Chapter 2

Castiel woke to pounding in his head and aching joints. He hadn't felt this wrecked in a long time, not even after the sea witch had fed on his grace.

The memory of what happened slammed into the forefront of his mind, and he bolted upright in alarm, only for his head to swim painfully. Castiel pressed one palm to his temple while the other lashed out to brace himself against the wall. Something squeaked beneath him, and he managed to pry his eyelids open enough to see that he was laying on a stiff, narrow cot.

Breathing through the dizziness, Castiel forced his eyes open all the way and slowly took in the rest of his surroundings. He was in a small room with corrugated walls that looked more like a shipping container, save that LED lights had been installed in the ceiling and there was the cot against the rear wall. Other than that, it was bare, and reminded him of a cell.

Castiel's stomach churned unpleasantly, and not just from the lingering queasiness, though he could feel traces of demon blood still in his system, leaving his grace raw and unreliable. Simply breaking down that door and walking out of here would not be an option at the moment.

But, he hadn't been restrained in any way. If his grace could recover quickly, he might have a chance. He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and planted his feet on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut when the movement sent spikes through his skull. Castiel tried to take several deep, centering breaths, not wanting to allow trepidation and panic get the better of him. But he knew exactly who he was facing here, and the fact that the British Men of Letters hadn't bound him with sigiled chains or anything did not make him overconfident.

Castiel patted down his pockets on a whim, but it turned out he had been divested of his phone. He wished he had mentioned Mary in the note he'd left the Winchesters. At least that way when they didn't hear from him, they could reach out to her to ask why, and she would tell them she hadn't contacted Castiel at all. Assuming she was, in fact, not in on this. Castiel was having a hard time holding onto any faith at the moment.

He closed his eyes and turned his concentration inward, trying to coax his weakened grace into igniting. He just needed enough of a burst to break down this door and get past any security measures that might be on the other side. As long as there weren't any more trank guns loaded with demon blood. Just a few more minutes…

Unfortunately, he was not given that. The lock on his cell door suddenly clicked, and the door grated open. Castiel stiffened as Ketch stepped inside, followed by another man in a white lab coat. They were each carrying an item—Ketch, a glass cylinder with gold clamps on both ends, and the other a golden egg shape that Castiel was well familiar with.

He eyed the men, anxiety setting his nerves on edge. Why bring the exorcism device unless they planned to use it? And what would be the purpose? Although, if they did expel him from his vessel, he might then be able to escape, at least. Castiel was loathe to leave his physical body behind, so much more than a mere vessel now, but it would be the better option compared to what he was sure these men had planned for him.

Still, he wasn't naive enough to presume it would be that easy…

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked, testing his grace in the hopes that it would stir, but it only sputtered under the strain. There was still his angel blade, but he would have to act quickly.

Ketch lifted the cylinder he was holding. "Testing a new device."

He nodded to the other man holding the egg, and Castiel reached for his blade to draw it from the ether, yet before he could materialize it, the man in the lab coat twisted the top half of the exorcism device, and the runes all along the sides lit up.

Castiel felt several magical hooks instantly spear his grace with such force that it stole the breath from his lungs. He lost his hold on the ether, his blade slipping away as his back arched and a paralyzed scream stuck in his throat. The barbs tore at his grace, ripping it from his physical vessel. But he'd inhabited it for so long, been resurrected in it multiple times, that there were pieces of him woven into every sinew and fiber, and the spell brutally snatched and wrenched at it all.

Bright light filled the cell as wisps of grace billowed out in every direction, shredded pieces viciously torn loose without regard. But then the spell found his core, and Castiel felt himself being sucked upward, his connection with his physical body suddenly being cut. He was weightless, disoriented by the abrupt shift to celestial energy, and tossed about in the vortex that had ripped his essence apart.

