Full Summary: Plotted by/written for Promise777 in response to "Former Things" so can be seen as a sequel or a standalone. Castiel is taken by Crowley for a little vengeance that involves Dean in a profound way. Meanwhile, the boys start to work through some of their issues following the S6 ending. Non-slash. (Updated)

Disclaimer: Author claims no ownership rights to the characters or situations of Supernatural. 'Cause author does not hate on cute angels.

Breaking Point

"Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins." - 1 Peter 4:8

Chapter One

Dean entered the hospital cautiously, as quietly as he would on a hunt. Immediately the thought made him wince, and he glanced upward toward where Castiel rested on the third floor apologetically. Dean really had to stop thinking things about hunting when he was thinking about Cas. He knew Castiel could no longer hear his thoughts, but the former angel seemed to respond to whatever emotions he was feeling.

Especially his reluctance whenever he entered the hospital room.

Dean knew that he'd been all right ignoring all the negative emotions from the last few months when he decided to save Castiel after the angel forced the souls from Purgatory—and his own Grace—from his body. He knew that, but Dean still found it difficult to quell all those feelings of betrayal and distrust so easily whenever he saw Castiel.

The ex-angel wouldn't say anything, but Dean thought maybe his feelings—as well as Sam's and Bobby's hesitance to engage with Castiel at all—were making Cas sick. Or, like, depressed. Whatever it was, it was taking Castiel longer than it should to heal up and he had already baffled the doctors a few times with his susceptibility to common disease around the hospital. Castiel spent the better part of the last week unconscious and his moments of lucidity were laced with sadness and a strange sort of daze in his blue eyes—sometimes Dean wondered what Castiel remembered from his struggle with the souls within him before he decided it was a good idea to rip himself open from sternum to groin and send them back to Purgatory.

Dean hoped that he could at least encourage Castiel back to health before they started worrying about what to do about their frayed, damaged friendship. He wouldn't bail on Cas just because he was angry. Point was, Castiel was human now. And he didn't have anyone but Dean, Sam, and Bobby. Whether Sam and Bobby liked it or not.

Dean exited the elevator and cast a habitual, cursory glance about the area. A few nurses passed through the halls on their rounds, and the security guard on the floor leaned casually against the receptionists' desk talking with the two young women there. Nothing out of the ordinary. He nodded towards Castiel's usual nurse, a young redhead named Sabrina. She either didn't notice him or didn't care to respond, moving strategically on by Castiel's room.

Dean paused and furrowed his brow. Sabrina never skipped checking in on Cas on his account. Weird. He thought about whether or not his last attempt at flirting with her crossed the line between appropriate and pushy as he entered Castiel's room.

There was an immediate sense of wrong. Dean stared around the room as the feeling washed over him, cataloguing each detail while his thoughts caught up to his instincts. The flowers Sabrina brought in to liven up the place were still on the bedside table, and the blinds were still drawn to let in as much sunlight and view of the sky as possible—Cas didn't like feeling claustrophobic and had to have a clear picture of the heavens. That stupid dirty trench coat lay haphazardly across the chair where Dean typically sat, the blue tie half-tucked into its pocket. Despite that, none of these details seemed out of place.

The problem with this room? Its patient was missing.

Dean remained frozen, gaping at the scene. The hospital bed was empty, the sheets strewn and tangled. Other than that, there was no sign of struggle. Castiel seemed to have...just disappeared from his bed.

And the stupid trench coat was still here. The one possession Castiel owned that was symbolic of all the feelings of protection and warmth that Dean had come to associate with the otherwise cool, impassive angel was lying in Dean's chair as though left there to throw up every red flag and blaring alarm in Dean's frigging mind. He approached the chair, reached to run a hand over the coat. It was softer than he thought it should be, threadbare from countless resurrections by an angel's Grace. Castiel couldn't save his clothing when it was riddled with bullet holes and covered in his blood—not anymore. Cas was human now. He got tired and sick and cold. He wouldn't…if he left, he wouldn't leave without this frigging coat.

Grasping the article, Dean whirled and immediately found Sabrina filling out a chart outside the next room. "Where did he go?" he demanded, reaching out with his free hand to grab her wrist when she startled. The security guard glanced up, straightened. Dean could care lessas he glared at Sabrina, shaking the trench coat in her face. "My brother, where is he?"

