Summary: A (mostly) human Castiel wakes up on the side of the road after setting the Leviathans loose. The angel soon realizes he's been sent back to Earth for a reason: Dean's being held captive by a group of vampires. But will saving Dean cure Cas of his guilty conscience? It's Sam and Cas to the rescue, with plenty of hurt! to go around. Hurt/comforting Dean, mentally unstable/comforting Sam, and BAMF/hurt/comforting/guilty Castiel. With some fluff thrown in later on. AU, takes place after 7.10.

Reparations

Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Supernatural. Darn.

Warning: Torture…and the angel has some self-destructive tendencies in this one.

A/N: This is my second Supernatural fic. I just started watching this show in September, and originally I had grand ambitions of churning out a ficlet per season (there's soooo much material every other episode that it's crazy) but then this little angel character popped up and BAM I'm done with Season 9. How did THAT happen? Oh well. The show is just too addicting. Enjoy.

Chapter 1: Fallen

The first thing he was aware of was the faintest touch of warmth on his face. It was soft—almost a caress—and it reminded him of his birth, a gentle calling through song and an emergence into light.

Castiel opened his eyes.

There was no light.

But there was rain.

What at first came down as delicately as mist on that night in late October then became a steady drizzle. Rain pelted the angel's face and cut into the corners of his eyes before it slid down his throat and through his sinuses, forcing out harsh coughs.

Castiel sat up slowly, cognizant of the heat his frame generated. The gravel underneath him still clung to the back of his beloved trench coat, slathered in mud and riddled with tears. His head ached, and when he brought a hand up, his left temple was tender and burned when he touched it. When he brought his hand away, the tips of his fingers revealed a dark combination of dirt and blood.

How had he fallen?

Or perhaps the better question was: What had he done?

Brief flashes of memory filtered through his mind as the angel sat in the ditch and listened to the rain fall around him. There was Crowley, the plan for Purgatory, the souls inside him. He unconsciously placed a hand around his stomach, remembering the rot of Leviathan lurking in the depths of his grace, corrupting him with their lust for power. Castiel swallowed back the taste of bitter bile, threatening to force its way out of his abdomen as the Leviathan had.

He had given the world's most evil monsters exactly what they had wanted all along—free reign over the earth.

It was worse than he had remembered.

So why had he been sent back?

As Castiel relived the darkest moments of his existence, the falling rain drenched his hair, splattered off his face, and soaked his tattered clothes. The rain was almost so loud that it drowned out the voice quietly whispering in the recesses of his muddled mind.

Cas. Please, Cas. Please help me. Oh, God. It hurts. It hurts. Can you find me? I'm in hell. I'm back in hell. Oh, Cas…Please get here soon.

"Dean."

The spoken word temporarily broke through his melancholia. Some of his old power began to stir deep inside him, causing his back to arch. A few miles behind him there was a bright flash, and thunder rolled ominously. A few moments ago, the angel had almost been ready to lie back down and drown in his own give-up. Exhaustion covered him like a thick wool blanket. But now he had a purpose. Dean—his friend—needed help.

Flight never seemed so necessary than at that moment, yet Castiel's wings were useless—they may as well have been nonexistent. A slight burning sensation traveled up his back, and he shrugged reflexively.

He closed his eyes, focusing on the echo of energy that typically hummed inside him, but there was nothing.

Castiel paused. A faint arc of light sparked, emanating from his solar plexus, but then shorted out. The glow fled from his blue eyes as he opened them. His grace was blocked somehow. Meaning…

…He was human.

The rain let up for a moment, and he attempted to stand. When his legs reacted uselessly and sank stiffly in the clay-like mud beneath him, Castiel clung to the base of a dead sugar pine. He grasped its rough bark and heaved himself up, using it as a crutch when the world around him slid out of focus.

Purpose. He had a purpose again. Think.

The former angel blinked and concentrated on locating his surroundings. He was standing on the outskirts of a dense forest scented with leaves and decay. Directly in front of him was the muddy ditch he had fallen into, cradling the side of a road. He could tell by the sound of car engines zooming by and the intermittent flicker of headlights.

All he had to do was figure out where here was.

Castiel took a few tentative steps toward the road, unsure how stable his legs were. Luckily, they held, although his knees shook beneath him. And there was another sensation. Along with the familiar sway of his trench coat, something tapped against his leg. Something in his pocket.