Castiel twisted in the air, trying to escape, yet before he could reorient himself, Ketch opened one end of the container he was holding, and a series of Enochian sigils that had previously been invisible and dormant now lit up along the glass sides. More magic dug its claws into Castiel's true form, only this time he was being sucked downward, right into that container and compressed into a tight ball as Ketch slammed the lid shut. The sigils dimmed and faded, but Castiel could still feel them like a steel trap all around him.

He threw himself at the glass in an effort to shatter it and escape. The sigils briefly flared again with an electric jolt that had him reeling back in shock and dazed pain.

Ketch lifted the cylinder to peer inside, his mass looming so much bigger with Castiel constricted in this manner. The British man made a pleased sort of sound. "I'd say that works quite well."

He then turned toward Castiel's vessel, now collapsed on the floor. The lab tech went over and knelt down to press two fingers under the jaw line.

"No pulse," he reported. He pulled out some kind of scanning device from inside his lab coat and ran it over the body. "It doesn't look like there's a human soul in here," he said. "Fascinating."

Ketch made a bland noise in the back of his throat. "The Old Men will be disappointed; they'd hoped to debrief the vessel."

Castiel felt a flicker of relief that Jimmy was not here to endure this. He suspected that 'debrief' was too kind a word for what the British Men of Letters would have actually done.

"Ah well," Ketch went on. "Take care of it, would you?" He turned to exit the cell.

Wait, they weren't putting him back?

Fury, terror, and panic swelled up, and Castiel threw himself at the glass once more, to no effect, save to receive another painful zap. Ketch's mouth pursed in a smug moue as he raised the cylinder to eye level again. And then he was continuing forward, swinging the container at his side as he walked. Though Castiel remained stably suspended inside, the movement was making him dizzy with the floor and ceiling switching back and forth like a pendulum.

He focused on mustering his grace and pushing upon the seal, but once again, nothing happened. He may have been free of demon blood now that he'd been separated from his vessel, but the British Men of Letters had known what they were doing when they constructed this prison. It was airtight and unbreakable.

They turned a corner, and Ketch came to an abrupt halt. Castiel's vision swam for a second before he spotted Mary approaching down the corridor.

"The nest is taken care of," she said in lieu of a greeting.

"Excellent," Ketch replied. "Good work."

Her gaze dropped to the container he was holding. "What is that?"

Castiel tried to shout Mary's name, but the sigils must have been muting him, because she didn't react. Not that she likely would have been able to understand or endure his true voice anyway. But Castiel kept shouting, desperation clawing at his heart.

Ketch cast a sidelong look at him twisting in the cylinder. "Oh, just an acquisition."

Mary spared the glowing container one last look before shrugging and turning away. Castiel slammed against the glass, and this time the shock rippled through him so violently that he collapsed into a ball in the center.

Ketch resumed his path through what Castiel assumed was the British Men of Letters' headquarters of operation in America. He finally came to a storage room and strode to a cabinet, which he opened. Castiel's stomach flipped as the cylinder was lifted and put on a bare shelf.

Ketch's mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything, just closed the door, locking Castiel in a cold, dark space, with only the muted glow of his grace suffusing the otherwise empty cabinet. But even that couldn't pierce the blackness pressing in all around him, much as despair was.

Sam woke with a startled gasp, bolting upright in bed. His heart thundered against his rib cage and it took a couple of moments to get his rapid breathing under control. He frantically swept his gaze around his room in the bunker; he was home, he was safe.

That had been a weird dream. It hadn't even been anything specific, not like his usual nightmares of Hell or Lucifer. Just a sudden bright light and pain, and then darkness and terror. The feeling still lingered, too, and the fact that it didn't have a definitive source set Sam's nerves on edge even more.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. Maybe it'd been a fever dream or something, though his head and stomach weren't bothering him like they had the night before, and he wasn't experiencing any aches or chills. But he still felt…off. Maybe he was wrong and this wasn't the flu.

Getting to his feet, Sam grabbed a clean shirt and headed for the kitchen, hoping some food and coffee might dispel the remnants of his brain fog.

He found Dean already there, in his dead-guy's robe, brewing a fresh pot. Sam frowned as he glanced at the clock on the wall. It wasn't even 7:30am.

