The title is a reference to Sam's description of what happens to Cas when Dean banishes him with the sigil from the panic room.

This is just speculation on my part because well... Kripke gives me a cliff hanger and this is what happens. Once again, no money being made no infringement intended etc.

BLOWN TO OZ

It's ironically comforting. Yes of course the burning searing pain isn't exactly negligible, but this is the closest he's been to any of his brethren, minus a killing stroke, in a long time. He can feel wings; energy that morphs spastically between incorporeal light, to the deepest freezing shadow, to more corporeal attempts like honest solid feather and bone, to razor sharp metallic edges. Because as they hurtle together in a chaotic tangle, rocketed into the ether by the banishing sigil, all of them are trying to gain purchase, to slow their crash course. He can feel their combined grace singing. It's a desperate song of struggle and confusion, but it's a song nonetheless and it surrounds him, gives him the illusion that in this infinitesimal fraction of a moment, he is part of it again. The desire to stay a part of this song and let it be his last sensation before oblivion is tempting; pain, new loyalties, past betrayals be damned, but one of the razor sharp edges buffeting him slices a line through the sigil carved into this chest, cancelling it, breaking its hold over him.

He falls. He is abruptly freed from the snarl of wings, and grace and is free-falling, his human limbs flailing uselessly until he hits a hard barrier that shatters on impact. Then there are branches simultaneously tearing at him and slowing his fall, and then he comes up hard against earth, the impact ramming the breath from his lungs. He lies stunned, as leaves drift down from overhead, followed by a light rain of glass shards. Around him, lush foliage crowds in, and the first breath he is able to draw brings a heady perfume of the tropics, and the return of sensation in his body. The overwhelming pain radiates out from shattered bones, hot agony that makes black spots dance in front of his eyes. His grace, sluggish and uncooperative of late, uncurls slowly inside him, and it takes almost more concentration than he is capable of summoning to fix the broken column of his spine. He should be dead, but the guttering flame of his grace burns and keeps his true form anchored to Jimmy Novak's much abused one. He draws breath, tries to think of this body as a separate entity again. This pain is not his, these broken limbs are not his... It brings him moderate success as he grits his teeth through the shifting and re-aligning of broken bones. He has to stop before the task is complete though. The important internal organs and bone structures have been salvaged, but his grace is spread too thin already to heal everything.

Voices. His eyes snap open, but those that surround him aren't his brethren, aren't here to kill him. He is actually surrounded by a stunned group of humans, trying clumsily to help the strange man who seems to have fallen out of the sky. The Niagra Falls Botanical Gardens, his mind provides, in the middle of the day, filled with tourists and children... No, this is not an ideal place to regroup. He digs deep and unfurls letting himself get caught like a flag in a high wind, dragged out into the atmosphere in the blink of an eye. Solitude. He needs to find solitude.

He comes to a halt, solid matter and painful limbs again, rolling to an uncoordinated stop. He is alone. The only sound around him is the wind howling through rocky crevices. Snow and ice press into his side where he lays panting. The air is too thin here, too cold... It will be pointless; he will freeze before he can heal. Heat. He needs heat.

He lurches into flight, and tumbles through air and what he alarmingly identifies as rock, before collapsing in a dusty heap. The sun bears down on him, dispelling the cold, and with an effort, he manages to get to his hands and knees. His right arm gives out with an abrupt crack the complicated break there only half-healed, and he face plants into the ground. He gasps, spits blood and grit, and opts for rolling over, craning his neck to look up at the towering canyon walls around him. The regal rock faces are awe inspiring, carved out over millions of years of erosion, but of course Michael will be able to bring them crashing down with a perfunctory flick of the wrist; Of Dean's wrist. The thought makes him wince, and curl in on himself. Perhaps he should just remain here. He could wait and just let himself be swept away in the general destruction of the final battle. With Dean's inevitable submission to Michael, it's only a matter of time before Sam breaks as well. Getting to his feet is an entirely too taxing concept for the moment. Getting to his feet and continuing to fight... He lets out a breathless bitter laugh. Scaling one of the rock walls around him with his bare, bleeding hands sounds like both an easier, and more desirable task at present.

A rasping, hissing warning not a foot from his face startles him, and he looks up abruptly to notice a diamondback rattlesnake. Landing on its nest probably hasn't earned him any goodwill with the reptile. From the garden, to the serpent, he thinks for one wryly amused moment, before he hurls himself blindly away.

He lands uncharitably on his broken arm, and one accidentally corporeal wing, and the pain is enough to swallow him whole.

