Screams echoed through the too hot room. Everything is dark and even the air circulating seemed to be tinged with the color red. A single chair is in this room. Upon this chair is someone with matted, nearly black hair that is shiny with blood. Pieces of skin have been flayed off of a toned body. The tattered remains of a khaki trench coat lay draped around the broken angel. The image is pathetic, the soldier of God lay tortured and his mind blurred. He never cried.
There is no cliched laughter bubbling up from the shadowed corner of the room. Or a silent and strong figure walking wordlessly into the room through a steel door, nor is there a figure screaming at him for information whipping his back until he caved. There is none of this. There are, however, a pair of steel gray, almost stormy, colored eyes boring into his own blue ones. It hurts to keep his eyes open, and he has to blink often to avoid getting the blood flowing from the wound on his forehead from getting into them.
He isn't successful.
Words are flowing from wet lips in front of him, but he can't understand what they were saying. It is hard to focus on the words being spoken to him, there is so much pain. A swift hand, cold against the violent heat, strikes him hard across his right cheek. The whole experience feels so drastically different now. As if the sting on his cheek resurrected ever fiber, every nerve within the soldier. Expanding over his whole body, every inch of his skin feels sharp and hot, as if set on fire and then encased in a cast of broken glass. The cuts felt especially disgusting, they were grotesquely wet in the humid, heated atmosphere. The feeling of exactly which wounds were still bleeding their pigmented waterfalls disgusts him. The blue eyes man could feel every drop of blood and sweat on his skin like rushing rivers. Though it was the difference in viscosity that truly made his stomach churn. Blood flows like tar, its wet, and heavy, and slow, it moves so very lazily across his flesh- or at least whats left of it.
Another slap claps across his cheek- the left one this time- and there isn't really pain. The sound reverberates through the endless room. It isn't the only sound though.
"Hello?" The man in front of him says in a hair-raising cheery voice, "earth to Cassy!?" He laughs out, and the sound is booming, and awful. The sound alone sends an ache through the teeth still left in Castiel's mouth, as if chewing on tinfoil. A large hand with heavily calloused fingers and long unshaped fingernails gripped around his sore jaw. A groan of pain escaped Castiel's blood soaked lips.
"There he is!" The man says excitedly, "my little angelic soldier!" he released Cas's jaw and parades in a large circle with his arms outstretched as if hosting a crowd. Castiel cocked his head if he were able to move it. This man confused him. No one else was in the room.
Rippling pain -agony- tears itself out of the blue eyes mans throat, words drag their way up his vocal chords and crawl from his mouth.
"who are you?" A choked and gravely question. Castiel spits blood onto himself when speaking. He watches with difficulty as the wild gray eyed mans posture changes from charismatic, relaxed, casual host, to hostile predator. The man spun on his heels, Cas would note that the man wasn't wearing any shoes.
"you don't recognize me Castiel?" he faced the injured angel, who was consumed by confusion and frustration. Castiel could swear on his father that he had never seen this man with dark hair and steely gray eyes before. The most Cas could manage was an eyebrow reaching for his hairline. The man's shoulders slumped in obvious disappointment before he locked eyes with Castiel and spoke in a sobering voice, almost regretful, and remorseful.
"Castiel, I am your brother."