Dean breathed in the musty air of the panic room, electricity dancing through his veins. Behind him, Castiel was lying on an old, wooden table, stripped down to nothing but his boxers. In front of him, a beautiful selection of instruments was spread on a metal cart. It was nothing like his collection in Hell, of course, but for a job topside, it was a nice start.
"Let's start with something easy." Dean reached out and ran his fingers down the blade of a pointed, meat-carving knife. "What is Heaven's plan for Sam?"
For several seconds, there was silence, and then Castiel's low, rumbling voice came. "Heaven has no plans involving Sam."
Dean grabbed the knife and readjusted his hold on it a few times. "I don't believe you." He turned around and approached the table, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his mouth. "You already told me that if Sam didn't stop drinking demon blood you would kill him. You must have some input on Sam."
Castiel grit his teeth and glared at the ceiling, not saying a word.
Dean pressed the tip of the blade to the side of Castiel's knee, and then he slowly started dragging the knife down the length of the leg. Blood swelled from the incision, flesh pulling apart as the blade carved a line about a quarter of an inch deep.
Castiel simply inhaled, taking a long breath and then slowly letting it out.
Dean pulled the knife away from Castiel's ankle, emerald eyes following the trails of blood. "What does Heaven have planned for Sam?"
Castiel clenched his jaw and continued to glare up at the grate that topped the panic room, still paralyzed by one of the many sigils drawn onto his body.
Dean smiled to himself and put the knife tip to the other side of Castiel's knee, slowly drawing a line down the inside of the angel's leg. He twirled the knife and then went back up to the knee, placing the tip of the knife where the kneecap met the two ends of the leg bones.
"Tell me what Heaven wants with Sam."
Castiel remained silent.
So, Dean shoved the blade in.
Now, Dean wasn't as strong on Earth as he was in Hell, so it took more effort than he would have liked to really tear into the joint, but he managed. Castiel once again inhaled, clenching his jaw, and then exhaled. He said nothing.
It continued like that for quite some time, the light from overhead fading as the late afternoon stretched into evening. Dean worked his way down both of Castiel's legs and stabbed his knees. Then he started carving horizontal lines into Castiel's arms, working his way from shoulder to wrist with cuts spaced about a half an inch apart. He tried to keep a level head, but the smell of blood rising from Castiel's body started to make his brain hum in a way no alcohol ever had.
"What does Heaven know about Lilith?" Dean asked the same question for the twentieth time and traced the tip of his blade down Castiel's abdomen, trying to deny the urge to tremble.
He wanted more.
Castiel's head lolled to the side, blue eyes wandering over the panic room walls before finding Dean's face. Castiel glared, and then his head turned to face the ceiling again, his eyes losing some of their focus.
"Hey." Dean reached out with his free hand and smacked Castiel's cheek. "I'm talking to you, Blue Eyes."
Castiel glared again, but he couldn't quite make it stick. Still, his mouth remained shut, and it didn't look like the disorientation he was experiencing was enough to make him talk.
We're still at the beginning of this game. He'll be talking soon enough. Dean considered making another stab wound in Castiel's abdomen, but he thought better of it. Castiel had lost a lot of blood, and the sigil that limited his healing abilities apparently let his brain function like a human's. It wasn't going to do any good to try and get answers from a Castiel that was on the verge of passing out.
Still, Dean could feel that steady thrum in his veins. He could feel the ache inside—the craving—and it was with a cold smile that he put his knife down and picked up a scalpel.
Just a little more. Nobody has to know.
He grabbed Castiel's left arm and lifted it up, placing the scalpel against a piece of unblemished skin between two cuts.
Just a little more.
Castiel didn't know how long it took him to come out of the haze. He knew it was long enough for the light streaming in from above to be generated by the moon instead of the sun—although, technically speaking, it was still sunlight, just reflected.
No. Not the point.
He knew he was still coherent enough to remember how the moon worked, and he knew he was in far too much pain to care about proper terminology. He knew he had been in the infamous panic room for a full day. He knew his throat felt like a desert. He knew he was angry, and he knew he was determined to keep his mouth shut.
Perhaps the most important thing he knew was that Dean had only done damage to his physical body. He tried to cling to that, tried to tell himself that he was going to be just fine, but he had doubts. Every movement, every breath, brought the torn halves of each cut a little further apart or closer together, and no matter which way they went, it always hurt.
It didn't make sense.
Dean had carved into him with a regular knife. It was plain, stainless steel, and it wasn't supposed to hurt, but it did. It hurt so badly, and then Dean had burned a litany of sigils onto his chest and stomach, and that had hurt. Everything had hurt. Even the rough wood of the table underneath him, scraping his skin. It all hurt, and it wasn't supposed to.
