A/N: Thank you Guest for your review! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Also to the Guest reviewer on "Never After," in case you read this story too since I don't know how else to respond to you: I don't like the way watching the show makes me feel. Even the parts I enjoy aren't enough to leave me feeling anything but anxious and perturbed after each episode. And I don't want to feel that way anymore. So I'm sticking to fan fiction and breaking away from the current season.

Chapter 3

Castiel and the demon circled each other in the ring.

"You have a name?" Castiel asked.

"Horace. I don't care about yours."

"It's Castiel," he told him anyway.

Horace lunged and Castiel pivoted away.

"What's your objection to fighting back against these oppressors?"

The demon rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated noise. "Do you ever quit?"

"No." Castiel feinted right and then struck left, scoring a shallow graze across Horace's arm.

The demon arched a surprised brow at him. "Alright. You talk a big game about taking a stand against the man. But as soon as they light up that fancy collar, you go down just like the rest of us."

Castiel's mouth pressed into a thin line. That was a good point.

Horace swung and Castiel blocked before breaking away again.

"Then we find a way to get them off or disable them."

The demon scoffed and struck out again. They exchanged several parries, but Castiel was still only trying to bide his time in order to convince Horace to help him, so he was taken off guard when the demon abruptly surged forward and slammed into Castiel's chest, flipping him up and over. He landed on his back, the breath punching from his lungs.

Horace brought his sword down to Castiel's throat, but instead of making the final cut, he simply stared at him for a long moment. Then he backed up and walked toward his gate.

The crowed started to boo, but Horace didn't turn around. Castiel pushed himself up onto his elbows, then slowly got to his feet. It seemed the demon was content to call the fight over, though no fatal blow had been delivered.

Disgruntlement continued to ripple through the audience, and a few moments later, the doors opened and the handlers came in, remote in hand. Castiel lowered his sword and let it fall to the floor. The handlers looked angry, and they roughly took him by the arms and led him back to his cell. Guess he wouldn't be seeing Sybil tonight. She probably needed a rest from healing him anyway.

He was thrust into his cell and the door locked behind him, and Castiel went to the rear wall. He turned his back against it and slid down to the floor. Several minutes later, there was the sound of clomping footsteps, and then Lars walked in front of his cell.

"I have to say, that was a first," the man said, eyes flashing with barely contained fury. "A demon sparing an angel. How'd you manage that?"

Castiel just glowered at him. "You won't keep getting away with this."

"You think anyone cares what happens to a bunch of monsters?" Lars sneered. "You murder innocent people. Even the angels do, don't pretend otherwise."

Castiel's jaw ticked. No, he couldn't deny that. But it didn't justify what these hunters were doing. And there were people who would care. Sam and Dean would care very much if they knew Castiel was here.

…But therein lied the despair to his hope—the Winchesters had no way of knowing where Castiel was or that anything had happened to him. He was supposed to be off searching for Kelly, and it was often days or longer between checking in. Who knew how long it would take for them to start to wonder, to start looking.

No, Castiel would have to rescue himself, like he always did.

When he didn't say anything else, Lars jabbed a finger at him through the cell bars. "Play your part, angel," he said in a dark tone full of menace. "Or you won't like what happens next."

With that, he turned and left, and Castiel closed his eyes against an upwelling of disheartenment.

Castiel started losing track of the days. Every one was the same—the mornings and afternoons he was left alone to languish in that cell, and at night he was sent into the arena to face Horace. Over and over again.

Every night, Castiel would ask Horace if the demon would stand and fight with him, and every night Horace would respond not until they had an actual advantage.

Castiel spent a little more energy defending himself against the demon's attacks, and the fights started drawing out longer and longer. At first, it was to the crowd's pleasure, but then they started clamoring for more violence and bloodshed.

And when Castiel wouldn't oblige, he inevitably kept losing.

But Horace didn't go for the debilitating blows like he'd done in the beginning. He'd wound, of course, or go for the kill but pull back at the last second, making it clear he was the victor.

Castiel's injuries weren't serious, and so he wasn't brought to Sybil very often. He was left to heal slowly in his cell, and he began to mark the passage of time by how long it took those cuts and slashes to heal, which was a while without access to his grace. His vessel was gradually becoming riddled with scars.

Sometimes he could hear monsters put into the cells near his, and Castiel would try calling out to them, try to convince them that if they refused to fight and worked together, they could bring this operation down and escape.

He wasn't surprised when he didn't get much of a response from them. He was starting to think he should intentionally get severely wounded in the next fight so he could see Sybil again, see if she was making progress speaking with the other prisoners.

But he didn't have a solid plan yet, and he needed one if he was truly going to convince anyone that they had a fighting chance.

Castiel had been so compliant lately that his handlers had slowly begun to relax around him. Not completely. They were still hunters who looked upon anything supernatural as a vile piece of vermin, but neither were they watching him like a hawk. They'd even stopped carrying the collar's remote in their palms when they escorted him to and from the arena, but kept it in their pockets.

Castiel kept his gait steady, careful not to telegraph anything before he made his move. He would probably only get one chance at this, because if he failed and tried the clumsy distraction again, the hunters might grow suspicious.

