AN: written post 9x09 'Holy Terror' - a little wishful thinking about how 9x10 could go once Dean, Castiel and Crowley catch Gadreel. Possible undertones of sastiel.

Enjoy :)

"He's not coming back. Ever,"

Dean Winchester stared into his brother's eyes, and remembered the sensation of wanting to punch him in the face: he'd returned from Hell, to find Sam using his powers. Without even knowing the full extent of Sam's transgressions yet, he'd felt angry enough to punch Sam in the face: the rage he'd spent years indulging in Hell suddenly bubbled to the surface, and he'd lashed out. Twice.

Right now, he seriously wanted to hit Sam's face again. But he didn't want to hit Sam.

"I am sorry. But he will not be returning," Gadreel insisted in a calm voice that made Dean see red.

The older Winchester noticed Crowley smirk out of the corner of his eye, and shake his head. He chose to ignore him: after all, he was there through necessity, not through choice. Dean would sooner stab him in the face than have him even touch his little brother's body, but . . .

There was this thing – this evil thing – inside Sam right now, and it was suppressing him; caging him like he'd been caged so many times before. A hideous montage of Sam, trapped, filled his mind: confined in the Benders' cage, possessed by Meg, jumping into the pit. His brother, headstrong and hopeful, completely helpless.

Though he knew first-hand that life wasn't fair, it really sucked to be reminded forcefully, painfully, of it a million times over by seeing his brother - the guy he'd stood up for and protected a million times over, and would again a million times more - victimised and hurt so many times.

He'd just been trying to help: Sam had been sick, and dying, and he'd tried to make it right – but he'd fucked up. He'd let Gadreel in, under the guise of being Ezekiel: into his brother's body, his mind, smothering his soul.

I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love.

"If you're so sorry then why don't you make up for it by letting us know all about this little hit list of yours?" Dean asked, keeping his voice completely level. He had to keep his game face on. For Sammy.

But it was so hard, when Sam's nose was freely bleeding; his hands stabbed right through with angel blades, and his eyes bloodshot and blackening. Gadreel wore these wounds with such nonchalance; Dean imagined Sam screaming in agony, trying to writhe and cry and beg for them to stop because it's me, Dean, I'm back, he's gone – wouldn't that just be the best news ever right about now . . .

It's okay, Dean. I've got him.

But Dean knew that, no matter how hard he tried, Sam couldn't do that right now. He was far too weak: eviscerated from the inside out by the trials. And besides - that was only if Sam was still in there . . .

He mentally shook himself, as Gadreel gave an enormous sigh, Sam's wide shoulders heaving.

Sam's still in there. He's messing with you. Game face.

"I cannot do that. You are wasting your time,"
"Utter bollocks," Crowley laughed, drawing Dean's gaze. Gadreel shifted in his seat to eye Crowley with intrigue. Dean didn't fail to notice how that slight movement jostled the blades pinning Sam's hands to the chair; how the blood gushed more freely from the wounds when they were irritated. He gulped, but kept his features concrete. He scowled at Crowley, as the demon asked:
"Want me to start in on him?"

Dean watched the demon pick up a long, metal pin, and a hammer.

He stalked over to where Gadreel was tied down, a self-satisfied smirk that set Dean's teeth on edge spreading across his face. The disgraced angel looked up at that expression stonily, his eyes narrowing.

"You intend to torture me some more," Gadreel surmised.
"I intend to make you spill your guts, mate," Crowley assured him, grinning. He'd gone so long in that cellar, with no one to even as much as wind up, let alone someone whose blood he could spill. He was going to enjoy this.
"Even though one of the best torturers Hell has ever seen, by my brothers and sisters' accounts, has failed to do so," Gadreel pointed out. Two sets of inhuman eyes lingered over Dean's troubled face.
"They don't call me king for nothing," Crowley pointed out, examining the metal rod as if seeing if it was up to his high standards. Yes, this will do.