Sabrina stared at him blankly. "Everything is just fine," she said, her tone odd and almost dazed. "I'm going about my business just like he said. No one will get hurt if I just go about my business."

Dean knew what this was, recognized the odd tone of implanted suggestion. Sabrina would be fine after she slept this off, but something planted this line of thinking in her and something got Cas. Dean released Sabrina's wrist as the security guard approached. "Problem here?" the guy—Dean ignored his nametag and decided to call him Brutus—asked gruffly.

"Not at all," Dean responded. "Brina here's just caught me up on current events. You might want to encourage her to take a break and lie down, she doesn't seem to be feeling well."

Dean turned away and tried to breathe past the feeling that a tight band just wrapped around his chest. Cas was missing. Cas. Was. Missing. Why the hell hadn't Dean put up sigils, or devil's traps, or something in Castiel's room?

He clutched the trench coat in both hands as he strode out of the hospital and made his way to the Impala. His mind was already putting together a list of suspects even as he started to panic. He slid into the Impala and reached for his phone to call Sam and Bobby even as he realized: Public Enemy Number One? Could only be Crowley.

Castiel clenched his jaw to contain the whimper that threatened to spill from his lips. He could not, however, resist the urge to tremble in the miserable cold of the room. He stared up into cold, calculating blue eyes as Crowley lifted his scalpel and traced it over the fragile lines of Castiel's skin. The demon had been trying for an hour to find a way to dig into Castiel's chest cavity without killing him, but while Crowley mumbled to himself quietly from time to time he had not stopped once to talk to Castiel or to explain his actions. Castiel thought he should no longer be a concern for Crowley—it was not like he possessed any Grace with which to vanquish Crowley any longer. He suspected that Crowley's source of motivation was more sinister and had more to do with a thirst for vengeance than anything else. Perhaps, Castiel thought as he lazily studied the dark colors of Crowley's inner essence (all that is left of his abilities, now), perhaps there was some mild curiosity.

The scalpel descended, and Castiel resolutely did not flinch as it cut through his skin again. Crowley frowned, thoughtful but displeased. "It makes no difference to me if you scream or not, darling," he lilted. "At the moment, I'm more interested in finding that soul-bond of yours."

Soul-bond? Castiel narrowed his eyes up at Crowley, and turned his head slightly. He was strapped to a metal table in a large, abandoned prison somewhere very cold. Castiel wasn't sure that they were even in Dean and Sam's country anymore—he just knew that it was cold and that he couldn't move at all. He knew that he was brought here several hours ago by Crowley, who had found him while he'd been preparing to leave the hospital Dean had taken him to. He knew that Crowley wanted something from him. He knew that Dean would soon find that he was gone.

Castiel prayed that Dean simply assumed that he left of his own accord, and would no longer involve himself in Castiel's life. He prayed that Dean could return to being happy with his brother and Bobby Singer. He prayed that Dean could forgive him, even as he knew he wasn't worthy of forgiveness.

It had been Castiel's intention to leave the hospital and find a new path for the very human life he'd been forced into. He intended to find something to hunt, as Dean would have done, and he intended to stay as far away from the Winchesters as possible. He knew that he couldn't stand to hurt them any longer, just as he knew that they were hurt every day merely by his presence. Whenever Dean came to speak with him anymore, he hesitated and there was a moment where Castiel could see his distrust and his hurt like a dark shadow over Dean's pure soul. He hadn't seen Sam nor Bobby, but even from a distance he could sense their unease and their anger. He had no right to expect anything less from them.

So Castiel didn't struggle against Crowley. He thought that maybe this was fine, that maybe his Father allowed Crowley to take him in order to end his miserable existence. Castiel prayed so fervently that his Father protected Dean and Sam and Bobby, and that he kept them far from this place.

Castiel's thoughts were straying away from him again. They developed the tendency to do that as he tried to distract himself from the worst of the pain Crowley inflicted. He refocused on Crowley, who was smirking now as he peeled away the layers of Castiel's human flesh.