He pulled out his old cell phone. When and where he had last used it, he couldn't recall, but Castiel almost gave a cry of delight to find that it was fully charged, and the connection was strong (Dean had taught him an important lesson: no bars, no service).

Dean. Remembering his friend's cries boosted his energy, and Castiel scrambled up the side of the ditch, hands flailing when he failed to find purchase on the crumbling combination of grit and gravel. Fleetingly—before he could even stop himself—the angel was praying.

Please let me help him. Let me reach him in time. I'm sorry—so very sorry…

And whether his renewed strength was an act of divine intervention or not, Castiel found a foothold on volatile ground long enough to hoist himself out of the ditch. Crawling on all fours, he eventually made it to the damp concrete along the side of the highway. Directly in front of him, and across the road, was a giant rock face, jutting out of the hill. Moonlight trickled gracefully upon its surfaces and glimmered with leftover rain water.

Then a car's headlights cut through his tranquility , and Castiel backed further off the road as a reflex. In his fear, he nearly toppled over the edge and back into the ditch.

There was a fair amount of reason to his wariness. His shameless exhibition of pretending to be God had most likely made Jimmy Novak's face known to a majority of the country, maybe even the entire world. If anyone followed the nightly news, they would know better than to pick up men in trench coats by the side of the road unless they wanted to be smote.

What was he to do?

The answer arrived in a car sliding up alongside him. Headlights flickered on the blue sedan, and he could hear muffled music within—some kind of jazz. Castiel had heard the genre before and enjoyed its improvisations, even if Dean despised it.

The passenger side window buzzed and rolled down automatically. With a level of apprehension, the former angel stepped cautiously toward the vehicle and bent over to peer inside.

A man with a black beard sprinkled with grey, and a cheery face, beamed out at him. Castiel instantly noticed the silver cross dangling from his neck and drooping over his flannel button-up. He had the aura about him of a lesser-known St. Nicholas—but by the bags under his eyes, the angel inferred that this man had known his share of hardships.

"Wanna lift?" the man said, jovially enough—but there was also an edge of tiredness in his voice. It made Castiel wonder just how late at night it was. He would have to check his phone again.

"No—thank you," Castiel mumbled. He had considered the option, but it wouldn't make much difference where the man took him if it wasn't closer to Dean. And there was always the chance that this philanthropist's tired memory would begin to stir and recognize the former angel from the news programs—the sight of his leering face, coat smeared with blood, causing chaos and bloodshed wherever he went.

It was also because of Castiel's lack of grace—that pervading emptiness inside himself—that gave him pause. How could he possibly defend himself against the dangers of this mortal world? He was weaponless, without an army of fiery souls at his disposal. And without his working wings…

"You sure?" The man with the cross interrupted his dark thoughts. "It's pretty cold outside."

Castiel took a deep breath, and it began to rain again—thick droplets that ran in rivulets through his tousled black hair.

"Yes," said the ex-angel. "However, can you tell me where I am?"

The man squinted his eyes, perhaps trying to determine whether Castiel was in his right mind or not. Dean had given him the exact same face on countless occasions.

Dean.

"I-I was supposed to meet a friend, and I got lost…" Castiel cleared his throat and wiped rain out of his eyes. He always detested lying; it never came easily to him—even when the lies were relatively harmless to their recipient. "M-My car's parked nearby."

The man with the cross nodded his head, relaxing back into his seat. "No problem," he said with a smile. "You're about five miles south of Angels Camp, along Highway 49."

"Angels Camp? Thank you," said Castiel quickly. "I—I'll go back to my car now."

Why were the lies so difficult to say? You didn't have a problem lying to Sam and Dean about Purgatory.

Castiel swallowed sickeningly as the man inside the sedan looked on expectantly.

"Well, can I give you a ride back to your car, at least? It's sure rainin' hard."

"No, you have been too kind," said the former angel.

"Don't mention it. I'm a pastor; it's my job to stop by the side of the road and talk to folks. Sometimes talk to God. I will pray that you find your way, son."

Castiel's eyes suddenly stung, and he had to blink back a combination of rainy mist and tears. Had he ever cried before? Not that he could remember. And yet, he felt himself crying because a stranger—who couldn't possibly benefit from his good will—cared about his destiny.

"Th-thank you," Castiel muttered.

With a knowing smile, the man rolled up the passenger window automatically, and his car pulled away.

