Prey
Author: Kel
Rating: T/PG-13
Notes/Warning: Er. First dabble into the fandom, aside from one drabble written three years ago. I binged on three seasons and decided I adored Castiel. This is also a pretty much plotless excuse for badassery. Mostly, I wanted to stretch my action-writing muscles. Feedback and crit is Very Much Appreciated, since this is a new fandom for me and… I feel rusty. ;; No beta, as I don't have anyone in my immediate circle of friends and regular betas that is a Supernatural fan, but I have run through it more than once. There are additional notes after the story.
Genre: Action. No seriously. That's it.
Summary: Castiel knew he was hunted; nothing like hellhounds on one side and a few angels on the other to drive the point home. Set mid-season 5; no specific spoilers or timeline.

The howling was starting to get to him. Hellhounds were, of course, an abomination, but nothing drove that home quite like that unearthly, deep-throated barking and howling. Castiel couldn't see them, not really, but he could definitely feel them. Unfortunately, he could feel them a little too close for comfort. He had the option of simply leaving, but he wasn't entirely pleased with the idea of leaving demons and hellhounds roaming around the outskirts of a fairly large city. They already had his scent anyway, since he'd been careless enough to get close. Careless. Stupid. Curious. One of these days, that would be the end of him. That was some human expression, wasn't it?

Then again, the apocalypse would probably be the end of him anyway and he'd been "ended" once before already, so what did it matter if an exiled angel got a little curious and careless once in a while?

Great. Now he was rationalizing like a human. It wouldn't be long now, would it? When had he become so fatalistic? Might have been about the time the hellhounds had him cornered. Thought they had him cornered. Castiel wasn't stupid enough to run blindly. He had a plan.

Now to see if it would actually work.

He'd felt angels around earlier; that was his biggest problem right now, aside from the hellhound. What he did not want to do was call attention to himself with a burst of power. Fighting off a horde of hellhounds and a few demons would be enough for one day, as far as he was concerned. Castiel had no desire to bring down the wrath of Heaven on his head as well. Hell on one day, Heaven on another. Both in one just didn't bode well for him.

He felt more than heard a hellhound snap at his heels. Castiel's jaw clenched and he veered left, silver short sword flashing as he brought it around in a quick, vicious swing. He met resistance and a grim satisfaction filled him as black blood, almost misty in its appearance, erupted. Somewhere above him, he heard laughter; such concern the demon held for its pets.

He could almost hear the comments Dean would make if he were here. Something about large warehouses being cliché and some biting comment directed to the demon watching from the catwalk above; Castiel was silent. He was crouched low, and he smoothly reversed his grip on the sword. He spun back around, tip of the sword just catching a hellhound – whether it was the same one or not, Castiel didn't take the time to try to figure out – and then sprinted for the corner he'd been going for.

The hounds were excited now, sensing that they'd cornered their prey. They bayed, just behind him, and Castiel slid into the corner. His shoulder hit the wall and he lashed out behind him with the sword, knowing full well that he'd either barely hit or completely miss the hellhound there. That swipe wasn't about a hit; that was just getting a letting room. And this corner was about getting a place where he knew nothing could come from behind or above him. It was open above; no catwalks for laughing demons and his pets to come down on him from.

He, as predicted, missed the hellhound but it did back off, thankfully. Castiel stood ready: tensed, slightly crouched, sword held in a guard position in front of him. He took the moment of reprieve to reach out with senses he hadn't had much time to pay attention to. Three hounds, from center to right. One more behind coming from behind and to the left to flank. Not that it could flank him very well, considering the narrow corner he'd thrown himself into, which was the point here.

Castiel took a breath and… waited. Hellhounds were not patient. After a short moment, the hound in the center pounced. The sword's short blade spun in his hands and Castiel brought it straight down. He could feel the tip digging into the hound's flesh, somewhere just behind its skull. As he drove the sword downward, he felt movement to his right. His unoccupied hand came down on the floor to steady himself and he lashed out with a kick. He was met with a pained yowl as the kick knocked the hound aside. He twisted the sword as he pulled it back; the hound there was no longer struggling.

One down. This was taking too long. At least the demon hiding in the catwalks had quit laughing. That had been grating on Castiel's last nerve.

