CH 2

"You can't see anything?" Sam asked, pushing past Dean. Dean let himself be manhandled, pliant, his mind a whirlwind of rage and depression.

"No," Cas said impatiently.

Dean focused in on Mick, holding a handkerchief to his bloodied temple, and it was like everything else vanished.

Dean got to his feet and stalked over to the crying idiot. Dean yanked him up his shirt and collar and slammed Mick against the far wall. Mick's head slammed against the wall, the sound echoing down the corridor. The monsters behind the other doors began to howl.

"What the hell did you do?" Dean seethed.

Mick put his hands up defensively. "It was an accident, I swear, we didn't mean—"

Dean pulled back and slammed Mick into the wall again, jarring the man's already injured head. Mick bit down into his tongue. Blood dribbled down his chin.

"You blinded him?"

Mick cried in pain. "No, no! Please, I swear, it was an accident—"

"You accidentally blinded him," Dean growled. An accident…accidentally blinding Cas was worse than them doing it on purpose, these pathetic, incompetent, blundering, morons.

"It was an accident, I swear, we didn't want this, he, he got a bit cocky. Ketch was teasing it with holy fire—"

Dean's heart dropped into his stomach.

"Bastard angel lunged at Ketch, made him drop the torch—"

Dean threw Mick to the ground and stomped on his hand. Dean heard the distinct sound of bones crunching, and he twisted his foot, digging his heels into the metacarpals. Mick's scream was high and sharp.

"Dean!" It was Sam.

Dean turned. Sam was standing in the doorway, holding Cas by the elbow. Sam had given Cas his FBI trench coat. Dean was glad they were able to give Cas some semblance of modesty. Anything was better than keeping Cas naked, like a fucking zoo animal. In the light of the hallway, Cas's injuries were better illuminated. The burns on his face were worse than Dean had originally thought. Parts of Cas's hair had been singed off. He didn't have any eyebrows. His eyelids were puffy, swollen to twice their size.

"Dean," Sam said softer. "What are we doing with him?" Though Sam's voice was soft, his eyes were cold, detached, and hard as stone, staring down at Mick, with an expression Dean couldn't place. His nostrils flared. Dean knew his brother better than he knew himself: Sam was barely containing his rage. If it weren't for having Castiel beside him, Sam probably would've joined Dean in the ass kicking.

Everything about this situation was awful, fucked six ways to hell, but Dean was glad that his brother was on his side for this—on Cas's side.

"Please," Mick whined pitifully. "Please, I swear, it wasn't my idea at all, it was Ketch—I told him to leave the halo alone-"

Dean bent down and grabbed Mick by the shirt collar again. He rattled Mick. Dean wanted to stay and make Mick as black and blue as Cas was and then some. He wanted Mick to suffer, and Dean had forty years up his sleeve, knew exactly where and how to make it hurt—

"Dean."

It was Cas this time. Dean spun around, impatience beginning to get the better of him.

"Dean, leave him."

"Cas, you can't be serious!" Dean said.

"You're better than this." Cas's gaze was directed towards the ground. "He's not worth losing yourself."

Dean's throat clogged up. He felt like he'd been bunched in the face. He forced a gulp, though it went down slowly and painfully. The rage was causing a cluster headache. His right eye was throbbing. Dean unconsciously looked at his arm, reminding himself it was blemish free. There was no Mark of Cain. This rage was all him.

Dean didn't understand how Castiel could still much such claims about him, after everything. Castiel knew better than anyone, even Sam, what sort of tattered remains made up Dean's soul. Castiel knew of all Dean's sins, every act Dean made in Hell, and how Dean had enjoyed it. Even now, Mick's screams, brought some joy to Dean. Castiel had to know that.

How could Castiel know all that, and still make those sorts of claims? Dean wasn't tainted. Castiel may have raised Dean from Hell, but Hell still lived inside Dean.

Regardless…Dean wanted to be the man Castiel thought he was. He exhaled slowly.

"Exactly!" Mick said, voice high and panicked. "Yes, I swear, Dean, I'm—"

"You," Dean spat, "are nothing. You're not even a hunter."

Mick swallowed.

"You feel like a man?" Dean growled, tightening his fist in Mick's collar. Mick gasped at the shift, and Dean hoped the bastard had to fight to breathe. "You feel strong, smart, picking on someone that can't defend themselves? It get your rocks off?"

They kept Cas deaf, bound, dumb, and blind. Cas was completely defenseless, and Dean thought of how Cas had flinched and tried to pull away when Dean first touched him. Cas had no idea what sort of touch was awaiting him, if it would be gentle or harmful. Probably all the touches were harmful, and Cas had lived with that reality for two months. But Cas had no way of knowing what or who was coming for him, no way to anticipate his attacker's moves or intentions.

