AN: Look how fast I got this up! I felt so bad that I made you all wait so long for the last chapter and that I'm going away for a week, so I threw myself into this chapter to finish it in half the time. This chapter might be a bit boring, because it's mostly inner monologue and angst, but I'm proud of it. Plus, I didn't sleep last night to finish it, so appreciate it!

There was a large room filled with nothing. The small windows mounted at the very top of the walls allowed for little light, but Dean could still see Castiel standing in front of him, staring at him with a look of utter abhorrence. Another man was present in the room holding a shotgun, but both Dean and Castiel ignored him. The angel said something, but Dean couldn't hear it. Then Dean sank a blade into his Castiel's heart, and he saw nothing more…

There was a room, large but cramped due to its furnishings: a couch against one wall, a desk against another, a rickety table over there, a few chairs, books everywhere. Dean perched on one of the chairs, his feet on the seat, his arms crossed atop the back. Castiel sat stiffly on the desk with his legs crossed and his coat draped behind him. Dean was speaking, and Castiel was wincing. Then his vision blanked again…

There was a tiny, cramped room with only a small, rickety table in the corner. Dean was standing against the wall, leaning in an impassive manner, watching something on the floor in front of him. It was a sniveling mess, a person, and Dean's first instinct was to comfort it, but he found himself kicking it instead. It turned to look at him with huge, glassy electric blue eyes, and Dean felt his stomach twist when he realized it was Castiel…

There was circular room with metal sides. A large gleaming table sat in the center of the room. Sigils were drawn in various mediums along every surface. Castiel was lying on the table, strapped down, not even trying to break free, not struggling at all. From his nonchalant position in the doorframe, Dean felt as if the roles should be reversed for some reason, but the thought was forgotten as he watched in amusement as Castiel put his head down with a heavy thud and sighed in submission. Dean wanted to run to the angel and help him, but instead, he pushed off the wall and approached a table with torture instruments…

There was a forest setting – tall, gloomy trees prevented any light from shining down. Everything around him had a dark grey hue to it. Dean tried to glance around, but he had tunnel vision. His head had never felt heavier, as if he had been the personal punching bag of a pissed off angel. In the small vision he had, he saw a young woman tied to a tree and a man standing before her with balled fists at his sides. There was blood dripping lightly between his fingers and staining his trenchcoat, evidence that he was digging his nails into his palms, maybe fighting something. Dean barked an unintelligible order at the man, and he dutifully though hesitantly raised a dagger and stepped toward her…

There was a cramped room with a lot of clouded, designed glass and tiled walls. A sink and a toilet sat in opposite corners; Dean was perched on the toilet in an awkward, cross-legged position watching a man in a filthy trenchcoat lean on the sink rubbing his face. Laughter bubbled out of Dean's mouth as the man moved to continually bang his head against a shower wall hard enough to crack the glass. Suddenly, he spun on his heel and attacked Dean, but Dean held him off with extreme ease and flung him against the shower wall so that it shattered over him as he fell through. Dean's laughter was the only sound heard…

Once again, Dean woke up to utter darkness. His head was throbbing, and his body was in more pain than ever before. Physically he was completely drained. Overnight he hadn't had a single fluid dream but flashes of random scenes. In all of them, he seemed to be forcing Castiel to do horrific deeds or doing horrific deeds to Castiel. He tried to rake a hand down his face, but couldn't move his arm. With a heavy sigh, Dean stopped trying and accepted that he couldn't move. Whether for lack of strength or fear of pain, he didn't bother fighting for control. He even gave Beelzebub a half-hearted greeting.

Then his heart dropped.

Not. Dreams. …Fuck!

The flashes of "dreams" bombarded his mind once again, and the trials he put his angel through deeply astounded Dean in a tremendously unpleasant way. Remembering what he had done to that poor, innocent angel made him want to cry.

Okay, Dean reasoned with himself, so, Castiel's far from innocent, but no one deserves what I did to him.

No. Dean's thought-track stopped. You did not do that to him. The demon did. Beelzebub did. He's only using you. You did nothing. It's not your fault.