It wasn't supposed to.
"Castiel?"
Castiel tensed, recognizing the voice of Sam Winchester.
"Dean asked me to bring you something to drink." Sam let himself in and shut the door behind him, false sympathy shining in his eyes. "You look like you could use it."
Castiel glared, his gaze following Sam across the room. He tried to tell himself he didn't need a drink—tried to tell himself there was enough Grace left inside him to warrant stubborn refusal—but the very sight of water had that desert clawing the walls of his throat.
Sam smiled softly as he approached, setting the bottle down on the cart that held Dean's implements of torture. He walked over to the far wall and grabbed a large pillow, returning to the table and taking Castiel by the shoulders.
"Here, let's get you propped up a bit."
Castiel grit his teeth and held back the shout of pain that tried to burst from his throat. He ignored the creaking of his joints and the jolts of pain that ran hot under his skin, and he didn't sigh in relief when Sam let him go. He was no stranger to torture, and not even the Winchesters could outdo Heaven's Persuasion.
Of course, a nagging voice that sounded suspiciously like Dean reminded, you never endured Heaven's Persuasion in such a mortal form. You nearly lost consciousness, and he's barely begun. How much longer can you hold on?
"Here." Sam grabbed the chilled bottle of water and twisted the lid off, pressing it to Castiel's lips. "Nice and slow."
Castiel struggled with himself for a moment, but thirst quickly outweighed shame, and he accepted that he wouldn't be given control of his hands for any reason. He set aside the burning sensation in his cheeks and began to drink, taking in as much as he could, as quickly as Sam would allow.
It felt good, and Castiel knew enough about human biology to know water was very important. If a simple knife was going to cause him so much pain, then his body very likely was going to need recharging. Water, food, oxygen, sleep—things were suddenly so necessary.
"There we go," Sam cooed, petting Castiel's hair. "You're doing great, little guy."
Castiel bristled. He knew exactly what Sam was doing—he hadn't missed the note of glee in Dean's voice when he discovered one of Castiel's buttons—and before logic could take the reins, his temper spat a mouthful of water on Sam's face and neck.
Sam stayed still for a moment, eyes shut tight, and then he blew his bangs out of his eyes. "Well, that was uncalled for." He grabbed his shirt by the hem and wiped his face, straightening up. "I was only trying to be nice."
Castiel grit his teeth and glared, shoving down any regret he felt over not having access to water anymore. It doesn't matter. Take nothing back. Even if it was a bad move, he couldn't afford to show any kind of weakness or indecision.
Sam dragged his arm over his mouth and nose, making a disgusted face. "Ugh. You better keep your mouth clean with angelic… whatever… or that's exceptionally nasty." He closed the gap he had created between them, leaning over the table again with the remaining half of the bottle. "Now, if I give you the rest of this, are you going to be a good boy, or are you going to misbehave again?"
Castiel snarled, his instinctual reaction once again fueled by pride. Unfortunately, Sam was waiting for a verbal response, and by the time Castiel got his tongue to work, logic had grabbed him by the hair and jerked him around a bit.
"…I'll drink it." By which he meant he would not spit, spew, or otherwise expel and misuse the water he was given.
That wasn't enough.
"You'll drink it and…?" Sam looked at Castiel expectantly, a small smile curling the corner of his mouth. "You aren't going to turn down water you know you need because it's embarrassing to say two little words… are you?"
Castiel grit his teeth and weighed his options for all of two seconds. He wasn't used to being in a human body, and he was thirsty. Besides, even if he was used to the sensation of his throat cracking apart, his earlier point still stood. It was a necessary commodity.
Or at least, that was what he told himself.
"I'll behave," he finally muttered.
Sam grinned. "There we go. Was that so hard?"
Thankfully, Castiel didn't have to reply, because Sam offered up the bottle without any more fuss, and Castiel started drinking right away. It felt amazing, and he silently chanted to himself that he would not do anything to jeopardize the water. He had to chant it, he found, because Sam was relentless in his humiliation.
"I bet that feels good. Poor thing, you're not used to needing help, are you?"
Don't jeopardize the water, don't jeopardize the water…
"You're being so good about this, Castiel."
Don't jeopardize the water…
"Dean says you're difficult, but I think you're being a very good boy."
Don't jeopard—
Sam jerked the bottle just enough for the last dregs to be evenly split between Castiel's mouth and his face, a patronizing chuckle sounding out immediately after.
"Aww, did you spill, little guy?"
