/I balked at the thought of writing this. And as I began, I had to take frequent breathers and read fanfic full of schmoop to maintain my usual happiness. Le sigh. I'm sorry Dx/

CASTIEL

There is a single place in Heaven no angel speaks of. Some say Michael created it when Lucifer fell, so that he could weed out the traitors among them. It's a large marble structure, much like the old temples, except without an altar. It's more of a throne room, with a single opulent throne at the centre, shackles attached to the arms and legs. It is simply by common assent that no one talks about it. It's been whispered that Michael used it to torture angels into submission. Lucifer had in fact a great following, but only six other angels followed him into the fires of Hell. Most were….re-programmed. It's always been there, and as far as Castiel knows, it hasn't been used since the time of Satan and the Princes of Hell.

"Castiel." Michael looks down at him, sorrow on his face. Castiel almost believes the emotion is genuine as two other angels snap the shackles into place. The metal melds together when the angels mutter a few choice words. Old Enochian magic. Few humans have discovered its full extent. Only an angel can wield its power in its entirety.

Castiel smiles sweetly up at Michael. "I believe I go by the name Cas now, Michael." He's learnt a few things from Dean.

Michael rises to the bait, scowling, great white wings aflame. "You broke the rules, Castiel." Castiel just looks at Michael. He still wears the white linen robes of the Roman era, complete with the sandals.

"I was unaware that love was a sin." Castiel spits, his own wings unfolding, to give the impression of size. Not that that is going to work, given that Michael has the biggest wings of all the Archangels.

"You are not to fall for a human, Castiel." Michael's eyes are cold with fury. "If you would like, take a mate, in heaven. But this is unacceptable."

"I do not want a mate." Castiel says. "I want Dean."

"You cannot have him, Castiel, brother listen to me." Michael is pleading now, his voice lowered. "You are not to blame, you are young and inexperienced and it seems this human has seduced you with his charms. It will be taken care of and you will be a Power once more. I command you to give up this silly love of yours and take the truly righteous path as all angels must."

"I am in love with Dean Winchester." Castiel says loudly. "That is the only righteous path I know."

Michael draws himself up and folds his wings into his back, as does Castiel. "As you wish. You will suffer the consequences."

Another angel moves into Castiel's line of vision as Michael turns away, placing his palm over Castiel's forehead. He shoots Castiel a sympathetic look, and begins to murmur the words of an old Enochian spell, that Castiel does not recognize. Castiel is surprised at the first flashes of pain, or he supposes more surprised at the weakness of it. He barely registers it in the beginning. Then it starts to build, like rolling a snowball in more snow.

At its peak, pain like no other bursts in Castiel's head and he screams. Something liquid flows from Castiel's closed eyes, down his cheek. It isn't water, it's too viscous for that. There's a pricking sensation behind his eyeballs and it's not getting duller, but more and more pronounced. The throbbing in his head, growing larger and larger, the Enochian swilling through his head, dropping like lead in his gut was all too much. Castiel would have thrashed if only he even had the energy to move his muscles. More thick fluid pours out of his nose, and drips into his lip. He tastes it, rich, coppery and bitter, identifying it as blood. His head feels like it's spontaneously combusting within his skull. There is too much power being compressed into his head and the anguish is close to unbearable. Finally, the palm leaves his head, and the pain fades.

Castiel rasps for air, head drooping forward, so his chin rested on his chest. Everything submerges in darkness, and he passes out.

When he comes to, he's alone. He has no concept of time, and how long he's been here. The itchy feeling of caked and dried blood on his chin and cheeks is nagging at him, but he closes his eyes, leans back and tries to relax. There is still a dull ache in his head but otherwise he's fine. He doubts this is the end though. Enochian magic has many uses when it comes to torture. Castiel guesses the worst part is that they will not and cannot kill him. They prefer to leave him stewing in the ache and misery.

Castiel thinks of Dean. He remembers his face so clearly. He remembers the loving, open green eyes. He remembers the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. He remembers the sound of Dean's laugh, and the feel of Dean's lips on his. He remembers the surprised wonder on Dean's face when he reaches orgasm, and the quiet love in his face when he looks at Castiel. He remembers the light spattering of freckles across his cheeks and nose. He remembers the way Dean bites his lip when he's nervous, and the way he crooks his eyebrow when he's confused or being sarcastic. He remembers Dean's voice when he sings AC/DC at the top of his lungs. He remembers Dean's easy smile when he drives his Impala. He remembers every crucial detail about Dean and it hurts more than any Enochian spell.