He didn't have time to reverse the sword as the hound from the left jumped into the fray. Castiel, without looking because it wouldn't do him any good anyway, slammed the hilt backward, grunting when it was his hand and not the hilt that took the brunt of that blow. Damn it, that wasn't planned. A lance of pain shot through his hand and he stalwartly pushed it aside. He could focus on it and get it healed later; right now, he had more pressing matters – and they certainly were pressing. The hound he'd just (accidentally) punched recoiled, so Castiel left it and lunged forward, driving the sword straight forward until he found hellhound flesh. It was a simple enough thrust, but it bought him a little room – and if it injured a hound, then so much the better. He twisted the blade and swung it to the side, grunting softly when it tore through flesh and the hound gave a pained, gurgling cry. That would be the end of that one.

By this time, the one on the left recovered and Castiel could feel the fourth hanging back and waiting. That worried him, a little. He hated it when hellhounds showed any modicum of intelligence. Castiel pushed himself to his feet as the hellhound on the left leaped; he could hear the jaws snapping and that was more than uncomfortable. He stepped aside and, blade glinting in the dim light, spun. He wasn't sure where exactly he hit the hound, but he did know he neatly pinned it to the wall.

Unfortunately, that opened up his side. He realized this too late and pulled back quickly. The fourth hound was already moving. It would be close.

Too close.

Claws – or teeth, he wasn't sure – raked across his side, just above his left hip. Castiel hissed and pulled back, desperately trying to wedge the sword between his side and the hound. The demon had started laughing again; it was an ugly, discordant counterpoint to the last hound's snarling. Suddenly, there was nothing more Castiel wanted to do than to go up there and shut the thing up. That laughing was perhaps the most annoying sound he'd heard in a very long while.

Black blood and mist erupted between them and Castiel wrinkled his nose at the foul smell. Much as he hated the smell, though, he wasn't going to complain. He let the hound drive him back a few steps, until he was leaning on the wall. With one hand gripping the hilt of the sword and the other shoving at anything he could find to push against – which resulted in teeth grazing the back of his hand more than once – Castiel let the wall provide the leverage he needed to adjust his grip and recover. The hound's weight pinned his elbow and shoulder against the wall, but that was all right; it was the reprieve he needed. Movement stopped in that moment and Castiel was able to surge forward. He changed the angle of the knife and managed to get his left hand under the hound's jaw. Damned thing was heavy, but Castiel was able to twist it to the side and drive it to the floor. With ruthless efficiency, Castiel twisted and pulled the blade to the side; it wasn't until he felt the hound die underneath his hands that he let go and stood.

Slow, too-loud applause met his ears. He looked up, face impassive as he sought out the demon on the catwalk across the large room.

"I'm impressed." The demon's voice was cultured, despite his almost ragged appearance. He adjusted his torn denim jacket and then leaned over, elbows resting on the railing.

Castiel didn't bother answering. He simply stared up at the demon as he flexed his hands as inconspicuously as he could manage; with one bruised and the other dripping blood, he was going to need some time to completely concentrate on healing himself. Until then, his natural energy would have to take care of it.

"Not much of a talker, are you?" The demon casually straightened and sauntered down the catwalk, toward stairs at the wall. "I supposed I'm not surprised; it certainly adds to that self-righteous air you've cultivated." There was pause and then the demon turned to face Castiel fully. "Have you said a word since you crashed my little party?"

Castiel raised a brow. He had, in fact, not spoken, now that he thought about it and he wasn't going to rise to such bait. He did, though, want to ask the demon just what sort of party he'd walked into where the attendees were four hellhounds and one demon.

The demon laughed suddenly and made his way toward the stairs again.

He was slow. Castiel couldn't help but roll his eyes. If the demon was trying to intimidate him, he'd have to try a little harder. He strode forward; he could have just appeared in front of – or behind, for that matter – the demon, but the presence of angels just touched his senses. The demonic activity here must have caught their attention and Castiel didn't want to incur any more interest with a sudden transport over there, not when he was trying so very hard to keep them from noticing him. So what if the demon saw him coming? There was nothing that could be done to deter Castiel anyway.