"Found it," Crowley crowed in merry singsong tones. "Oh, Castiel, the things I've got planned for you." He leered at Castiel, smile full of wickedness and spite. "Shouldn't have done what you did, partner. We could have had a beautiful thing, you and I. But, I can't very well leave you like this now can I? That certainly wouldn't be fitting, not after what you nearly did to me. Thought you were very clever with that little switcheroo, didn't you, mate?"

Castiel choked on the blood and bile that intermingled in his throat, but gave Crowley a small, bloodstained smile. "Outwitted the King of Hell, didn't I?" It was such a Dean comment to make that Castiel felt a brief flash of pride.

It was quelled almost instantly by the pain that flared in his gut as Crowley plunged his instrument blade-first into the soft flesh at his belly. Castiel gasped and closed his eyes tight, but continued to refuse Crowley the pleasure of any further sound. He would not voice his pain for this demon or any other. He may no longer be the angel he was, but he still had the ability to act like he was a creature of glory and might.

"Cheeky fellow," Crowley murmured and leaned close to Castiel, lips brushing his ear. "Let's see how long you act that way once you realize what I've done to your precious pet."

Crowley could only mean one person. Castiel opened his eyes, narrowed to dangerous slits, and cast a menacing look upon Crowley. "You will not harm Dean Winchester."

Crowley scoffed haughtily as he straightened. "And who is there to stop me, Castiel? You've clipped your own wings."

Something cold squirmed through Castiel's middle and clutched at his heart until it skipped several beats. He recognized the sensation as terror.

Crowley noticed the shift in Castiel's eyes and smiled. "Oh, not to worry, precious. I intend to bring your boy here so you two can hold hands and go to Hell together like a good pair of BFFs. Just you wait—you're gonna love this."

He spread through the flesh that he spent time carving out, and reached deep into Castiel's chest. The place within him where his Grace once sat and now his human heart beat around his soul screamed out its agony as Crowley connected with the essence of Castiel's whole being, and tugged on it experimentally.

Something shifted, and stretched within Castiel. He felt it pulling on a link he had thought to be withered and barren, and he cried out weakly in despair. The demon above him laughed as he manipulated Castiel's soul, forcing it to latch onto that link within itself and bring it sparkling back to fullness and vitality. The link caught and shimmered inside Castiel, and suddenly he felt the vague sensation of a shared emotion—felt the slightest sense of worry and fear and concentration as someone, somewhere sought him out.

"What…what have you done?" Castiel gasped out as Crowley, task accomplished, eased his hand from Castiel's chest.

"Your soul was already calling to Dean's through your funny little bond," Crowley explained. "I just let it connect as it wanted to do. Consider this a parting gift—at least you won't break and die alone." Castiel flinched at last as Crowley leaned over him and gave him the evilest grin Castiel had seen since Alistair smirked down at him. "Now Winchester is coming along for the ride."

By the time Dean finished explaining why he was absolutely positive that someone had taken Cas, Sam's face was a little less pinched and Bobby looked agitated but, well...Bobby always looked like that. They at least seemed onboard with Operation Save-the-Ex-Angel. Point being, while still a little reluctant to hop onto Dean's forgiveness bandwagon, both Bobby and Sam were up for a little hunt-and-rescue.

They started by trying to recreate the tracking spell Castiel used and taught them to find angels, but turned out that spell only worked if the angel was still rocking some pretty heavy mojo. Unfortunately Castiel only had enough angel-mojo to catch tidbits of thoughts and feelings. So while there were a few variations of the spell, they required some sort of connection to the angel, and Plan A dead-ended.

Dean tamped down the part of him that had his stomach squirming uneasily as the hours passed. All Sam and Bobby could find in all of the massive tomes Bobby collected were ways to ward against different kinds of creatures and one weird spell to track down a Rakshasa; though why anyone would want to do that Dean had no frigging clue.

He started to get antsy beyond the cure of alcohol when darkness fell and they were no closer to finding a way to Cas. "This is freaking ridiculous. We know Crowley has him, why can't we just find him?"

Sam heaved a heavy sigh, apparently very put-upon even though this was only the first time Dean said anything directly to them. "Dean..."