"Just get on with it," Dean growled, though even the sight of the shining metal that would soon be shoved into his brother's brain made him gulp and fight the urge to vomit.

"My wish is your command," Crowley replied in a mock-subservient voice. He positioned himself in front of Gadreel, leaning down so that they were eye to eye. The sheer hatred in the angel's gaze made the demon smirk, as he lifted the rod to Sam's face, preparing to nail it into his skull.
"Wait,"

All three sets of eyes flew to the room's one door, and saw the newly-restored Castiel standing there, eyeing the situation with sad, tired eyes.

Dean knew that Cas' first few days as an angel had been hard. Firstly, he'd taken another angel's grace: Dean knew that Cas felt guilty about that; in addition, Cas had mentioned having to 'reshape' it, which had been exhausting for him to do, apparently.

Then there was Sam, whose possession had struck Cas like a near-fatal blow, crippling him emotionally and causing him to spend most of his days either in solitude or in silence, until spoken to: even then, his words were sparse, at best.

They had trouble tracking Gadreel who, it had emerged, had some form of hit-list - though they didn't know for what reason. But, with Cas' newly-restored powers, and despite his lethargy, they had found and captured the rogue angel (after a few months of searching). After several days of tentative questioning and minimal torture – because it was Sam, Sam's body, Sam's face, Sam's eyes – Dean had given in, and brokered a deal for Crowley's freedom.

Get answers from Gadreel, you walk free. Get Sam back, we won't come after you.

Obviously, not sealed with a kiss. But it was as serious as Dean's deal for Sam's life oh so many years ago; the two deals were the same, in his mind, merely with some minor details altered.

"You want a go?" Crowley asked Castiel, looking him up and down inquisitively.
"No, I'd – I would like a moment alone, with Gadreel," He requested, looking pointedly at Dean, rather than the demon, whose face he couldn't stand to look upon.

Crowley shrugged, tossing the metal rod up into the air, where it spun, before he caught it and sauntered out the door, whistling as he went. David Bowie – Life On Mars. Dean and Gadreel both looked nervous at his casual behaviour, subtly emphasising the fact that he had control here: he could go ahead and cause the angel huge amounts of pain in seconds, which was Gadreel's main concern at this point in time. Dean's main concern was that he could cause damage that Sam would never recover from. The least that could happen was that he could die. But, as he remembered Castiel's eye bleeding from Naomi's manipulation, he realised that death wasn't the worst result of the torture.

He wondered if he could ever bare it if Crowley caused damage to Sam that Cas couldn't repair; if he had to live with Sam, lobotomised. He wanted to scream at the thought.

"Dean," Cas prompted him, drawing his attention. For a moment, the newly-restored angel believed that the older brother was going to protest, but eventually he sighed, and followed Crowley out of the room. Perhaps Castiel can talk his brother and fellow angel around, he hoped – though in reality, he didn't put any stock whatsoever in that concept. That would simply be too easy, and too kind, to fit in with his complicated, cruel life as it was at the moment.

As soon as the door shut, Castiel looked into Sam's eyes, seeing Gadreel's grace behind them. He was around three paces away from his brother.

One stride. He remembered the story of how Gadreel allowed the serpent into heaven – or, well, that was the official story. Whether it was his fault or not, Castiel didn't know anymore. He'd been under the spell of the higher-ups, believing whatever they told him without question; lacking the empowering yet uncomfortable autonomy he now had. The freedom, so hard won, that was a challenge every day.

Two strides. They'd held a trial for Gadreel. Of course, it was a farce: they mocked him, and blamed him, and eventually threw him into heaven's deepest dungeons. He'd stared down the face of eternity, forever called the root of Adam and Eve's transgressions: because, how could their Father ever make a being with fault? How could he ever do wrong? It was all Gadreel's doing, of course – and never God's

. . . How foolish Castiel had been.