Yes, it's my fault! Dean argued. I was the guy standing behind him the whole time, wasn't I? I was conscious in those moments, wasn't I? I was there! I should have done something! I should never have blacked out in the first place!

You couldn't help it, the other side of Dean's mind said calmly. You had to rest. You didn't have the strength to fight him.

Didn't have the strength my ass! The indignant side of Dean was even more enraged now. It doesn't matter that I didn't have the strength. I should've had the strength! I should've put a stop all of this a long time ago!

Yeah, and to do that you would have had to prevent the whole possession thing, Dean's calm side pointed out scornfully.

The whole possession thing? Dean mocked himself. Of course I should have been able to prevent the whole possession thing! I'm a damn hunter. I should've killed the thing before it got anywhere near me! Now my stupidity's hurt people! It's my fault. The demon's not doing everything on his own. He needs me to do it. And who looks at Cas and tells him to do those things, huh? Me. Who does Cas see when he's getting beat up, huh? Me.

Dean's calm side did not answer, so his guilt continued talking: How many people, huh? How many people has my stupidity hurt now? Cas for one! That poor woman in the forest. I'm disintegrating! Sam probably – Sammy! God only knows what this dickbag did to Sam. Oh, God. Please, Sam. Please be okay. If I'm not okay, if Cas is not okay… God, just please get your absent ass down here in time to save Sam...

"Shut. Up!" Beelzebub screamed. Instantly calm once again, he said, "I much prefer you in your comatose state, Dean. Would you mind returning to it now?"

No, Dean growled out. I'm awake, and I am staying awake.

Beelzebub sighed heavily. "As much as I love and encourage this guilt trip of yours, I need my concentration now. So if you don't cease your never-ending blubbering of feelings and short-comings, I will cease you."

Dean took the threat to heart. He swallowed thickly and asked, Wha-what are you doing?

"Would you like to see?"

Not really, Dean said with a biting tone, doing his best to regain his confident and intimidating image, but, you know, darkness isn't really my thing.

"Then I must ask," Beelzebub replied conversationally, "are mass sacrifices your 'thing'?"

Suddenly, Dean's vision cleared, and he sincerely wished it hadn't. He was standing above a field laden with thousands upon thousands of dead bodies. Old, young, male, female – countless people were piled upon each other at the bottom of an enormous grave, and Castiel stood with blood on his hands and trenchcoat at the head of it all with a shovel in hand. His hair was a filthy mess. His face was covered by dried blood and mud.

Dean's stomach turned and dropped. He wanted to sob. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to break Castiel's face with brass knuckles.

"Yes!" Beelzebub hissed with a dark laugh. "Anger. Anger is good. Keep that! Doesn't it feel good to embrace?" Dean struggled to ignore him, but it was useless. He had no idea what he was angry at anymore, but, oh, was he angry. And when he locked gazes with Castiel, he became lost in a haze of red and black emotion.

Castiel raised his dead eyes from the ground with deliberate leisure. He had smote the last innocent life hours ago. Now he had to get rid of the bodies. The sacrifice had been performed with ease – once Beelzebub had warped Castiel's mind enough. The previous day and nights had seen Castiel outrageously abused. Beelzebub dedicated himself to slowly wearing away Castiel's sanity with emotional trauma. He placed Castiel in his memories, but changed the situation just enough to create a nasty outcome; he played voices in his head; he sent Castiel wayward thoughts. When such tactics did not work, he dug through Castiel's mind to examine and spoil every happy thought he ever had. He cast doubt and shame upon Castiel's relationship with Jimmy Novak. He destroyed Castiel's relationship with his family more so than it already was and banished his father from his thoughts completely.

Then he used fabricated memories of Dean to exaggerate that relationship as well, a torture Beelzebub found the most amusement in. Beelzebub changed Castiel's memories to include fewer conversations, more innuendos, and many more meaningful gazes. At first the angel was sure that the memories were fake, but he had to admit that nothing seemed incredibly different. Castiel was sure that he shared a deep connection with Dean but not a romantic one as the demon suggested; however, after a full day of manipulated memories, Castiel could not ignore the twist in his gut or the tremble in his chest at the thought of Dean. He could also not deny the deepened feelings of animosity and betrayal toward Dean. This man who meant so much to him and who was the first true friend he had ever known, was now his jailor and was now torturing him without mercy.