"You're a coward," Dean said. Dean had no patience or tolerance for cowards. "A spineless, weak, pathetic coward."

Mick spat a wad of blood. "Please, I was only following orders, I swear—"

A mindless drone, on top of a coward, god, Dean yearned to just put a bullet between his eyes right then and there-

"Dean, we have to get going," Sam said. Dean turned and saw how Cas leaned into Sam, knees trembling beneath him.

"Are you going to kill me?" Mick said, voice cracking.

Dean dropped him and gave one good kick to the gut. "I'm not done with you," Dean said. "There's not a damn place on Earth you can crawl into that I won't find." Getting Cas home, somewhere safe, was the priority. Dean would come back for every last one of this pathetic mongrels another time. But first-

Dean reached for Cas's other hand, and together he and Sam lead Cas up the stairs, slowly and carefully, as Cas's movement were stiff and unsteady.

Dean kept up a gentle mantra as they ascended, with "We're almost there, Cas, just a little more."

When they made it back to the lobby, they were met with Cindy and at least ten other people that had to be members of the British Men of Letters. Sam and Dean stopped just at the threshold of the door.

"Let us go and no one has to get hurt," Sam said, straightening to his full height.

It was a mix of men and women, ranging from several different age groups. They stared at the brothers intensely, eyes bouncing between the brothers and Castiel. Dean reached behind him, hand hovering just above his holster.

The oldest person there, a man with a thinning hairline, cleared his throat and stepped off to the side. "Stand down, agents."

They all parted like the Red Sea. Sam and Dean escorted Cas out quickly, heads held high and with purpose to their step.

All in all, they were in and out of the HQ in less than fifteen minutes. Dean helped Cas get into the backseat, and then he went to trunk and dug through his duffel bag until he found a pair of his more comfortable sleep pants. Dean went back to the backseat door and helped Cas pull the pants up. He slide in next to Cas, handing Sam the car keys. Dean wasn't going to let Cas rot in the backseat by himself, not in his…condition. He dug under the seats and pulled out the first-aid kit.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly, assessing Cas's wounds. He still had a hard time examining the awful burns. Dean had seen and suffered lots of injuries in this life, but burns were always the worst, and even minor burns were incredibly painful. They ached and throbbed and for days. And that was if they avoided becoming infected.

Dean would always take getting shot versus receiving a bad burn.

"I'm okay," Cas said. Dean met Sam's eyes in the rearview mirror. Sam's brows were drawn close together, a worry wrinkle popping out of his forehead.

The wounds Cas had were too old to be sutured. All Dean could do was lather them in antibiotic cream and bandage them as gently as possible.

It was going to be a long, tedious drive back to the bunker. Dean busied himself with taking care of the wounds he could, stomach churning each time he across an aged bruise, or thin, fresh scar. It took him over an hour to get everything done to his liking. Cas's back especially was a macabre painting of bruising and knife wounds, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what the Men of Letters had been trying to do. Dean didn't have the heart to ask Cas how successful they had been. Not yet.

Dean taped the last piece of gauze into place, and patted Cas gently on the arm. "All done," Dean said. "Cas, how's your grace?" None of Cas's wounds had improved after getting out of the cell and away from the range of the sigils. Cas touched his neck.

"I don't know," Cas said softly. "I can't feel it."

"You running on human?"

"Approximately."

Dean bit his lip and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He exhaled and tried to focus on the task at hand. He found an unopened bottle of Motrin and poured two pills into his palm. Without knowing the state of Cas's grace, it was better to be safe than sorry. Two might only just take the edge off and not do much substantially, but at least Dean wouldn't have to worry about accidentally overdosing Cas. Dean grabbed a water bottle from under the seats. It was warm, but better than nothing.

"Here," Dean said, giving Cas the pills. "Take these." He broke the seal on the water bottle and passed it to Cas.

Cas took the pills and swallowed about half the water bottle in two large sips.

Dean couldn't stand the elephant in the room much longer. "Cas, what happened?"

Cas took another long draw of the water. Dean's eyes flickered and met Sam's once more. "Eyes on the road, Sammy," he said.

"I received a call from Arthur Ketch, asking for my assistance in a hunt. I was tracking the Kelly Kline lead in Kentucky at the time, but, the trail had gone cold, and Ketch claimed he knew something. He refused to tell me over the phone. He said he would tell me what he knew in person, after I had helped him with his case. I didn't think much of it, to be honest. I…I don't remember much. I met with him at the Tennessee border and then….I remember something hurting, very badly…and then I was in that cell." Cas was quiet for a moment. "Where are we?"

