Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke.

His surroundings were blotchy and unfocused, like he was staring through a pair of glasses with the wrong perscription. A pile of something yellow that looked like sticks- wait no, that was hay. Wind was whistling through blurry planks of rotting wood above him that were shabbily patched together, letting in small shafts of sunlight. Dust particles floated around in the air. His nose instinctively wrinkled as it vaguely picked out the smell of manure…and sulfur.

From what Dean could gather, he was standing in the fuzzy landscape of a barn which was distorted by his own senses and unfocused perception. A barn… why does it always have to be a barn? Dust flew by his nostrils and he sneezed once, twice. Well, at least it's better than Hell.

He blinked and tried to rub his eyes but his arms remained firmly pinned to his sides by some unseen force, hands curled into loose fists. His feet were rooted into the floor strewn with straw and the basic products of the building's degeneration. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean knew quite clearly that this was another dream; he knew he was asleep and could wake up if he wanted to. But at the same time there was another part of him that had no such desire to return to the world of the waking just quite yet because he had to know, he needed to know…

Cas?

It was the magic word. The veil was stripped away, his vision cleared and what used to be blurs and moving objects a couple of seconds ago was now the grisly scene of a silent horror flick nearly frozen in time, frames moving by in slow motion. Dean's eyes grew wide and his head swiveled this way and that, drinking in everything he could about the scene even as his face flamed hot in anger and his jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth would shatter.

Castiel looked like hell.

No, wait. That's not right. It was an inappropriate comparison for even now it was impossible to align the angel alongside or even place him on the same level on anything that had to do with the Inferno of the damned. The holy tax accountant had his own sense of bearing alright, but still. As of right here and right now, there was no other way Dean could describe what he saw in front of him.

The angel's wrist and ankles were encircled with manacles made of some strange metal and he was shackled to two posts on either side of his form, hanging loosely from his outstretched arms some two feet off the floor. Demons possessing random people danced around their captured prize, some holding knives and other sharp instruments; others held random objects that they were using to repeatedly club against the angel's frame like they were playing whac-a-mole at some stupid county fair.

Castiel's face was tight with something that was not quite pain but his expression wasn't entirely free of discomfort, either. His dark blue eyes were focused intently on the ceiling of the barn, gazing up at something that lay beyond the rafters that were falling apart, searching for something only his eyes could behold. Even though his body swung loosely back and forth in the chains as blows rained down from all directions, the angel's lips were firmly pressed together, not opening to emit even the smallest whimper.

Dean's throat closed up like there was a huge, stupid sob obstructing it but there was no way that was it because he wasn't crying because Dean Winchester didn't cry.

He wouldn't let the hot tears past their carefully guarded floodgates. Not even as he watched a possessed little blonde girl slamming a length of wood against Castiel's knee until the bone showed white through the bloody mass of tattered cloth, not even as they peeled back the white button-down shirt that was by now stained crimson in order to carve the words "pietistic ass" into the angel's torso, not even as a demon touched a hot iron spoke to the angel's cheek resulting in the stench of scorched flesh. Now that was what Hell smelled like.

You bastards… you goddamn sons of bitches, I'm going to hunt down each and everyone one of you and shred you to pieces with my bare hands!

At long last his rage simmered over and the spell broke. All ceased to be silent as the gleeful cackles, sounds of blunt objects striking flesh and the sickening hiss of the branding iron was all drowned out by the roar that erupted from the hunter's throat. Dean's green eyes blazed a furious, brilliant emerald and he lunged forward, hands outstretched for the throat of the nearest demon who turned around with a smirk and all too familiar brown eyes flecked with yellow-

"Dean. Dean! Wake up!"

Sam had to dodge yet another one of his brother's flying fists and struggled for control. Dean's eyes were screwed tightly shut and his forehead was furrowed, eyebrows drawn towards each other, molars grinding together. He had somehow gotten the blanket wrapped around his stomach and legs, which inhibited his frenzied, jerking movements somewhat but didn't stop him from attempting to deliver his brother worlds of hurt and the inability to have children with one wild kick.