Three strides. And yet . . . Here Gadreel was, again. Taking the wrong course; acting up to his name, and his story. The lie about being Ezekiel, he could understand: prejudices were, especially for angels with deeply-engrained millennia-old grudges, hard to overcome. But writing a kill-list; forcing Sam down, and even claiming to have utterly destroyed him . . . These were the actions of a villain, with no remorse. Not someone who named themselves after a good angel, intending to heal an honest-to-God good human; someone who sought redemption. He wondered at the contradiction.

He thought that there was certainly something strange going on, in Gadreel's head – stranger, even, than his complete suppression of Sam.

Castiel referred to it as a 'suppression' of Sam, because he refused – outright refused - to believe that his human was dead.

He always believed that, if Sam were to die, he would feel it: he'd wake up to a stormy night splitting the blackened sky open, and the wind beating at his bedroom window, and just instantly know. The undeniable brilliance of his grace – though stolen, it was still fantastically sublime – would become a little dimmer, as a little of his light was blown out along with Sam's soul.

But when Dean had informed him of what had happened, he'd felt nothing: extreme sadness, yes; depression and lethargy, of course; a physical fatigue hat made him unwilling to move, let alone hunt . . . But not that overwhelming sense of loss.

Castiel refused to mourn Sam. He wasn't gone. He was just lost. And he intended to find him. He was going to get him back – if not today, then another day. Though every day was a battle against the side of himself that had learned to care, and cry, and grow angry – learned to be human – he would persevere, to get Sam back, and get him back alive and well.

Because there was no other option for him; no other option for Dean, either, he knew. They functioned as a unit, or not at all. He remembered the months when Sam was in Hell: he'd grown brash, and overconfident; Dean had suffered from post-traumatic stress, and a sense of loss that even having the family he desired could not dissipate.

If they lost Sam this time, though, Castiel knew that they would both be consolable and, in their mourning, would probably give up their fight altogether.

He hoped it never came to that.

"Brother. Have you come to torture me?" Gadreel asked, looking Castiel up and down slowly. Sam's eyes performing those cold, calculating movements was almost more than Castiel could handle. He sighed, and looked down, avoiding eye contact with his brother.

"No," He replied shortly.
Gadreel paused, narrowing his eyes, and clearly trying to get a measure of his brother, with little success.
"Then why have you come?" He asked.

Castiel's eyes lingered for seconds – perhaps minutes – on Sam's hands. Both dried, russet blood and fresh, gushing crimson blood caked the currently-pale flesh, making his stomach drop in a way he hadn't thought possible as an angel; these feelings, he reasoned, should be limited to humans alone.

He snapped his fingers, bringing a nearby chair to his feet, and sitting down on it. He sat uncomfortably for a few moments, observing what Dean had done to his own brother's body. He didn't enjoy looking at a man that he loved in this way, but . . . He felt he owed it to him. It was respectful to do so.

"I mean to convince you to, at least, have compassion for Sam," He told the disgraced angel.
"You mean to persuade me to let him go. I have told you all time and again, there is no more-" Gadreel began, but was interrupted:
"I do not believe it – and though I would love to be able to get you to relinquish your control over Sam, I do not believe you will do so. But . . . As I said, that is not my goal anyway,"

Gadreel shifted slightly. Though he was largely held in place, he was still able to move a little. Those small movements reflected his thoughts: hunched shoulders, reflecting his defensiveness; furrowed brows, showing his confusion.

"Then explain your meaning. I believe Dean Winchester and the demon abomination wish to get back to hurting my vessel in a few moments,"
"They will stay away, as long as I tell them to. Besides - with my grace restored, I could keep them out, anyway. There is no escaping from what I am about to tell you," Castiel told him, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.
"Which is?" Gadreel asked, and Castiel knew that, if Sam's head hadn't been held in place, Gadreel would be cocking it to one side right now.

