"I still can't believe your stupid threat worked." Sam shook his head, browsing on his laptop despite Dean insisting two weeks wasn't nearly enough of a recovery to start looking for a new hunt.

Dean snorted, walking the length of one of the bookshelves. "I mean, did it? He's eating, but every time I go to change his bandages, he fights with everything in him. He's also overdue for a shower, and we know we can't force him without triggering some kind of flashback, so we gotta come up with a plan for getting him clean."

"Crap. I forgot about that." Sam rubbed his face. "Maybe we could give him a shower if we don't put him on his back. He seemed okay before that, so maybe we just need to be careful."

Shrugging, Dean ran his finger over the spines of the books. "We could always point a gun at him and tell him to shower or else."

Sam snorted a laugh. "He slowly starved himself just to keep from doing anything we suggested. Something tells me the threat of a quick and relatively painless death won't get him to cooperate." He pursed his lips and skimmed the screen, considering a rash of suspicious deaths in a city a couple hours away. "We could just wipe him down with a wet rag. I mean, who cares if his hair gets greasy? There aren't any wounds up there to get infected."

"True." Dean pulled a book from the shelf. "There's gotta be something in this bunker about how to restrain an angel. Or something for some kind of long-term plan." He started leafing through the pages. "He's recovering from starvation now, but we could barely handle him before, and that was when he was malnourished and covered in infected wounds. We have to do something to keep him from killing us the second he recovers and then escaping and killing civilians. I figure the market only used what they knew about, and this place has some pretty old books."

Sam slowly stood up from the desk, pressing a hand to his side when he felt a twinge in his still recovering wound. "Isn't that a bad thing? Angels are a pretty new monster. What would the Men of Letters have known about them?"

Dean gave Sam a look. "Dude. They knew about freaking everything."

"Fair." Sam approached his brother, peering over his shoulder. "How are we gonna get it on him? I mean, all his other sigils are tattooed, but we can't risk taking him to a parlor."

"We could take him back to the market." Dean didn't seem perturbed, green eyes still wandering the pages. "They'd have the means to tat him up. They probably put some of the ones he has now on him."

"Okay. What about cost?"

Dean sucked air through his teeth. "Good point." He looked up and gave Sam a helpless look, shoulders lifting slightly. "We can't let him get stronger, Sammy."

"Yeah, and we don't wanna burn it on him." Sam grimaced. "I mean, tattoos are painful, but…" He fell silent, tilting his head as his brain shot off in a different direction. "Angels are new to the scene and somewhat rare, right?"

Dean arched a brow. "Right."

"Maybe we can offer some kind of trade." Sam lifted his hands, almost shrugging. "Something that replenishes. We could… give them a steady supply of angel blood. Not too much, not enough to hurt him, but enough to pay for the tattoo over time." He wet his lips. "I mean, I feel bad using him like that. But… what are we supposed to do?"

Dean clearly didn't like the idea any more than Sam, but he must have realized they were low on options. "I guess it would be okay to take a pint every now and then. If we could find some way to drain his grace—if that's even possible—we could use that, too, and it would keep him from getting too strong at the same time."

"We should research how to break the sigil, too." Sam gestured vaguely, giving a half shrug. "I mean, tattoos are kinda permanent. What happens if we want to remove it?"

Face scrunching, Dean gave Sam a weird look. "Why would we want to remove it?"

"Well—" Sam gestured again, just as nondescript as before. "What if, a couple years down the road, he's not like this anymore? What if he wants to help us?"

Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned back to his book. "He's never gonna help us."

It was Sam's turn to scrunch his face up. "Why are we keeping him alive then?"

"I'm not gonna kill someone because they're inconvenient." Dean almost seemed angry Sam suggested he would, his eyes quickly coming up to meet Sam's. "If we can ever get him to calm down, we can give him some books and maybe put a TV in there. But if you think he's gonna be able to reenter society—"

"Dean, that's not a life. That's not mercy, it's cruelty." Sam crossed his arms. "We can't just let him waste away in a dark room, doing nothing all day except reading and watching soaps."

