Chapter Thirteen:

Since there were rumors that another attempt might be made on Dean's life, Chuck had ordered that all the lowlifes from the Thieves' Forest be rounded up and held until the wedding was over.

A brute squad had been formed, and they were incredibly efficient at clearing out the village. But none of them were strong enough or brave enough to take on the giant.

The large man sat outside the local pub, a tankard of mead in one hand and his sword flashing carelessly in the other. He was slurring his words and yet still amazingly spry whenever anyone from the brute squad tried to approach.

"I won't move!" Sam shouted, to no one in particular. "I am waiting for Crowley," he said. "If we got separated the pl-plan was to return here. Crowley will come and I'm not l-leaving til then."

A shadow passed over Sam. He readied his sword arm for another fight. And then the familiar voice swept over him, like a low sweet song.

"Brother, aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

Sam was seeing double, but the man was still a welcome sight. "Benny," he said.

"Aye," said Benny. The vampire reached down and attempted to heave Sam to his feet. It would have been impossible had Sam not become compliant, but Benny's presence had relaxed him. He stood up on shaky legs.

"Where is Crowley?"

"Crowley's dead."

Sam's stomach dropped to his feet, and his vision went hazy again. They had a deal. They had a deal! He would do this awful work and start this war between Heaven and Hell, and in return Crowley would help him track down the yellow-eyed man. Now there was no hope, none at all.

Except. The man who bested Crowley. Who had bested them all. He could find the yellow-eyed man, Sam was sure of it.

"What happened to The Man in Black?"

"There are rumors among the brute squad that Prince Chuck took a captive to a secret lab. It could only be him."

"Then we must find him."

"Alright," said Benny. He wasn't honestly sure what to do with himself now that Crowley was gone, but sticking by Sam was the only thing that made sense to him. "But let's get you sobered up first, huh?"

Sam thought that was a pretty good idea, especially when he tried to take a step and nearly toppled over, only to be steadied by his best and only friend.

Castiel had spent nearly an hour attempting to convince Kevin to free him, but the young man had shut down completely. In fact, he abandoned him to go to some other part of the dungeon, where he could no longer listen to Cas's appeals.

Cas pulled at the restraints to no avail, and before he knew it, the door to the dungeon was opening and briefly swathing him in light from outside.

Count Azazel was back, yellow-eyes flashing over Cas's body. "Kevin healed you well, I see."

Cas said nothing. It was one thing to plead with Kevin, but he knew there was no mercy to be had from this demon. There was nothing to be said, and he would have to endure whatever torture was coming until he either escaped or died.

The Count wheeled over a strange looking machine from the corner of the dungeon. It was connected to a pulley system, had many gears, and several wires coming out of it, which ended in little suction cups.

"This is my finest work," said Count Azazel. "It is the greatest instrument of pain known to man, angel, or demon. It will burn your insides and for every twist of this dial -" he pointed to a knob with numbers etched around it, "you will lose a year of your life. We'll start slow though, shall we? Prince Chuck has informed me that he doesn't want this to be quick in any way."

Azazel began applying the suction cups to various parts of Cas's body, including his temples, his chest, and one on each wrist.

Cas was a bit nervous, but not abundantly so. He was confident he could endure whatever this machine was because he had his secret. It was something he had discovered back when Cain had tortured him (before the demon had found a soft spot for him). It was easy to endure torture when you could take your mind away. And the best way to take his mind away was to think of Dean.

It had saved him several times over.

All he had to do was imagine Dean with perfect clarity. From his eyes to his freckles to his smile. To the soft skin of his cheek, the slope of jaw, the tattoo on his chest. His lips, soft and supple.

So when Count Azazel turned on the machine, Cas simply took his mind away to Dean. He thought of the endless green of his eyes. He thought of his hands, scarred but steady and the warmth of him and -

Cas screamed. His very cells really did feel as if they were on fire.

No. No. Dean's face swam in his mind, as vivid as -

It was hell, it was unbearable, it was the worst pain he'd ever known. It was pressure and heat and sharp as a knife to his every nerve, every organ, every atom of his being.

The Count turned the dial down. The whirring of the machine stopped, though the pain did not. It lingered within his skin, spiking strangely in his veins before fading to a duller ache all over his body.

"That was level one," said Azazel. "I may one day go as high as five, but I'm not entirely sure what it might do to you. So now, if you could rate your pain for me? Don't be shy."

Cas could only whimper.

The Count produced a piece of parchment and pen from his pocket and marked down a note. "Very good," he said.