If there was anything that the Servants of Hell were good at it was fortifying their buildings. And this one is no exception, Castiel will give them that. This particular warehouse sits comfortably on the outskirts of Lawrence, Kansas, nearby to the old Oak Hill cemetery but just intentionally and precariously placed outside of Lawrence PD's jurisdiction. And needless to say the simplicity of the ploy made him uncomfortable. The Garrison have a reputation of their own, of course, and it's defined by not having interfered with the Servants since he first became a full-patch Brother, so their intel may be more than a little outdated, and all of these facts when added up didn't seem as intimidating when laid out across the table but at this very moment, they seemed downright crippling. But even still, they'd managed to track down this missing cop in a matter of weeks where the Lawrence PD have hardly scratched the surface. They know that Lilith is behind his capture and that she was there when it all went down, they know that if the blood and the markings left behind were anything to go by then her VP and his mutts weren't too far away, either. It took manpower, but three paper trails and six black SUV plate numbers later, they'd wound up with the address of this building slapped on the Garrison clubhouse table. And that was without taking the time of day to interview the cop's other cop brother, or the bitch who'd supposedly ditched the Servants for the right side of the law. God knows why they decided that this was the right cause to rejoin the fight for, but it wasn't Castiel's place to ask questions and the only thing he was to focus on is that if the mission succeeds today, the cop's captivity will end at nearly seven months. If the mission succeeds.
He could smell smoke by the time the other Brothers gathered around the back entrances, guns in hand and knives tucked into boots and thigh holsters. At first he figured that it was leaking out from the boiler room in the old building's sub-basement, but the strength of the putrid smell said otherwise and he added that to the list of things beginning to make him question whether or not this run was a good idea. But he was ready, poised and stationed at the back door and by the time he's supposed to make his way through and grab the cop, Uriel will have shot the locks off the cellar's doors and his twinge of apprehension will have been proven nothing other than a stupid call. So he remained determined.
But then he heard the shouts and the shots being fired and doors swinging open and his Brothers rushing in one after the other and then there was a hand on his chest, holding him back, counting to three, and vanishing into the black smoke pouring from the windows and from the doorways and he gripped his gun tighter in his hands, and he counted to three, one…two…three. And he rushed in after them.
There was heat. So much heat, sweltering hot smoke billowing around them, all-consuming and choking and blinding. All of Castiel's senses were useless save for hearing and his apprehension grew to a full-fledged wrench in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't tell if his current sightlessness stemmed from the smoke stinging his eyes or from the gloom of the warehouse, but he keeps moving toward the south, whatever that's supposed to do to help him, despite the shadows of unfamiliar men darting about. He's able to tell if they're Servants if they're running at him rather than with him, and he fires off a few warning shots at the ones who think it's a good idea. He makes it halfway to his destination before his clip runs out. He still can't see well, his lungs are starting to burn, bright orange flames have started to flicker across the visible ceiling and he reaches for his knife for defense. He only has to use it once before he rams right into the heavy metal door that he'd been trying to locate in the dingy, boiling hideout. Despite the new pain in his nose and the new warmth trickling its way down his face he was relieved to feel it and made the dumb mistake of grabbing the handle. It was burning hot, and it seared into the skin of his palm and he let out a short cry that almost certainly disclosed his location. Against his better judgment, he grits his teeth and he twists the handle anyway and throws the door open to all but fly down the stairs.
If the main floor was pitch black then the sub-basement was darker than hell, Castiel thought. He had a moment's solace from the immediacy of the fire as he lets his eyes adjust, finally feeling the sting of the smoke in his eyes and lungs and the throbbing in his nose. There're a few cuts on unprotected areas that he's sure to feel in the morning thanks to a passing blade of a Servant or two. He hasn't gotten shot yet, though. And he's counting his lucky stars that when the inevitable inevitably happens, the vest he's wearing underneath his shirt and kutte will reduce them to nothing but bruises.
The fact that the room was just as hot, if not hotter, than the level above left open the possibility of the origin of the inferno being exactly where he'd thought it'd been; the boiler room. He prayed that the cop wasn't caught in the middle of it and took a breath before continuing forward.