Castiel had clung to reason for as long as he could. In the beginning, he held onto his grace. But that small, bright speck of Heaven within him was soon mangled beyond recognition and not a strong enough hold for him. Next, he turned to his family and all the truths he had held onto throughout his long life. Yet Beelzebub painfully wrenched all of it away from him. Together, the two options lasted him the night and part of the day, until he latched onto the one thing he believed in most of all – his Righteous Man, his Dean, his charge's beautiful humanity. Even through the mind games and misery, Castiel held fast to that last option he thought he would never give up on.

When the psychological pain was unsuccessful, or even between bouts of success, Beelzebub would grin and turn to physical pain. Combined with the excruciating thoughts he was receiving, the sight of Dean beating him into a bloody and broken pulp was almost enough to break Castiel. The positively gleeful expression that spread across his beautiful features as his fists sailed into Castiel's jaw was despicable. The pure happiness in his laughter when Castiel moaned and whimpered was sickening. Slowly but surely, Castiel became convinced that Dean was already dead, and that is what fully, finally broke Castiel.

The angel did not see life as worth living if Dean was not a part of it.

So, he conceded. He killed that first innocent, albeit hesitantly and sloppily, in the forest. He described to Beelzebub the ritual and sacrifice needed to make all water run as blood. He aided in rounding up the innocent victims. He himself performed the killings while Beelzebub read the incantation. When it was finished, he collapsed onto the ground, hugged his knees tight, and sent a last-ditch, desperate message to Gabriel. He did not show Gabriel the field around him out of both humiliation and fear. Fully aware that he had broken in only two nights and a day, Castiel hoped Gabriel would understand the severity of his situation.

Now, he had been given a shovel and told to dig. Beelzebub knew as well as Castiel that the angel could easily dig and cover a mass grave with the twitch of a finger, but Beelzebub was still playing games, still wanted him to suffer. He had ordered Castiel not to use his angelic abilities a long time ago, and the binding therefore prevented it. So Castiel stood with dead eyes looking up at the man he once revered – no, at the demon who tore him apart – with dead eyes in complete obedience. At first, the shovel strokes felt good. Castiel took his anger out on the ground; he tried to put the ground through as much pain as he was going through. Dirt flew in every direction. Cracks appeared in the shovel as it was smashed with too much force against stones. Castiel's sore muscles screamed, but he barely noticed. The only thing he could do was take out his rage on the soil beneath him.

When the time came to pick up each body and toss them into hole, Castiel was in a slightly better frame of mind. His wrath and agony had cleared enough for his guilt and depression to settle in. He apologized profusely as he handled each body and prayed for each soul as he laid them gently in the grave. He felt another strong urge to break down in self-pity and self-hate, but he swallowed it down and continued his job. His muscles practically refused to function when lifted the shovel again to cover the enormous hole, but he eventually succeeded. At the first light of the third day of Dean's affliction and the second day of Castiel's servitude, Castiel heard slow applause from the hill looking down on him with such malicious judgment. There Beelzebub stood, praising his 'fine work', as proud as a father at his son's graduation. Any words he said were lost on Castiel. The angel was only looking at, earnestly searching for a trace of his Dean buried somewhere behind those black eyes.

Before he even registered the flight, Castiel found himself standing in the motel room again, with Dean leaning on his shoulder as if they were old friends. Castiel shrugged him off and took several steps away. For the briefest of moments, Castiel swore he saw Dean's eyes return to their wonderful green shade, but when he blinked, they were pure black again. Still, that half-second of doubt gave him renewed courage.

"So, Castiel," Beelzebub began. His name still sounded mangled and corrupted rolling off his tongue. "Did you have as much fun as I did tonight?"

Castiel's vision was green. He did not answer.

Undeterred, Beelzebub asked, "Are you ready for round two?"

"No," Castiel spat, his voice strong and clear for the first time since everything began.

"More fun for me then," Beelzebub replied, but Castiel didn't care anymore. He had seen those green rings, and it was enough for renewed resistance.