Castiel would have liked to be able to say that how stupid he felt was the worst part. The Winchesters had warned him not to go alone. Sam had been so earnest, telling him that it was a little too convenient how the rumors had come to their ears; Dean had just said gruffly, "Don't be a dumbass. It's a trap." Castiel had made noncommittal noises that Dean had taken for agreement, waited until a suitable amount of time had passed, and gone to check.
He'd known he was in trouble the instant he became physical again; as soon as his vessel's feet touched the floor, blue-white light flared around him, brighter than mortal eyes could bear, and pain lanced through him as his connection to the vessel was shattered. The disruption hadn't lasted long, but it hadn't had to. They were waiting for him.
There were only four, and normally Castiel would have made short work of them. Even falling and weakened as he was, four minor demons were hardly a threat to him, not when there were no humans near to guard. But the sigils drawn on the floor had been old, as old as the First War, and they'd had Castiel's name worked into the pattern-had to, to function at all-and, paralyzed, fighting to retake control of his vessel, Castiel had felt the first pang of unease, because this trap had been laid for him.
His Grace had crawled in disgust when the demons laid their stolen hands on him and hauled him, limp, to the very center of the room. He was within moments of being able to move again when the first cuff had closed around his wrist. It was silver, not iron, engraved in beautiful, delicate patterns; at least, they were beautiful to eyes that could not read what they said. Castiel had worn cuffs just like these before, when Zachariah's angels had torn him from his vessel and taken him to Heaven to account for his sins. In Heaven, the cuffs were less material, but no less effective.
Castiel had, at least, managed to strike one of the demons before they got the second cuff on him. It was a petty satisfaction, but he had the feeling he'd better take all the satisfaction he could scrounge. But the second one had gone on nonetheless and Castiel had felt his power leave him, his Grace still present but diffuse and impossible to use; he was reduced instantly to the native strength of James Novak's body, and the demons hadn't even pretended to expend any real effort as they forced him to his knees and chained the cuffs to an eyebolt embedded in the concrete floor. Then they'd simply backed away.
He'd spent the next hour or so kneeling there, feeling the hard floor under his knees in a way that quickly became distractingly uncomfortable. The demons hadn't spoken to him, nor replied the few times he had tried to get their attention; they seemed to be waiting for something. At last Castiel resigned himself to waiting too.
By the time he heard the opening door behind him, Castiel's shoulders ached steadily. With his arms wrenched to his back and fastened to the floor, there was no good way to ease the pressure short of actually lying down, and though his range of motion would have permitted it he refused to.
Nor did he crane his neck in an attempt to see who was walking up to his unprotected back. There was little he could do about it if this enemy chose to strike him from behind, so there was no point in looking. He knelt, and stared into darkness his mortal sight couldn't penetrate; the room was large and poorly lit, and Castiel was in the center of the only bright spot.
The footsteps came on until they were very close, within arms' reach if he could have stretched out his arms. Then there was a small grating sound as if something had been set on the concrete. And then, finally, a voice spoke. "You're Castiel," it said, a woman's voice.
He didn't reply. It was self-evident that he was Castiel; the trap wouldn't have worked on any other being. The voice sighed, just barely audible, and the scrape was repeated as whatever it was was picked up again. Castiel looked straight ahead as the demon circled him. The human host was a woman in her thirties, perhaps; Castiel was no great judge of human ages, but she looked neither adolescent nor middle-aged. He assumed Dean would find her attractive, as she had large, well-shaped breasts and her face was pleasantly symmetrical. He could still see the demon inside her, though, and was annoyed to note that the sight made him faintly sick. With his Grace evading every attempt he made to grasp it, the human body's reactions were actually noticeable.
What really disturbed him was the ceramic urn she carried, slung on one hip as a woman might support a toddler or a shopping basket. Once she was squarely in his line of sight, she set it down again.
"You are Castiel, and you know where the Winchesters are," she said. Unlike most demons, she didn't sound mocking. "I'm going to give you one chance to tell me. If you refuse, I'm going to hurt you-" she nudged the jar with her toe "-until you do. Do you understand?"
