Author's note: Hello! Yes, I know. It took me long enough. This is probably set somewhere in season 6, but after Sam got his soul back. I know it is not perfectly canon.
Anyways, I want to take a moment to say "Thank you!" to RebAngel67 for helping me. If you like some steamy Destiel with all the right feels and adorable hints of humor , you can check her first story.
Castiel needed some time to realize that what he felt was actually pain. But it was not about the pale, dull sensation that something in his vessel required to be healed. With that one he was used to. But the intensity this time was much stronger. The pain was screaming inside his head and any thought had left in the background. For the first time in a very long time he had this overwhelming feeling and it could only mean one thing.
Cas tried to remember anything from the past hours. Or days? He could not say for sure. But nothing came back.
Then the angel tried to reach his grace, but he couldn't feel it. He knew it was inside him, but as much as he tried ...Nothing happened.
He also knew that his eyes were open, but only darkness surrounded him. Tentatively, he moved his fingers. Stretched out hands and carefully felt around. His palms met a barrier and he followed it as far as he could. It felt like wood, a few splinters hurt his fingertips and he exhaled loudly.
He was lying on his back in a narrow wooden box, the angel realized. The lid was only a few inches above his face and he could barely shift his stiffened limbs.
A sinister insight crept into his mind as the memories rushed through his head. With each one his anxiety grew. He tried to calm his breathing. His heart was pounding wildly in his chest and tiny drops of sweat dripped down his face.
The demons. Castiel remembered the demons.
He had been ambushed. They attacked him in a group. He struggled, but he was outnumbered and they were prepared. He knocked down three or four of them when the others dragged him down to the ground. He resisted, kicking and trying to break free from their grasp. Then he saw it.
The meat suit was a tall, burly male but he could see the creature inside him. His black-tainted soul bore the imprint of Hell. In his hand he held an iron rye with a glowing red symbol on the opposite side.
One of the demons that held Castiel ripped his shirt open.
"Stay still, little angel," the demon croaked.
He pushed the reddened metal inches from Castiel's face, giving him the opportunity to examine it.
The circular binding symbol was clearly visible, but there was something else. It was a name, Cas realized. His name, written in Enochian was included in the sigil. That not only would lock him inside the vessel, but also it would bind his Grace and prevent him from using his powers.
Angel's eyes widened in surprise and undisguised horror.
"I want to hear you scream," the demon said.
The red-hot iron hit the bare skin of his chest with a hiss and stench of burning flesh and he screamed.
The big man was still lying on the wet grass, unconscious.
Sam stared in disbelief at his brother's deathly-pale face. His brain was already significantly blurred by pain and blood loss. He refused to accept Dean's words.
"It's not him, " Dean echoed.
The raindrops ran down his face, leaving traces in the prints of his dirty fingers. Sam was not sure to what extent it was actually just the rain. The blood from Dean's wounded arm soaked the sleeve of his shirt and his jacket and slowly dripped to the ground. For a long moment Dean stared blankly at the former meat suit.
Then he jumped out of the hole that had dug up and pounced on him with all the rage that could fit into his clenched fists. The hunter grabbed him by the collar with one hand and dragged him half upright. The knuckles of his other hand crashed into former demon's nose with a sickening sound of smashed flesh and broken bones.
"Dean!" Sam's hand reached out and caught the end of his jacket, "You'll kill him!" But Dean tore his brother's weak grip effortlessly and continued to hit the limp body.
Blinded by rage, Dean was slamming his silent fury on the man.
He knew it was just a shell. The demon was gone. What he was hurting right now was simply a man who probably suffered for months, imprisoned in his body and tortured by the monster. But he didn't care. Someone had to pay for Cas, someone had to be hurt, someone had to suffer. Dean needed to hit, he needed to get all this rage out of his system.
"Dean, stop," Sam cried again, "we can use him! He can remember where they took Cas!"
Something in Dean's mind flashed and he made the connection. He understood what his brother was trying to tell him.
