Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke

The church was a majestic building. All imposing towers and iron wrought crosses on the outside, ornamented with ostentatious stained-glass windows which captured the light and sent soft blues, yellows, pinks and greens scattering everywhere. On the inside, it was just as formidable, except it wasn't so much the grand, arched ceiling or the way the sparse light glared on gold foil inlayed trinkets and statues as it was the way the interior seemed so utterly dark, cold, and dead.

Now Dean Winchester realized why he never believed in a God before. It was because of places like this, places that supposedly were safe havens from the realities of the world where a loving savior was there to take anyone and everyone into his arms-but it ultimately ended up being nothing more than empty caverns devoid of all life. He never set foot upon grounds that claimed to be consecrated by everything pure and holy; he never put his faith in anything besides his own two hands, his father's word (when John had still been alive) and his brother.

So what was he doing here, a lone figure huddled over in the middle of a hard, wooden pew that hurt his tailbone, muttering nonsense to himself as he tried to rationalize arguments in his mind, all the while hoping for a miracle?

"It was your girl Anna."

Dean leaned over so far that his forehead touched his knees, weaving his fingers into his short hair and gripping tight until his scalp burned because as much as he wanted to get Ruby's words out of his head and discount them as just more babbling from the mouth of demon scum, he couldn't. Sure, he had tried punching the demon's teeth in for her but somewhere beyond the ire and stubborn remnants of affection that were buried deep inside his chest for the redheaded girl lay the seedlings of the stark, bare-boned reality. He didn't know how or why, but he knew it was true.

How could I've been so stupid? Dean scrubbed at his world-weary features. He was sure he looked like hell but as of right now, he couldn't have cared less. Did his part in letting Anna go mean that he also had a hand in what was happening to Castiel? The more he thought back upon it, the clearer the image of the figure standing over the angel's prone body became and he could see the dark red hair, the hazel eyes that no longer held innocence and purity but a glint far more sinister that was reflected in the smirk curving her pink lips as well. I am an idiot.

The hunter raised his head and his eyes strayed upward, fixing upon the marble-carved crucifix hanging on the wall above the alter at the front of the chapel and instant, insurmountable frustration and anger swelled up within his chest and erupted from his throat in the form of a desperate shout.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!!"

Dean staggered forward like a drunken man, unable to see straight; he was so incensed and having finally found an outlet that Sam wasn't here to say no to, he let it all out. "I never wanted this responsibility!" He railed, gesticulating wildly with his arms. "I didn't ask to be dragged out of Hell, I didn't want this weight that's been dropped on top of my shoulders! What gave you the right to put me in this position?!"

He slammed his hand against a wooden pew to emphasize his words. "If you're up there somewhere, if there even is a God, what's your freakin' deal, huh?!! Are you just gonna sit up there and watch as Lillith breaks all the seals and unleashes the apocalypse upon all the poor bastards down here, as one of your faithful warriors who calls you his Father gets ripped to shreds over and over again? WHAT KIND OF A FATHER ARE YOU??!!!"

He stopped within a couple meters of the alter itself, suddenly out of steam and he leaned against the railing surrounding the table which held the wheaten bread and grape wine for communion, head bowed. Castiel's words, as if from eons ago, rang in his ears in the resettling silence of the church after his own yells had stopped bouncing off the fragile stained glass windows.

"In the coming months you will have more decisions to make. I don't envy the weight that is on your shoulders, Dean. I truly don't."

Is this another test? Is this what would be considered 'battlefield conditions'? Dean screwed his eyes shut and bit down on his lower lip so hard that he tasted the familiar coppery warmth of blood. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He had read Revelations the other day. Angels were supposed to be all-powerful and full of vengeance, ready to deliver God's wrath upon the evils of the earth with their seven trumpets and seven bowls or whatever. Of course he hadn't really expected the stereotypical fat cherubs with halos and wings, but he did have somewhat of a preconceived notion of what he thought angels were supposed to be like. They weren't supposed to die. They weren't supposed to get dragged down into Hell to become the plaything for demons after being betrayed by one of their own.