"You know," the demon called, "etiquette demands that I know your name."

Castiel finally broke the silence, his low voice echoing quietly in the large, open room. "Etiquette is the least of my concerns." He wasn't lying; the angels were taking up a good bit of his concern right now.

There was a moment of tense silence and then the demon suddenly let loose a short guffaw that echoed harshly. "You can speak."

Castiel spun his sword in hand. Hopefully, it would come across as something appropriately intimidating; he was trying to flex bruised knuckles. He doubted it mattered. This demon didn't seem the type to be intimidated by a simple gesture with a sword. In point of fact, he simply laughed again and Castiel couldn't help the withering look that settled on his features. He was an angel. Exiled, perhaps, but still the bane of a demon's very existence. This sort of bravado was wearing.

And then Castiel had no time to contemplate the demon's behavior. The host darted forward, a knife suddenly in his hands. Castiel brought his own sword up in a fairly simple block and then spun to the side. He had intended on pulling away and attacking from a different angle; it would be easy. This demon was strong, but Castiel knew he was faster and better with a blade. What he didn't expect was the sudden rush of pressure that came with an angel appearing behind him.

He should have paid better attention.

A hand curled in his coat and yanked him backward and, for a moment, Castiel wasn't sure who lash out at. He knew the angel behind him - some lackey of Zachariah's that definitely would know Castiel on sight – and the demon looked at him with some strange mixture of surprise and horror. Despite his brother yanking him back, it was the demon that garnered Castiel's immediate concern. Like a true son of perdition and betrayal, it flipped the knife around and dove forward.

Castiel brought his own blade down, barely managing to keep the demon's knife from sinking into his gut. Despite the hand in his jacket, despite the demon grinning madly in his face, Castiel could only seem to hear the blades sliding off each other. He was yanked back again, this time thrown and sent stumbling backward until he found the wall. Castiel was rather hoping that the presence of the demon would keep his brother busy, but a fist found his jaw anyway. He wasn't sure what was more shocking: the blow to his jaw or the way the back of his head connected with the wall. He dropped to his knees, doing his level best to both hold onto the sword that was (amazingly) still in his hand and to shake his head clear of the sudden cobwebs.

By the time he'd pushed himself to his knees, he found he had a demon to thank for giving him that time he needed. He rather doubted the demon was actually trying, but it drew the attention of Zachariah's soldier long enough for Castiel to recover. When Castiel was on his knees, the demon was exorcised. As Castiel pushed to his feet, the angel was turning toward him.

Hellhounds, a demon, and now an angel. Castiel was starting to understand what it meant to be overwhelmed by bad luck. Maybe it was the Winchesters rubbing off on him.

"Castiel."

Right. Yes. He knew his name. He knew his brother knew his name. That was pointless. Castiel hoped the look he was giving the angel said that loudly and clearly.

"You're picking up bad habits, Castiel," the angel said after a moment's silence. "You answer your superiors."

If Castiel had been inclined to answer, that had been squashed thoroughly with that comment. Instead, he tightened his grip on his sword and tried to ignore the blood at the corner of his mouth. He was not in bad shape; bruised knuckles and a few scratches did not knock even a human out of a fight. He did, though, want this over with. Rather than waiting, as he had with the hounds, Castiel surged forward. He didn't have the patience anymore.

It would prove to be a mistake. Castiel had been hoping to dispatch this angel before he called any more of his brothers (or worse, Zachariah). Idly, while his brother blocked him and curled a hand in his coat again, he decided he probably should have applied a little more strategy to this fight. He'd done well enough with the hellhounds.

The hand curled in his coat and shoved him forward, even as his brother's knee drove into his gut. Castiel was thrown to the ground, almost losing his sword as he tumbled. He scooped it up and scrambled to his feet, only to find himself hit hard with a double-fisted blow in the back.

Oh, good, he was being played with.

He fell forward again and, instead of scrambling to his feet, rolled to the side. The tip of his sword scraped against the concrete floor as he turned to face his attacker. He barely had time to block the downward slice of his brother's sword. A hand circled his wrist and shoved; it took everything in Castiel to keep his arm up, holding back what would be a fatal blow. He was on his back, one hand braced against the floor and the other trying to hold back a… very strong angel. Fingers dug into his wrist and Castiel grit his teeth against the pressure that put on bruises that hadn't had a chance to begin to heal. He would not lose his grip on his sword; he'd be dead if he did.