Castiel glared at him. Don't jeopardize the water. He seethed. Don't jeopardize the water. He reminded himself that there would be a need for fluids in the future. Don't jeopardize the water. He shook with rage. Don't jeopardize the water, don't jeopardize the water, don't jeopardize the water…
Sam smirked. "Maybe next time we'll use a sippy cup, just to be safe."
Castiel threw himself at Sam, fighting against the paralyzing sigil with everything in him, literally growling in lieu of verbal objections or threats. His body lifted off the table and then collapsed back down, but his physical limitations did nothing to dim the fire in his eyes.
"Woah, there." Sam held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, a devilish glint in his eyes. "You don't have to get so fussy."
Castiel panted, shoulders heaving, trying desperately to get his temper under control. Just ignore it. Ignore it like you ignore the pain. It's just another form of torture. It's just another kind of persuasion.
"We really screwed up, you know."
Castiel didn't let himself react, but Sam sounded so… somber, and the sudden change definitely had him curious, so he paid attention.
"With Dean. He's… different. I mean, I knew he was different after he got out of Hell, but…" Sam sighed, and when Castiel chanced a look, he saw the younger Winchester staring up at the ceiling with a lost expression on his face. "We never should have underestimated him." He looked down then, glaring at Castiel. "You never should have let him near Alistair."
Castiel swallowed briefly, and while he refused to avert his eyes, he felt a rush of guilt. He couldn't help but wonder how things would have played out if he stuck to his guns on his decision not to bring Dean in. He couldn't help but wonder if he would be somewhere else, faculties intact, not being condescended to by a freak of supernatural nature.
"Well," Sam clapped his hands together and cleared his throat, disposition shifting just as suddenly as it had the first time. "I'll see what Dean wants me to do with you. If you're lucky, I'll be back to put you to bed for the night."
"I'll sleep like this." Castiel glared at Sam, silently daring him to come back and further debase him.
Sam grinned like the monster he was born to be. "No, I don't think you will."
Then Sam was gone, and Castiel was alone; alone with his thoughts, his bleeding body, and the lingering sensation of fury and shame burning across his face.
Sam returned to the panic room a little over an hour later. Dean liked the way the humiliation tactic was working, and he wanted to get a good night's sleep before he dove back into the physical aspect. So, Sam was given orders to put Castiel to bed while pushing as many buttons as possible.
"Hey, little guy." Sam had noticed the way Castiel tensed up every time the nickname was used, so he tried to employ it as often as possible without going overboard. "Dean says it's bedtime."
Castiel looked at Sam like he wanted the younger Winchester to drop dead. Which, Sam realized after a second of thought, he probably did.
"Well, somebody's grumpy." Sam shrugged off the anger—something else he had found to be effective—and approached the paralyzed angel. "Let's just get you to bed."
Castiel continued to glare, eerily silent, blue eyes following every move Sam made.
Sam heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair, giving Castiel a mildly annoyed look. "I don't suppose you're going to cooperate."
Castiel just kept glaring, a cold glimmer in his eyes, like he very much wanted Sam to be the one on the table. Sam took Castiel by the shoulders and pulled him up before snaking an arm around his torso. Then he wormed his other arm under Castiel's knees, pulling the angel close and lifting him from the table.
"Easy…" Sam murmured, walking around the table and approaching a cot pushed up against the wall. "Easy…"
Castiel growled, the vibration rumbling low in his throat, reverberating against Sam's shoulder. "You disgust me."
Sam gasped softly. "Now, that wasn't very nice." He gently lowered Castiel onto the cot before sliding his arms out from under him.
Castiel glared up at Sam, straining against the paralyzing sigil, desperate to regain control of his limbs. "I will get out eventually."
"I'm sure you will," Sam assured, painting a patronizing smile across his lips.
"I'll come for you when I do." Castiel glared, eyes blazing. "I can't touch your brother, but I can do anything I want with you."
Sam couldn't deny the tingle of fear that traveled up his spine, but all he did was grab a spare blanket from under the bed and flick it open, humming half-interestedly. "Oh, really? That does sound pretty scary."
"You can't fool me, boy. I know what you are, and I know what you fear. I know how much you hate yourself." Castiel grew steadily more confident as he spoke, his tongue making up for what his body couldn't do. "I will take you apart, piece by piece, and put you back together before starting all over again. I'll do it hundreds—thousands—of times, over and over, until you don't remember what it's like to be whole anymore. You're a flash of lightning, here and gone in an instant. It is no great feat for me to be patient."
