Disclaimer: Same as it has always been folks. We don't own it, tho Avery is asking for a Castiel trench coat for Christmas.
Authors' Note: Well, this chapter would have been up last night, if not for the arch-angel-touching-down electronics meltdown had by Avery's entire dorm! But it's here, it's fresh, it's not entirely in English, and it's guaranteed to make you fear for Cas.
Also, thank you for all the reviews! They mean the world to us, and keep us writing this tragic epic for all you to read.
Bobby and Dean carefully cut away Castiel's coat, shirt, and tie, leaving him bare from the waist up. Without the clothes to distract, the bleeding remnants of the once glorious wings looked even more horrific. Bobby tied the rope around one slender wrist, then looped it under the table and tied it to the other wrist, leaving no slack. Dean did the same to Castiel's ankles.
The angel was beginning to show signs of stirring as he was maneuvered, his vision beginning to clear. He never should have used his power to get the Winchesters out of Zachariah's prison, it drained him too much. But they were safe, and that was what mattered. He tried to make out where he'd been brought.
Dean lifted the knife, mentally bracing himself for what he was about to do. "Bobby, hold his shoulders."
The panic rose in him when he heard Dean's voice, he couldn't understand what he had said, but then someone was touching him, holding him in place. "Dean. Dean!" he struggled, but in his exhaustion, he could find no will, no power, no angelic might. It was like being human. Like being helpless.
Dean realized that Castiel was beginning to wake up. "Oh, shit. We gotta start now, he's coming around." He leaned over and placed a hand in the center of the angel's back, leaning all his weight on it. Deep breath...and he began to cut.
His back was on fire, and he thrashed wildly. He called for help, for his brothers, for Dean, but no one came, and the pain continued. "Please...Dean, help me!" He turned his head, just enough to see what was happening, and sobbed once, a harsh guttural sound. "Dean..no..."
"Bobby, dammit, hold him down!" Dean was having trouble cutting only what needed to be cut. Castiel was wide awake now, and horribly aware of what was happening. He was begging for Dean to stop, like so many souls had beneath his hands, but Dean had never stopped before. He would not stop now. Blood covered the angel's back like a shining cape, making everything slick and bright. One wing was now nearly completely gone. Dean had only to remove the bone that was keeping it attached.
Castiel wailed, pain tearing through all the defenses of his mind. "Dean, stop! I want you to stop, why won't you hear me?"
Dean increased the pressure on the blade, finally snapping through the bone. Blood pooled beneath Castiel's naked torso, running in rivers down the table legs. With shaking hands, Dean grasped the protruding remnant of the wings and lifted, removing it entirely from the angel's body. All that was left was a long, deep hole on one side of Castiel's back. Dean choked back a sob and picked up the blade, moving around to the other side of the table.
Angels rarely cry, and when they do, it is usually over the sins of the righteous, or their fallen companions. Rarely from pain. But the physical pain ripping its way through him was nothing compared to the pain of Dean being the one tearing him apart. He couldn't speak, he couldn't think, he could barely breathe, all he could think is...why?
The muscles in Castiel's back shivered and trembled, convulsing involuntarily. Dean worked quickly on the remaining wing, ignoring the tears sliding down the angel's face, ignoring the ones burning down his own. Finally it was done. The wings were gone. The wounds on Castiel's back were deep, red, and bleeding freely. "Bobby." he whispered. "Needle. Thread."
"Dean.." Castiel's voice was raw. "Why....why wouldn't you stop... Baglen, Dean, ol upaah. Dean, esiasch, ol lava yls!"
Dean knelt by the table and rested his face near his friend's. He couldn't understand the language the angel was speaking, but the tone of Castiel's voice and the pain in his eyes was easy to read, and it hurt his heart.
"Cas...please, God, Cas, forgive me. I couldn't leave you there. I could never." He looked down, staring at the floor. "I...I can't tell you how sorry I am." The blood on the floor was soaking into his jeans, cold already. He looked up into the blue eyes that were so hurt, so dulled by pain. Castiel groaned. "I want it to stop...make it stop..." he pulled hard at the ropes binding him. "Dean, Eol t galuah, esiasch. Ol lava yls, galuah t! "
Dean's face clenched. "I'm sorry Cas. But we have to sew you up. I can't trust to your angel mojo that you'll just heal." He stood, blood covering his hands and legs.
"Don't! Ag!" Castiel breathed. Don't what, he has no idea. Hurt me? Leave me? Let me die? Let me live? His thoughts are a whirl of pain, betrayal, and fear in so many tongues he nearly passes out again
Dean took the needle and thread from Bobby, who held them in a bowl of pure alcohol. He began sewing up the wounds, pinching the edges together and keeping them there with the sanitized thread. For hours he labored, not noticing anything else but the task at hand. Night had long fallen when he finally straightened.
Castiel had long since given up trying to talk, or cry out, or struggle, or anything other than lie there and hurt. He could hear Dean moving around, but he couldn't find the strength to lift his head.
"Is it finished?" he whispered, brokenly.
Dean let a sigh shiver out of him. "It's done." He bent and cut the bonds holding his friend to the table. "Rest. Sleep. We'll see how you feel in the morning."
"Dean..." Castiel turned his head slowly. "May I ask you a question?"
Dean's shoulders tensed, ready for the anger and accusation he knew was coming.
"Yeah. Sure."
"What does hate feel like?"
Dean closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath. "Like fire, and ice at the same time. It burns, and it freezes." He locked eyes with the bloody angel. "It feels good."
"Oh..." Castiel swallowed. "Then this is not it. I cannot feel even that for you. This is just...empty. I feel empty. I don't like it."
Dean swallowed. "Please, Cas, get some rest. We can talk tomorrow." He left the room, ending the conversation. Outside, he paused and leaned against the wall, letting it take his weight. His head dropped onto his chest, grief and guilt like a lead weight on his soul.
Back in the room, Castiel felt, if possible, even emptier. The angel sank into the table, trying to relax everything, but even that hurt. His felt light and unfamiliar without the weight of the wings on his back. An empty feeling gnawed at his insides, and he knew it was not natural. Dread tugged at his heart, and the best he could do was ignore it and begin to recover from the trauma he'd just been through.
Enochian Translations:
(Note: Enochian is the purported language of the angels, as used by Dr. John Dee.)
Baglen, Dean, ol upaah. Dean, esiasch, ol lava yls! - Why, Dean, my wings? Dean, brother, I pray you!
Dean, Eol t galuah, esiasch. Ol lava yls, galuah t! – Make it end, brother. I pray you, end it!
Ag - No
Translations courtesy of The Complete Enochian Dictionary by Donald C. Laycock, and Avery having no life.