Goddamn it. He sunk to his knees, face buried in his hands and for the first time since childhood when his mother used to make him recite those familiar bedtime nursery rhymes, Dean Winchester closed his eyes, clumsily made the sign of the cross- was it right shoulder, left shoulder, forehead and then chest or the other way around? - and tried to pray.

"Thanks for letting us come on such short notice." Sam sat down in the straight-backed chair, running his fingers through his hair. The dark-haired woman turned away from where she'd been standing at the widows, closing the curtains to shut out the light that she could not see.

"Anytime, Grumpy." Pamela flicked damp chocolate strands of her hair away from her face and grinned as she maneuvered past the objects in her path without tripping once. "Where's Bashful?"

"Uh… at church."

The psychic made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat and tilted her head slightly in his direction, giving him the strange feeling that she could see his face perfectly. Here in the familiarity of her own home, she didn't bother with the dark sunglasses and her sightless eyes riveted firmly with his and Sam couldn't help but squirm slightly at the white, replacement plastic orbs that filled her eye sockets.

"Your brother doesn't strike me as the church-going type," Pamela shrugged. "But then again I guess there was a lot I didn't pick up on before-"

"Pamela, you don't have to do this if you don't want to." Bobby interjected, but not unkindly as he took a seat at the table. He and Sam exchanged a brief glance for there really was no one other than this proclaimed 'best damn psychic in the state' that could even attempt glimpsing into a world invisible to the human eye. Besides, neither of them really wanted to risk someone else losing their eyes- even if Castiel was bound in the vessel that Dean had dubbed as his holy tax accountant visage.

"You said the angel needed help, right?"

"Yeah."

"Look," Pamela's voice shed some of its bold spunk and took on a softer tone. "If thanking him means I have to go down into the Pit for a visit, I'm all for it. The sneaky bastard took my eyes, sure. But he gave me back so much more…"

She sat desolately in the solitude of her room and for the first time in her life, Pamela Barnes was surrounded by utter, terrible darkness and overwhelming silence. Not only had her physical ability to see been stripped away from her, so too had all of her psychic powers vanished. The whispers she had learned to heed when necessary and brush aside as mere nuances when frivolous in nature had not brushed past her senses in days. Not since what the doctors had labeled a freak accident. Now she knew what being 'normal' felt like, and she hated it.

Hesitantly, gingerly, she reached up a hand to the bandages still encasing her face. Her eyes- or what was left of them, anyway- itched. There were treatments out there for replacement eye surgeries but they would be of little use to her given that all the nerves inside the interior of her occipital caverns had been incinerated into nothingness. No, she would have to spend the rest of her days miserable, useless to those who had depended upon her gift before, and blind. The urge to cry made her throat close up with a giant sob, but goddamn it, she wasn't even capable of shedding tears anymore. A soft hitching of her breath broke the silence and Pamela buried her face in her hands.

"Pamela."

The utterance came out of nowhere, immediately to her left and she nearly jumped a foot off the bed and couldn't helping thinking at the same time that she should have been able to sense the presence. It was a man's voice, kind and with a fine baritone quality that would have left any other woman swooning solely at the sound of it but she wasn't in the mood.

"Who are you?" she demanded, scooting off the edge of the bed to put some distance between herself and this unknown assailant who as of this moment hadn't yet laid a hand on her but had somehow gotten into her house nonetheless.

There was a soft whisper of movement and suddenly she could sense the man standing beside her and he took a hold of her arm, sitting her back down on the bed. She considered struggling against the rather firm hold but while she definitely could have kicked his ass had she the ability to see, she wasn't so sure of her skills now considering her current predicament. "Don't be afraid, Pamela."

That voice, that voice! She knew where she heard it before, though the last time the whisper ghosted past her ears it had been in a more ethereal tone, the likes of which she had never perceived before. Anger, hot and undulating twisted inside her chest; she savagely wrenched her elbow away. "Castiel," she hissed. "Haven't you already punished me enough for sneaking a peak at you?"

