Sam broke into Samandriel's room deftly, his hands steady as he picked the lock and cracked open the door. He glanced around sharply and raised his gun. Curtains fluttering. TV on static. He stepped inside, sweeping the room, and found nothing. Samandriel wasn't here. Crossing the room, Sam shut off the TV and went back to shut the door, closing it gently before turning back to the room. It was mostly empty. A bed, an empty wardrobe… Sam pushed the gun into the back of his jeans, safety double checked, and went along the walls looking for trap doors. Everything was flat and seamless. There was no out-of-place breeze. He checked under the bed and lifted up the bare mattress. No hex bags, no markings, not even a crumb. Nothing. It was just an empty room. Didn't Dean say that it lived here? How could that be, they'd only figured out Samandriel was a monster a few hours ago, and he was supposed to have a shit ton of stuff here.

There was no time to think about it. He went to the window to shut it and haul ass to Dean, knowing he hadn't gotten away from those guys, but as he touched the edge of the window he felt wet. Pulling his arm back in, he looked at his fingers. Scarlet blood stained his fingertips, the coppery smell touching his nostrils and making them flare. "Jesus," he whispered. Reaching to find the source he realized the window was heavier than normal. The glass pane swung in with a slab of rotting meat tied to it.

Sam back-wheeled, letting out a yelp of surprise. As the window clicked into place the meat fell off its hook and rolled across the carpet until it nudged the toe of his boot. It looked like a kid's leg twined together with fishing line. A rock in his gut hardened and his stomach turned over. His knees felt weak, his head lightened, and he tried desperately to remember what ate rotting flesh.

Oh, crap. Running back into the hall, Sam bolted. He knew what it was. This thing, he knew what it wanted with Dean. Heart pounding, he reached to push open the double doors to the parking lot and gave a gasp as he was yanked backwards sharply by the collar of his jacket. Shock clouded his eyes as he flew back and rolled along the tile, bumping into the bottom of the steps with his shoulder. He groaned and looked up in alarm.

"You better tell me now, if you value your skin," Samandriel growled, fury in his eyes. "Where did they take my lunch?"

Everything hurt. His knees, his chest, his gut; every time he breathed his body racked with pain. Probably because he'd broken some ribs, his brain offered. Broken ribs? He thought. How did that happen? Dean slogged through unconsciousness like dragging his limbs through wet curtains, his eyes rolling and blinking. His head hurt like hell, too. He must've been beaten pretty badly. As his mind rebooted he slowly recalled what had happened. Left the truck. Thrown into a trunk. Grinning faces; Michael. He was slumped against a metal column, half crumpled over, his wrists and ankles zip-tied, a serious cramp in his ass and frost bite on his fingers. Fuck those assholes and their nice cars. Taking a deep breath, Dean groaned softly under his breath, squinting through a swollen eye at the misty room.

Tables and chairs were propped in the corner. There were lockers along the back wall, and hoses all over the floor, and metal conveyed belts. Dean shivered. It was freezing in here. Chains dangled from the low ceiling, and the floors were stained with a thousand unknown substances. He gagged just thinking about it. Why did everything look so…? He looked further. A slab of rotting beef hung from one of the many dirty meat hooks. The stench hit him, and he really did gag, turning his face away and pressed his cheeks to the cold column. He forced his stomach back down again before he looked again.

He was in an abandoned slaughterhouse. There were heavy metal doors with thick locks at one corner of the room, and garbage scattered everywhere, as if people used this place regularly. Frat boys? In a slaughterhouse? This was so fucked up - who were these guys? Homicidal anti-gay sentiments?

If the lights weren't so damn dim he may have been able to see who it was that came through the door then, a loud screeching of metal on concrete sending cold shivers up his spine and scraping at his teeth. But he knew who it was by the voice. "Get cozy," came the echo of Gabriel, the blonde, "you'll be right there until we find your boy toy Cassy."

Sitting up at once, Dean snarled. "If you touch a hair on his head-"

"You'll what?" Gabriel chuckled darkly, making Dean gulp. "Rattle your chains? Call us names?" The power in his voice was condemning. A darkness cast over him, and made him look like a walking shadow; his hazel eyes glowed like lanterns, and a shadow even rolled along the walls behind him sharply, almost like he had huge black wings. But it was just a trick of the light. "Please, pretty boy." Gabriel's stare was cold. Lifeless. His casual footsteps retreated out the door, his eyes flashing as the door began to slide menacingly shut behind him. "We'll get your little faggot soon. And we're going to string you both up like pigs." The slam from the door echoed along the length of the room, and he heard bone-chilling laughter fading down the hall.