He didn't get the chance to say anything further than that, because he was suddenly pushing up to his feet and overturning a pile of books from Bobby's couch as Dean crumbled to the floor, pressing the palm of his hand tight to his chest as a bolt of pure lightning ripped through his chest.

"Dean!"

There were two sets of hands pulling at him, tugging his clawing fingers out of the way and checking his vitals while he rode out the heatwave of white-hot agony that pierced through him and pulse-pulse-pulsed. It lasted for ages, lasted for eons and Dean couldn't think or feel or even breathe and then—

And then it stopped, so suddenly Dean felt numb with the sudden absence of sensation. He froze for a moment and his tensing alerted Sam and Bobby to the passing of the episode or whatever-the-hell it had been. After Dean choked through three full breaths in succession, Bobby asked, "You aimin' to put me in my grave early, idgit?"

"What was that?" Dean rasped, ignoring Bobby and shoving Sam's hands away as his brother tried to help prop him upright. "Leave me alone, Sam."

"Dean, you just went down clutching your chest and you have a history of heart trouble," Sam snapped.

"Your face has a history of heart trouble." Sam fixed him with a dry look. "Shut up. I'm fine." Dean shrugged both of their hands away as he struggled to his feet on his own. "Okay, that was frigging weird." He had a bad feeling. An astronomically bad feeling. He tried not to put too much thought into it though, because he suddenly had an idea. "Oh, dude!" He shrugged out of his flannel shirt and pulled up the sleeve of the black tee he was wearing underneath, revealing the handprint left by Castiel. "Can we try the tracking spell with this?"

Sam and Bobby both stared at him incredulously. It was obvious neither was keen on ignoring the apparent issue with Dean's just had, but he glared right back in stubborn silence. Eventually, Sam sighed. "Okay, Dean. We can try it your way. But you're seeing a doctor first."

"Sure, Sammy." Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam didn't protest like Dean expected him to. Apparently his brother knew he was feeling a little contrary. They got back into it, and this time Dean felt a tiny bit more hopeful. They just had to find Cas.

He wouldn't accept any other option.

Crowley was meticulous. Not to mention merciless. It seemed he really was endlessly curious about how Castiel spoke a little about the soul-bond he had mentioned earlier but he didn't mention how he'd known to use it to manipulate Castiel through his relationship with Dean. There was no doubt in Castiel's mind that the bond between what was once his Grace and Dean's soul was intact once again to its fullest capacity. Over the last twelve sessions under Crowley's knife, Castiel felt traces and hints of anguish and desperation that were not his own. Castiel despaired quietly over this, but it became obvious that Crowley was amused and intrigued.

"Strange," Crowley murmured. "Strange how much you blocked from him, before."

He is like a brother to me, Castiel thought. He is my charge. He has always been my charge. Castiel knew that Dean had blocked things from him, as well. A lot like Sam, Dean came with a firm, resolute wall around his emotions and it was a good defense against even a soul-deep bond.

He said none of this, however. The demon would not be interested, and even worse Crowley would only use the information against Dean somehow. Castiel could withstand the experimenting Crowley seemed fixated upon administering to the former-angel's broken body. Dean...Dean already survived Hell. The hunter should never have to experience anything like that again.

Castiel wished he still had the might to fill that wish with wrathful conviction, but he was less than nothing—not even human with the traces of Grace that still echoed in his weaker body.

And then Crowley started to talk. This was different from the observational commentary he made up until now,and Castiel flinched at the too-hot sensation of Crowley's breath against his ear as the demon chuckled, "Bet you wish you hadn't let your little Righteous Man down now, Cas. No one will be able to save you from what I'm about to do."

The guilt was the most biting, but something about Crowley's last words caught Castiel's attention, and he barely had time to glance up at the knife digging around his chest again before a very dim glow spilled from the shallow cut that Crowley carved. And while each cut had sealed itself slowly up to this point, Castiel knew that these cuts were aimed precisely to bleed him of the shreds of Grace his body had been clinging to. Nothing Crowley did up to this point could have caused more damage.

And certainly, nothing Crowley did before caused so much white-hot agony.