Dean spread his arms in disbelief. "He wants to kill us. We have no idea how many people he's killed already, and if he escapes, he's going to kill more. You know what happens to humans that kill? They go to jail. They spend their lives in a little room with next to no freedom. We're giving him luxury compared to that."

Sam exhaled, and even though he didn't like it, he saw Dean's point. "Well, why don't we try to rehabilitate him?"

"He thinks everything we say and do is a lie!" Dean lifted his hands. "I just barely got him to start eating food, which he needs to survive, and you think we can convince him humanity doesn't need to be wiped out?"

Groaning in frustration, Sam looked away and tried to think. He knew Dean was right. They didn't have much experience with angels, but they had heard some horror stories, and Sam knew they couldn't subject innocents to that just to save their own consciences. But he also knew there were some angels who really did help hunters. If they could get Castiel to that point—or even just to a point where he wasn't actively violent—couldn't they reward him a little? Couldn't they at least offer to have the sigil removed?

"Look, let's just find out if there even is anything in these books. We can talk long-term plans after that."

Sam wet his lips and shoved his emotional side out of the picture to focus on logic. "Right. Uh, how are we going to test it?" He walked up to the shelf Dean had taken his book from and started looking for one of his own, wondering what kind of tome would have angelic knowledge inside. "If we try drawing it on him, he's going to know what we're up to, and we'll never get him through the market doors."

Dean tilted his head from side to side. "Uh…" He shook his head. "Let's just see what's in here. Maybe the sigil we find won't need testing."

Sam nodded and reached out, taking a several-inch-thick tome with a red cover bearing Hebrew text. He still wasn't sure about their plan, but Dean made some good points. If they didn't want to die—if they didn't want others to die—what choice did they have?

Castiel knew what they were doing the second they dragged him through the bunker doors. He hadn't known when they were wrestling him into sweatpants and a shirt, or when they cuffed his hands in front of him, and he hadn't been able to decipher the somewhat nervous glances they kept giving each other, but the second he saw that black car, he knew.

They're taking me back. He had made himself too difficult, and they were going to finish the process they had interrupted months before. He didn't panic, though. It was at least two and a half hours from the hideout to the market, and that meant he had time to escape. He had been eating regularly for the past week and a half, and while he still had a long way to go, he was strong enough to beat them.

Or at least, he hoped he was.

I guess I'm about to find out.

He did everything he could to stay away from the open car door, pushing back and digging his heels into the rocks and dirt no matter how painful it got. But they dragged him over, inch by inch, and Sam got into the backseat to pull while Dean pushed. Castiel tried to bite Sam's arm, but the taller hunter turned him so he was facing away from his target.

"Easy, now," Sam murmured, wrapping his arms around Castiel's upper body and pinning his arms to his sides. "Everything's okay."

Castiel kicked, but Dean jumped back and slammed the door just in time. Gritting his teeth, Castiel threw his head back and hit Sam in the jaw, but it didn't do any good.

"Everything's okay," Sam repeated. "You're… not gonna like what's about to happen, but you're gonna be just fine." He held on a little tighter and shifted Castiel a little lower so he was unable to hit Sam's face again. "I know you probably think we're taking you back to kill you, but we're not."

Do you think I'm an idiot? Castiel twisted, but it did nothing, and he knew if he kept fighting, he was going to use up vital energy he would need during the walk between the car and the market. Bide your time. They have to get you out eventually, and when they do, you can overpower them and escape. Just relax.

If Sam was suspicious about the lack of a fight from Castiel, it didn't show. Castiel stayed calm, reminding himself he had been able to hold his own against five workers the last time he was in the warehouse. Sam and Dean were two people, and Castiel could handle that. He could get out. No need to panic.

He occasionally kicked the door or tried to bite Sam just to keep up appearances. One time, he kicked the back of Dean's head, leading the hunter to point out Castiel was going to cause them to wreck and die if he kept it up. Castiel snapped that it would be worth it, but he didn't kick Dean's head again. They drove, and after an hour or so, Castiel said he had to go to the bathroom. Dean laughed and said there was no way they were taking him around civilians, but Castiel still didn't panic. He wanted to—he could feel it crawling over his chest and throat—but he didn't. He took discreet breaths and forced his muscles to relax.