When Heaven ripped Castiel out from his vessel in order to "re-educate" him and make him obedient soldier again, they had realized that Jimmy had fragmented memories of the time spent as a vessel. Also when Bobby was possessed by a demon, he remembered everything. Sam remembered the time spent with Meg in his body. It was a shot in the dark, but it was their only hope for now.
The hunter's hand froze in the air for a moment, and then sank down resignedly.
Castiel pressed his palms against the lid above his head. He pushed with all the strength that remained in his numb body. The coffin wasn't wide enough for him to be able to fold his knees so that could gain the necessary support to lift the lid. The wood didn't give in even an inch. Cas had to lay motionless for a moment. His eyes stared into the darkness, trying to distinguish anything. He could feel the panic; it stretched its cold fingers to grab him by the throat.
Coffin. It was a coffin.
He tried to think clearly, but the thoughts just slammed messy inside his head. Coffin. He felt sick. This could mean only one thing.
Buried alive.
He felt the incoming waves of the panic attack. His pulse pounded deafeningly in his temples. His hands still pushed the lid with all his strength, covered in sweat. He could feel the heaviness in his chest, like something was pushing him down. His breathing was fast and ragged because of the lack of oxygen.
He needed to calm himself. He needed to think.
The muscles of his arms ached from the effort. He closed his eyes in the dark and pressed them with his palms in a desperate attempt to calm down and slow his breathing. If only he could use his grace... The angel took a deep breath, his chest hurt from the lack of oxygen. The heavy air burned his lungs. He choked back a painful sound.
Do not panic!
"Hey!" Dean held the body in a sitting position with one hand by the collar and with other hit him heavily in the face "Hey, wake up!"
"Dean!"
He ignored Sam's desperate attempts to make him be more careful with the man. This was no time to be nice; his body was on autopilot. Dean's palm inflicted steady, measured blows mindlessly.
One step at a time. First of all, he had to make sure that the former vessel was conscious. At least enough to be able to tell them where Cas was. Or tell them anything at all.
The rain had stopped, nothing moved around.
It was quiet.
The silence.
Dean realized that something was wrong with Sam only when he stopped hearing his brother's constant bitching to take it easy with the former meat suit.
"No, no, no! Sammy!" Dean dropped the body with a thud back to the ground. The sound echoed through the empty cemetery louder than it should have.
Dean fell to his knees beside his brother's motionless body. Sam's hand was still pressed against the wound on his abdomen, but his eyes were closed and his face pale. Trembling, the hunter reached out to check for a pulse. Sam's skin was ice cold, but Dean felt the slow steady beat under his fingers and exhaled in relief.
But the relief didn't remain in his mind for more than a second. Sam was in shock. He had to do something. And he had to do it fast.
Dean cursed out loud. So he had to choose after all. He could take his brother and drive him to the hospital. But it meant to abandon Cas.
You're not even sure the damn angel is alive; a little voice crept in his head. But Sammy still has a chance. Not for long, though.
You have to make a choice.
"Damn it!" Dean cursed again.
"Watch your mouth, Squirrel." Crowley's voice startled him. He hadn't felt when the demon appeared behind his back.
Dean turned to face the King, concealing Sam with his body.
"You!" the hunter hissed, "If you even try to touch him..."
"Yes, yes," Crowley waved his hand absently, "you will kill me, etcetera. I know. This is getting ridiculous, you know."
Dean licked his dry lips. "If you're not here to finish your minions' work, then what the hell do you want?"
"Well, what can I say? To catch up," the demon replied casually, "What's going on with you these days?"
"Go to hell, Crowley!" Dean clenched his teeth. "I have no time for your bullshit."
He tried to lift his brother's lifeless body so he could put Sammy's head in his lap.
"Hmm," the demon pouted with a mocked concern, "I thought you would be more responsive, considering I'm here to help ..."
"Helping?" Dean gave him a quick, incredulous look and then put his hand on his brother's burning forehead. "Your minions did this. Don't you fucking tell me that you have nothing to do with it!"
"Well, "The King seemed almost embarrassed, "Things are not so ...perfect in Hell lately. Reluctantly, I must admit I'm losing my grip."