A moan died in Castiel's throat, cut off by the sharp sting of his lip between his teeth. He tasted copper and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes at the soul-deep burn that drew through him, his body rejecting this new loss just as it had when he had ripped out the larger portion of his Grace. Castiel couldn't close his eyes, couldn't look away from that pale blue-white glow—so weak a firefly could outshine it. This was the last of his true essence, the last of his core being. He was losing the last of himself, and it called forth the taste of blood and bile in his mouth as his eyes burned and his soul throbbed with sorrow. Not quite human, no longer angel. Castiel was lost, lost, lost and he had no home, no family and he was losing all that he had left of what he had been and everything hurt so much, Father please make it go away...

Castiel bit back any sound and took all the tortures dealt to him stoically as possible, weeping his grief while Crowley celebrated it with chortling laughter.

Dean tried to ignore the aches as they gradually grew, sharp and stinging like his skin had been torn. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what was going on but he knew that his skin, save for the old battle scars from years upon years of hunting, was flawless and he hadn't been on the receiving end of any torture lately (and yes, he understood that the echoes he felt were those of a knife pressed carefully and surgically to the skin of a victim). Other than the odd little jolts, however, the only discomfort that Dean could complain of was the lingering soreness in his chest and the tugging going on around his arm courtesy of one annoying little brother and one equally-annoying old drunk.

"Dean seriously. Can't you sit still for just five seconds?" Sam demanded sharply, glaring at Dean who fidgeted again as he tried to paint the weird soupy concoction he and Bobby put together from one of the ancient texts in Bobby's vast, epic collection.

Dean quirked a smirk at Sam, held back the taunting response as Bobby cuffed the back of his head and gruffly added, "Listen to yer brother, idgit." The offending hand then fell heavily on Dean's shoulder, as though to anchor him still. Dean sighed, but did as he was told for mainly two reasons: one, Bobby was a scary mofo when he wanted to be. Two, they'd already wasted over three hours just taking Dean to the nearest clinic (way into town, far too many people for Dean's liking) to get him checked out. Considering the situation, they had been unable to say much more than history of heart problems and had some palpatations.

Palpatations. Sure.

Whatever, so long as the doctor cleared Dean under the statement that everything looks fine, nothing out of the ordinary though maybe you should watch that weight a little, chief. Dean definitely earned a pat on the back for not punching the smarmy guy for that comment alone, let alone for wasting precious time he could have spent searching for Cas.

Sam finished wiping the sticky gray goo over the outline of Cas' handprint, and stepped back to survey his work. "All right," he said with an approving nod, "I think we're ready for the incantation." He glanced aside to Bobby, not for permission but for affirmation. Bobby provided it with a grunt, and turned to the work table they'd been using for the last hour to snatch the ancient tome that frankly Dean thought he might have stolen from the Vatican or something. The book was faded leathery brown, its cover frayed and curling at the edges, pages dusted in a fine grainy film. When Bobby flipped the book open, dust burst up from it in a cloud. Bobby propped the book on one hand and flapped his other as he choked and coughed.

"Blasted, nutty Sumerian folk..." Bobby grumbled under his breath once before his fingertips fell to the page beneath him and his sharp eyes squinted as they roamed over the text. Bobby was terrible at the accent and the pronunciation of the spell, but that didn't much matter. The language sounded like crinkling Papyrus and embers crackling under a curl of smoke. It wasn't unpleasant, but the strange sensation of tugging at the skin on Dean's shoulder became mildly uncomfortable even as his instincts pulled on his entire being. His thoughts seemed to be directed to the north, and he half-turned in that direction just as the echo of presence filled the room with Bobby's final word. The strange aura grew, seemingly centered around the handprint scarred into Dean's shoulder, and he stood upright as his entire focus was split between two points: the tugging at his shoulder and the odd feeling that he had left something up north. North. Go north.

Dean didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Sam piped up beside him, "North? Cas is up north?"

"I...I think so," Dean replied, feeling strange. "Yeah. North."

"Huh. Must be working, then," Sam said thoughtfully, a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Dean nodded, and grinned briefly as he clapped his brother on the shoulder. His grin quickly twisted into a grimace when he turned a look upon the sticky substance that still clung to the handprint, and while Bobby and Sam discussed what supplies they might need he went to find something to clean his shoulder off with.