A sigh. "It was never my intention to take away your sight. I warned you-"

"Yeah, yeah." Pamela bit off harshly, waving away what she supposed was the closest thing to an apology as she was ever going to get. "What do you want?"

He took her hand, the skin was warm and his palm was square, slightly calloused and had a surprisingly gentle grip. "Do you wish to see again?"

The inquiry struck deep into her core and Pamela felt a chill crawl up her spine. Was it possible for such a miracle? Quickly she shook herself back to her senses. No, of course not. It was impossible. "Sure. Are you going to take my ears in exchange?" she asked sarcastically, aware of her rather nasty tone but not really caring.

"Have faith, daughter of Eve." His hand squeezed hers comfortingly and then two fingers were pressing lightly against her eyes beneath the white strip of bandages. Pamela shrank back, partially in fear and partially due to the tingling, itching sensation that was growing almost impossible to bear. It wasn't nearly as painful as when holy fire had ripped away her sight, but it came pretty damn close. With a choked cry, she jerked her hand away and grabbed at the gauze, ripping and tearing it away from her face with something akin to raw desperation…

"What have you done to me?!" The cool night air brushed against her skin like a lover's caress; she opened her eyes and fell back onto the bed, a gasp slipping past her lips.

Instead of the overwhelming darkness that threatened to swallow her whole in its grasp, she found herself surrounded by a world of grey shadows and silhouettes in shades of white- but then she set her eyes upon him, and stared unabashedly at what she had only gotten a mere glimpse of before the blackness had settled in, at the most beautiful being she had ever seen.

He stood in front of her, composed of white blazing fire and pure holiness. Large wings stretched outward to their full span and light illuminated his entire form, shining outward from his face and driving away the darkness. The full glory of the warrior of the Lord filled the room with an otherworldly presence and she stood slowly, transfixed by the piercing sapphire gaze that held her own empty sockets and she breathed his name.

"Castiel."

She could've sworn he smiled and in a near-blinding (no pun intended) flash of light, the angel disappeared. As the stillness of the night settled in again, Pamela brought her arm down and away from where she'd been shielding her face and lifted her eyelids slowly, hardly daring to hope-

This time, she really did burst into tears. "Oh God…" she wept, tear ducts suddenly functional again and the droplets rolled down her cheeks. "Thank you… thank you so much…"

"Pamela?" Sam shook the psychic's shoulder gently. "You okay?"

She shook herself out of her stupor and turned toward him. Pamela could see the other's puppy-like brown eyes gazing worriedly at her even though the rest of his form was composed of swirling whites and the greys of energy and she sent him a dazzling smile. "Of course, Grumpy." She snapped her fingers and inhaled slowly. "Let's get started."

"You ready?"

"Every inch of me has been dipped in holy water, including my clothes and I've got my magic amulet and charms." She held up the crucifix hanging around her neck and dangled the pendant of St. Jude it on its chain. "All set."

"You'll get out of there if anything happens, right?" Bobby asked worriedly. She stopped in the midst of her chant and smirked at him.

"Don't worry. I've learned my lesson and it's not one I need to be taught again. I'll see you two in a bit."

They sat there for an undeterminable amount of time, sitting on either side of Pamela in a vain effort at protection. Sam honestly didn't know how he or Bobby would've tried defending her from Hell when she was there on her own in the spiritual realm or some mojo like that, but he was tense, ready for anything nonetheless.

As of right now, Pamela lay in the middle of the large seal drawn on the floor, looking for all the world like she was taking a nap. The St. Jude pendant and crucifix hung around her neck and multiple religious icons were surrounding her form, offering all the safety mere material objects of the tangible world could offer. Sam glanced at his surroundings for the thousandth time, by now having almost completely memorized the layout of the interior of Pamela's house.

"Are you sure she did the ritual right?"

Bobby gave him an exasperated look and Sam put his hands up in a placating gesture, backing off immediately. "Sorry, just making sure."