Castiel misses Dean more than anything, and being away from him is the worst imaginable torture. Tears spill from Castiel's sore eyes, down his cheeks. He takes shuddering, gasping breaths and weeps for the man he has left behind, and the heartbreak he is surely causing. He weeps for the angels and for God, and his absence. He weeps for rules that are broken and promises that cannot be kept. Most of all, he weeps for himself, for he is away from the one he loves, and he may never see Dean again. An immortality without Dean makes him sick. So he weeps.

It isn't long before Michael is back in the room, with its marble fixtures and gold and red curtains. "Have you broken yet?" His voice nudges Castiel, almost kindly. "Castiel, you have made a mistake. Simply admit it, and we will welcome you back into our fold."

"I have made no mistake." Castiel grits out. He could never take back his love for Dean. He would rather live through all the torture Michael has to offer him before he did any such thing.

"Your brothers are waiting for you Castiel. Do not shame us." Michael hisses before he leaves, and Castiel groans as another angel makes his way into the room. Castiel takes no notice of him, only understands what is to happen. He sees no need to know who is torturing him.

"I am sorry brother." The nameless angel whispers, but Castiel says nothing. Soon words of Enochian surround him and he's in a trance.

He feels his grace begin to pulse. It's vaguely uncomfortable, but begins to get downright tormenting as it begins to expand. Castiel grips the arms of the throne that he occupies, as some kind of mockery, he guesses. His grace transforms within him, as if it is trying to burst through his shell. Castiel cries out, as his grace pummels against his body, like tiny pins pricking into him from the inside. The Enochian chants get louder and louder, his grace pulses and throbs, expanding with the volume of the spell. Castiel screams himself hoarse, sobbing and thrashing his wrecked body, trying in vain to lessen the sheer agony. His grace continues pressing against his flesh trying to get out, to free itself from the angel.

Castiel refuses to beg for release.

After an eternity, the ordeal ends, but Castiel feels spent. The lowest trick is to use an angel's grace against him. Those Enochian spells were banned millennia ago, yet Castiel feels the evidence of their use in his grace. Dean would call it ironic, that his grace which was moments ago, tearing him apart from the inside, is now roaming through his body, healing and soothing. Castiel wishes it wouldn't. There is no point in it, he is only going to hurt again, but there is no energy left for Castiel to subdue it, so he lets it work, falling into a red-tinged haze. He misses Dean sorely, but he has no energy left for the moment to think of him. Dean is all that's keeping his willpower up, but Castiel wants to sleep for a very very long time, and one does not need to be an angel with an endless fount of knowledge to know that that is not a very good sign at all.

Days go by; Castiel has no way of knowing. The Enochian magic being used on him increases in intensity, and the length of the torture sessions increases every day. There is no real pattern. Some days they'll torture him three or four times, other days they'll leave him completely alone. There is no solace in his traitorous thoughts - that tell him God is nowhere to be found, and Dean might be dead or have moved on for all he knows. He prays every day, unwilling to relinquish the belief that his Father has not forsaken him, but no help arrives.

Michael stares down at him in faux pity. "Brother, is Dean Winchester really worth all this trouble? Is he really worth giving up your own kin?"

Castiel looks up at Michael, blood dripping down his chin. Spitting on the pristine floor, Castiel answers. "He is worth all I have and more. I have committed no wrong, Michael."

"You broke a rule, Castiel." Michael's righteous wrath lifts his wings in a glorious array of white.

"A rule that seems to be archaic and foolish." Castiel retorts, with a 'bitch face', a look he learnt from Sam.

Michael slaps him hard, and the sound of his palm cracking across Castiel's cheek echoes around the hall.

"You will regret this Castiel." Michael thunders, before sneering at Castiel. "Look at you, broken and bloodied, all for what? A mere mud-monkey."

Castiel doesn't bother replying. Michael is already gone. Sighing, he cants his head forward, waiting for the grace to stop the flow of blood to a trickle. Soon, he's mostly patched up, but the constant bruising and healing cycle, as well as dampening the effects of the Enochian magic are getting to him. Sooner or later, he is going to be unable to heal himself adequately, and he's already losing the ability. He still feels sore, and his nose is still determinedly leaking blood. Castiel's just about ready to entertain the notion that he might be stuck here for another couple millennia at least, when a quiet musical voice calling his name captures his attention. He sits bolt upright, almost scared to believe.

"Anna?" He whispers into the tomb-like silence.