He waited until they were walking down one of the isolated corridors, and then he tripped and went crashing into one of the handlers, driving them both to the floor. He deftly slipped his hand into the man's pocket and palmed the remote, then continued to roll over him and into the wall. With his back to them, he quickly stuffed the remote inside his breastplate where it would be secure. He then started to turn back over.

The other handler was already whipping out his remote, and Castiel braced himself for pain, but the shock never came. The two hunters exchanged a look as Castiel made sure to stay on the ground.

He ducked his gaze and murmured, "Sorry."

The hunter he'd knocked down grumbled under his breath. "Get up," he snapped.

Castiel pushed himself to his feet, and they resumed the trek to his cell.

He waited until the games were over and the barracks had fallen quiet for the night before pulling the remote out and examining it. There were three buttons, but Castiel had seen the remote used often enough on him to know that the left one was the initial jolt, and the middle was an amplified one. The button on the right had never been used, to his knowledge.

Taking a deep breath, he tentatively held the remote up toward the collar on his neck and pushed the third button. There was a beep, and something inside Castiel snapped, releasing his grace. The oxygen left his lungs in a whoosh at the shock of suddenly feeling his grace again. It burbled up and sluggishly healed some of the fresh wounds from the most recent fights.

Castiel sagged against the wall, clenching the remote in his hand. Now he could convince Horace to act, and together maybe they could break out of this hellhole.

Throughout the entire next day, Castiel was itching to bust down his cell door and make his escape now. But he wasn't sure how far he'd get on his own, and while he felt no loyalty to wait for the demon, they'd have a better chance together than apart.

So Castiel waited until that night when he was fetched for the arena. The remote was hidden inside his breastplate, and he went quietly yet again to the door of the pit. The handlers now handed him his sword at the gate instead of tossing it in for him to pick up. Soon he would finally turn it on them.

Horace sauntered out like he always did. Castiel raised his sword and let the demon come. Horace quirked a curious brow at him, but attacked first. Castiel swung his blade up to block with a resounding peal, strengthened by his awakened grace.

Horace blinked in bewilderment, but seemed to shake it off. "What, no plea tonight?" he said.

Castiel's lips curved upward. "No. Just an invitation." He reached into his breastplate and removed the remote, holding it up for Horace to see. "I'm leaving. Are you coming with me?"

The demon's eyes flared with life, and his face cracked into a manic grin. "Hell yes."

Castiel angled the remote at Horace's collar and punched the button to disable it. Then he dropped the remote and ripped the steel band from around his own neck. Finally.

Gasps and shouts went up through the crowd, and the gates in the pit grated open as handlers started pouring in. Castiel and Horace raised their swords and charged.

Castiel had never relished in the killing of humans before, but in that moment, he took a dark pleasure in cutting down the men who'd shackled him, tortured him, and put him on display. It was almost comical the way a few stood there, frantically jamming their thumbs on their remotes, even though both Castiel and Horace had managed to remove their collars. The demon tore through them with even more glee.

They broke through the door into the corridor as several hunters fled down the hallway.

"We should free some of the monsters to fight with us," Castiel said.

"Yeah," Horace drawled. "You do that. As for me, I'm outta here."

Castiel shot him a dismayed look, and the demon winked.

"Thanks for the fun."

Then he threw his head back and smoked out of his meatsuit.

"Horace!" Castiel yelled, but the demon was gone.

He spun with a growl and patted down one of the dead handlers until he found the keys to the cells. Castiel then sprinted toward them and stopped at the first, which contained a werewolf. He tossed the keys inside.

"You'll only get one shot at this," he snapped. "Make it count."

Castiel left the werewolf to free itself, and hopefully the other monsters, while he hurried back toward Sybil's chamber and kicked in the door.

She jolted in surprise, eyes wide and fearful.

"Castiel?"

"We're leaving."

He swept forward and swung his sword, severing the leash from the hook in the ceiling. Castiel caught it, and though he was loathe to lead her out by it, they didn't have time to try to break the padlock on the witchcatcher collar.

They stepped into the hallway, and the sounds of fighting echoed down from the passage ahead. Then there were the telltale screams of collars being activated.

Castiel gritted his teeth, and guided Sybil the opposite direction. But he'd never been able to fully map the place, as he was only ever taken between his cell and the arena, and they soon found themselves weaving right back around to where they'd started.

Sybil grabbed his arm. "Castiel."

He whipped his head toward where Spencer and another hunter were filing in, armed with weapons Castiel had never seen before. They didn't look like regular guns, and he instinctively put himself in front of Sybil.

Raising his sword, he strode toward them, summoning his grace up so that the hall lit with a flare of blue as celestial intent poured out through Castiel's eyes. He stretched out a hand, intending to unleash a surge of power, but the hunters didn't even balk.

Spencer merely squeezed the trigger on the weapon he was holding, and a fizzling blue mesh of squiggles shot out toward Castiel. It snapped open into an electrified net, and lashed around him. Castiel clenched his jaw and tried to keep his feet, but then the other hunter pointed another weapon at him, and this time screeching pain split through his skull.

Castiel cried out and finally fell, his sword useless in his spasming hand. Not that it mattered, because it felt like his head was going to implode, and with another explosion behind his eyes, everything mercifully ceased to exist.