I know - I am a terrible human being considering it has been a long time since I have last posted ANYTHING! I am really very sorry! x Well I hope that this can make up for it. And I will try popping the next one up sooner than this one has been (not that that is difficult!)
The room is silent. Nobody moves. Dean stands taller, blocking the way between the two young, wounded people behind him and the imposing threat. He didn't even realise that fatigue is clouding his mind, impairing his judgment and his movement.
Sam looks over to his brother, wanting to protect him from the angels. Sam knows that the angels are not here to kill his brother, instead wanting to take the boy that had suddenly appeared in the library but Sam knows Dean too well. He would do anything to prevent the angels from harming Shekinah or the little boy that she has bought with her, even if that means putting himself in danger again. Sam cannot let Dean get hurt again. He doesn't think that he would be able to take seeing his brother so close to death again.
Sam can tell his brother is struggling to stand. Slowly, so that no one notices him, he moves closer to his Dean, assuming the position that he has taken for many years, however, this time, slightly in front, being the protector, rather than protected.
Cas stands strong, eyeing the threat before him. He is calculating, assessing chances of surviving and of killing the three angels before him. He only recognizes one, the closest, but does not remember his name.
Castiel decides its time to act. The only way of getting out of here alive, while also protecting Dean behind him, whose thoughts have become slightly muted and unclear, is to go on attack.
Nobody sees Castiel's arm launch the angel knife towards the biggest angel and only realises when the angel's eyes light up, their blue grace abusing the eyes of the humans. Cas disappears from sight only to pop up behind the angel with the knife protruding from his chest. He tugs it out. He flings it at the second angel, who stands unmoving from the speed of Castiel's attack.
By this time, Sam is able to react. He lunges forward, grabbing hold of the first dead angels discarded knife and positioning himself between the fight and his brother, who has still yet to move.
The third angel moves at the same time as Sam. He turns on the threat, realizing that he is outnumbered. This however, does not faze him. Zachariah had schooled him on the company's weakness. All seem to be strangely devoted to the swaying, weak human whose eyes have clouded over and are unfocused. Crias knows what he has to do.
Sam is about to lung forward, knife ready to slam into angel when the angel disappears. The sound of wings changes position, instead coming from behind Sam. He whips around, slightly off balance from his charge at the recently emptied space.
Crias watches as the young humans face changes from confusion to hatred. Crias tightens his arm around Dean's neck, pulling him away from his brother and Crias's own brother, Castiel.
Castiel moves slowly towards his brother and his captured charge. Despite Dean's eyes widening in shock initially, now they are closing as his strength slowly ebbs from him. The scars that litter Dean's face stand out dramatically against his paling skin. That visual reminder only serves to strengthen Castiel's determination to kill the angel.
Sam sees the same thing, his eyes being drawn to the healing wounds on his brother's face. He sees the arm that is wrapped loosely around Dean's neck and the tension in his brother's hands as he grips the angel's arm. Pride fills Sam as he realises that Dean is still fighting, despite his obvious lack of energy. This pride is replaced with dread when he realises that the arm is the only thing that is holding his brother upright and the grip is only to ensure that Dean doesn't fall. Sam takes a small, unconscious step towards his brother.
Crias watches the young human take the small, hesitant step towards the boy in his arms. The angel senses the love and devotion that the other boy has for his brother, as his eyes never leaves Deans. To cause Sam more pain, he takes a step backwards, pulling Dean further from his brother's grasp. He can feel his captives legs give out beneath him as his strength almost deserts him.
Under his arm and through his skin, Crias can feel the blood, thinned from his recent blood loss, pumping slowly, sluggishly around the human's body. He reaches out his mind, trying to understand how the human is even standing, even continuing the firm grip on Crias's forearm.
