Title: Prophetic Erotica: Chapter 5
Author: Lassroyale
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Graphic violence
Spoilers: Up to and including 4.18
Pairings: Dean/Castiel
Disclaimer: Not mine, which is really a damn shame. Kripke, you still own Supernatural and it's delicious eye-candy…for now. ;)

Summary: The prophet Chuck has another series of books that he's been writing in secret about the torrid affair of an Angel and a Hunter. During one of these dreams he has a vision of a terrible plan and wants to intervene...but how can you undo prophecy?

A/N – Cas!whump. I'm not entirely happy with the flow of this chapter but I'll put it up anyway. After all, my Muse has been most elusive for this story. I'm not sure if I've struck that balance between too-graphic or not graphic enough…sooo…onwards!

THANK YOU, THANK YOU for all the reviews! It makes it worth while and gives me the drive to stick with this story. 

Chapter 5

In his mind's eye, the world dropped from beneath Chuck's feet. Noises and images slid together in a dizzying array before things suddenly snapped back into place. It was like a record player speeding up – slowly, the prophet was able to pick out individual sounds (and sights) and piece them together into something cohesive.

The prophet swayed on his feet, disoriented by sudden change from one vision to another. He wondered if it was right to feel so nauseous, especially since this was technically all in his head. When he looked to his left, he saw that the Trickster had apparently come along for the ride. The pagan god stood next to him looking coolly unruffled. He wasn't surprised.

Chuck steadied himself and glanced around. He immediately felt sick again when the gravity of the scene playing out before him settled in.

"Oh no," he whispered bleakly, knowing full well that he would be forced to watch these events unfold until the vision let him loose from its grasp. The Trickster remained silent at his side, though there was a hard glint within the god's dark eyes.

They stood in one corner of a building that Chuck recognized instantly from earlier prophecy – the barn where Dean first met Castiel. The walls and floor had been wiped clean of the haphazard collection of wards and sigils that Dean and Bobby had painted before that infamous meeting. In their place was a neat arrangement of complex symbols that took the prophet a moment to distinguish; for they were Angelic in nature and unlike any previous divine cipher he had seen.

"That is a symbol of holding – a Soul Crest," said the Trickster suddenly, pointing to a large sigil on the floor. "It ties a particular Grace to its vessel, making them one in the same. The rest are simply wards to keep other Angels out…and that one in."

Chuck looked to where the other was pointing and gasped, his chest suddenly tight.

There, hanging above the Soul Crest from a rusty hook, was Castiel. His head lolled forward onto his chest and his body was lax, clearly unconscious. The Angel had been stripped down to nothing but his boxers, his hands tied with a mess of cables above his head while his feet hung bare inches from the symbol on the floor. Though he bore no obvious marks, Chuck could make out the faint outline of healing scars peppering his skin from head to toe in an epitaph of violence. Old blood was caked in Castiel's hair and the floor was discolored with enough crimson stain that it made the prophet wonder how many times had the Angel been tortured and allowed to heal.

How long had this been going on?

Chuck wanted to turn away from the sight of the Castiel hanging limply from the hook, but he knew it would be no use. The vision would hold him there until he had seen what there was to see. It was then that Cas stirred, loosing a soft groan of pain before he lifted his head and looked around. His sky blue eyes were clouded and delirious. The pain in his eyes, however, cleared in an instant as a door at the far end of the barn opened and five Angels walked into the building, Osmadiel at the lead. Dragged between two Chuck didn't recognize, was Dean Winchester.

The Angels had fitted the Hunter with a snug leather collar and had shackled his hands and feet with thick metal cuffs. The two Angels were exceedingly calm as they dragged the man by his arms into the barn, even as Dean was thrashed wildly and screamed obscenities and threats with every breath.