He comes to, bathed in moonlight, sprawled in an undignified tangle beside the small altar of a rural church. His eyes skim over the hand embroidered altar cloth, the wooden crucifix on the wall, and finally come to rest on a piece of poster board. Tiny cut-out of angels, coloured diligently by small hands, with cotton balls pasted on as fluffy wings dance around white paper clouds. One of the angels in particular, has been taped on upside down, a child's sense of humour, one of the angelic choir flying drunkenly askew. Castiel drags himself to his feet, using his good arm to support himself against the altar and brings his tired body to lean against the wall, his fingers slowly coming up to touch the tiny fluffy white wings of the upside down angel. He feels a kinship with the little figure. Slowly, cautiously, he looks to his own wing. Feathers. Downy white feathers, albeit a little bloodied, arc out gracefully behind his right shoulder. He has never seen his own wing manifest in this way. With his good arm, he twists to touch the delicate plumes. The form wavers, darkens, shadows over, then bursts into flames. White hot holy fire sears his vision and he cries out as he stumbles back blindly. The last thing he needs is to set the building on fire...

He barely comprehends his own frantic flight, but the next thing he knows, he's hitting a watery surface and sinking into it. A sob of pain and fear permits him a mouthful of salt water, and he has to wrestle his wing back under control before he can flee. His mind is screaming, in surround sound, and he thinks maybe he hears Jimmy scream too, before he reaches desperately for safety...

He rolls over, coughs up a lungful of water and groans into the blue duvet underneath him. He blinks rapidly chest heaving. Wallpapered walls...wooden bedroom furniture... He does not-

"Jimmy?"

He knows this woman... She stands stunned, torn between terror and longing, watching him weakly try to hold himself together. She takes a tentative step forward.

"Oh god," she breathes taking in his bloodied, bruised, soaking wet appearance.

"Don't..." he rasps, capable of little more than willing her to stay back.

She stops, just shy of touching him. He knows her...

"Castiel?" she ventures again.

She must be another angel. He slams his eyes shut, and with whatever shred of will he can summon up, gathers for one last exhausting leap. He does not think clearly, cannot form the destination in his spinning mind, but he makes the leap anyway, and falls away into blackness.

It's comforting. The low drone of voices lulls him, and he is warm and dry, lying on a soft surface, only a dull ache replacing the former pain. Slowly, he opens his eyes, letting them slide unfocused over a cracked, flaking ceiling above him. He lets his gaze travel down to his own body, his chest wrapped carefully in bandages, his arm wrapped and splinted, and his lower half covered by a faded quilt. His eyes flicker up again, and he realizes finally where he is. Bobby Singer stops mid sentence, and frowns at him.

"Well it's about time."

Beside Bobby, from the doorway, Sam turns and cracks a tired, but relieved smile, "Hey."

He does not answer, He cannot answer. He has no idea how he got here.

Then, to his unending surprise, they are joined by Dean. The hunter walks over and takes a chair beside him, all the while under Castiel's riveted gaze. He is Dean. There is no angelic presence there, and perhaps even more miraculously, there is no longer that inevitable despair plaguing the hunter.

"Hey Cas," he offers quietly.

Sam and Bobby disappear discretely into the next room.

"You're..." the angel finds words somewhat beyond his capacity.

"Me?" Dean suggests, a small smile playing in his eyes, "Not an angel condom?"

Castiel nods.

Dean leans back in the chair, "Yeah, I changed my mind."

"What about Adam?" he asks, finding his voice at last.

Dean's expression darkens, "Don't know."

It's not a hopeful thought, but for the moment, it's difficult to concentrate on anything except for the man he lost all faith in, now sitting here watching him with a mixture of relief and fond amusement.

"It's not polite to stare Cas," the hunter informs him.

Castiel swallows hard. Something is building inside him, a flood of terrifying emotion he feels nowhere near prepared to handle. Dean has not betrayed him. He has not betrayed his sacrifice or his friendship...

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"It's OK," Dean reassures him, knowing that the angel is apologizing for much more than that, "Just don't do anything that stupid again. Finding your sorry ass dripping and bleeding all over my car is not an experience I want to repeat."

"I was..." Castiel frowns, "I was in your car?"

Dean chuckles, "Yeah man, I went out to go on a burger run the other night and I find you camped out in the back," the mirth in the hunter's expression dies as he remembers, "You were carved up like a Christmas ham, with a pile of broken bones. Also...why were you soaking wet? And..." Dean hesitates, "Why did I get a call from Jimmy's wife saying you popped in there long enough to ruin her bedding then disappeared?"

Castiel winces at the memory, "That was...unintentional. I was lost."

Dean nods, then asks quietly after a moment "You find yourself again?"

Castiel looks up at the righteous man, the hunter, his friend, "I think I have."