So this is a short/boring chapter, just to keep things fresh and stuff I guess :3 It'll get more interesting later, I almost certainly promise... hehe.
During his brief stint as an almost-human, powers weakened, he remembers the nightmares that bombarded his subconscious, startling him awake at all hours of the night. Worse than anything he had ever encountered were the figments of his own imagination, memories of his past, of perdition and suffering souls and the stench of the pit.
Hell was, even by angelic standards, pretty bad. Little did he know, the human imagination could be so much worse.
/ / / / /
Dean had always thought of Bobby as a sort of walking, talking Rosetta Stone; this instance was no exception. Bobby almost instantly recognized the language scrawled into the impala's interior as Enochian, the basest of forms, mainly used among angels of the lowest tier. However, it was a whole different story deciphering the message's meaning, for which they once again hit the books. Another good thirty minutes of deep thinking revealed that the accompanying numbers could actually be translated into the standard geographical coordinate system- their best bet at an accurate translation. Another five minutes spent on google maps revealed that this location was also in the middle of a field, smack dab in the center of middle-of-nowhere South Dakota.
"Hey, that's less than half an hour from here!" Dean moved to grab his keys and was out the door a beat later.
Sam wished Bobby a quick goodbye and followed his brother out the front door into the muggy summer heat.
\ \ \ \ \
Hands clawed and stretched every inch of his body. Not just hands, but claws, sharp bone, teeth, fangs. He thinks there might even be the serrated, shredding sensation of a tentacle in there somewhere. But that's not the point.
Not an inch of his body is left untouched. Of course, for the average angel, this would have absolutely no effect on his physical manifestation as for angels, grace and body become separate once no longer in the physical plane. However, it's been a long time since he could be called the typical angel in any respect.
At this point, he is all but eviscerated. Death would never come- could never be reached through these means. Feral souls couldn't simply claw their way through an angel's essence; Grace had to be burned. But that never stopped them from trying.
As time drags on, he hides himself further and further into the recesses of his own consciousness. It's hard to decide which is worse: the excruciating pain that accompanies awareness, or the echoes of his metaphysical torture that plagues his every dream.
He decides he'd much rather feel nothing at all.