Sam tucked the blanket around Castiel's shoulders, ignoring his tight chest and dry throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Well, that all sounds very terrifying, but right now, you're paralyzed on a bed." He reached out and took Castiel's hand, curling the fingers into a loose fist. "You're also very tired, which is probably why you're being so grumpy, so it's time for you to get some sleep."
Castiel glared, tilting his head back as Sam reached out.
Sam ignored the attempt to escape, taking Castiel's jaw in hand and pushing the thumb between his teeth. Sam kept one hand on the side of Castiel's head and the other on his hand, smiling lightly at the vicious eyes peering up at him.
"I don't know if you know this, but it's really hard to take you seriously when you're sucking your thumb like a toddler." He let out a chuckle and shrugged. "You take it out, and I'll just stick it back in and duct tape it in place." His hand slid from Castiel's head to his back, rubbing large circles before coming back up to toy with his hair. "Go on, go to sleep."
Castiel blinked a few times, clearly feeling the immediate, soothing effects of physical touch designed to make humans relax. Still, he managed to maintain a glare—probably because of the pain he was in—and while he didn't move his head away from his thumb, he held his mouth open so not even his teeth were touching the digit.
"You're a stubborn little guy, aren't you?" Sam chuckled softly, still rubbing and massaging the beaten back in front of him. He was careful to avoid injuries, fingers ghosting lightly along the hypersensitive skin. "Come on, Castiel, go to sleep."
Castiel glared for all of four seconds before his face was contorted by a yawn, his jaw moving to close when he was done. He jerked his mouth back open when he realized he had touched his thumb.
"There we go." Sam kept his voice lilting, some mix of patronization and praise, his fingers dancing in between the cuts and bruises. "You're getting sleepy now, aren't you?"
Castiel jerked his head to indicate a 'no,' but his eyes were half-lidded, and his body was quickly going slack under Sam's ministrations.
"There's a good boy. Go to sleep, Castiel."
Castiel slurred something incoherent—possibly in Enochian—and let his eyes close all the way, all but passing out as his body finally gave up the fight.
Sam smiled, satisfied with himself, and got to his feet. He situated Castiel's thumb and closed the relaxed jaw until it looked natural, and then he grabbed his phone. He snapped a few pictures and then he left the panic room behind, unable to keep from smiling at the image on his screen.
New Message
Dean how is he?
Sam hit reply and typed out a quick response.
Me sound asleep. humiliation definitely gets inside his head more than pain, but as far as making him willing to talk… i dunno. hard to tell. i think it just makes him angry.
Sam shoved his phone into his pocket and started up the stairs with the intention of consuming a minimum of six beers before the hour was up.
New Message
Dean got it. we can play off each other. tomorrow is my day.
Sam pressed the phone to his forehead and sighed quietly. He had no doubt that Dean's methods would work, and he had no doubt that Dean was still dedicated to family above all else… he just couldn't help but wonder if he had made a terrible mistake.
Me got it.
Me goodnight dean. love you.
It took all of thirty seconds for the reply to come in.
Dean no chick flick moments sammy!
Dean …love you too.
It got harder when the questions stopped.
For the first day and the first several hours of the second day, the constant questions helped Dean remember what he was doing. He would ask a question, and he would remember that he was torturing for Sam. He would remember he was torturing to stop Heaven. He would remember he was torturing to save lives. He would remember.
But then the questions stopped. It became obvious that Castiel wasn't going to talk, and Dean made it clear that all Castiel had to do if he wanted to end the pain was open his mouth. So, Dean didn't ask anymore. He just started carving.
He took a scalpel and reopened the largest cuts on Castiel's legs and arms. He grabbed a medium-sized knife and slowly sank the blade into the flesh between the sigils on Castiel's stomach. He filled buckets with boiling water and poured them over Castiel's body. He took a lead pipe and beat Castiel's hands until they didn't really look like hands anymore. He held Castiel's eyes open and poured bleach in them.
It didn't take long for Castiel to start making noise, and every time he screamed, Dean could feel it. He could feel the lightning running through him. He could feel every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of his being coming alive. He could feel the glee, the sheer elation at the sight and smell of the blood that stained his hands.
And suddenly, he couldn't remember why he was torturing anymore.
I have to talk. I have to say something.
Dean ran his thumb along the length of a gash in Castiel's thigh, pressing a knife into the open wound with a grin. "That looks painful."
Castiel grit his teeth in determination, but he had already let out some screams, and Dean knew he was going to be letting out some more. Dean had been careful to move slowly, trying to keep the de-powered angel from having any kind of adrenaline rush that might dull the pain, and without relief, screams were a guarantee. On top of that, the lack of adrenaline left him with bodily functions like sweating and shaking and crying.