"Okay." Dean parked the vehicle with a heavy sigh. "Let's get this over with."

Sam sat up a little straighter and reiterated for what had to be the hundredth time, "Everything's okay. I promise. We're not gonna kill you. We're not even gonna hurt you—not really."

Yeah, right.

Dean opened the back door and reached in, earning an immediate kick from Castiel and stumbling back while clutching his hand with a curse. Castiel hoped he broke one of Dean's fingers. But Dean recovered and dodged the next kick, grabbing the ankle and pulling until he could pin the other leg to the back of the seat. He slid his hand down and grabbed that ankle, and then he started to pull.

Breathe. Just breathe. You can still get away. Castiel gave token resistance, but he really did want to get out of the car, so he let himself be pulled and only really fought back once his feet were on the ground. Dean grabbed his right arm, and Sam was holding his left, but Castiel didn't care. He pulled and twisted, catching glimpses of open fields that eventually turned into woods. That was where he needed to get.

"Cas, you're not gonna win, okay?" Dean grunted, winding an arm around the angel's waist. "Just stop fighting. We're not gonna hurt you."

"Not really," Castiel mocked, calling on the younger brother's words.

They got him around the back of the car, and Castiel saw the large building he had come to loathe during his time spent in it. I'm out of time. He mustered up his strength, pushing what little grace he had into his efforts, and contorted his entire body. He managed to turn enough to drive his knee into Dean's groin, forcing Dean to let go with one hand, and that was all he needed.

"Dean, are you—?"

Castiel tore away from Dean and threw his weight at Sam, both of them tumbling to the ground. Castiel clutched a handful of the dark red shirt and lifted Sam as much as their positions would allow before slamming his head back down. Panting, aching, wishing he had had more time to build his strength before facing this challenge, Castiel scrambled to his feet and bolted. Bare soles pounded against the gravel, pain cutting into them, and a frantic look around told him workers were coming out of the building. There were too many to fight, so his only option was to be faster. He ducked his head, nauseous and somewhat dizzy, and put his cuffed hands against his stomach, running as fast as he could.

He was almost to the edge of the lot when something hit him.

His face slammed into the stones, pain reverberating through his frame, and because he had fallen forward, his arms were trapped under him. He knew he had to roll over, but the wind had been knocked out of him, and there was a solid weight on his back.

"Stop fighting us, Cas!" It was Dean. He was straddling Castiel and digging his fingers into the pale, sweaty upper arms. "You're only making this worse for yourself!"

Castiel saw Sam rushing toward them with some workers, and it didn't take long to realize one of them had a syringe. If they get that into me— He swallowed, and for the first time, he felt fear. His blood ran cold, heart hammering in his chest, pulse pounding in his ears. He hadn't even felt this when they were trying to put him down the first time.

"Don't," he gasped, trying desperately to get his hands out from under himself.

"It's okay, Cas." Dean was panting, but calm. "Everything's okay."

Castiel didn't believe that for a second. They would say anything to make him docile. They just wanted to fix the problem they realized they never should have taken on in the first place. "Get away from me." He tried to dig his knees and feet into the dirt. "Get away from me!"

His breath hitched when he felt hands on his head and neck, holding him down. Two more landed on his arm, and then another, keeping it still, and Castiel knew why.

"Stop it!" Castiel didn't know what else to do. He couldn't move. "Stop!"

Crouching down, the man with the syringe grabbed his shoulder—as if the hands on his arm weren't enough—and then came that familiar pinch.

"Don't!" Castiel screamed the word through his closed throat. "Let me go!"

It happened fast. Literally, within seconds, the drug was taking over his system. His muscles failed, no longer able to pull against his attackers, and the foggy cloud of sedation filtered into his brain. He saw the workers moving, the one who had injected him standing and backing away, but it was blurring. He tried to speak, tongue and lips contorting uselessly as warped, broken sounds came out.

"You're okay, buddy. I know you don't understand. I know you're scared." Dean stared down at him, his face growing fuzzy, and then he gradually lifted himself off the angel.

