Prayers of the Damned

Summary: Why have an informant when you can just have the King of Hell captured, tortured in an undisclosed location, and killed? Abaddon has Lola capture and torture Crowley. Crowley's desperate enough to seek any help possible. Even that blasted angel's. Though he is actually surprised when Castiel answers. But what the hell happens now? No one's sure, but in a world where Heaven and Hell have both gone mad, it may take the most unusual alliance of the two to save the day. AU season 9.

Chapter One: Calling on Angels

Crowley gasped, slumped against the table. Lola was gone, presumably to report to Abaddon. He didn't think he cared, not right now. She was gone, and he had a few precious moments to breathe.

He should have known. A demon who was helpful? He of all people should have known better. He might have challenged Abaddon, but he hadn't defeated her. As long as the outcome was in doubt, his people were as changeable as sheets in the wind. It didn't matter if he was the last acknowledged King of Hell. A challenge to the throne had to be answered and eliminated before that title bought him loyalty, and his enforced absence at the Winchester's hands hadn't helped at all. Made it ten times worse, actually. No, he should have known that any offer made, no matter how many flattering words and promises it came with, was suspect.

But he had needed blood so badly. And then he had needed relief from the torture of his humanity, the feelings that had been reawakened after centuries of absence. Lola had offered him both. And in his addiction induced craving and human weakness, he had given in and accepted her help. And made the mistake of not killing her afterward.

Which was why he was strapped, naked and exposed, to a table in a hotel room remade as a temporary torture chamber. The hotel staff had obviously either been paid to ignore the noise and the fuss, or else possessed by Abaddon's loyal demons. Could be both, actually.

It had been centuries since he'd been the one on the rack, as opposed to the one dealing out the punishment. He didn't like the reversal. Being stretched out, helpless and alone and in torment, it reminded him of when he had been dragged down and made into a demon. A memory made far worse, far more real, by his current half-human state. It also reminded him of his treatment at the hands of the Winchesters. Dean and Sam's imprisonment had been bad enough, and Kevin had enjoyed beating him every so often too. But he had to admit, if he had to choose between the Winchesters and this...he really rather missed the Moose and the Squirrel.

"Miss me, my king?" The mockery stung, not that he was going to let it show. He raised his aching head to see Lola in the doorway.

He dragged up a half-smile for her. "Not a bit. I was enjoying the rest, pet." He might be chained, and he knew he was going to hate what happened next, dreaded what was about to be done to him, but hell would freeze solid before he showed that. She might be able to make him scream (she had, several times already) but she wasn't going to make him grovel. Or beg for a respite. "You could always come and join me. Have a bit of fun." He offered her a suggestive smirk. "Table's big enough for two. Or, you could always let me return the favor. Hands have really done a number, darling."

"Always the sharp tongue. Even with your kingdom in ruins and you helpless and at my mercy." She smiled, a dark and hungry expression. "But my orders are to break you. And I will." She moved closer, a slow, sinuous walk he'd have admired at any other time. "I think it's about time to start again. But before that...I've got something for you." She held up a syringe full of dark red viscous liquid.

Dread coiled in his gut, though he tried to keep it from his face. Being human made him so much more sensitive, made everything worse. Worse still, he couldn't think properly, couldn't hold back as much as he should be able to. As much as he needed to. And she knew it.

But the dance had to go on. "Kind of you to think of me, darling, but I'm not in the mood for a pick-me-up right at the moment. Was thinking a massage might be more beneficial first." He hated how his eyes stayed fixed on that little cylinder of blood. He wanted it, craved it, needed it. Despised it, loathed it, feared it beyond all other forms of torture he could be subjected to.

"Maybe later." She smirked, then moved forward and placed one hand on his wrist. In spite of himself, he tensed. The smirk widened, and a second later the sharp sting of the needle bit into his flesh, followed by a flood of something that felt like fire, and worse. He gasped, because he couldn't help it. The sensations...every cut and bruise on his body was amplified, and the turmoil within him rose from a grumble to a cacophony.

Lola smirked, trailed one sharp nail down his face. "I'll let you enjoy that for a little while. And then, we can have another little chat." She twisted her finger, slashing the nail across his cheek and down his throat so that he jerked in helpless response, then turned and left the room.

The new cut burned like fire, like the chaffed wrists that were rubbing raw against the shackles. Like the slashes all over his abdomen. All over all of him, really. Lola was no expert, couldn't have matched him on his worst day, but she was a fast learner and she didn't have to be that good, not in his weakened condition.

He closed his eyes as the rush of human emotions crashed over him. Pain. Grief. Centuries worth of guilt and suffering. He felt the perspiration break over his forehead, and the hot sting in his eyes. He clenched his jaw, hoping not to disgrace himself with tears.

Damn the Winchesters for making him half human. The bastards. He thought fleetingly of his phone, which Lola had gleefully destroyed in front of his eyes, the first night after she had chained him. Bloody bitch. It meant that Sam and Dean were unlikely to know anything was even wrong. And certainly, they wouldn't be able to find him. Not that he thought they'd even try.

That thought hurt more than he thought it should. To his mortification, it upset him that Sam and Dean wouldn't care to try and find him. It bothered him, that knowledge that they didn't care about him. A reluctant business partner, that's all he was to them. Never mind that they'd forced him to come to see them as more. Stockholm Syndrome, humans called it. A fucking bloody nuisance, but there was no denying the effects. He wanted Sam and Dean to see him as more. After everything, he wanted those two, at least, to believe he could change, to believe in the humanity they had forced upon him. The knowledge that they didn't, that Dean despised him and Sam most likely didn't care how he'd saved his life and freed him Gadreel, even at the risk of his own existence...it hurt, on some level he couldn't explain.