Sam backed away, safely out of the danger zone and put up his hands in surrender, at a total loss at what to do. He felt helpless, like a clueless child watching an epileptic fit as Dean fought against an enemy that only existed in his head, something that all the salt in the world couldn't blast away, something that no amount of holy water could repel. What was a little brother supposed to do?

Getting back within the range of the bed didn't seem like such a good idea given that the elder Winchester had one hell of a punch, which was oddly accurate even in sleep. Sam poked his jaw gingerly and wondered if all of his teeth were still in place. Okay. It shouldn't have been all that hard. Maybe I can pin him down if I get-

"Sammy!!"

Dean's torso and upper body shot straight up off the bed like a spring flying back from being held down by some invisible force and his eyes flew wide open. He turned halfway toward his brother who was watching him warily from the other side of the motel room and tried to get out of bed only to have the sheets twisted around his lower half restrict his movements, landing him flat on his face in the carpet that was probably saturated with every kind of biological fluid known in the realm of science.

"Dean?" Now Sam was really worried. As he watched his brother extricate himself from the bed linen and push himself up into a seated position on the floor, he carefully sat down in the chair directly opposite and waited, brow furrowed, for a response. Any response. "How are you feeling?"

"I can't get it out of my head, Sam." Dean's voice was low, rough, and hoarse. Like he'd been cheering for too long and too loud at some sporting event or like he'd been screaming his lungs out. Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees and gazing intently at his brother. Dean rarely opened up like this and he wasn't about to let this rare opportunity go to waste. And judging by the dark circles around his brother's eyes, Sam knew that this confession of sorts was a long time in coming.

"Get what out?"

"They're doing it again." Dean blew out a lungful of air and let his head fall back against the bed. "I don't know how or why because it's not like I want to see it but every single time I close my eyes; I swear I'm haunted-"

"Haunted? The EMP hasn't been picking up any readings."

"God, but it's worse than I remember. Seeing them carving him up like some freakin' Sunday roast-"

"Him? Who's him?"

"-but he doesn't even say a word, just keeps looking up at the damn ceiling like he's waiting for salvation or something, I don't know but I'm waiting too and it never comes, they just keep chopping and hacking away-"

"Dean!" Sam was in front of his brother now, grabbing him by the shoulders and giving him one hard shake. "Snap out of it!" Slowly, Dean looked at him and Sam breathed out a sigh of relief. "Now what the hell are you talking about?"

"Demons," came the disyllabic answer. "I keep seeing them in my dreams, Sam. They're torturing him, and I see it everywhere- in Hell, on earth…"

"Who are you talking about?"

"…Castiel."

Sam felt an invisible fist shove its way down his throat, through his esophagus and into the pit of his stomach. "The angel?"

Dean gave him an exasperated look, which was dulled considerably by his haggard features and bed head. "You know another Castiel?"

"No, but-" Sam rocked backwards on his heels and simply sat there for a moment, stunned. Dean dragged a hand across his face, scrubbing at his weary eyes and trying to erase the lines of tension and fear etched in deep. He half expected the other to ask how much he'd been drinking before bed again (and it wasn't much, only a couple of shots at the bar after he hustled some pool) but Sam was silent. Who am I kidding, he probably thinks I'm hung-over or crazy.

"I don't think you're crazy." Dean jerked in shock and stared at his brother. Okay, I've had enough of the weird and freaky for one night Sam, don't you start whipping out that ESP crap on me again.

Sam stood and reached for his laptop. He cast a watchful eye at his brother in the reflection of the mirror that hung tackily on the wall to make sure Dean was still sitting in an upright position and hadn't fallen over again when he just so happened to glance at himself as well. There was a contemplative frown making his features much more serious than usual. It wasn't a fresh-faced, yuppie lawyer wannabe in front staring back at him from the cold panel that reflected all without judgment or discrimination, but a twenty-six year old hunter who'd had painful experience as his lessons and loss as a harsh teacher that guided him down the path he walked today.

"Sam Winchester… the boy with the demon blood. I'm glad to hear that you've ceased your… extracurricular activities."