"You fuckin' holier-than-thou sonsofbitches!" spat Dean, trying in vain to kick at one of the Angels holding him, "I told ya no more for him! Put me in his place, you dickless motherfuckers! Better yet, lemme get you on the rack and I'll show ya how dark side I can really go.!"

The Angels did not respond to the Hunter's tirade, but instead looped a thick chain through the ring on his collar and through the cuffs on his hands and feet. Then they pushed the Hunter to a kneeling position and chained him to a thick metal ring on the floor in front of Castiel, still well outside of the Soul Crest's outer ring.

Osmadiel moved forward and bent to look Dean in the eyes. He spoke in an infuriatingly calm voice, his tone so casual he might have been commenting on the weather.

"I make you the same offer I will make you until this is finished, Dean Winchester: Abandon your quest to protect the Seals and let Lucifer rise. In exchange we will let you and our brother go to live out your days together in peace. When the Horsemen ride, your deaths will be swift and painless."

Dean was quiet for a long time, his green eyes enraged and hateful as he stared at Osmadiel. Then, almost delicately, he spat in the Angel's face.

"Fuck you Sulu, you worthless turncoat. If keepin' my faith and workin' against Lilith means I'll get to someday shove my shotgun down your throat and pull the trigger, then you'll never sway me."

Osmadiel didn't appear to react to either the words or the gesture, but instead rose and wiped the spittle from his cheek with the sleeve of his shirt. He turned his dark gaze to the Angel on the hook.

"And you?"

"He will not agree to what you ask, Brother," said Castiel his voice steady and clear, still filled with understated authority. "Neither will I. If only your faith was as strong as Dean Winchester's, then you might see the folly in your plan. There is still time to turn back to our Father…I will still forgive you for your misguided actions."

Osmadiel shook his head, a trace of revulsion rippling across his otherwise placid mien.
"Nay, Castiel, it was foolish of our Father to ever trust one of them with a task so revered as his. He has always adored his humans more than us – us! who were created to love and adore him. If only you would join us, we would not have to do this."

"I will not," said Castiel firmly, glancing at Dean. "I will not forsake my faith or love."