He took a few aimless steps around the brothers, trying not to stain his shoes in the mud.
"There are ... so to speak, in some circles ..." He stroked his suit. "Let's just say you did me a favor by sending these traitors where they belong. I have special plans for this one." He nodded toward the tall man's body, lying on the ground beside Sam.
"You wanna help?" Dean asked hesitantly, "Really? No tricks? No deals?"
"If that make you happy." The demon rolled his eyes. "Well," he shrugged. "Okay, maybe I'm getting softer?"
"I don't trust you, Crowley..."
"Yes," the demon cut him off, "You hurt my feelings. Let's get to the matter at hand, shall we?
"Can you fix Sam?" Dean looked at his brother, eyes pinched with worry. "Or find Cas?"
Crowley approached the unconscious man and put a hand on his forehead. A second later the King stood. "Your pet is buried in the northwestern corner of the cemetery, near the chapel." He frowned. "Moose would understand the Stephen King reference... Too bad. You have to hurry if you want to dig Castiel out alive. He doesn't have much time."
Dean struggled with the urge to get on his feet and run to the place, where the demon had pointed. He rubbed his fingers through his hair without moving an inch.
"Yes, I get it," Crowley shook his head, "Tough choice, huh? The blue-eyed lover boy or the brother. Which one will be?"
"Fuck you, Crowley!" Dean said absently.
"You're hopeless," the Hell King sighed, "Go. Save your angel. Moose and I will take a walk to the nearby hospital. I'll text you the address."
If you try anything..." Dean clenched his fists. The internal struggle was clearly written on his face. He didn't try to hide it.
"Blah-blah-blah... " The demon leaned over Sam and put a hand on younger Winchester's shoulder. "The tombstone says Erich Weiss. Hurry, " he said and disappeared along with Sam before Dean could even react.
Dean was staring into the empty space for a fraction of a second.
Then he began to run.
Stay calm.
Castiel closed his eyes and tried to relax his stiff limbs. His breathing was sharp and ragged. Either because of lack of oxygen or because of the panic, he didn't know.
Stay calm!
His body would not listen. Panic was all-consuming. Inside him and around him. In his mind there was nothing else. He fought with all his strength against the urge to pound and kick the lid of his wooden prison. And to scream.
The feeling was so vivid that he could swear that someone was really screaming in his ears. Someone was pounding on the coffin lid. A remote part of his mind knew that what he was hearing was his own voice. But the rest of him just could not acknowledge it.
When hours (or minutes?) later the exhaustion swept over the angel like a wave, he stopped fighting and sank down into the darkness.
The dirt was wet and heavy. Nothing was happening fast enough. His movements were in slow motion once again. Like he was standing aside and watching himself at some old, black and white shredded tape. The muscles in his arms screamed in tension.
The shovel hit a hard surface and Dean dropped to his knees, burying his fingers into the wet soil. The symbols on the coffin were clearly distinguishable. He recognized the signs of the enochian binding magic.
The hunter stood up and swung with all his remaining strength, praying that it could be enough to break the boards. But not enough to hurt the body underneath them.
The wood creaked and the metal sank an inch, breaking one of the sigils. Dean swung again. His mind was working on autopilot. Enraged, his pulse was pounding loudly in his ears.
He felt sick.
One blink later and he was down on his knees again, hands buried in the hole of the lid. Planks were protruding outward like bony hands from a fresh grave. Hysterical laughter rose with an ugly gurgling sound in Dean Winchester's throat. The metaphor that his mind tossed so persistently made his stomach turn.
The body was limp and heavy in his hands. Heavier than he assumed a man in a torn brown trench coat should be. How much do the angels weigh, the question pressed painfully in his skull.
"My true form is with the size of the Chrysler Building," came the echo of Castiel's words from a couple of days ago, loud in the silence inside Dean's head.
Trembling, his fingers frantically sought for a pulse.
"Damn it!" Dean muttered through his clenched teeth. Maybe the angel shouldn't have a pulse... "Damn it, Cas!"