"Mississippi," Dean said, inhaling. He clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm.

"Oh," Cas said. He reached up and touched his eyes. Dean 's breath shuddered in his chest.

"Don't do that," he said, grabbing Cas's hands gently. "You could get them infected."

Mick said Cas's eyes had been burned with holy fire. That's what hurt him, caused those horrible scars and took Cas's sense of sight. Dean's mind was racing. The obvious question was poised on his tongue, but he couldn't force it out. Is it permanent?

"Dean," Cas said. Dean's heart was pounding in his chest. Dean let go of Cas's hands. Cas reached up and touched Dean's face. His touch was feather light, just like it always was, and he traced the contours of Dean's face, up his cheekbones, across his forehead, down the bridge of his nose.

"Sam is here too?" Cas asked.

"I'm right here," Sam said. "I'm in the driver's seat. We're going home, Cas."

"Home," Cas said, sighing. He leaned back against the seat.

"That reminds me," Dean realized, cursing to himself. "We should call Mom. Let her know we found you."

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his mother's number. It rang and rang and rang and then it went to voicemail. Dean tried not to be disappointed.

"Mom, it's Dean. We found Cas." Dean looked at Cas out of the corner of his eye. Cas, bruised and cut up, blind… Somethings were better explained in person. "Call me back ASAP." Dean hung up.

His Mom had been working with these fancy ass Men of Letters for months. All this time, Cas had been in some dingy basement with Mom's new besties, while Sam and Dean tore up and scavenged the entire continental US.

Dean had told her those guys were bad news, he told her they were assholes, that he didn't trust them. They had kidnapped and tortured Sam and she still insisted on working with them, that their way was the better way. Would she still feel that same way after Dean told her what they had done to Cas? She knew Cas was missing, and that he and Sam were going mad in grief searching for him. Mary had seen Mick and Ketch, worked cases with them, probably had dinner with them (Couldn't be bothered to have dinner with her own kids, but Dean was betting she was having a grand ole time schmoozing it up with these British asshats), and the entire time, they'd been tormenting Castiel.

Cas's hand was on his arm, giving a gentle squeeze. "You're angry," he said.

Dean exhaled through his nose. "Not angry. Frustrated." Dean pinched his nose. "How are you doing, Cas?"

As crazy as it was for him, Dean couldn't even begin to imagine what Cas was going through. Cas had already lost most of his angelic senses through the years, and now he had lost the basic and most vital human sense. Cas blinked slowly. The action looked painful. Dean winced in sympathy.

"It's strange," Cas said. "I'm….I'm not really sure how I'm feeling."

"That's okay," Dean said. "We'll figure this out, Cas. We'll fix this."

Dean caught sight of Sam in the rearview—his eyebrows were pinched together, mouth turned downward. Dean scowled at Sam.

"We will fix this," Dean said. He refused to accept anything else. They had taken down God's sister for crying out loud! They could fix this.

They had to fix this.

Dean had more questions. What the hell did the Brits want with Cas, was the most prominent one, the one that was pounding against Dean's skull. He wished he'd done more to that crying bastard, Mick. Bastard deserved every ounce of pain that came upon his head.

And then of course, there was Arthur Ketch, who apparently was the mastermind in this entire debacle. That guy always gave Dean the heebie jeebies. With his pressed suits, and grenade launchers, and wit, and creepy smiles. Dean shuddered just thinking about him. Before, he'd been nothing more than a minor nuisance, and the antagonism between Dean and Ketch was just rivalry.

Now, it was personal. Now, there would be blood. Dean would ensure it with his dying breath.

"Okay, Dean," Cas said. Dean huffed. He wasn't sure if Cas believed him. Cas was probably just trying to appease him. That was okay. Dean didn't need Cas to believe him. He would fix it.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. It was barely one in the afternoon, and the day already seemed so long.

"Why don't you rest up, Cas?" Dean said. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."

-0-0-0-

Dean wasn't sure if Cas slept, but he eventually fell into some sort of restful, meditative state, and Dean would take that. Selfishly, it wasn't all for Cas's benefit. Dean needed it a bit too, to try and wrap his head around this entire effed up situation without having a freak out in front of Cas.

His mind was stuck on many things, repeating over and over in a loop. How did the Men of Letters get the jump on Cas to begin with? It sounded like they drugged him somehow, but Dean had seen the guy down shot after shot after shot of Bobby's specially brewed hard liquor and not blink, so what in Hell had they used to knock him out?