Castiel rolled over, arms smacking limply against the gravel, and he tried to catch his breath. He tried to draw one leg up to kick, but he couldn't tell if the limb was actually moving.

"Hey." Dean crouched by Castiel's head, putting one hand on the bruised shoulder and letting the other brush through the dark brown hair. "You're just getting another sigil. Okay? Just a sigil; nothing major."

No. Castiel jerked his head to the side. No, don't. If they did that, he would never be able to escape. He could barely manage with the strength he had now; how was he supposed to get away from them with less? How was he supposed to reject their help if he needed it even more than he had up to that point?

"Don't be scared." Dean got his hands underneath Castiel's arms, lifting him up. "It's just a tattoo. You've done this thirteen times." He chuckled. "You're an old pro by now."

Sam appeared on the other side—or at least, Castiel thought it was Sam. It was so hard to focus and make sense of what he was seeing. But Sam—if it was Sam—helped his brother hoist Castiel to his feet. Castiel felt the ground beneath him, but he also didn't, and he wasn't sure which direction he was walking, but he was going somewhere. Maybe. He was just trying to stay standing, but he felt like he was going somewhere as a result, feet fumbling over each other to find purchase.

He blinked, taking in the hazy warehouse and realizing he had stepped over the threshold. There were people mulling around, buying things from vendors that supplied their hunting needs. He was pulled to the left—it was the left, wasn't it?—and he stumbled as his knee gave. He would have fallen if Dean hadn't caught him first.

"You're okay. I've got you."

"He probably can't hear you anymore."

I can hear you. But he couldn't say that. He couldn't say anything. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow. He saw the stands and weapons displays melt into nothing, and then he saw the chair. It was the same one they tried to put him in to kill him, but they had also used it to put tattoos on him. Don't. Don't do this to me. You can't.

Castiel felt the chair hit his back, extremities still numb. He stared, shapes and colors shifting as they took his wrists apart and strapped them down. His legs were bound the same way, and then they pulled a strap across his chest. He took a shuddering breath, heart racing.

"We don't need that." Dean moved somewhere above him. "I'll hold his head." True to his word, he placed one hand on Castiel's jaw and one on his temple, pulling his head to the right. "You're fine."

Castiel tried to make out what was happening, but all he could see was Dean's face. He stared up at him, blue searing into green and silently pleading. Don't do this.

Dean smiled—a soft, almost kind, not at all snarky or sarcastic smile—and gently thumbed Castiel's cheek. Or at least, it felt like he did. "Hey. I'm the one who couldn't let them put you down when I didn't even know you, and you think I'd let them hurt you now?"

But you are hurting me! You're making it so I can never get away from you! But as much as he wanted to be angry, he couldn't feel anything over the terror in his veins. He couldn't glare; couldn't snarl. He could only continue to stare and hope Dean would have some kind of mercy on him. Don't do this to me!

Dean looked at someone on the other side of the chair, saying things that didn't make sense. "Yeah, right on his neck. Exactly like it's drawn in the book."

Sam spoke next, somewhere nearby. "Make it quick, please."

"You sure? That's gonna be really obvious." It was Nathan. He had tattooed Castiel before. "If you ever need to take him in public, people are gonna see this satanic-looking circle on his neck, and it'll draw attention."

Dean continued to look across the chair. "Yeah, well, we looked it up, and one of the easiest places to remove a tattoo from is the neck."

"Why would you care how easy it is to remove?"

Sam answered that question with a simple, "We're not paying you to ask questions."

Castiel tried again to look around. He could see Dean's face toward the upper part of his field of vision, and Dean's hands were in his left peripherals. His face was pressed against the chair, leaving the right side entirely black, and that was all he could make out. Tell them to stop. You have to tell them to stop!

Dean tilted his head and looked to his left, responding to something Sam had said. "Yeah, that might be a good idea. Kill two birds with one stone."

Castiel felt pressure on his neck. They're drawing it. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He tried curling his fingers, but he couldn't even feel them. He couldn't see anything but Dean's face as the hunter continued to converse with Sam and Nathan. Stop it. Stop it!