Castiel looked up to meet her eyes and said, "Physical pain is of no consequence."
She smiled, a small, grim thing. "I have to admit, I was hoping you would say that." She gestured, and the four minor demons came out of the shadows. One of them unfastened the short chain on Castiel's cuffs and he tensed, but the other three had him securely held and there was little he could do as they hauled him to his feet. His legs didn't support him, deprived of blood from kneeling for so long. They removed his coat and suit jacket and shirt and tie, throwing the clothing carelessly out of the light, but Castiel didn't pay much attention, being occupied with the remarkably painful return of the blood flow in his legs. Just as the prickling feeling and cramps were beginning to subside, the demons shoved him back down and chained him.
The leader watched the proceedings silently, her arms crossed, until Castiel was chained again. She said, "Lucifer will have his vessel, Castiel. Where are the Winchesters?"
He set his jaw and said nothing. The demon shrugged and said, "You can't say I didn't warn you." She picked up the urn and moved behind him, and after a moment he felt cool drops on his right shoulder. Castiel couldn't understand what she meant to do until he heard a sound he recognized from accompanying Dean on a salt-and-burn: the grate and snap of a cigarette lighter. He had just enough time for a lurching stab of fear before the flame touched the patch of oil.
Castiel had felt pain before. He'd taken wounds in the siege of Hell, and they had lingered, in that place so inimical to his nature. The Guides had used many tools, in Heaven, to put him back on the path Zachariah had intended for him, and some of them had involved pain. For that matter, Raphael's smiting had been stunningly painful-though not for very long.
But none of those pains had been like this. The burning clawed into his skin, and Castiel tried to wrench away from it before he realized what he was doing; he barely noticed the way his wrists yanked against the restraints, all his attention consumed by his shoulder. He could hear someone crying out, but that didn't matter either. The fire was all that mattered, and it was holy fire; it wouldn't die down or consume its fuel. It would burn him forever.
Something soft and heavy fell over him, covering his head, and ungentle hands pressed his shoulders, smothering the flame, and Castiel gasped in uncontrollable relief. For a few seconds there was no sound in the room except his own breath-unnecessary, but his body, his vessel, didn't seem to understand that-rasping in and out of his lungs. He could feel the soothing wash of Grace as it repaired his charred skin, though it took longer than it should have, no doubt because of the source of the injury. The cuffs still blocked any attempt he made to directly access his Grace, but it seemed automatic functions like repairing his vessel were unimpeded.
He did not quite flinch when the covering was dragged from his head, and blinked his eyes open to discover it was a blanket, the same gray as the floor.
"Castiel," the demon said. He looked up to meet her eyes, furious. "Tell me where the Winchesters are," she said conversationally.
She didn't repeat her threat. She didn't have to.
"No," Castiel said. He could bear pain. She shrugged and gestured with one hand, and he felt the oil drip onto his skin again, the other shoulder this time. I know what to expect this time, he thought, and controlled the shudder that wanted to run through him at the snap of the lighter. It won't be as bad. When the flame touched him he found he was right; it was not as bad.
It was worse.
Castiel was faintly aware that the sound he was making was best called a scream, but he couldn't stop. He knew he was injuring his vessel fighting the chain, and couldn't stop that either. When they finally threw the blanket over the flame again, he choked on a sob, too late; she'd heard it.
"I wasn't expecting this to go quite so well," the demon said. She still didn't sound like she was gloating, which Castiel had just enough presence of mind to find strange. "Is it something to do with falling?" He glared at her and didn't answer, though he suspected that the problem was much simpler: with his Grace inaccessible, he was reacting as if he were human. He didn't need to fall any further, because without his Grace he was, effectively, already fallen. After a few moments of silence the demon made a dismissive gesture. "I guess it doesn't matter," she said. "Tell me where the Winchesters are."
To his shame, it took a split second to come up with the answer. "No," Castiel said, and knew his voice wasn't even.
After the fourth time, he tried to fight, though he knew it was pointless. All it earned him was a few seconds' worth of being wrestled back into place on his knees by demons who seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely, even if the leader was not. She didn't even spread the oil wider for the fifth time, nor let it burn for longer-at least, he didn't think so, his sense of time muffled like all the rest of his angelic senses.