"Problem, Castiel?"

No, of course not. This wasn't a problem. Castiel grit his teeth, hands shaking with the effort of simply keeping that sword from driving straight into his chest. Had that been a regular knife, he might have taken the hit, just for an opportunity to get out of this impossible position. Even if he was exiled and his "angel juice" was draining away, that was a blow he could take. For now, at any rate, and Castiel shoved that thought away; not something he needed to think about now. Definitely not now.

The sword dipped even lower and Castiel had to make a decision. He couldn't stay here forever; other angels would come even if he managed to not get killed right here.

He might have to take the hit anyway.

Castiel moved suddenly, shoving their locked blades to the side and lashing out with his knee. He wasn't sure what his knee hit – he could only hope it was painful – but his brother grunted and his grip on Castiel's wrist faltered. The sword still came down, though. Castiel pressed his lips into a thin line and did his level best to ignore the way the sword slid into his abdomen.

That would hurt for a good while, if he got out of this.

Castiel pushed to his knees, fist already swinging. He connected with the angel's jaw – a bit of premeditated payback, he would admit – and scrambled after him. It was a graceless way to end a fight, scrambling on one's knees after an opponent. Castiel's fingers curled in his brother's hair and he pulled backward. As the angel's back hit the floor, Castiel pinned him with a hand on his neck and brought his sword down in a quick, ruthless strike.

He watched as his brother screamed and died.

Castiel sat back, face as impassive as he could manage and fingers brushing the stab wound in his side. Bruised and bloody. Again. This was getting… tiresome. He put his sword away, then gazed at his hands for a few moments, lost in thought. That was the first time a hellhound had actually hit him. His gaze drifted toward the corner he'd made his stand in. It had to be Winchester luck rubbing off on him. He was almost sure of that.

He blinked when his phone rang and pulled it out slowly, tired and sore hands fumbling a bit. He answered it with a single word, voice as expressive as ever. "Sam."

"Hey, we got something we might need your expertise with. We're at…" There was a pause; Castiel could only assume that Sam was looking up the name of the motel. "We're at the Thunderbird Motor Inn in Elko, Nevada. Room 112."

Castiel barely managed not to sigh. That was not only an invitation but an expectation that he would there and be there now. That last thing he wanted to do was show up in the room, ostensibly ready to work, while trying to heal injuries. "Soon."

There was a long pause and Castiel nearly hung up the phone before Sam spoke again. "Uh… okay, then. You all right?"

"Fine." When one didn't want to explain, it worked to simply give a standard answer. 'Fine' meant anything. "I simply have something I need to finish doing here."

"All right. Don't take too long."

Sam's tone was one of curious acceptance. Castiel could appreciate that. He could tell them later that he followed a lead and ended up fighting off Heaven and Hell both; pertinent details could, of course, be left out. "I will not." He hung up the phone before Sam spoke again.

Castiel put it back in his pocket, his gaze falling on his dead brother. Slowly – almost reverently – he reached out and closed the empty vessel's eyes.

It wasn't natural that the prey would become the predator.

Castiel rose slowly, unable to straighten fully yet, and closed his eyes as he stepped into flight. He'd found that he couldn't count on the natural order of things in these last few months. Not that he wanted to, if that meant sitting back and waiting for an Apocalypse that didn't need to happen. He'd bought another day for himself; the price always seemed far too steep.

He stopped somewhere in Nevada, near Elko, and breathed deeply.

Additional notes: Two things! As stated before, I have no beta for this and I've been through it a million times. That, however, doesn't mean there won't be some typos that I've missed. Please feel free to point them out.

Secondly, I had a bit of a problem with trying to write the hellhounds as visible. I've tried to leave it somewhat ambiguous, perhaps erring on the side of Castiel not seeing them. While this might not be strictly canon, please bear with me in my excuse for some pointless, plotless action. Call it a side-effect of draining away angel mojo or maybe they're just so ugly that Castiel doesn't want to look. Or something. XD

Thank you! I hope you've enjoyed.