Dean felt a cold, hard fear in his belly like nothing he'd ever felt before. Not when he'd been about to die. Not when his dad had gone missing. This was like a poison; it sucked away his hope, his strength, and sank him into a throbbing coma of terror and pain. This was not how this was supposed to go. A bunch of pricks were supposed to mouth him off and get their asses kicked in front of their bitch-ass friends. Not some boy band trouble of murderers slicing into him and Cas, side by side, in a meat house miles from any known help. No one knew where they were. Sam was probably looking everywhere or taken care of already. His baby brother. Christ.

Violent tremors began to rack him. They were gonna hurt Castiel. Sweet, lanky Cas. They were going to take knives and knuckles and bruise his pale skin, blossoming purple and black marks along his chiseled jaw and his fine cheek bones and his lips. Dean's hands and his shoulders shuddered and his heart hammered against his injured ribs madly. Sink their fingertips into his flesh and make him bleed. His blood spilling over the lip of the knife as it slid like butter through his flesh, making him cry out hoarsely. No, no, no - please, God, no.

He could see Cas's body radiating after each blow, and jostling with a tense silence that he knew he had. A sharp kick to the shins releasing a hiss from his chapped lips as he crumpled to the floor. Hands grabbing his collar and looking into his stormy blue eyes and pulling back a fist as far as it would go. Blood spilling everywhere, from his wrists and his ankles and his throat, making his eyes empty of hope and his body weaken with every heartbeat.

"No," Dean whispered harshly, gruffly, and began to shift. He sat up and tested his bonds roughly. "No." He repeated angrily, working his boots against the zip tie. They were not allowed to so much as touch that boy. He didn't care who the fuck they thought they were, or why they hated gays so much, they were dirt. He pictured Cas's kind, tired face, smiling up at him early in the morning. His socked feet pushing at Dean's legs when he bubbled with pleasure early in the morning, when both of them were tired but riddled with need. His rough hands taking Dean's face and kissing him sweetly, so sweetly, every moment he could.

These people were garbage. Dead and buried filth. He was going to fucking rip them apart, limb from limb. "NO," he yelled, his brain shifting into overdrive as the echoes bounced off the room at every level, making it sound like there were a thousand of him in there. He would not let them do this. He would not stand by and watch. He refused.

He was angry, and he'd only be angrier once he was freed. And he would be loose. Then he'd feel the breath leave each and every one as he strangled their thin little necks. His eyes burned with it.

The windows down, the gas pedal flat to the floor, Balthazar pulled around a corner sharply. He grimly turned the wheel with the curve as he flew along an empty back road. The clouds overhead were heavy and lethargic with precipitation. The roads were dark with it, the air chilled and the wind even colder as he whipped through his brown hair, his elbow hanging out the window. Beside him his phone rang and he pulled his arm in to man the wheel as he flicked it open. He pressed the phone to his ear.

"Yes, Cassy?" He glanced in his rear view, which had a small blue and white truck struggling to keep up behind him. "Having trouble keeping up?"

"I can't safely push this thing over seventy, Balthazar; it's older than my dad," Castiel scolded him, his voice crackling over the line. "Plus I haven't driven anything in at least a year, let alone a truck. How much further?"

"We should be there soon. Fifteen minutes, maybe."

"Good. Pull over."

Balthazar's jaw dropped. "Pull over?!" He blurted. "They could be carving up your six-foot-tall dildo as we speak, and you want to take a piss break?"

"Dean's younger brother is flashing me his hazards directly behind me. He goes to college with the kidnappers, and possibly monsters. I think we should pull over."

"…. Oh."

Easing down on his speed took a minute. Balthazar pulled over into a short gravel road and drove into a field of grass, parking his convertible neatly. Cas parked beside him and they both climbed out, exchanging glances as Sam swing in along the road. The wind blew their hair all around as Sam's door opened and the car rocked as he climbed out. His thick brown locks whipped, his dark eyes dark but determined, his jaw tense. He walked around to them and hovered there breathlessly.

"You're not going to believe this," the tall male said shortly, glancing back and forth between them.

Shout out to Heroes for the dark inspiration.