Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing.
Title: Splatterpunk Auschwitz
Author: LastBishop
Rated M for a damn good reason.
Pairings: Castiel, Bobby, Meg
Summary: When Bobby and Castiel are called in to assist the boys in huge monster hunt, they are captured by a renegade gang of demons in search of the Book of Sodom.
Author's note: This story was the byproduct of reading Edward Lee, while watching Supernatural. I was also inspired by the episode "Frontireland." Be WARNED, this story will contain gross and gratuitous situations. You might need a barf bag at hand.
Chapter One
The rancid stench of a sharp recipe comprised of old rusted metal, blood, urine, infected puss, and semen dripped down the walls in copious amounts causing Bobby Singer's stomach to turn summersaults. He feared he would be reacquainted with his breakfast very soon. God, this was hell.
He was in a four wall cell, along with his winged and utterly useless comatose companion. The room resembled a small dungeon from the Celtic period, and was no bigger than his own make-shift panic room, perhaps smaller still. It was difficult to tell, for when the demons shut the door, almost every trace of light was swept away, allowing the darkness to swallow them both in one big gulp.
Bobby's hands ailed him like you wouldn't believe and his Sciatica was acting up. He was getting too damn old for this crap. Those Sons-A-Bitches had him hog-tied and thrown into this claustrophobic nightmare, while they injected Castiel with so much drugs that would drop an elephant.
Even though, they had ganged up and pummeled the angel into the dirt, not neglecting Bobby in the least with more than a few hard kicks in the old breadbasket, those bastards made damn sure Cas was conscious when they stuck him.
The identity of what was in all those syringes was a mystery to the older man. When the poor boy screamed during a few of the injections, Bobby could hear a high pitch screech from within the man himself. It was the angel inside that meat suit, Bobby concluded, crying out, begging for them to stop. The last poke and prod did the poor bastard in.
The room was as still and silent as the grave now. He didn't much care for it, either. The vacancy of sound gave the hunter goose flesh, and not much in this world or even out of it could give Bobby Singer the creeps. His old grey eyes sluggishly began to adjust to the cloudy darkness that surrounded him. He could spot very little within the room, but it was enough. He glimpsed the outline of the door, the glimmering bubbles of grime seeping down the nearest wall closest him and the outline of the still form of the hunter's cell mate.
Archaic thoughts stampede through Bobby Singer's noggin, galloping this way and that, ripping through his consciousness and dropping a massive stress migraine into the bowl of his aches and pains. He could still hear Dean's bitching about the Mother of All and a new nest of cross-bread ghouls near Buffalo, New York. He loved those boys like his own, but he new he babied those pantywaist idjits way too often and now they were calling in old Feather Brain on their masquerades as well.
Bobby glanced over to where the angel was lying. He was on his back, with his hands flayed about him. The demons didn't bother tying Cas up, which nagged on the hunter's worry bone. Wobbling on his old creaking knees, discovering that they had lapsed into a state of hibernation, he attempted to move closer. Inch worm by inch worm, the older gentleman began his trek over the damp floor, sopping in an immense array of bodily fluids that did not generate from either soul.
With each twist and turn Bobby made, it felt to him that the rope cutting into his wrists would rip his hands from his arms. His shoulders felt like they were on fire, while his knees cooled in ghastly liquids. Slosh by slosh and squish by squish he made, stirred the odors making the air too sickening to breath. He was going to yack. Yet, Bobby Singer was just wadding in it, and the angel was bathing in the putrefied mess. He would NEVER get the stink out of that trench coat. A few more scoots and wiggles more the tops of the hunter's grimy knees brushed against Castiel's limp hand.
He could see the unconscious angel more clearly now. Swimming in at least three inches of that dark rancid much, Bobby could view the damage done by those black eyed bastards. Flowering stains of congealed blood speckled the angel's once white dress shirt, along with broken needles sticking out of his chest like flag poles around a golf course. His tie looked as it had been chewed on by a friggin shark, it was so tattered. All the while, the angel's face was a serene and emotionless as a statue. The emptiness in that face always seemed to bother the hunter. He did realize the angel could feel, for there were some instances he saw it along with the boys in bright lights and front row seats. Hell, if the world knew about the bastard, they would have parades for such rare occasions. He almost chuckled at himself, a clearly demented response in such a disturbing environment that shook Bobby to his core.
The veteran hunter's skittering thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of the lock bar unhinging.