Speaking of functions, it had been roughly twelve hours since Castiel consumed the bottle of water Sam brought him. Dean had no idea how long it normally took for water to make its way through a body, but twelve hours seemed long. That could be handy. I'll keep it in mind.
Dean took a knife and slowly trailed it across the flesh beneath the open cut, applying just enough pressure to draw blood. "It might take a little while, but soon I'll get you weak enough that I can remove the paralyzing sigil. Then all these lovely cuts will tear some more as you struggle." He clicked his tongue, wagging the blade in Castiel's face. "See, that's the trick, Cas. You've gotta injure the body but still leave ways for the body to injure itself. Everything hurts so much more, and there's no relief in between sessions to allow your victim to collect themselves."
"You're really going to let Hell win?" Castiel fought against the sigil in question, struggling to move even an inch in any direction, and then he went slack on the table. "You're—you're going to finish the process they started and defile yourself?"
"Crap." Dean froze, donning a mask of shock. "I hadn't thought about that. Crap, you're right, let me completely abandon this clearly well-thought-out plan because you made a couple comments. You know, I really hadn't put any thought at all into any of this." He arched a brow slowly, surprise morphing into disinterest. "Hell isn't pulling my strings, Cas."
"Are you sure about that?" the angel spat back.
"No, I'm just saying that to make myself feel better." Dean drew a line over Castiel's chest, pressing in but not cutting the skin. "I bet you'd like that, though, wouldn't you? Being able to blame my actions on Hell?"
Castiel seethed, struggling to take in air for a moment or two. "Dean… I know you." He coughed. "I pieced you back together after I got you out. This kind of darkness doesn't exist in you."
Dean almost laughed out loud. You've got another thing coming, pretty boy. But all he showed Castiel were pursed lips and a shrug. "Eh. Maybe it didn't when you pulled me out, but that was before you and your pals started screwing with the things I love." His expression darkened, nonchalance fading. "You threw me headfirst into a fight with no intel, no backup, and no weapons. You tried to put the fate of a small town in my hands and didn't even tell me the position I was in." He glared. "If I had left, if I hadn't decided to stand between you and them, would you have destroyed the town?"
Castiel stared, silent, and swallowed hard.
Dean tossed the blade aside and grabbed Castiel by the throat, shaking him hard. "Well?"
Castiel averted his eyes, and that was all Dean needed.
"Yeah. That's what I thought." Dean pushed him into the table, digging his fingers of one hand into the wounds on Castiel's chest while the other remained fixed to his throat. "Don't talk to me about darkness, you holy-rolling dirtbag. You'd skin a baby if someone upstairs ordered you to." He sneered, the expression soured by disgust. "And if that wasn't bad enough, you threatened my brother. You threatened the person I sold my soul for, and you admitted you didn't even know where Sam's path was leading. You were gonna kill him as a preventative measure because he was doing something you couldn't control." He shook his head, half disbelieving and half repulsed. "You put me back together, Cas, so tell me: what's the fastest way to turn me into a monster?"
Castiel kept his gaze down, breathing heavily, refusing to answer.
Dean struck him with an open hand, making solid contact with an already bruised cheekbone. "Answer me you spineless, soulless, worthl—"
"Sam." Castiel wet his lips, eyes downcast. "Sam is the quickest way to turn you into a monster."
"That's right." Dean gave a solemn nod. "And you succeeded."
Castiel opened his mouth again, but Dean cut him off.
"Tell me something, Cas. Does it make you feel better knowing this is all part of a bigger picture? Hmm?" Dean tilted his head, squeezing the windpipe beneath his fingers. "Does it make you feel better that I'm only doing this to protect Sam?" Well, that was only partly true. "That I'd really prefer to let you go?" And that was a lie. "That it wouldn't be this way if not for the 'unfortunate circumstances' we're in? Does it make you feel any better?"
Castiel was silent again.
"Yeah, I didn't think so." Dean scoffed. "It isn't fun being the puzzle piece, is it? Heaven doesn't care about you. They've got a bigger picture to work on, and you're stuck down here, alone and in pain and afraid—"
"I am not afraid."
"—and they are doing nothing. Because they need to focus on the bigger picture." Dean snorted and shook his head again, struggling to fend off the sense of defeat hollowing out his stomach. "I don't hate you, Cas. I don't even dislike you. But I'm torturing you anyways because you're a threat to my brother. What would your brothers do for you?" Dean grabbed Castiel's jaw and held his head steady, never once letting his gaze wander. "Hmm? They'd wipe out a town and kill their own sister for orders; what are they gonna do for you?"