The seventh time, he lost his balance and fell, by chance to the side the flame burned on, and his own weight smothered it against the floor. At that she showed a spark of irritation, though she didn't say anything other than to ask him her question again. He forced out his No.
When he could think again after the twelfth time, Castiel was forced to acknowledge that the burns were healing more and more slowly. He didn't know why, which added worry to the fear. (The fear gnawed at him, constant, and he hated himself for it. Castiel was unused to fear; angels did not fear death, though they might worry that their purpose would be left unfulfilled if they died. And though since his break with Heaven he had learned to fear for Dean and Sam and even Bobby, he did not fear for himself under normal circumstances. But he feared the pain.)
After the eighteenth time, as Castiel panted, his head hanging, he thought wistfully, There are only five. They have the knife, the Colt, they'd be all right.
And then he realized, and as the demon began to ask her question Castiel tried again to fight them.
The nineteenth time, one of them held his head back and she dripped the oil onto his eyelids.
Castiel had no idea how long it had been, nor how many times he'd been burned, having lost track sometime in the mid-twenties. The wounds had long since ceased to heal over completely, and his arms and torso and face were covered in weeping sores. He couldn't even stay upright on his own anymore, and the demons had discovered that holding him up by the hair didn't work; against the burning, the pain of handfuls of hair coming out was hardly even noticable. So he had a demon standing behind him as a prop to lean against, which he hated because it meant she couldn't burn his back any longer and concentrated on his chest.
He realized that it had been too long; she had not asked. He forced his useful eye open and discovered that the demon was crouching before him. "You're not healing anymore, Castiel," she said. "I'm starting to worry that we might actually manage to kill you before you tell me what I need to know." She held the lighter between her hands and flicked it as she spoke.
Castiel tried to glare but he couldn't help tracking the flame. He was no longer sure that it wouldn't harm him all on its own; his Grace felt attenuated, too little liquid in too large a vessel.
She seemed to take his silence as acknowledgement and went on, "So we're going to take a break for an hour or so. While I'm gone, I want you to think very carefully about what I'm asking." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I'm pretty sure it'd be traditional to threaten you again now, but that kind of grandstanding has never been my style." She shrugged and snapped the lighter closed a final time, rising smoothly to her feet. "I'm pretty sure you know the drill by now."
She walked past him in the direction of the door he had not yet seen, and must have made some gesture because the demon holding Castiel up was suddenly gone; deprived of the support he fell heavily back, and managed to twist only enough that he didn't come down square on the eyebolt. He hissed between his teeth as he hit, the impact making his wounds flare, but then he realized that the floor was cool. He turned his head so that the bad side of his face rested on the concrete and closed his eye.
He felt better, slowly. It was a blessed relief, at first, and Castiel started to think seriously about attempting to sit up.
By the time he could see out of both eyes again, however, a disturbing trend had become clear; he wasn't just getting better, he was getting better faster as time went on with no new injury to his vessel. He still couldn't use his Grace, but he could sense it, so Castiel abandoned his plan to move and concentrated instead on his internal state, and what he found frightened him more than the prospect of the oil and the lighter.
His Grace wasn't merely suppressed; it was damaged. He simply had less of it than he should have, even cut off from the power of Heaven, less than he'd had when the trap had caught him. And he could only think of one way that could have happened.
The oil, the holy oil lit on his vessel's skin, had somehow burned away his Grace. And though he could see it recovering, pulling energy from the power of the world that all supernatural creatures used to fuel their more-than-mortal abilities, the fact that it had been destroyed at all was inconceivably wrong. Given several days, he was fairly sure he would recover fully-but he didn't think he had several days; she'd said an hour, and he thought it had been longer than that already. Castiel had to take a moment to control his breathing again, disconcerted that his vessel still seemed to think it needed to breathe.
And perhaps it did.