A shiver instantly ran up and down Castiel's spine. In the falling rain, coming down in sheets now, he looked towards the sky.

I don't deserve this. I don't deserve to be saved.

And, for the first time in a long time, a voice answered back. Whether it was the voice of God, or his own conscience, the former angel didn't care.

No, you don't. But I gave you the phone for a reason. What are you going to do with it? Your choices define you, Castiel.

Castiel pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed Sam's number.


Sam picked up on the second ring, and Castiel felt a twinge of relief slide across his back, ruffling his paralyzed wings.

"Sam?" he said, and he could barely choke the word out.

There was a breathless pause, and then Sam's incredulous and suspicious voice: "Cas?! Where are you? What happened?"

Castiel's thoughts were spinning somewhere in the back of his mind, and he thought he heard Dean scream in pain…

"I—I was sent back. I think I know why—"

"I was praying. Oh, Cas—I'm glad you're back!"

The ex-angel closed his eyes at the pitch of Sam's voice and the relief he heard in it. He had been afraid that Sam would hang up when he heard his voice.

"I never heard your prayers, Sam. I-I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"It's probably because I wasn't praying to you, Cas…" Sam's tone was almost guilty.

Castiel wanted to smack himself in the face. "Of course." He was praying to God, you fool. You know, the Almighty, your dad? The one you tried to downsize and whose job you tried to steal.

"But that's not important right now. Where are you?"

Castiel explained, and Sam's shock was audible when he explained that he was only a few miles away from his position in California. The former angel wasn't surprised. He had been sent back for a reason, after all. Redemption wasn't a small thing, and it was the only thing keeping Castiel tied to the present.

It was like a dream—although Castiel had nothing to compare the experience—when Sam showed up in the Impala. Castiel slid into the passenger seat, and Sam took off at a pace usually reserved for his brother's driving.

Sam's brows were deeply creased in worry, and his eyes were shining in the darkness, but he managed to look over at Castiel and offer a small smile.

"I'm not sure you understand how glad I am to see you, Cas."

The ex-angel took a shallow breath, finding himself unable to look Sam directly in the eyes. He was unsure how much time had passed since their last meeting, but every memory was still fresh in his mind.

"Even after I broke the wall in your mind?"

Castiel could feel his body instinctively shift towards the car door as Sam's body visibly tensed at his words, but then he relaxed and shrugged.

"Well, I stabbed you in the back….So, do you think we're even?"

Castiel blinked, peering at Sam in confusion. It was such a Dean thing to say that Sam's comment temporarily threw him off.

Sam continued. "Look, you weren't in your right mind. I know that now. And we don't blame you for what you did. I think Dean will be overjoyed to see you. And saving him right now is more important than mulling over the past. Agreed?"

Reluctantly, Castiel nodded. "Agreed. Do we know of Dean's location?"

Sam quickly explained their most recent hunt—a nest of vampires that had been crisscrossing and terrorizing parts of California for the past month. Dean had gone out on a tip and never came back.

"But I think I know where the nest is located, and Dean's probably there," said Sam. "Can you zap us into the middle of it and get Dean out quickly?"

Ah, yes. About that…

"My…zapping is currently out of order," Castiel said quietly.

Sam almost slammed the brakes on the car. He looked at the ex-angel with panic in his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"I no longer have my grace... At least, most of it."

Sam slumped slowly back in the driver's seat, realization taking over. "Great. Just great. There have gotta be at least twenty vamps in the nest, Cas. What are we gonna do?"

"Do you have any dead man's blood?"

"A little," said Sam.

Castiel placed a hand on his temple—it had begun to throb again.

"We are going to need all of it."

Rain on the windshield blurred with the light from street lamps and starred in bright bursts through Castiel's vision. Moaning, he doubled over, held back by his seatbelt. In the chaos of the vision, the former angel was unaware of Sam's worried cries beside him.


He was suddenly in a darkened room, thick with smoke and a mass of bodies. A dull pulse echoed around him, the bass beat of ear-splitting music. Red lights—like alarms—flashed and mirrored the beats until everything around him seemed to flow like blood, in tune to one heart.

Someone was snarling next to him, and there was a liquid running in his eyes. When the salty thickness caught in his lips, he spat it out beside him. There was the sound of raucous laughter and clinking of glasses—the smell of salt and liquor heavy in the air.