"Then we shall proceed."

~~~~~ ** ~~~~~

Chuck had seen the Demons torture their victims on the rack, for he had seen what had been done to Dean Winchester in Hell, and later, what Dean Winchester had done to other souls. They ripped, they raped, they stabbed, they skinned, they burned, they eviscerated, they sodmomized, and they did countless other terrible and unspeakable acts to their victims. They took joy in their torture, for even in Hell there was a certain passion to their work.

Somehow, how the Angels approached torment seemed more appalling to the prophet.

They were clinical, like vacant automatons that went through the motions only because that was procedure. Nothing affected them as they tortured Castiel with detached expressions, their eyes unblinking as they made the Angel writhe and scream.

The Angels did things in counts of five.

They started with a general beating of Castiel's body, methodically from head to toe.

First they used closed fists, pounding the Angel as he hung from the hook across every inch of exposed skin, leaving large, hideous bruises where their blows had landed. Next, they beat him with blunt objects, in this case, lengths of metal pipe. Castiel's teeth were broken within five strikes, bits of enamel littering the ground as he choked on the blood seeping out of his mouth and trickling down his throat. By the end of it, his face was unrecognizable, crushed to a pulp of soft tissue and blood.

They had let him heal a bit, after that. Then they continued.

They used spiked objects next, nails driven into wooden planks, each blow puncturing flesh and organs as they continued to systematically beat him from head to toe. The wheezing, gurgling sound that came out of Castiel's throat as he tried to scream with punctured lungs was something Chuck would never forget.

After they had repeated the procedure twice more with an old fashioned stoning followed by a whipping, the Angels moved on in the process.

Now they focused solely on the Castiel's hands and feet. A different technique was applied to each toe of each foot and each finger of each, of course.

They held a flame beneath one finger and one toe until the skin bubbled and burned, eventually melting. They snapped the bone that remained off at the knuckle while Castiel tried jerk back. They held him still and continued. They crushed one finger and one toe until it looked as if they had no bones, and then allowed two rats to chew through the Angel's thumbs. The excited squeaking was nauseating. Next they merely pulled off his index fingers and matching toe, flaying and slicing the remaining appendage off with a pair of shears.

Castiel's screams, at this point, had become low dull moans of one in constant, unfathomable pain, though he continued to thrash on the hook like a bloodied ragdoll.

That changed very quickly.

Osmadiel lowered the Angel to a table and strapped him down, unbelievably unaffected by the steady drip-drip of Castiel's blood and fluids as they pooled on the floor below him.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

For several long minutes the sound of Castiel's falling blood was all that could be heard in the room. Then he loosed an ear-piercing shriek of agony. The Angel's back arched against the straps holding him down, his violent spasms reopening wounds that had been trying to heal. He continued to thrash so much that he dislocated his own shoulder in an attempt to get away from the pain he was experiencing.

But there was no escaping.

The Angels had placed a small cage on Castiel's stomach with an open bottom. Between his stomach and the cold metal bars of the cage, were the two large rats. The cage was then doused in lighter fluid and set aflame.

As the flames licked the edges of the metal and began to burn skin and singe fur, the rats became frantic. They sought the only avenue of escape they had – the soft flesh of Castiel's belly.

It took fifteen agonizing minutes for the rats to chew through to the other side of the Angel's body. When they emerged, their claws and teeth tore a jagged, bloody gash near Castiel's kidneys. Bits of organ and entrails clung to their fur and whiskers, and they looked bloated from the flesh they had gorged upon in an attempt to escape. One twisted its head back around and took a dainty bite of stomach lining.

Osmadiel didn't give the Angel any time to heal before he inserted a syringe into one of those too-blue eyes and squeezed the plunger.

Chuck figured it was acid, for Castiel's eye melted and dribbled out of the socket within a minute. He turned away as another Angel pried his mouth open and stuffed a rag down, pulling it through the gaping wound trying to heal in his ravaged belly. They poured salt water down his throat until the rag became swollen. Then, with deliberate slowness, they pulled the cloth back out of his mouth.

The horrible wet rasping noise Castiel made as the rag was yanked back between his lips, made the prophet want to cut his own ears off, if only to never hear something like that again.

All the while the Angels bore those damnable tranquil expressions, going through their counts of five with as much passion as one has when eating dirt.

It was atrocious.

"No more," he whispered hoarsely, "I don't want to see anymore." He turned to the Trickster who was not looking at Castiel but instead was to studying Dean.

The Hunter looked like he might very well rip his own arms off in an attempt to reach Cas. Blood stained gag the Angels had forced between his lips to silence him, his lips cracked and gums cut from where he had attempted to gnaw through the fabric. His face was twisted with hate and helplessness as he watched the Angels torture Castiel, and his cheeks were stained with tears that had long dried.

Despair was beginning to creep into the corners of those brilliant emerald eyes, and Chuck finally understood what the Angel's were doing.

They were killing Dean Winchester's hope.

"I think you should wake up now," said the Trickster abruptly and snapped his fingers.

~~~~~ ** ~~~~~

Chuck awoke alone on his living room floor, stiff and sore from lying in an awkward position next to his couch. His tongue felt thick, his skin grimy, and it felt very much like a blacksmith had taken up residence between his temples. His eyes, though, were haunted with what he had dreamed.

The prophet moaned as he struggled to a sitting position, and noticed two things: 1.) a note had been stapled to his shirt and 2.) a large glass of water was sitting on his coffee table next to two capsules of extra strength Advil.

He went for the water and Advil first, then tore the piece of paper from his shirt.

Reminder:

1) Look in your pocket
2) Call.
3) Finish your story.

- Trickster

Chuck blinked and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a business card. It read in plain black letters, "Anthony J. Crowley".

(TBC)