This time, he shuddered at the sound of the door, and had to hope she hadn't seen it. He didn't move; saving his strength was more important than saving his pride, and why should he make their job easier in any case? Footsteps circled him. Castiel tensed at the tiny noise of the urn being set back down, because that sound always came after the oil and before the lighter, and after the lighter-
One of the demons grabbed him and hauled him upright. He did his best to stay limp and made no effort to hold himself up. "He's not out," her voice said. "Castiel, you're not a good liar." He didn't answer, let himself sag against the hands. "Let me put it this way," she said. "Look at me, or we'll do your eyes again."
Castiel opened his eyes and rolled his head just enough to see her. His hair wasn't long enough to hide behind, and he wasn't sure how much of it had grown back anyway; without his conscious direction, his Grace was unlikely to prioritize maintaining the mere appearance of the vessel. "You're burning my Grace," he said. His voice sounded normal, and even fairly calm.
"Your what?" she asked.
Castiel blinked at her. "My Grace. My nature, my angel...ness. You're burning it." How had she known the sigils, if she didn't even know that Grace was what made an angel?
"OK," she said, sounding for all the world like Dean agreeing with something he didn't understand but that Sam thought very important. "And what does that mean?"
"It means that if you continue doing this, you'll kill me," he said, and thought it over for a moment. "First you'll render me human, but humans can't take this kind of treatment, and I will die. I can't tell you anything if I die." Though on balance Castiel thought he might prefer death to the burning, if those were his only choices. There was no afterlife for angels, and nothingness would not hurt.
"Then I'll just have to make sure you tell me first," she said, oblivious to his musings. "Don't worry. Once this is over, I'll even kill you quickly. You're my Father's brother, Castiel, and I may be a demon but I can respect that." She made a little gesture. "Besides, you look all right."
"You didn't burn it all," he said. He didn't quite dare to snap. "There was enough left to heal me. But it won't come back as quickly as you're burning it away."
"We'll just have to keep an eye on you, then. Get a good grip," she said, and Castiel was confused until he felt the hands tighten. "Tell me where the Winchesters are," she said, almost gently.
"I won't," Castiel said. He pulled against the hands, knowing it was hopeless-even if he broke their grip, he was still chained to the floor-as she picked up the urn and knelt. She poured carefully, and he despaired to note that she didn't have to tip the vessel very far; she had plenty of oil left.
She set the urn down, scrape of earthenware on the concrete. She fished the lighter from her pocket, flipped it open, and he winced at the rasp of the flint.
The flame was six inches from his skin when he blurted, "Please don't." As if a demon would have mercy, as if this demon would.
She stopped, and said, "Are you going to tell me where they are?"
Castiel swallowed. "No," he said. His eyes prickled in a way he'd never felt before. "No, but I...please."
"That's not how this works," she replied, and the flame touched him and he threw his head back and screamed.
When his voice gave out, they stopped again. Castiel had long since given up trying to control himself physically, and he was fairly sure at least one of his wrists was broken from fighting the chain, but that was nothing against the burning. Besides, his Grace would heal a mundane injury like a broken bone quickly.
She left the urn where he could see it; he was certain it was out of his reach, but the temptation to try to knock it over was huge. But he didn't dare waste the energy, because he wanted to tell her. He wanted to, desperately, and he loathed the urge; Dean had spent thirty years in Hell denying Alistair, and now Castiel was considering giving in after mere hours? He'd always thought he was strong, but apparently he wasn't; it was his Grace that was strong.
When she came back, when they pulled him to his knees once more and the oil poured onto his skin, there was a terrifying moment when he was sure he wasn't going to be able to say no.
But he did.
He gave up on trying to control his reactions, on trying to keep track of time. He gave up on suppressing the traitorous thoughts that told him Sam and Dean would be able to handle the threat. He gave up on feeling shame. He gave up everything but denying her. He couldn't stop himself from pleading with her, though he knew it would do no good.
He thought it was taking less time for his Grace to give up, longer for it to recover again each time, but he couldn't care about that. He just had to hope that she'd go too far and kill him before he reached the end of his strength.
"Tell me where the Winchesters are," she said, and Castiel had to take some time to assemble his answer.