"You're up early," he commented.

Dean made an unintelligible grunt as he poured a mug of steaming brown liquid. "Didn't sleep well."

Sam went to the cupboard to get his own cup. "Yeah, me neither. Weird dreams."

Dean paused between sips. "Huh. Me too."

Sam's mouth turned down further. "How's the flu?" he asked.

His brother shrugged. "False alarm, I guess."

Sam's thoughts turned pensive as he watched Dean take a long drag of his coffee. Though he was no longer feeling queasy himself, a different sick feeling was starting to worm its way through his stomach. Something was going on here. He just didn't know what. And despite the lack of hex bags, he was reconsidering Dean's witch theory. They could probably use Cas's help with this after all.

"You hear from Cas?" Sam asked.

Dean shook his head. "He never responded to my text." He paused. "Think we should be worried?"

Sam's mouth tightened. The rational answer would be no; Cas had only been following his lead for a day and if he'd found Kelly, it would make sense for his full attention to be on her.

So why did Sam's gut cramp painfully at the question?

"I'll try calling him." Forgoing the coffee, Sam pulled out his phone and dialed the angel's number. It rang seven times before eventually going to voice mail. Sam hung up, that tightness in his stomach increasing. "No answer."

Dean snatched his own phone from the counter and started tapping the screen. After a few moments, his brows furrowed. "Cas's GPS says he's only forty miles away."

Sam leaned over to look at the map on the screen and the blinking red dot. "Hey, isn't that the spot Cas said in his note he was going to? If he's still there, maybe he found Kelly after all."

Dean set his mug of coffee aside. "Now can we head out there?" he groused.

Sam almost delivered a snarky retort, but the truth was he did want to go and find Cas, feeling an inexplicable need to make sure their friend was okay.

"Yeah."

They left the kitchen to go get changed, and fifteen minutes later were in the car heading toward some countryside out in the boonies. Sam texted Cas to let him know they were on their way, but still got no response. He wished he could explain away the bad feeling that kept niggling at him. Sure, Cas had taken some hits recently, but it wasn't like the angel wasn't a capable warrior. There was really no reason whatsoever to assume he was in trouble.

But Sam still couldn't shake that feeling of dread.

When they pulled onto the old farm road and spotted Cas's truck pushed off to the side into some bushes, that feeling of dread shot up to full blown terror.

Dean abruptly pressed the brakes and threw the Impala in park, and both of them scrambled from the vehicle. Had Cas crashed? Except, the road was so narrow and uneven that Sam couldn't imagine the angel would be speeding down it. He and Dean circled around to the front to peer inside the cab, but it was empty. Sam scanned the sides and back bumper for signs of damage. He didn't find any, so it didn't look like Cas had been run off the road by someone. So what the hell happened?

Sam whipped out his phone and dialed Cas's number again, willing him to pick up this time.

He didn't.

A buzzing sound came from the front of the truck, and Sam twisted back around toward it. Dean beat him to the window and peered inside the cab, then swore. Yanking the door open, he reached in and pulled out Cas's phone with Sam's name showing up on the incoming call screen. Sam's heart dropped down into his stomach. What would have made Cas stash his truck and leave his phone behind?

Nothing good.

"Okay, he was following a lead on Kelly," Sam started to work out. "Maybe she was hiding out here."

Dean marched back to the road and peered down it toward a distant farmhouse. "Yeah, and then what? Why isn't Cas's truck down there?"

Sam clenched his jaw. "I don't know."

Dean crossed the dirt drive and studied the ground. "No skid marks." He paused. "There's another set of tire tracks. Big like Cas's truck. Maybe a van."

Sam frowned and walked over to look for himself. Would Cas have switched vehicles? But he wouldn't have left his phone.

Sam's gaze caught on a tuft of red in a patch of grass a few feet away, and he moved toward it. Bending down, that burble of fear took another jolt. Why was a tranquilizer dart all the way out here? Sam picked it up to examine it. Surely Cas wouldn't have tried to use something like this on Kelly.