Castiel swallowed hard, and Dean started to see some of that primal fear that hadn't been around since Castiel was paralyzed on the motel floor.
"They won't lift a finger to help you, and you know it." Dean leaned closer and lowered his voice, hissing with less than three inches between them. "If you can't get yourself out of this—and, spoiler alert, you can't—you're screwed, and your own family couldn't care less. For them, your worth is defined by what you can do, and right now? You're pretty freaking useless, Cas."
Castiel closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly trying to enter into some kind of headspace to block out the words.
Dean slapped Castiel's stomach and smirked at the grunt that followed; there would be no dissociation on Dean's watch. He had been playing the game far too long to make that kind of rookie mistake. He looked at his handprint for a moment and then layered another one on top. He smacked again, then a fourth time, and then a fifth. He smirked when Castiel bit down on his lip and screwed his eyes shut.
"Problem, Cas?"
Castiel clenched his teeth, muscles tight, wordless.
Dean slapped him again. "You're gonna have a handprint of your own by the time I'm done." He dropped an octave and adopted a mocking tone, smacking again. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and threw you into perdition." And again.
Castiel emitted a quiet noise, the pained whine escaping through his nose when his jaw refused to let it out.
"You can't hold it forever," Dean taunted in a singsong voice. "And I certainly won't un-paralyze you just so you can take a leak." He slapped the reddened skin, watching the handprint swell. "You gonna try and get Sam to help you out? You think you can last that long?"
Castiel exhaled hard when Dean's hand made contact yet again, his knee jerking reflexively but not getting very far. He bit down harder on his lip, blood beading up along the row of white teeth.
"What's the matter, Cas?"
Dean raised his hand as if to slap Castiel again, but he tapped him on the nose instead. "You know what I think? I think forcing you is too easy. I mean, if I keep hitting your stomach, you can always say it was out of your control, and I want you to be the one who consciously decides to wet himself like an untrained toddler." He reached down to grab the abandoned knife and moved toward his table of instruments. "If you can hold it until I'm done, I'll even give you some privacy."
Castiel said nothing, cheeks growing progressively redder.
Dean took his time cleaning, whistling on and off as he scrubbed his instruments down, but to give Castiel credit, his boxers were still dry when Dean unlocked the panic room door to leave. Or at least, the only thing making them wet was sweat and blood.
"You know… none of this would be necessary if you just told us what you know. I could stop hurting you and help you out instead." Or at least, he hoped he could. "Those wounds need treated before they get infected, you need food and water, you need a shower… and if I could trust you, I'd help with all of it."
Castiel stared him down, unwavering, confident as ever.
Dean sighed dramatically and walked out, slamming and locking the door behind him.
"So, how's he looking?" Sam asked, leaning against the wall outside the door.
Dean looked over his shoulder to double check the slat in the door, ensuring it was closed before he replied. "I dunno, man. I think it freaks him out that his body responds to pain the way it does, and I think it's getting harder for him to take, but he's not a wuss. He's used to pain. Humiliation is what throws him off."
"Maybe we need to go harder with that." Sam chewed his lip for a moment, and Dean could tell he had something on his mind he was reluctant to mention.
"You having ideas, Sammy?"
"Well, I think anything that comes from me will be humiliating for him. He sees me as a lesser being because I'm the Boy with the Demon Blood." Sam shrugged his shoulders. "It doesn't take too much for him to get mad at me."
Dean nodded slowly, considering their options, eyes narrowing slightly. "Helplessness. He doesn't like being humiliated—who does?—but it's the helplessness that scares him. He gets this… cornered look in his eye. It happened the first night at the motel and then again just a few minutes ago, right after I started drilling it into his head that he was basically screwed because no one was coming for him." He spread his hands slightly, gesturing vaguely. "Like, if he can focus on the moment he's in, he feels like he's still making the decisions. You know, he's choosing to resist, choosing how he responds, and that gives him control. But once you take that control away, something changes."
"I think I can make that work." Sam paused, once again thoughtful. "Yeah, I can make that work." He looked like he was getting ideas, and then he looked a little ill. "I can't help feeling like we're the bad guys now."
Dean snorted and started up the stairs, unperturbed. "Yeah, well, when they stop treating us like chess pieces, I'll stop treating them like toys." He turned around to look over his shoulder, a frown drawing lines on his face. "Honestly, I don't care if we're the bad guys. I'm done screwing around. I'm done suffering just so I can say I didn't sink to their level."
Sam wet his lips and peered up at Dean from the bottom of the steps. "Dean… I don't want you to interrogate Castiel tomorrow."