In the handshake, Sam had not sensed even a shred of the disdain or revulsion he expected from Castiel after the angel had hesitated in taking his hand for that long moment that seemed to have stretched on for an eternity. The feelings that he'd internalized and all to often directed at himself had been absent in the angel's frank, direct gaze that seemed to pierce straight to his core. It had been sincere and understanding but by no means passionate. Even through Castiel's vessel Sam could sense the unbridled power and strength of the proclaimed angel of the Lord.

Now as he thought back upon it, as much as the latter part of the greeting had stung at the time, there had been no judgment in the angel's tone. Well, it was oftentimes hard to tell exactly what he was feeling with the deadpan voice and expressionless mien and revealed nothing. But Castiel wasn't cruel, he wasn't the smite first, ask questions later type like Uriel and that alone made him seem more… human, in a sense.

It was impossible to figure out an angel, and Sam quickly realized that he was okay with that. He had a little more confidence in certain circumstances than Dean and he'd learned to accept the fact that there were going to be things happening that there would be no explanation for, there were going to be actions and orders carried out that he would never understand the reasoning behind, and that was alright. All he knew for sure right now though, was the simple fact that when Dean had been in Hell, an angel of the Lord somehow dragged him out and gave Sam back his brother. To him, that was reason enough to have faith in this unknown, unseen entity that was somewhere high above the clouds, dictating all the workings of the universe.

It was reason enough to help Castiel.

"Dean, what did you see?" Sam flicked open his laptop and tapped the space bar a few times to bring it out of sleep mode. From where he still sat on the floor, his brother blinked at him owlishly.

"What are you talking about? What're you going to do, psychoanalyze my brain or something?"

"I had nightmares before Jessica died." Silence pervaded in the room as the last half of the sentence hung in the air, unspoken and yet ringing out clearly in both of the brothers' minds. And it came true.

Clearing his throat, Dean stood and went over to the table, sinking down into the seat opposite his brother. "Two nights ago, it was Hell. This time, it was in a barn." He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyelids, driving his eyes back into their sockets and pulling up the grisly images once again… "There was some sort of mark," he said slowly, not taking his hands away from his face. "It looked like a brand of some sort, on his forehead."

"Was it a pentagram? Maybe an inverted cross, or…" The tapping of keys continued on far into the night as the sun rose above the concrete and brick landscape of the city, pouring into the room and heralding the arrival of the fourth dawn.

Castiel felt weak.

It was strange, foreign. Unnatural. The angel hung heavy from his wrists, feet dangling off the floor and head so leaden that he could barely lift it anymore. His chest ached each time he tried to draw breath and he could barely see out of swollen eyes. This pain that he was experiencing was a far cry from the wounds he received in battle with the fallen ones; it was far sharper and persistent, throbbing like his vessel's unsteady heartbeat and fluid like the coppery, thick liquid that slid off his suspended frame to collect in increasingly large pools on the ground beneath.

So this was what it felt like to be mortal, to be bound within the limitations of a perishable vessel and cut off from the Father and his fellow brothers and sisters. Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye is wasted from grief; this soul and body also. Castiel felt a swell of an unnamed emotion as he exhaled a shuddering breath and traced the memories back through the exhaustion and pain back to the beginning, to the first dawn…

The moon shone down full and bright upon the quiet cornfield and illuminated the solitary figure that walked a lonely, unworn path alongside the stretch of land. His dark blue eyes were tired but focused on the road ahead, his brown trench coat and blue tie putting him out of place here in the countryside.

Castiel moved steadily, not quite exhausted but somewhat weary after the recent battle over the seal that kept the stars in their place and he uplifted his gaze to the shining jewels that still resided peacefully in the sky, undisturbed after the victory for the Lord. It was not won without cost though, and Castiel knew that in time, even the armies of Heaven would be dwindling in strength and number.

"And where's your boss when all of this is happening, huh? At what point does he lift a finger?!"

Dean Winchester's furious hiss of a whisper had affected him more than the mortal knew. He had been ready to answer with the justification that the Lord worked in mysterious ways and up until that point, such an answer had been enough for him. But after watching two more of his brothers and one of his sisters fall in just one night… it gnawed at his mind.