There is little thought coming from the human. Very few formed ideas. No images that flash across Crias's mind. Crias drives deeper into Dean's consciousness, trying to cause him pain, trying to immobilize him completely. Dean is almost unconscious now anyway, the weeks of recovery not long enough after his accident with Zachariah. Therefore, Crias dives down, searching out the humans soul. Crias hurls himself so fast into the human that he cannot stop his advance when he catches a glimpse of the blackened soul. As Crias is flung towards it, he catches sight of the slices and cuts, edges fraying and burned, fibres writhing in pain. The light and energy that floods over Crias is tainted and depraved. Never had Crias felt anything so evil, even the demons retaining a small glimpse of humanity. However, Dean's soul was nothing like a demons', whose souls are dead and cold. Dean's soul was hot, burning, agonizingly roasting Crias's grace and very much alive.
When Crias enters the black thrashing soul, memories surge into his mind. Screams vibrate through him, begging for mercy. Face after face, each torn and bloodied, mutilated out of recognition, flashes before his eyes, each pleading, desperate. Satisfaction floods through Crias as the bodies are carved, tugged, punctured, torn, ripped, destroyed and then reformed. Desire overcomes him as the bones are exposed, the blood running, longing for more, more screams, more pain, more faces, more toys. Manic laughter fills the cavern as knives, instruments and even himself are forced into the bodies, resulting in more piercing shrieks.
Crias tries desperately to escape the nightmare that he finds himself in. He forces himself against the confinements of the soul, pushing against impenetrable walls. Crias adds his own cry of pain and torture to those already saturating the small confined space.
Only laughter responds to Crias's voice, the same laughter that haunts all those other souls, all those other faces. The laughter intensifies. Crias can feel it pursuing him. It is coming closer to his fetal presence on the outskirts of the soul.
Crias has to run.
He knows what is coming for him. He knows his fate should he be caught by the laughter. He cannot be found.
Crias tries again on the wall. It still doesn't let him escape.
Crias can feel the presence coming closer.
He does the only thing that he can think of. He retreats further inside the soul, trying desperately to be lost in the ocean of screams and pain. Crias pushes further and further, not listening to the screams as they slowly reduce in number. As he moves further into the soul, one piercing shriek overpowers the rest.
A mans. A name screamed over and over. Pleading, denial, rebellion, desperate, longing, false hope. A figure looms over, holding a knife, demanding. Refusal is all the figure is met with, blood spat in his face.
Here, there is no one else. One man pinned to a rack, heaving, desperate to allow oxygen into his body, and the figure, knife poised, smile clowning across his face. The figure repeats the question. A sob comes from the torn man. There is no other immediate response. There is no retort of wit and defiance. There is no sense of rebellion in the man. There is only self-loathing.
The figure leans closer to the mans lowered head. The smile widens at the passiveness. A sound starts to vibrate in his core. Pleasure and self-congratulation emit from him.
He moves forward closer to the mans ear.
'Say it!'
The sound quivers in the air with excitement. The figure knows that he has won. Finally. He just wants to win the final battle, the one that would cause the most amount of pain. He was tired of hearing that name, tired of hearing the hope and defiance. He was ready to hear the acceptance of ones fate. He wanted to hear the start of the apocalypse, forced by his own hand.
A single tear falls from the mans eyes. He knows. He had screamed that name for thirty years, day and night. He had prayed to whatever God was out there that there would be some way to save him, some way that he could escape. Neither God nor his hope had delivered.
He is tired. He is beaten down. He wants the pain to stop.
The man raises his head. He looks directly at Crias, self-hatred and pain resonating from them. Crias can't bare the sight or emotions flooding through him.
He tries to escape. He tries to push away. He knows what is happening. He knows what is going to happen. Every angel does. Every angel who is fighting to stop the apocalypse hates and curses Dean Winchester for his weakness, for his incapability to continue deifying Alistair in the pit. Now Crias develops a respect for the human. The agony that is cursing through his body is unimaginable. He is surprised that the human managed to last thirty years.
Despite knowing what happens, Crias does not want to witness the event. He doesn't want to know. He wants to escape.
The knife in his back comes as a relief. His mind is pulled out of the recesses of Dean's soul as the angel knife pierces his borrowed skin. Crias has never been more welcoming of death. A small smile reaches his mouth as a thank you to the person who freed him from that hell. He thanks his Father for allowing his escape and releases his captor into the waiting arms of his brother, the brother who allowed the human to remain on the rack for such a long period.