"A story," Castiel replied, looking down at his hands, which were clasped together, squeezing one another as if holding on for dear life. He tried not to let his more intense emotions, which remained as an echo of his time as a human, come to the fore. It was hard, though: seeing an alien light behind Sam Winchester's eyes, and hearing his blood drip onto the floor, provided frequent, devastating reminders of exactly who Gadreel was holding hostage; whose life he was playing with.

So it wasn't just sadness or fear that Castiel was experiencing. It was a quiet anger, too.

Gadreel gave a heavy sigh, and looked to settle in, his eyes drifting around the room in what appeared to be boredom.

"The story," Castiel began, "Is about someone who made a mistake. This person was . . . Special. He was brought up with a job to do; he was a protector, a guardian. It was his job to fight evil, and to do good work,"

Gadreel watched Castiel's face carefully; it remained level, and calm.

"But the mistake . . . It was hastily made, but it cost him everything. He spent many, many years trying to atone; imprisoned, tortured . . ." Castiel frowned, his eyes stuck to the floor, still.
"But he didn't let that ruin him. When he was freed – he took that opportunity to do good, again.
"You see, this person isn't intrinsically evil – but after this mistake, he was vilified. The angels looked down upon him. His own family was unable to forgive him, for a long, long while,"

Sitting back in the chair, Castiel paused, still looking at his hands. Gadreel was frowning now.
"Do you know to whom I am referring?" Castiel asked quietly.
". . . You are talking about me," Gadreel realised.
"No," Castiel replied, finally looking up and into Sam's eyes, to address Gadreel behind them, "I was talking about Sam,"

Gadreel's brows rose, as Castiel continued talking:
"I know you maintain that Sam is . . . Lost," He said, the last word emerging from behind gritted teeth with his reluctance to even acknowledge it. "And that you have been concentrating more on his physical wellbeing than his mental state. But you must know something about the vessel – the human in whose body you are residing. You see – Sam had plenty of chances to stray, after his atonement and imprisonment. But, instead, he chose only to do good: he came very close to completing one of our Father's more difficult trials – he cared little for his own life, in the face of ridding the Earth of evil. In fact, the only reason he did not die during that trial is-"
"Me," Gadreel finished. He looked down, unable to meet Castiel's eyes anymore – and, if the newly-restored angel wasn't entirely mistaken, there was a look of something like shame in his eyes.

"Yes," Castiel confirmed, with a nod. He stood up slowly, his hands falling to his sides.

"I am asking you not to let Sam go – I know he may still die without you, and am happy to let you continue to occupy him, if you genuinely intend on healing him, and abandoning this list people you wish to kill – but to have some compassion for him. Do not imprison him, as he was before imprisoned. Do not suppress him, as Lucifer did," He urged. Gadreel looked up at him, his expression now unreadable. "You can still earn your redemption, as he earned his,"

Castiel took in one last look at Sam: his hair partially matted with his own blood; his eyes, swollen and red; his hands nailed with angel blades to the wood they had been forced against; his body held in an unnaturally straight position – a sign that he wasn't the one in control, but . . . Castiel could have sworn – though he knew it was probably the remnants of his human imagination gone rogue – he could see Sam behind those eyes, just for a moment. It was almost too much for him to bear. He turned away.

"If you carry on hindering the Winchesters, and myself . . . Then you are in danger of making another huge mistake, brother," He called back, as he walked to the door, and opened it with reluctance. This might be the last time he saw Sam, alive and talking; alert and aware, with light behind his eyes. There was a very real chance he would not be able to heal Gadreel's vessel of the damage the angel would let it endure.

As he opened the door, he caught sight of Crowley smoking a cigarette; in his free hand holding the metal rod that he intended to force into Sam's brain. Summoning his bravado with a serious, dark expression, Castiel turned back, to complete his statement:

"And I will make sure you suffer the consequences,"

Feel free to send me ideas for one-shots! (sastiel or general, I don't mind either). I love the holidays :)