No, no, no. This was all too familiar. He was suddenly thrown back into the pit of hell, as if he had never left, and everything since his time there had been an illusion. There was the dripping gore, oozing from every nook and cranny, flooding every surface, and leaking from eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. There was the horror and terror of it when Alistair woke him up with a slice through his cheek and put him to bed with a needle through his spine. But it was even worse when he was on the other side of the knife. There was always the influx of souls—fresh ones every day, ripe for the bruising. He had never imagined how his own soul could have cracked in so many places from breaking others' and turning them into something…inhuman.

"Dean, sweetie, you have the tastiest type."

The sound of a woman's voice drew Dean back to full consciousness. Through a haze, he glimpsed the carved stone statues built into the walls—demons grinning back at him, almost laughing at him as pain rippled across his frame again. This time, a dagger traced its way, agonizing and slow, across his chest.

Dean didn't give them the satisfaction of screaming this time. Besides, his voice was hoarse from the previous twenty-four hours.

And, God, why couldn't they just let him sleep?

Hot breath whispered into his ear, and he caught ruby lips from the corner of his eye.

"I'm beginning to think you like this."

Another bubble of high-pitched laughter, and another stream of blood ran down Dean's chest, staining his jeans a dark crimson. Although the room was stuffy and hot, he felt a chill run through him.

Shock. I'm going into shock.

When the female vamp swooped in for her next slice, she pressed her cheek up close to his. Her teeth were finely sharpened points, and her eyes were those of a wild animal's.

"C'mon, Dean," she crooned lustfully. "Give me a sign that you're still enjoying this as much as I am."

In one fluid movement, Dean kicked her legs out from under her and smashed his hiking boot heavily down on her left foot. Something snapped—whether it was bone or high heel, Dean didn't know and didn't really care. He spat blood again and smiled with satisfaction.

"How's that for starters, bitch?"

Instantly, a big burly male vamp helped the monster wearing lipstick into a nearby chair and roughly smacked Dean twice, hard, across the face.

Dean groaned, swallowing back the urge to throw up.

The female vamp was practically screaming—a shrill ear-splitting mewl.

"Can't we just drink him already?"

A few of the other vampires in the vicinity muttered approvingly.

"Patience, Malady," came a smooth male voice from the back of the room. All of the vamps turned around to watch him, like loyal dogs following their master's every move.

Dean could feel his fear building.

Oh, shit. It's the Alpha.

"We don't want to drink him until his baby brother is here to watch, do we? And won't Sam be surprised when we turn Dean instead?"

Oh no. Oh hell no.

Torture was one thing. So was being drained of all your precious bodily fluids. But being turned was not something Dean Winchester ever hoped to endure again.

The room was silent, save for the thump thump of bass beats from the club.

"You've had your fun with him," came the voice of the Alpha Dean could only hear, but not see. "Let me play with him for a while."

Dean, protesting—howling with a strained voice—kicking, and screaming all the way, found himself being lifted (chair and all) to the darkest closet of the back room of his own private nightmare.

"NO!"

"Cas?!"

Castiel gasped, opening his eyes. He was slumped against the passenger window of the Impala, one shoulder pressed into the cold glass. It took him a few moments to recollect where he was until he saw Sam sitting beside him. The car was parked off the side of the road, its turn signal still flashing. Sam's face was a mixture of terror and concern, and Castiel felt a twinge of guilt for making the younger Winchester worry further.

"Cas—are you all right? What happened?"

"It was…Dean," Cas said gruffly, swallowing on a dry throat. "I saw him. I know where he is."

"Yeah. We're almost there," said Sam hastily. "But I had to stop when you went comatose on me."

"It was a…much stronger vision this time."

"Is Dean…Is he okay?"

Castiel was unsure how to answer Sam. Clearly Dean was not okay, but the former angel decided it was wise to smooth over any roughness in the truth for now, until Dean was safe.

"He is alive. But the Alpha of this nest has him now. They—they mean to turn him, Sam. And force you to watch."

Sam's mouth went into a thin line, as he quickly squealed back onto the road, tires burning rubber.

"We'll save him, Cas. Don't worry."

Castiel would have found Sam's comfort amusing had he still had his grace, and had he not just witnessed the horror of the vampire nest. The sight of the place sickened him.

"Cas—you okay?"

The ex-angel didn't bother to nod. It would have been a lie anyway.

"The place where they're keeping Dean…It looked like…"

"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "That's actually the name of the club."