There was an odd red tinge to the small vial that didn't look like typical tranquilizer, and Sam brought it closer for a better look. An acrid tang faintly brushed his nostrils, and he recoiled so sharply he almost fell backward, dropping the dart on the ground.

"D-Dean," he stuttered. "Th- that had demon blood in it."

"What?" Dean stormed over and gaped at the dart. "What the hell? Who would use demon blood in a trank?"

"Demons?" But no, that didn't sound right. Demons were old school brute force. And demons were after Kelly because they wanted Lucifer's kid to be born, so they would have no reason to hurt her.

Sam swallowed hard, his stomach churning again. "What if…what if it was used on an angel?"

Dean shot him an incredulous look before his eyes widened, and his gaze went back to Cas's empty truck. He swore again. "Okay, so someone shot Cas full of demon blood and then grabbed him? Who?"

Sam had no idea. Maybe demons would think to use their own blood on an angel, but that meant preparation, and why would demons want to capture an angel? Or were they after Cas specifically? Again, why?

There were just too many unknown variables here. But one thing was starting to take shape.

Sam swallowed again as he gazed around at the scene. "Think this happened sometime yesterday?"

Dean looked around, too, jaw hard. "Maybe."

Sam nodded slowly. "Like when we started feeling sick."

"So?"

"And then we both had weird dreams. Pain and darkness, right?"

Dean quirked a confused look at him. "Uh, yeah. You think Cas was trying to reach out through dreams? Let us know he was in trouble?"

Sam kinda doubted that. Even though he'd never experienced angel communication through dreams himself, from what Dean had described, it was a lot more tangible than the amorphous feelings from last night.

"Maybe. Or maybe we're somehow feeling part of what's happening to Cas. Pretty sure demon blood in an angel would work like poison, make them pretty sick."

Dean stared at him incredulously for a moment. "You're saying we got sick because Cas was dosed with demon blood? Explain how that even makes sense."

Sam worked his jaw. "Best guess? That spell we used to transfer soul energy to Cas to heal him. We used it a lot more than I think it was intended to be used."

"Cas needed it," Dean interrupted. "And it worked."

"Yeah, I know," Sam continued, suppressing an annoyed huff. "But what if using it that often created a link or something?"

Dean's brows rose sharply. "Seriously? That's what you're going with, a soul bond?"

"You telling me you haven't had a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach since this morning? That last night's dreams weren't really images, but feeling this overwhelming terror you couldn't explain?"

Dean didn't answer, but a muscle in his jaw ticked.

"Cas used to talk about that profound bond you two had because he raised you from Hell," Sam went on. "He used his grace to resurrect you, body and soul. Maybe that bond he mentioned was literal. And that's exactly what we've been doing for him lately."

Dean started to pace. "If that's true…if we've got some kind of hoodoo connection with Cas…then that means he's been captured, poisoned with demon blood, and is terrified." His voice nearly hitched on that last part, and Sam's stomach tightened in response. Because, yeah, trying to imagine what could possibly terrify Cas, a badass angel, terrified them.

"And how does this help us find him?" Dean rambled on. "Does it come with its own set of GPS coordinates? Because his phone is here." He gestured sharply with the hand still holding Cas's cell.

Sam tried to wrangle his own mounting fear and anxiety and focus on doing something about it. "I don't know. We'll have to go back to the bunker, research that spell more, see if this side effect or whatever has been documented before, and what else it means."

Dean's expression hardened. Sam didn't like it, either. Cas was missing and they had no leads, except for a long shot neither of them knew anything about. But it might be something, and Sam just hoped this bad feeling was because Cas was in trouble—but still alive. He wouldn't let himself think otherwise.

Dean went back to the truck and started fishing through the cab again. He came back out with a set of keys. "You wanna drive Cas's truck? I don't really wanna leave it here."

"Yeah, sure."

They'd take Cas's truck home. And then they'd find their friend and bring him home too.