"Ya ijit," The older hunter said, albeit fondly, with a shake of his head. "You and your brother are two of a kind."

Sam fell silent, not quite sure how to respond. Was it a compliment? When he'd been a child, there had never really been anytime for innocence and naivety. What else was to be expected growing up in a family hunters? He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, contemplating Bobby's words.

John had never been around, and although he tried to find some sort of connection with his father when he was younger, he never subjected himself to blind obedience to the man's word like his brother had. Dean once claimed that doing anything and everything John said was evidence of being a good son, and acted accordingly- so Sam really had to wonder why he strived so hard to be like his older brother.

"So Dean went off to church, huh?"

"Yeah. Said he needed to think."

"If what Ruby said is true, than we don't have much time left." Castiel doesn't have much time left. "What did the translations say about what happens on the sixth day?"

A sharp gasp from Pamela cut off whatever reply Bobby may have been in the process of delivering and the two of them leaned forward but could do nothing for any disturbance would have broken the spell and yanked her out of Hell in the most painful way possible. Her frame stiffened and, hands fisting against the floorboards, her throat tightened as a horrified whisper flew past her lips-

"Jesus Christ in heaven!"

Rushing past the black smoke twisted into grotesque frames with leering faces that were demons and the wretched bland grey forms of the souls they tortured, Pamela flew toward the rack where she could see the glorious light of the angel bound within a human vessel, feet barely touching the ground. The thin film of holy water covering her entire frame kept the demons at bay but they hissed and spat at her as she charged forward blindly, all scattering away at the sight of the crucifix around her neck. Ignoring them and everything else around her for that matter, the psychic pulled the instrument of torture upon which its victim hung to a stop.

"Castiel?" With tenderness that she couldn't ever remember displaying before, Pamela cupped the sides of the entrapped angel's face and lifted his hanging head. There was no response. Her fingers went to the brand and traced the symbol, wiping away the blood and sweat staining his skin and for some reason she couldn't quite explain, she brought the crucifix up to her lips, murmured a small prayer and touched it against the angel's forehead. Oh God, please…

Eyelashes fluttered and then his intense blue gaze focused on her, weak and exhausted, and her heart broke for him, for this proud soldier of the Lord bound by chains of evil and stripped of his dignity as well as any and all hope. "Castiel?" she tried again.

He didn't speak because he couldn't but she heard his voice in her head, weary and nearly spent. You should not be here.

"Neither should you," she countered immediately, hardly flinching when a demon who tried venturing closer was repelled. Pamela tried not to look down at his bloody mess of a vessel, but it was hard to ignore the meat hooks that dug into the skin and splayed muscles apart.

Have faith, daughter of Eve. The plan is just.

She couldn't believe her ears- or in this case, her mental sense of audition. "You call this just?" And what exactly are you smoking?

Castiel's jaw tightened in pain and he leaned his head back against the rack as if attempting communication was sapping too much of what little strength he had left. The order of what is to be comes from heaven and that makes it just. If it is in His will, my Father will deliver me from the Pit.

"And if He doesn't?"

Pamela wanted to take the words back as soon as they left her mouth because the wounded look of pure agony he gave her at the thought of what she suggested was scarring. The angel's eyes closed and he gave a long, shuddering sigh, very much like the last breath of a dying man as his head fell limply against his chest and the light within him flickered dangerously.

Cold horror filled her and she reached out toward him again, only to be drawn backwards by some invisible force that wrapped its fingers around her and yanked forcibly, driving all the breath out of her lungs as she was dragged away from the exposed and vulnerable angel; the demons closed in with morbid amusement, eager to lay into their victim once again, and Pamela screamed out her protest.

"No!"

"Pamela? Pamela!" Someone was cradling her and shaking her shoulders firmly; and upon seeing Sam's worried brown gaze, she could hold it back no longer. Gripping his arm tightly to her chest as if it was the only stable thing in a world suddenly turned upside down and thrown helter-skelter, Pamela let the tears glide free.

A/N: More to come? Eh… maybe? I'm running out of ideas, guys… please help me out here!