Time was different under sedation—it always had been—and before he knew what was happening, he felt the needle in his neck. They were injecting the ink. They were marking him. He didn't even know what sigil they were drawing, but he knew the brothers were good, and that meant whatever they had come up with would be effective. And Castiel didn't know what to do, and his head was pounding, and if they got this ward on him—and it was clear they were—then he was never going to get away from them. Or anyone. Ever.

Screwing his eyes shut, Castiel let out a whimper.

"Hey, now, that's not like you." Dean rubbed Castiel's cheek again, right beneath his left eye. "What's with the waterworks?"

Castiel would never let himself cry, and not even a sedative could change that, but the fact he wasn't angered by Dean's insinuation was a painful reminder of his current state.

"Listen to me."

Castiel forced his eyes open.

"It's just a tattoo. It's not forever."

Yes, it is! Castiel wanted to scream.

Dean smiled, but it was sad. "We're two guys, Cas. We can't fight an angel, all day every day, even with the sigils already on you. We need to do this." He shifted his hand in Castiel's hair. "But it's not gonna hurt. We made sure."

I'm never going to be free again. He sucked in a breath, eyes wide and locked on Dean. What do I do? What do I do? He tried to move his hand again. I won't kill you. I promise I won't kill you, just don't do this to me!

"Sam, grab his hand or something. He's freaking out." Dean glanced over his shoulder when he said it, but then his eyes were back on Castiel. "You're okay. Just breathe."

Castiel felt pressure between the fingers of his right hand.

"I know this isn't what you want." Dean wet his lips, struggling for a moment. "If you prove we can trust you with some power, we can get it taken off. But…" He laughed softly, glancing skyward. "You want to kill us, man. I'm sorry, but keeping you happy isn't something I'm willing to die for."

Castiel felt the pressure on his hand tighten, and he tried to respond, but with how distorted everything was, he had no idea what his hand did. He swallowed. He tried to open his mouth; to swear he wouldn't hurt them and didn't need to be restrained further. Even if you could, why would they believe you? You haven't done a single thing to show you're even remotely open to civility. Defeat washed over him. At least now they won't bother lying.

Feeling the pinpricks and pressure through the numbness in his neck, Castiel tried to figure out how to feel on a less physical level. He wanted to give up, but he couldn't. It wasn't in his nature. That was what got him here in the first place, right? His inability to do anything but snarl and spit and hiss anytime they came near him? He couldn't accept defeat. Not like this.

But he couldn't feel the anger. He knew he would—once the ordeal was over, once the sedative wore off—but in the moment, he was just scared. And Dean… Dean just kept stroking his hair and touching his cheek, murmuring soft reassurances with a smile on his lips and a casual tone that preached an absence of danger. Castiel had never experienced anything like that. He needed it. He didn't know why, but he needed it.

"You're gonna be fine." Dean said the words for the millionth time.

Castiel blinked slowly. He's right. I'll be fine. I have to be fine. He inhaled. If I'm not, I'll never get out. Even though he was never going to get out anyway. He had to at least pretend he had a chance. I have to be fine. What else can I do?

Dean felt sick. He watched the wide, frantic blue eyes, trying to keep his outward expression calm, but he desperately wanted to tell the artist to stop. We have to do this. If we don't… He clenched his jaw, turning his head to look at Sam.

Sam stared back from where he stood on Dean's right, looking confused. Like he could see the indecision on Dean's face and had no idea where it was coming from. 'What?' he mouthed, still holding Castiel's hand.

Dean indicated Castiel with his eyes and gave Sam a helpless look.

Sam leaned in and whispered so Castiel's drugged-up brain wouldn't hear. "Dean, we talked about this. Extensively. You were the one who suggested it in the first place."

"I know, but—"

"He will kill us the first chance he gets. Okay? He's made it clear that if he ever gets out of that room, he's not gonna take his freedom and go in peace."

"But what if he would?" Dean glanced at Castiel and decided the look in his eyes meant he wasn't hearing a word they said. "What if we just… keep things the way they are and trust him to just run away if he escapes?"

Sam narrowed his eyes, but he didn't seem angry; he was just caught between confusion and suspicion. "We left him alone in the bathroom so he could take a shower, and what did he do?"