"I will not," he said, dully, staring at the floor. "If you burn me again, I'll die, but I will not tell you." He was fairly certain it was the truth; his tiny remaining shard of Grace would still recover, if he were left alone, but the holy fire would kill it, and then he would be a mortal human, in a body burned over far too much of its surface to survive. He suspected his death would take much, much longer than he would have liked.
But he had protected them, Dean and Sam, and that would have to be enough. He'd never found God, but they would find another way-
He was waiting for the sound of the flint when he felt the horribly familiar sensation of the oil falling onto his skin. His eyes flew open and he managed to raise his head. She was standing over him, and when she saw him looking she moved the stream of oil to spatter into his face. "No," Castiel said, realization dawning. "No. Please." She ignored him and continued to pour until he was soaked, covered in oil from the roots of his remaining hair to his ankles. She held the urn all but upside down to get the last few drops out and then set it down carelessly, and leaned over a little to look into his face.
Castiel could feel that his eyes were wide, though he had to keep blinking as drops of oil ran down his forehead. "Please," he said, hearing his voice crack in something that had to be panic. "You said you would kill me quickly, please."
"One last chance, Castiel," she said, incongruously gentle. "Tell me where they are, right now, and we'll find out if a broken neck will kill you. If not, well..." Her hand went into her pocket and she drew out the lighter again and deliberately flipped it open. Castiel watched it, feeling the panic rising in his throat. He was shaking and couldn't stop.
"Please don't do this," Castiel said.
"Tell me." She flicked the lighter and the flame sprang into life. She held it over his head.
Castiel closed his eyes, and opened them again, and it took everything he had left to say, "No."
The demon made a regretful face. She was opening her mouth when there was a loud noise and blood burst from her throat, and Castiel was just realizing that she had been shot when she lost her grip on the lighter and it fell.
Castiel had a moment to watch the demon dying under the skin of the unfortunate host before the lighter hit him. It bounced off his shoulder-if he'd had hair left, that might have caught-and he had a flash of relief...and then it landed, still burning, directly between his knees as he slumped. The demon holding him, he realized dimly, had let go. There was shouting all around him, though he didn't really understand any of the words. Time seemed to slow as the lighter spun on the concrete, coming to rest with the flame licking up towards his left knee.
There was a long, awful second while the fabric of his pants smoldered and caught.
Castiel wouldn't have thought he had the strength left to scream, but he did; he writhed and bucked, barely even registering it when he knocked the lighter clear. He could feel his Grace withering, the last tiny bit going up in literal smoke.
It was sheer luck that his struggles flipped him over and smothered the flame; Castiel was beyond purposeful motion. He felt the tears running down his cheeks, the reaction uncontrollable. When hands touched him, he flinched.
jesus christ it's him, someone said. Castiel couldn't make sense of the words, but something about the voice was soothing and he relaxed. sam get over here, he's fucking chained up. The hands moved, stroking carefully over one of the few clear patches of skin. it's ok cas, we're gonna get you out of here.
Castiel turned his face into the cool floor. The voice cursed. don't move, cas, your shoulder's dislocated.
A second voice said, i don't think that's his big problem, dean. Castiel turned it over and over in his mind as soft noises came from behind him. Dean, that was an important word.
just get him fucking unchained, the first voice snarled. It should have been worrying, full of anger, but Castiel wasn't afraid. Someone touched his hands and he hissed at the pain. i'm sorry, i'm sorry, it'll just be a second, the second voice said. it's just a luggage lock, piece of cake, but i don't know what's up with these cuffs. and i think his wrists are broken. And then, softer, as if Castiel wasn't intended to hear, why isn't he healing? Castiel thought carefully and decided he might understand the question.
"My Grace is harmed," he said, as clearly as he could manage, cutting over the first voice saying, "Like I'm some kind of angel expert?"
The hands on the chain stopped moving for a long second, and then the second voice, Sam, the second voice was Sam, said gently, "Cas, do you know how to take these off?"
He had to think it over. "There's a spell?" he offered finally. "I can't do it. It has to come from...from..." Castiel trailed off, unable to think of the proper word.
"From the person who put 'em on?" Dean asked. "'Cause that might be tough, seeing as we wasted 'em all."
Castiel frowned. "No, it's just that I can't do it."
