14

God Help the Outcasts

"SAAAAAA-AAAAMMM!"

"Your friends can't help you right now, Castiel."

"NOO! OHH! PLEASE! PLEAASE!"

"What's the matter, Castiel?" Zachariah laughed. "I thought you were cold!"

My skin was on fire. I could feel it, all over me, blistering my skin with the intense heat. It dried and cracked, seared my throat, hotter than the fires of Hell. I writhed in the chains that burned orange with heat. I shook my head, sweat drenching my body, stinging the violent burns. I sobbed so hard I thought my chest was going to burst open.

Blisters formed on my lips and shoulders as my skin churned and bubbled. If this was even close to what Dean had been through in Hell I don't know how he made it through the first day.

"NO, NO, NO, NO, PLEASE! OH PLE-HEASE! Ohhohhh…" My throat was too hot, too blistered to make much noise anymore.

"What's wrong, Castiel?" Zachariah mocked. "Too hot?" I nodded, screaming, my eyes shut tight.

Then suddenly I was freezing. The pounding in my head and face stayed, but goosebumps so horribly painful I screamed even louder rose all over my body. The cold replaced the heat, stinging, shaking me violently. I couldn't huddle together. I couldn't even stand on the ground fully.

Oh god…make it stop…someone….

My tears froze to my face, sweat to my body. It was so cold…my bones were frozen, my chattering lips were blue.

Then it stopped. I looked down at myself, expecting to see something from the trauma my body had just endured. There were no burns, only goosebumps and blood from the still throbbing gunshot wound. It wasn't real. I bowed my head, crying at my own stupidity and humiliation.

"Hmm…" Zachariah pondered. "What next?"

I tried to keep my face as blank as possible watching all of this. How everyone could sit here, stony face, staring down their noses at him while he trembled and sobbed, his bright, blood-shot eyes begging for someone, anyone to help him? How?

The poor thing was gasping, his breathing uneven and shaky, waiting for Zachariah to do something else. My superior smiled. "Castiel, have you ever wondered what it's like to be stabbed?" Castiel shook his head, his innocence practically pouring out of his eyes.

"I see," Zachariah smiled.

Castiel's breath hitched in his throat, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. His already wide eyes somehow got wider. He went paler, leaving his red and fevered cheeks to stand out even more. I tried to keep my face as stoic as I possibly could as I looked at the knife that appeared in his stomach.

He looked down, stomach contracting over the blade as he tried to breathe properly. Blood leaked from the wound. He coughed, blood falling past his lips, his breath rapid, shaking and wet.

I think it hit him then, the pain. He started to sob, still unable to breathe properly. He gasped and shuddered, crying. Blood came faster as he coughed over and over again.

"P-pl-pl-" He tried to speak, but he gagged. So much blood.

"Does it hurt, Castiel?" Zachariah grinned, turning his hand over. The blade twisted. Castiel screamed.

"STOP!" I bellowed. Zachariah spun around, staring at me in disbelief. "I…You're going to kill him." There was a moment, a very tense moment of pure and utter silence in which I was terrified.

"You're right," he said, turning. The knife disappeared, leaving only a shallow gash. "Besides, I think it's time to find out if Castiel likes small spaces."

"What are we gonna do?" Dean said for at least the hundredth time.

"We can't track my phone we already tried that," Sam huffed. "The only thing we can do is wait for Zachariah to call us again."

Dean slammed his hands down on the rickety table, standing. "DAMN IT!" He bellowed.

His phone went off and he jumped, snatching it up and opening it as quickly as he could. "Alright you son of a bitch, where-?"

"Dean?" A voice, a woman's voice, said. Dean sighed.

"Annabelle," he breathed, his hand over his eyes. "Hey."

"Um, is Cas around? He said his phone got water-logged and told me to call you if I wanted to talk to him."

"Uh, Annabelle, Cas, uh, he's not feelin' too good right now. I'll have him call you when he's felling better, alright?" He assured, trying not to sound as stressed as he felt.

"Oh, god, is he alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, he's fine," Dean said, nodding even though she couldn't see him.

"You're a damn liar," she said. "How bad is it?"

"It, it's pretty bad," he admitted.

"Is there anything that I can do?" She asked, genuine worry in her voice, worry that you couldn't fake.

"I'll tell you what," Dean said. "He's been sleeping pretty much for the past couple of days, but I'll give you a call as soon as he's lucid enough to talk to you, okay?"

"Would I be able to come see him? I…God, this is stupid, I'm really worried about him and I don't know why." She said quietly.

"It'll be alright Annabelle," Dean assured. "Cas'll be just fine." He hoped, he prayed, he begged whoever might be listening.

He opened his eyes, peeled them open, more so. The air around him was hot, and just getting hotter as he continued to breathe. His face rejected the steamy air, but the rest of his body, wracked with chills, welcomed it.

It was black, and whatever space he was in was small, compressed. He put his hands out in front of him, only to hit solid surface a few inches above him when he did.

He pushed on it, whimpering softly, praying that he wasn't in what he thought he was. That's when he heard it. The soft, rattling sound as dirt piled on top of the coffin. He was being buried alive.

"H-help…"