Dean looked away. He knew Sam was right. He knew Sam was right. Castiel had done nothing to prove he wouldn't slit their throats if given the chance. "He's terrified, Sam."

"I can see that, and it sucks, but what are we supposed to do?" Sam extended his arm and gave a look. "It's half done, anyway, so it's not like the trauma from this whole thing hasn't set in already. We told him we would remove it if he proves he can be trusted." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'm not saying I know for sure this is the right move, but… it's the best we've got. Besides, it's not like we're ruining some lifelong friendship or something. He already hates our guts and wants to destroy us. How is this going to make things any worse?"

Dean kept his hands against Castiel's face, frustration growing. "I'm not really worried what he thinks of us right now!" He drew his voice back down. "We're scaring him out of his mind. He doesn't have control over what's happening to his own body. That's horrifying."

Sam leaned in with an equal amount of frustration. "What. Are. We. Supposed. To. Do." He waited a beat. "It's not like he had any control over his body when we were force-feeding or bathing him. How is this any different?"

"I don't know, Sam, it's just different!" He somehow managed to keep whispering.

"You're the one who said he's never gonna change. He's never gonna stop hating humans. He's never gonna cooperate with us." Sam pointed to the ground between them. "You were being logical then, and now you're being emotional because you're a protector, and you see someone who needs protecting. But we talked about this. So many times. We talked about all the pros and cons, we tore into this theory, and we decided this was what we needed to do. We did that when we were thinking with our brains and not our hearts."

Dean looked down. He knew Sam was right. Castiel was a monster and a threat; Sam and Dean were hunters that had to neutralize the threat. But he was feeling what he felt when he first bought Castiel. It had been a stupid move, an emotional move, a move that didn't make sense. But he had shouted out, 'I'll take him for five hundred,' because he felt he had to. And he was there again, in that moment, reliving the kneejerk reaction to a panic he couldn't fully describe.

"Stop."

"Hmm?"

"I said stop!" Dean stood up, still holding Castiel's head and barely resisting the urge to tear the artist's hands away. "I changed my mind."

"Dean—"

"You'll still get the blood and the money, like we agreed." Dean shifted his hand against Castiel's face, the move more protective than functional.

Visibly confused, the burly man with numerous tattoos of his own looked between the brothers. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Dean replied before Sam had the chance. "We're sure. Sorry to waste your time." He kept his gaze on the artist until the needle was gone and the stool rolled backward, and then he was fighting with the restraints.

Surprisingly, Sam didn't argue. He did his part to get Castiel unbound and then muttered a quiet, "Take him out to the car."

"No, I can talk to Br—"

"I'll handle it, okay?" Sam's face said he wasn't pleased. "I'll talk to Bryce, explain the situation, and figure out how much we owe him. You take Castiel out to the car. Okay?"

Dean nodded, and Sam turned a polite smile to the artist, but Dean wasn't really paying attention to that. He pulled the lever to move the arm of the chair and grabbed Castiel around the chest, pulling him to his feet and dragging his arm around Dean's shoulders. Castiel took clumsy steps toward the exit, but he seemed to be somewhat in control of his faculties, and he extended his free arm like he was trying to maintain his balance. Dean gave a shut-down glare to anyone who dared to look at them funny as they walked between the booths, through the open doors, across the parking lot, and out to the Impala. He got the door open, pushing Castiel inside and following after.

I am an idiot. Dean slammed the door and sighed. He looked to his left and found Castiel slumped against the seat, barely coherent but staring at Dean with wide, confused eyes, like he thought he knew what just happened but also thought he was still strapped to the chair. Dean watched him for a moment and then took Castiel by the arm, pulling until the feverish head was resting on his thigh. He shifted a few times, resituating them both, and then his hand gently landed on the eyes that had been glassy with tears just a few minutes ago. "Go to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

Castiel felt his head and neck blindly, movements sloppy and uncoordinated, before he gave up and dropped his arm over the edge of the seat.

"Do me a favor, Cas. Don't make me regret this." Dean tilted his head back and closed his eyes, fighting the urge to scream. Please, don't make me regret this.