"It has to come from outside," Dean said, and Castiel nodded.
"We'll do it, if you can teach us," Sam said from the front seat.
"Later," Castiel said, and that was all he had the energy for, and he fell into unconsciousness, curling around the spark of Grace that remained to him.
Waking up was extremely disconcerting; Castiel had never really woken up before. Even his reformation after Raphael smote him had not been quite like this.
For one thing, he had not hurt, then. Castiel hurt all over, more or less acutely in different spots. He rolled his head to the side, trying to find a way to position it that didn't make his shoulders ache.
"Hey, whoa, careful there," Dean's voice said. He sounded close. Castiel opened one eye and saw Dean looking down at him, sideways.
Castiel considered their positions and what he could see behind Dean's head, and realized that they had to be in the back seat of Dean's car. His head was leaning on Dean's thigh. But he could hear the engine. "You're not driving," Castiel said slowly. There was a muffled snort from the front seat.
"Yeah, well," Dean said. He sounded defensive. "Someone had to make sure you didn't roll off the seat."
Castiel thought that over. "This is very uncomfortable," he said, and closed his eye. It wasn't as if the view was going to change.
"Best we can do till we can get a room," Dean said. "Since we had to leave our last one and come looking for you. Seriously, dude, you thought it was a good idea to just sneak out? We could've come with you."
"She wanted to know where you were," Castiel said. "If you had come, she wouldn't have had to ask me; she'd have had you. I don't see how that's an improvement."
Silence fell in the car and lasted long enough that Castiel forced his eyes open again. Dean was looking down at him, his face blank. "You mean she was torturing you to find out where we were," Dean said at length.
"She seemed to be one of Lucifer's supporters," Castiel said. "They...do that kind of thing."
From out of Castiel's sight, Sam laughed. It didn't sound as if he were really amused. "Lucifer said he wouldn't hurt me," he said. "Guess I should've paid attention to the exact words."
There was another brief pause, and then Dean said, "You think you can swallow a pill? I know you've got crazy tolerance normally but you kinda look like you're a little under the weather right now."
After a moment of consideration Castiel said, "It can't hurt to try." This turned out to be incorrect, as getting into a position where he could swallow a pill involved movement, but they managed. Castiel was in the midst of resettling himself when a sudden thought struck him. "My coat!" he said, and tried to sit up.
"What? No, Cas, stop it!" Dean said. His hands fluttered over Castiel for a moment, clearly trying to find an uninjured patch of skin large enough to press down on. "Lie down!"
"Your amulet is in my coat," Castiel insisted. "We have to go back for it."
"No, we don't," Dean said. "Lie down."
"Dean-"
"It's in the trunk, Cas," Dean said firmly. "We picked up all your stuff, OK? Including your phone with the sixty-seven messages I left, which is how we knew you were in trouble. It's fine. OK?"
Castiel subsided. Not moving was really much more comfortable, and strangely soothing, even with his many pains. "I didn't hear it ringing," he said. "My apologies."
Dean's laugh was strained, but at least sounded honestly amused. "Only you would apologize for not pickin' up the phone while you were being tortured, Cas," he said. "Now will you just try and get some rest? We're gonna need you to tell us how to get those cuffs off."
Castiel nodded, an awkward operation, and shifted his weight a little to take the pressure off a few of the bad spots. The net effect wasn't much better, but at least he hurt in different places. He didn't sleep again, but he removed his attention from the world to examine his Grace. It seemed to be a little recovered, and he let the thought warm him as they drove.
Getting Castiel into the motel room was very clumsy, and thus painful, but once Castiel was settled he didn't care. The bed was much larger than the back seat of Dean's car, and Castiel didn't have to share it with anyone.
The spell, fortunately, was simple, even for a mortal, though Castiel had to go over the pronunciation with Sam several times before he got it right. The only necessary material component was a candle, which was easily supplied, and the rush of relief when the cuffs clicked open was so huge that Castiel had to close his eyes against it. When he opened them again, however, it was to find both the Winchesters staring at him, looking concerned.
"Thank you, Sam," he said, hoping he had not ignored some rule of politeness.