Doubt.

Suddenly there was a presence behind him, not one of a mortal's or one of his own kind. It surely was not one of the fallen either for he could feel the tremors of the earth and hear the soul of the child being possessed crying out, begging to be set free far long before the demon even appeared and so when he turned to confront the being that stood there on the road behind him, Castiel didn't know how to react when he saw Anna's dark red hair and milk paleness in the moonlight.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was clear and not choked with emotion as it had been in the barn right before the confrontation with Alastair and his minions. "Are you not pleased to see me?"

Castiel noted that his brows had drawn tight together in a frown and his vessel was tense. There was something not right about this situation and yet he could not decipher the nature of that which was calling his senses to defense. "Only surprised," he replied truthfully.

"The Lord has more work for you tonight." Anna moved past him. "It's regarding another seal. Walk with me."

He complied, for any task that required immediate contact so soon after the last victory must have been of the utmost importance. She moved off the path and into the field; the plants seemed to bow away from her form. "What is my assignment?"

Anna stopped abruptly and turned toward him, hazel eyes shining in the darkness. "You tried to kill me, Castiel. You and Uriel both. How could you kill your own sister?"

"You were no longer my sister after you fell," Castiel replied evenly. "You lied to Dean Winchester; there was no longing for emotion in your fall." He stepped closer and saw the truth reflected in her countenance. "You were tempted into the carnal pleasures of mankind. The Father was merciful to have taken you back into his grace. Why do you speak of it now?"

"I lied?" Anna said innocently. She too stepped closer to her companion and raised a hand, extending one slim, white finger and tracing the line of his rugged jaw. "It was just a little white lie…" she whispered.

Castiel instantly pushed her hand away and stepped back. The instant she touched him, he had felt the remnants of sin in her being. She had allowed herself to be taken and consumed by the forbidden. "You have not been received back into the Father's grace."

Her smirk was full of guile and cold corruption. "Bingo." With a snap of her fingers the cornfield came alive with the demon possessed that Anna had been cloaking and Castiel was overwhelmed.

He heard the whistle of metal through the still air before he felt or saw the weapon striking and involuntarily tightened, breath seizing in his chest as it connected with his stomach, the brief respite the demons allotted him now over.

Fingers grabbed his hair and jerked his head upwards, forcing his eyes to meet the demon's gleeful face. "How does it feel, kiddo? To be trapped inside your meat puppet?" Nasty laughter and the guffaws of several demons rung out in the vast emptiness of the barn and a tongue flickered out to drag its way across the open gash on Castiel's temple. "No heavenly powers, no angelic assistance," the oily voice continued taunting, drawing out the words slowly. "And no one way telephone to Daddy dearest." There was hot breath on his cheek. "Vos es unus."

Castiel's face was stoic in appearance but his soul cried out in protest at the words and he quickly tried to drown out the other's jeers. I trust in you, O Lord; I say, "You are my God." My times are in your hand; rescue me from the hand of my enemies and from my persecutors.

Alastair smirked and circled his prisoner. "There is one way to save yourself the trouble," he slyly offered, reaching out one finger to casually flick the brand on Castiel's forehead, the mark that delivered the mighty like a helpless, pathetic meat puppet into his hands. "Give me the vessel and I'll kill you gentle."

The words hit hard and Castiel knew then, he knew. Something cold wrapped its fingers around his lungs and squeezed hard but nonetheless he raised his head and stared the abomination in the eye. "You will never have Samuel Winchester."

The demon shrugged. "Fine by me. We will get him in the end. But for now…" he sneered smugly. "Let's take a little trip down then, shall we?"

Castiel closed his eyes. Make your face shine on your servant; save me in your steadfast love. O Lord, let me not be put to shame, for I call upon you…

A/N: First off, let me say that inspiration hits at the most inopportune of times. English essays await. But I'd just like to say thank you for the reviews and please keep reading! The scripture is from Psalm 31 verses 9, 14-17. And I don't hate Anna, I really don't. But this is the best way to make all the pieces fit. Please offer up some suggestions!