Castiel jerked when the car came to a stop, eyes snapping open. He didn't move—honestly, he didn't know if he could—and he tried to figure out what was going on. He couldn't have slept all the way back to the bunker, could he? Well, no, he had been drugged. It was probable he had done exactly that.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty."

He moved his dangling, left hand and managed to get his palm against the leather. He pushed, knees sliding against the seat as he struggled to get himself into a crawl.

"Don't hurt yourself."

Dean moved away, and Castiel's bleary eyes tried to follow, but he couldn't get his head up. His limbs trembled, hands finding their way across the seat until, eventually, one of them hit nothing.

"Woah!"

Castiel felt his chest hit someone, and his hands grappled for something to hold onto while his legs tried to get out of the car. I can't… He got one foot on the ground, and then the other, and then his left arm was pulled over what he assumed was Dean's shoulders. I should be trying to escape. He blinked, able to make out the bunker entrance, and he pushed his feet against the ground. Or, at least, he thought he did.

"Hey, now, don't start that crap."

Castiel staggered to the right, throwing an arm out to catch his balance, and he wound up with a fistful of flannel. I forgot there's two of them. His brain shorted out, not knowing where he could go when there was a hunter on either side of him. What do I do?

"How long did they say this stuff lasts?" That sounded like Dean.

"Twelve to sixteen hours." That sounded like Sam.

Castiel watched his feet go from one step to the next, and even though he was still having trouble feeling his extremities, he was certain Sam had his arm. I'm outside. I might not get another chance like this. He started resisting again.

"Castiel, do you really think you can get away from us in this state?" Sam questioned, reaching out to open the bunker door.

Castiel's head dipped slightly, eyes struggling to focus on any one thing. He's right. He didn't cooperate, but he didn't fight as hard as he could have when they pulled him over the threshold and down the stairs. He stared at the floor, watching his bare feet fumble across the floor. He managed to lift his head, recognizing some of the rooms they were passing. I need… I need to…

"Here we go."

Straining to keep his eyes open, Castiel watched them open the door to his cell and turn on the light. His stomach churned at the thought of being chained again, but he couldn't deny he was happy to see his bed. He was… very, very happy.

Let me sleep. He tried to pull away from the people holding him, and for once, it wasn't an escape attempt. He got to the bed and fell face first into the mattress, exhaling long and slow, not even trying to rearrange himself. Leave me right here. Don't do anything.

"Cas." Dean sounded exasperated.

Castiel didn't care. He didn't want to move.

Hands started pulling on him, dragging him toward the head of the bed and getting his legs on the mattress. They cuffed him—or at least, he assumed they did—and a blanket was draped over him.

"It's almost dinnertime," Sam said.

"Yeah, I'll be right out."

There was a pause, and the door closed. Castiel tried to turn his head, knowing he should keep an eye on the enemy, but he couldn't. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Just sleep it off. You'll be back to spitting and biting in no time."

Castiel took a breath and let it out, eyes fluttering as he considered taking Dean's advice. He jerked his left hand, reaching for his neck. I have to… I have to see what they…

"It's just a circle and some lines. It can't do anything to you."

You told him to stop. I remember. Castiel's hand went limp, resting right beside his throat. Why would you do that? I don't understand. You're… you're lying. You put the sigil on. But he had literally been there when it happened, and he knew there hadn't been enough time for a full sigil to be tattooed onto him. No, wait, maybe there had. Time was always messed up when he was under the influence of the sedatives at the market. But…

"So, like I said, just sleep it off. Let, uh, let the drugs work their way out of your system, and, uh…" Dean sighed. "I guess I can't put it off anymore. Time to go out there and get screamed at by Sam."

Castiel closed his eyes, melting into the mattress. I can't think.

Dean gave him a pat on the back before footsteps sounded his retreat.

I don't understand.

Author's Note: Merry Christmas, everyone! I meant to have this up much earlier today, but I was fighting with iDrive and Dropbox and my new phone ALL DAY LONG! YAAAAAAAAAY!
Anyway, I hope you liked it! Let me know!