"You're welcome?" Sam replied. "But, uh, did I do it wrong? They came off, but you're..."
"Why aren't you getting better?" Dean said, overriding his brother, who gave him a look that combined irritation and gratitude.
"I am," Castiel said in mild surprise.
"No offense, Cas, but you still look like someone fricasseed you," Dean said.
"My Grace will take some time to recover," Castiel said. "But I can direct it now. I could fly if I had to." And, more to the point, he could suppress the pain. Not completely, with his Grace still so weak, but enough that it faded to something merely annoying. The Winchesters still looked puzzled. "The shackles weren't damaging me," Castiel said. "They just made it so that I couldn't use any of my power. It was the fire..."
He trailed off, disturbed and unable to divine why. After a second Dean cleared his throat. "You know how long it's gonna be before you're back up to speed?"
Castiel considered. "A week, maybe longer," he said. "I've never heard of something like this happening before, so I don't have a basis for comparison."
Dean nodded. "OK." He did not look happy, but Castiel was fairly sure Dean wasn't angry at him. "What do you need?"
"Rest," Castiel said. "It might make it easier if I ate and drank, to reduce the work my Grace has to do to maintain my vessel."
"We can do that," Sam said. "Do you need D-someone to stay with you?" Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, which Castiel decided to ignore because he didn't know what it meant.
"No, Sam, I'll be fine," he said. "Though if you have any research you need help with, I have...nothing but time."
Sam chuckled and said, "Yeah, we'll get you a book or something. And speaking of food, you got any preferences?"
Despite Castiel's assurances that he would be fine on his own, Sam went alone to acquire food. Once he was gone, Dean came to sit on the edge of Castiel's bed. He said nothing for quite a long time. Castiel didn't speak either, content to wait. He wondered if it was worth the energy to grow his hair back; it was a purely cosmetic detail and could technically wait, but he was sure that the brothers were disturbed by his appearance.
Dean interrupted his musings by saying, "Cas...man, you scared the shit out of me."
Castiel did not know how to respond, but it seemed he didn't have to, because Dean continued, "I spent the whole time we were driving coming up with all the ways I was gonna yell at you for ignoring what we said, but...you looked so damn bad. You still look bad. You look like someone got dressed up as a burn victim for Halloween. If you weren't an angel-well, we'd've taken you to the ER but it wouldn't've helped."
"I'm sorry," Castiel said, and he was; he didn't like worrying Dean. He never had, even during their first few meetings, which he had not, at the time, seen for the sign it was. "It didn't occur to me that they'd be capable of trapping me like that." He still wondered where the demon had learned those sigils; it was something he would have to look into, when his Grace was more recovered.
Dean sighed. "I know. But we were right, huh? We told you it was a trap."
"Yes, Dean," Castiel said.
Silence fell again, and then Dean said, "Cas. Next time, tell them. If there's a next time, and there damn well better not be."
Castiel opened his mouth and found he didn't know what he was going to say. "It's my duty to protect you," was what emerged.
Dean made a sour face. "There were five of 'em. We could've handled it, Cas, we're big boys. OK?"
Castiel must have looked rebellious, because Dean said, "OK?"
"She said she was going to kill me, once I told her," Castiel said instead of agreeing.
"Fine," Dean said. "Then lie. Just, I heard you, when I shot her and she dropped the lighter. You-I just don't want to hear that again, OK?"
He sounded very upset, and Castiel considered that the last time Dean had heard such screams, he'd been the one causing them. "The next time you think there's a trap, I'll be more careful," Castiel said.
"The next time we think there's a trap, you're taking us along," Dean said sternly. "Even if you have to, I dunno, leave us outside while you go scout. This isn't negotiable, Cas, you got me?"
Castiel found, to his surprise, that he didn't really want to object. The expression of concern was hidden under irritation, but it was there nonetheless and Castiel was not inclined to deny Dean something he seemed to want so badly. "I understand," he said.
"Good!" Dean said, and smiled. "Now, lemme find you the remote, because if you're stuck in bed for a week we're gonna teach you about channel surfing."
All in all, Castiel thought it would be more efficient to let Dean demonstrate.