him squeezing his eyes tight against hot tears. He had splashed the water with one foot, hoping it sounded as though he were already settling in, but in reality he waited until he heard the soft click of the outer door before he climbed into the bath, knowing that the pain was going to be tough to deal with.

He stared at the bruises and scrapes on his body. It was the first time he had had opportunity to take stock. Livid purple contusions around his wrists, up his arms and down his lower legs, evidence of the harshness with which he had been seized and pinned down as he tried to fight off the 'intervention'. The bandages on his hands were a mess of dirt from his tattered clothes and the fluid seeping through from his wounds. The pain in his hands pulsing in competition with the hot aches as his cold body adjusted to the heat of the water surrounding him.

He let himself cry, physically and emotionally hurting. It was cathartic. After a few minutes he pulled himself together, and holding his hands out in front of him, let his head fall back under the water, rolling his neck to get the worst of the dirt out of his hair.

He sat up. He had to think. Dean seemed decent enough, if a little rough around the edges, but he had no idea just how much trouble Cas was in. He felt a twinge of guilt, for sharing the danger he was in with someone else.

He tried to clear his mind and focus on what little he had overheard as he came round after the 'intervention.' He had been lucky in some ways, or they had been sloppy. Either way, presumably for the benefit of passersby or casual observers, they had failed to restrain him, perhaps relying on the drugs in his system.

Gradually aware of the motion, he had first noticed the smell of aftershave, a cloying sickly smell. Nauseated, he had felt his stomach clamp and he instinctively swallowed back the acid that welled in his throat. His mouth was insanely dry. He could hear the soft rumble of tires on tarmac, the steady thrum of an expensive engine and music pounding from a stereo. Cautiously, he had opened one eye.

The man in the backseat next to him, a huge black man with a patchwork of scars on his cheeks, had been asleep and therefore missed the tell tale signs that he was regaining consciousness. The two in the front had the radio playing loud, their voices carrying over the music only because there were no speakers in the back. He scanned about him quickly, the car was big, expensive, an SUV at a guess. He was still dressed in the clothes he had been heading out to the club in; he felt the absence of his phone and wallet without needing to check. He let his head continue to loll against the head-rest and listened carefully.

"Did you see the ass on that waitress? Wouldn't o' minded tapping that."

"You need to concentrate on the job at hand."

"Aw, Zachy, baby. You can be such a kill joy."

"It's Zachariah." The voice was nasal, unpleasant. "How much longer until we reach the next stop?"

"About 40 clicks."

"Cut the military jargon, how long? Our little Angel is due another shot anytime soon."

"Relax would ya, our little baby is out for the count and we'll be there in plenty of time to top him up. We could always off him out here somewhere, dump the body where no-one will find it."

"After what happened in the subway, our client can't afford any more attention. This has to look like a simple disappearance, besides he hasn't decided for definite yet. This is his family after all."

"Didn't stop him last time."

A soft tap on the door, brought him sharply back to the bathroom. He eased himself out of the water, holding his hands awkwardly in front of him, and stepped out onto the mat. "You OK in there?" He let out a steadying breath, suddenly aware of the relief he felt in hearing the now familiar voice. It was utterly irrational that they would have found him here, or indeed that they would knock softly on the bathroom door, but the memory was too fresh. Shock, he realised it made the utterly unrealistic seem possible.

"Yes, I'm fine," he managed, and taking another deep breath, he forced his fingers to close around the towel and began the painful task of drying and dressing himself.

He let himself out of the bathroom and stood in the shadows at the far end of the room, arms wrapped over each other, conscious in the short-sleeved T of just how obvious the bruising would be. The TV in the corner was playing the tail end of some medical drama, and as the credits rolled Dean's phone began to ring. He answered it, and pushed one of the chairs round with his foot gesturing to it with his free hand.

"Sammy! Bro, bad timing, I'm just about to eat… ...it's not that late… …Wisconsin… yeah, yeah… it was time to move on…"

The smell hit Cas' senses and his stomach growled approval. He opened the first carton and stared at the enormous burger. Deciding that it was almost worth being run over, he let his first mouthful confirm it. He closed his eyes and let the flavours combine on his tongue, chewing hard in his eagerness to get some food into his aching belly.

"...I promise… tomorrow… when I know where I'm going...yeah...take care, Sammy, give the smurfette my love." Dean set the phone down on the table, and Cas was suddenly aware that he was staring at him. More specifically at his arms. A brief flicker of something like anger flashed across the handsome features, before it settled into a look of compassion. The soft lips pursed and for a moment Cas thought he was going to say something, but he simply grabbed his own burger instead and they ate in companionable silence, bar the occasional rustle of a bag or slurp of a drink.

"I'm gonna grab a shower, before the water's off," Dean said, standing up and stretching. "Then we'll dress those hands again." He pulled a small bag with a garish drugstrore logo from his jacket and dropped it onto the table. "I got you some antibiotic cream, aloe salve and some stronger painkillers. The tylenol must be wearing off by now."

Dean was on his feet and half way between the two beds before he was properly awake, the tell-tale sounds of a nightmare stirring him before he was even aware of his surroundings. He dropped to his knees and gently squeezed the shoulder of the man in the bed. Soothing noises rolling naturally from his lips. It wasn't Sammy crying in his sleep, but the distress was just the same.

He flicked on the bedside light beside his own bed. A pair of bright blue eyes stared wildly at him, cheeks slick with tears, hair sweated to a heated forehead. "They killed her," he sobbed, his eyes might be open but they were blind, still lost in the dream, "They killed Anna and now they're going to kill me…"

"You're safe, shhhh, you're safe… no-one else is here… shhh." The confusion cleared and the sobbing subsided. Dean continued to squat by the bed, gently stroking the damp hair away from his forehead. "You're OK, I promise." Dean continued to repeat it until he heard his breathing return to the settled deep pattern of sleep.

Cas was warm and comfortable, he lay on his back as he became slowly aware of his surroundings. His hands throbbed with a dull steady ache, and he panicked slightly as the weight of sleep left his muscles and he realised that there was another weight there. He opened his eyes, the little surge of adrenalin causing him to jerk involuntarily.

Dean jumped awake, the arm that had been resting across Cas' chest suddenly withdrawn. Vague memories returned to Cas. Running through the scrub away from the SUV, the sounds of pursuit close on his heels, then waking fitful and restless to the reassuring voice soft in his ear.

"Morning, Sunshine," Dean slurred, sitting up and throwing aside the blanket he had used to cover himself where he lay on top of the covers on Cas' bed. "After the fourth time you woke me screaming in your sleep, this was just easier…"

"I'm sorry…" Cas flushed, suddenly embarrassed, but Dean raised a hand and gave him that skewed smile. "Don't sweat it," he drawled lazily. "My brother had nightmares all the time. It's kinda like coming home…"

Cas winced as he moved his arms, the pain in his hands bringing him even more sharply awake, he wriggled himself upright against the headboard. Dean broke the seal on a bottle of water and set it down on the bedside table, perching on the edge of the bed he shook two more of the pills out into his own hand. "Here," he said gently, "take these and try and get back to sleep for a bit. I'm gonna go pay us up for the week, those burns are gonna take at least that long to heal." He stood up slowly and then added quietly. "When I come back, we'll eat, watch shit on the TV and work out a way to pass the time. No-one saw you come in here, so you can lay low and stay safe from whatever son of a bitch gave you those bruises."