"What? Why not?" Dean spread his arms, incredulous, and he couldn't deny the rush of anger that shot through his veins. "I've barely started, and it's not like I'm skinning him alive in there. I haven't even done a quarter of the things I could." He opened his mouth to continue, but Sam beat him to it.
"Dean, the way you're talking… and the way you looked while you were cutting him up. You…" Sam shook his head again. "You're scaring me. I just… I need to know you're going to keep your promise if it comes down to it." He shrugged helplessly, like he thought Dean was just going to do what he wanted anyway. "I… just… I need to know I'm not losing you again."
For a moment, the anger lingered, roiling in Dean's stomach and sending his heart thudding against his ribcage. But looking Sam in the eye was all it took for that anger to dissipate, and Dean let out a heavy sigh to go along with his nodding head. He had given Sam good reason to be afraid, and if leaving Castiel alone helped Sam feel a little safer, so be it.
"Yeah, okay, Captain Puppy Eyes. If it's freaking you out, I'll take a break." Dean rolled his eyes and tried to end the conversation on a note of nonchalance even though he knew he would be craving a fix in a matter of hours. "I guess if you're taking me off Dungeon Duty, I'm gonna get some shuteye and then see if Bobby needs help with research. If we can get some information on our own, it might give us something to throw at him."
Sam nodded and wet his lips, and he still seemed unsettled. "Dean… how long are we gonna do this? I mean, if he doesn't… break… at what point do we just… keep him depowered so he can't hurt anybody and leave it at that? I mean, are we—are we really gonna be torturing him for weeks on end?"
'Because I don't think I can do that,' went unspoken.
That was probably for the best, because Dean's reply was, 'I can.'
"I don't think it'll do us any good to overthink that when he might crack tomorrow." Dean shrugged his shoulders, once again expressing his lack of concern. "No point wasting time and energy on a plan that never gets used."
"Tomorrow?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You really think we could get him talking by tomorrow." It was a statement, but it was thick with skepticism.
Dean only shrugged again. "Probably not tomorrow, but I don't think it'll take long." He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Sammy, when people keep quiet under torture, it's because they believe in what they're protecting. Cas was already doubting during the Samhain incident, and it's not gonna be hard to build on that doubt. Once he doesn't believe in what he's standing for…" He shrugged yet again. "It's not about the torture you inflict, it's about the way it makes the torturee's brain work."
Sam considered that for a moment and then nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess…"
"On top of that, think about how out of his element all these sensations are." Dean gestured to Sam. "You broke your leg when you were a kid. So, if someone broke your leg today, it would suck, but you would be somewhat familiar with the pain and what it means. Cas doesn't have that. Everything is completely new and terrifying." He shrugged his shoulders yet again, briefly wondering if he should be concerned by how little he cared. "Castiel is as good as broken. Has been since we got our hands on him."
Sam thought for a moment and then slowly started nodding. "Okay… I guess we'll take it a day at a time… and see what happens." He still looked a bit sick.
Dean just clicked his tongue. "You got it."
Dean turned on his heel and continued up the stairs, already planning how to move forward. He was going to investigate the seals with Bobby, of course, but there was a certain demon who shared a name with a precious gem that needed to be dealt with. Once that was done, he would hopefully be able to start tracking down other angels; what he planned to do with them, he hadn't decided yet, but he was itching to try out his new angel blade.
You picked the wrong family to screw with. All of you.
"Aww, did you have an accident, little guy?"
Castiel bristled at the mere sound of the abomination's voice, of the heightened pitch and drawn-out words. He clenched his teeth and stared Sam down, not letting his gaze waver for even a second.
I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm not a child. I'm not an invalid. I'm not incontinent. I simply didn't have a choice. It was easier said than done, but Castiel had managed to keep himself from getting too flustered for at least twenty minutes, and he was determined to stay stoic. It's just another ploy. It's all part of the game, and I am good at this game.
"Don't worry, Castiel. I'm gonna get'cha cleaned up and put you to bed." Sam flashed a quick smile and pulled a rag from his beltloop, walking past the table Castiel was on. "I bet you're tired after a day like today."
Castiel raised his lip in a silent snarl, eyes tracking Sam's every movement. He didn't acknowledge the heat in his cheeks or the pounding in his chest, choosing to view them as the negative effects of having a defective, human body.
Sam hummed to himself and approached a spigot coming out of the wall. He twisted the knob and held the rag under the water, soaking the fabric, and then he turned the water off. He stood up and walked back to the table, running the rag over Castiel's thighs.
"Oh, that's not good." Sam actually looked a bit surprised, soft eyes zeroing in on the stab wound from the first night at the motel. "Hold on. Let me look at that."