He didn't want their trust, or their friendship, for God's sake. But acknowledgment would be nice. The awareness that they'd rather put a blade in his heart than offer even a minimal thank you hurt enough that he bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from responding to it.

Damn it, at this point he'd settle for having them come put him out of his bloody misery. Hell, give him thirty seconds with a phone, and he'd call and ask them to. Of course, his phone was destroyed, so...no luck there.

But the thought of a phone call jarred his mind. He closed his eyes and focused on the thought, because at least it was a distraction from his current predicament, and the pain that filled him, his own self pity and self loathing.

Calling, calling...why did that zing a light bulb? Why exactly? Couldn't call the bloody Winchesters. Phone was smashed. Not like they shared a psychic hotline. Not unless they summoned him, which was unlikely unless Dean got truly impatient. In a month or so. Or longer. Pity he couldn't just drop a message straight into their skulls.

He'd always envied their feathered poster boy that talent.

Ah. Castiel. Angel turned human turned angel again, if the rumors were to be believed. The angel he loved to hate. They hadn't parted on the best of terms, but having his heart carved out by angel blade didn't sound half-bad at the moment.

And the thoughts connected and the lights went off in his skull.

Castiel was an angel. And with Lola dosing him to make his torture more painful, he was human. Partly, at least.

Angels were supposed to hear human prayers. Especially directed ones. Even from the less savory sort of character. A prayer was a prayer was a prayer. And Castiel was a bit of a soft touch. Compassion for all and sundry and all that. Odd habit in a soldier. But in theory, Castiel could, and presumably would, hear him if he prayed. Possibly. If the so-called angel radio was working.

If it was worth the effort. It was a long shot, at best. And Castiel wasn't his favorite person, ever. More like the opposite, really. Of course, Castiel might just kill him, given that he wasn't the angel's favorite entity either.

Lola reappeared in the doorway, derailing his thoughts. "Enjoying my gift?"

"Naturally." He swallowed, wishing he could wipe away the sweat on his face. It gave away more than he wanted it to.

"Then I think we should have another talk. About the Winchesters. About your plans, your followers...I want to know everything about you." She sidled closer, then set the tray she was carrying on the little cart by his head.

Even from a foot away, he could feel the heat. Not good. And next to the tray was the silver angel blade she'd divested him of. Also not good.

He mustered up a snarky remark. "Long story love. Perhaps a bit more comfort would make the telling easier." He smirked and shifted his hips. "Business and pleasure and all that."

"Oh, I never mix the two. And...business first, I think." She took the lid off the tray, pulled off a dull knife that glowed with heat. Demon induced fire, naturally. Which actually could hurt him, with or without the humanity that made his skin shrink from the mere heat alone. "Don't worry, you'll tell me everything I want to know. And then, maybe I'll give you a last burst before I kill you for the Queen." She smirked, then slid the blade under his skin, just under his armpit, and began to draw it down.

His jaw clenched, head arching back in helpless reaction. The pain was excruciating. He'd felt worse, done worse, but to his human sensitive skin, raw as he was from the recent injection, it was like being on the rack for the first time. He bit back a cry, then a strangled gasp as she turned the blade so she was running it just under his skin. Skinning him alive, peeling the skin from his rib cage and leaving blood and burns behind.

She twisted again, driving a choked groan from him. He'd learned long ago, screaming was better than not screaming. But then, there was some pride in keeping one's mouth shut. It was a balancing game, of sorts.

Another twist, this time at a particularly sensitive nerve cluster she hadn't touched in a bit. That drove a half-breathless scream from him.

Damn it all. The angel could only kill him once. And at least he'd be able to get a message to the Winchesters. They might hate him, but they'd kill Abaddon and avenge him this just the same.

He resigned himself to screaming as a part of his mind let go, drifted deeper inside. Fell through the sea of pain to where he could at least form words.

'Castiel. Castiel...I could use some assistance. Please. If you wouldn't mind terribly…' Lola had worked the knife almost to his groin, and now she twisted it again. He screamed, and let that scream reverberate through the prayer. 'Ahhh! Please, Castiel...help me.' Lola ripped at his skin and he screamed again.

He held onto the link as long as he could, until his screams of pain drowned his ability to think, and he lost himself in the sea of agony.

***PotD***

Someone was praying to him. Castiel reeled, then sat with a thump on the bed of the motel room he occupied.

Someone was praying to him. To him, specifically. Someone who was suffering great pain. He clutched his head as another scream rippled through his mind, desperate and agonized.

Someone was begging him for help.

It couldn't be Sam or Dean. They would have called his phone. Besides, he'd know their voices, no matter what befell them or him. The voice felt vaguely familiar, and oddly dark, but he couldn't place it.

Possibly one of his brothers or sisters. Though why they would call on him, when most of them considered him a monster, the angel who had caused the Fall, was beyond him.

Another agonized cry rippled through his consciousness.

Dean would tell him it was probably a trap. But it didn't matter. Someone was calling him for help, begging him for assistance, or for mercy. He couldn't ignore it. Even if it was a trap...someone was in pain. And if he died trying to save someone...well, there were worse ways to go.

He gathered up his few belongings, then sent a quick text to Sam and Dean, informing them of the call and that he was going to answer. Then he checked himself out of the room and got into his car. The pulse of the prayer still beat at his brain. He closed his eyes, orienting himself to the call, pinpointing the location, then started the car and drove, following the screams in his mind.

Author's Note: Crowley and Cas are kind of my favorite characters, and they work well together. I kinda wanted to do a fic where they worked together to save the world, instead of endangering it. So...here we go.