He was also stuck on the fact that Cas wasn't dead.

Cas told him that just touching holy fire would kill an angel. Even the barest hint would destroy them. It was why holy fire worked so well as traps. It wasn't like a devil's trap, where the demon was physically incapable of leaving. Angels weren't stuck: attempting to leave would kill them.

So how had Cas been burned with holy fire, but remained alive? Not that Dean was ungrateful. He'd lost Cas so many times over the years, and had just recently had to relive that reality, of Cas nearly dying, wounded and seizing, and Dean had been helpless. If Cas died, Dean knew he wouldn't be able to bounce back from it, not this time. Cas was too important. It'd be like losing Sam.

Dean would take Cas in any form, angel or man, crazy or sane; hell, he'd take Cas as a freaking squirrel if the other alternative was death.

But, that holy fire should have killed Cas, and it didn't, and that stirred undue concern in Dean's blood.

He'd take Cas like this, too. Battered and blind.

Not for long, Dean reminded himself. Cas wasn't going to be blind forever. They'd figure something out. Wheedle Crowley into fixing Cas, or trapping an angel and forcing them. Dean would climb Mount Everest and scream at God until he was blue in the face, until that deadbeat took two minutes off his fucking 'vacation', got off his ass, and healed Cas. It was the least the jerk owed Cas. The very, very, least.

He could feel his blood pressure rising. Dean looked out the window, at the passing scenery as they made their way back into Kansas. They stopped for gas. At the convenience store, Dean picked up cold bottles of water, a pack of beef jerky for him and Sam, and fruit snacks for Cas.

"Eat," Dean ordered, tearing the bag open for Cas. He was prepared for Cas's usual, I am an angel and I don't need to eat speech, but it never came.

Dean should have been glad, but the elation never came. The fact that Cas wasn't arguing with him was cause for concern. He covered his worry by forcing a water bottle into Cas's hands, with the demand that Cas have it finished by the time they got to the bunker.

Much of the drive passed in silence. Dean was fidgety. He kept staring at Cas, feeling guilty that he could and Cas had no way of knowing. Cas was calm, composed, as per usual, but Dean felt like a train wreck on the inside. He was a shitty friend. According to Cas, his time with the Winchesters was the best of his life, but Dean failed to see that. It seemed like Cas was never not hurt in one way or another these days.

Dean couldn't shake the images of Ramiel and the Lance of Michael out of his head. That had been horrible. Maybe Cas wasn't actively dying at the moment, but this wasn't any better. He was blind.

When they pulled into the bunker garage, it was past sunset. Mom's car was already parked in her spot. Dean double checked his phone, and swallowed when he saw that she hadn't called him back..

Sam parked the car.

"Okay, Cas," Dean said, taking hold of Cas's wrist. "We're home."

Cas smiled softly, the sort of gentle, simple grins that were rare, but it settled some of the uneasiness in Dean's stomach. Cas was glad to be home.

It took some maneuvering, but Dean helped Cas out of the Impala without bashing his head, so Dean considered that a small victory. Once they were out and standing, Dean hooked his elbow with Cas's.

"Slow and steady," Dean said. Sam hovered behind, hand not touch Cas, but ready to reach out if needed.

Dean was nervous, but he began walking, and kept his pace and stride slow and reasonable.

It was slow going, thanks to Dean, but they made it into the hallway of the bunker.

Mom was just outside the door, leaning on the wall.

"Hi, boys," she said, smiling. Dean looked her in the eye, and watched as the smile fell the moment she inspected Cas. Dean swallowed, eyes sweeping over Cas again too. "Castiel," she said, and whatever was supposed to come after it died on her lips.

"Mary," Cas said. Dean's heart seized at Cas's tone. It was downright cheerful, and enough to make Dean nauseous. Cas slipped out of Dean's grasp. Dean went to grab back on, but he stopped at the last moment, due in part to Sam's pointed glare. Cas managed the five steps between him and Mary and then he hugged Mary.

"You are well?" Cas asked, true sincerity in his voice.

Mary swallowed. She was slow to raise her arms and return Cas's embrace. Her eyes were off looking at the wall. "I'm fine, Castiel," she said. There was a hitch in her voice.

Dean studied her. He felt like a jackass for doing it, but there was something in his Mom's voice, the way she avoided her eyes, that made him antsy.

"Come on, Cas," Dean said, putting his hand on Cas's shoulder. "Let's get you to bed."

Cas was compliant, sagging out of Mary's hug, and Dean directed Cas to his bedroom while trying to ignore the notion in his gut that something was very, very wrong with Mary.