Castiel kept his composure while Sam pulled on the natural covering that all human wounds created, the pain more intense than he expected. Oddly, it didn't bleed with the cover off, it just sort of oozed, and whatever was coming out was yellow, not red. It smelled foul, like… like decay, and for a moment, Castiel was struck with horror. Could his human vessel start decomposing while he was still in it? More importantly, what did that mean for an angel who was bound to it?
"That's gotta hurt." Sam faked a sympathetic wince, his hand hovering over the wound. "Yup. Hot, red, and oozing; it's definitely infected."
Castiel didn't know exactly what that meant, but he knew he had heard both brothers mention infection more than once, and he knew that particular wound was his most painful.
Castiel let out a shout, caught off-guard by the sudden pain in his gut, and he looked down to see Sam pressing the wet rag around the wound. It made the yellow… stuff… come out and run over Castiel's skin, the flesh inside the wound burning. It hurt worse than the original stabbing—like some kind of corrosive acid was sinking into the wound, eating away the flesh—and Castiel couldn't hold back his scream, nauseated by the pain.
Sam made a face as he pressed down some more, clearing away the mess with the washcloth and then tossing it onto the pile of bloody rags Dean had accumulated.
"Well, it'll be back if we don't clean the wound—" it was implied that unless Castiel started talking, the 'if' was actually a 'when,' "—but that should be a little better for now." Sam rubbed Castiel's stomach a few times, staying on what little undamaged skin was left. "How's that feel, little guy? Better?"
Castiel growled, giving Sam a deadly stare. "You disgust me."
"Yeah, I think I got that memo." Sam gave him another smile, utterly unfazed, and then he started pulling Castiel into a sitting position. "But you do feel better, right?"
It was a stupid question, and Castiel refused to answer. Of course he felt better; the 'infection' that had been building up and burning his insides was gone. He could breathe a little easier, and his stomach didn't feel so tight.
Wait. Castiel froze before he could stop himself, though he forced himself to relax less than a second after. What's the condition? The pain of removing the infection was greatly outweighed by the benefit of it being gone, so there had to be some other reason for granting that small mercy. What does he want? What did I reveal?
But Sam didn't ask for anything, and he didn't gloat. He just worked his arm under Castiel's legs and picked him up from the table. "Now, let's get you in bed."
Castiel glared, pushing against the power of the sigil, but there was no point in fighting.
I hate this, I hate this, I hate this, I hate this… It was an endless chant, one that overlapped another. This isn't forever, this isn't forever, this isn't forever… He had to remind himself constantly that he was immortal—even with the sigils in place—and they were not. Even if they tortured him for the rest of their lives, it would be a mere blip on his timeline. It didn't feel like a blip, but it was. It was, it was, it was.
Castiel hissed when he was put down on the mattress, and he growled when Sam brushed his hair back, the touch both unwelcome and nerve-wracking. He opened his mouth to speak, but really, what was there to say? Every time he tried to argue or reason or pick a senseless fight, the brothers simply shrugged him off, and he always wound up being the one cornered.
Castiel inwardly cringed when Sam took his hand and curled the fingers into a loose fist, knowing what was coming and hating every second of it. His thumb was pushed into his mouth, and Sam didn't even have to threaten him to make him keep it there—Castiel physically couldn't lift his head to turn away.
He didn't know much about thumb-sucking, but he knew it was something he had never seen an adult do—the closest they came was chewing on their nails—and he knew it had something to do with fussy children.
That day at the park, with… with Dean… before everything…
That day at the park, Castiel had watched a small child cleave to her mother and cry. Three minutes later, the crying had stopped, and the toddler sat in her mother's lap, still hiccupping and wiping her eyes. Her thumb was in her mouth the whole time.
Castiel despised the thought of Sam making him perform such needless and illogical self-soothing. He despised the thought of Sam making him do anything, despised the thought of Sam being in control. He despised the realization that sigils couldn't get stronger, meaning his inability to take his own finger out of his mouth was a testament to his mounting weakness.
He hated it all.
"That's it, little guy. Go to sleep."
Stop touching me. He hadn't even realized, hadn't felt Sam's hand on his back. Stop touching me, stop touching me, stop touching me…
Castiel was so tired. He could barely keep his eyes open. His body was throbbing, his head was pounding, his ears were ringing, he was cold, he was hot, he was sore, he was numb, he was a mess, and as he tumbled headlong into darkness, he was overwhelmed by echoes in Dean's voice.
"They won't lift a finger to help you, and you know it. If you can't get yourself out of this—spoiler alert: you can't—then you're screwed, and your own family couldn't care less."