It wasn't until he was scrubbing the stuff off with Sam's girly freaking loofah thing that Dean felt like his guts were being hooked out through his face. He stumbled, caught himself on the edge of the bathroom sink and breathed through the throbbing, dull ache as it swelled to near-agony on a sudden uprise. He gasped, wondered what is going on here? and kept breathing while the pain slowly began to recede piece by piece.

The handprint throbbed along with each thrumming beat of pain.

And suddenly, so very suddenly, Dean got it. With a sharp curse tearing past his lips, he turned and ran down to the Impala and Bobby's old truck where his brother and the elder hunter were loading up. "We have to hurry," Dean told them breathlessly when they both shot him equally concerned, surprised looks at the sight of his flushed face and damp brow. "I think Cas is hurt." Of course Dean got the terrible feeling; that was an understatement.

It went on and on and on. Crowley dragged it out as long as he could, waiting until even the Grace-bleeding wounds started to close before he dug the knife into Castiel's flesh again and again. The pain certainly took its toll, but still Castiel managed to hold off, putting all of his will power into wishing that he could mute this at all for Dean's sake. He would not wish his torment on the hunter if he could control it at all. Once not so very long ago, he had the ability to cut off their connection at his will and keep Dean safe. Of course, if he still were what he once was he would not be in this situation now.

When he could no longer think to distract himself, when thought became mindless drivel and worldess images (Balthazar, Anael, Uriel and he flying under Gabriel's wings—Dean clapping him on the shoulder and laughing while Castiel leaned forward to catch his friend's joyous expression—Sam offering a friendly smile while passing a book he thought Cas would enjoy—Balthazar grinning at him and summoning appletinis for the two of them to try—Anael singing with the Host, her hair and wings alit like fire—Dean smirking at him around the mouth of a beer, teasing him—Dean visiting in the hospital despite his reluctance) Crowley leaned back, his face the image of frustration and consternation.

"Why isn't this working?" Crowley murmured. "Surely Dean should be in agony right alongside you."

Castiel made no response, wasn't sure he could if he wanted to. He did however feel a sense of overwhelming relief when he heard confirmation that Dean wasn't experiencing everything Castiel suffered. The relief did nothing to buffer the next bout of pain as Crowley took his frustration out by slamming a fist into Castiel's soft flesh. Castiel hissed through his teeth and flinched slightly, and Crowley took a moment to look proud of the pain he inflicted externally. It was obvious that he was seeking more, trying to chase down what small sounds of suffering he could from Castiel in the neatest ways possible (after all, Crowley hated to make a mess). Castiel was unsurprised when Crowley hit him again, this time using the flat end of one of his heavier instruments as though to keep his gloved hands away from Castiel's ecclesiastic skin.

"Now that's more like it," Crowley smirked, and proceeded to entertain himself through blunt force trauma for the next several minutes. He inflicted the wounds upon Castiel's flesh, but Castiel was more concerned by the flicker of anxiety and cold fear that he was now feeling—they were not his own.

Dean, Castiel thought, desperately, Dean, whatever you're feeling, whatever you're thinking, please. Just leave it. It will pass for you, it will all be over soon. Just...leave it.

He prayed to the Father for Dean to hear his message, knew that Dean would be angry at him for giving up but couldn't help his protective instincts. Dean would survive this with minimal pain. Knowing that, Castiel could succumb to whatever Crowley had in mind. He would accept death with peace.

Dean felt cold. They'd been driving for hours, and near the border of Canada got pulled by the strange tugging on Dean's scar toward the east. Dean thought they may be in Minnesota, but he'd been distracted trying to sense anything through the weird Cas-vibes he was getting to really pay attention. Dean felt miserable even after Sam asked if he was trying to roast them to death when he twisted the heater onto full blast, and he realized that this probably wasn't him. The realization had him interrupting Sam's petulant sniping with a blurted, "Cas is cold."

"What?" Sam asked, concern stealing over his features.

"Cas. I think he's cold," Dean said again, exchanging a look with Sam.

There was a pause during which Sam's face screwed up with sympathy and concern. The puppy eyes were going full blast when he finally said, "We're gonna find him, Dean."

"I know," Dean replied brusquely, fixing his eyes to the road ahead to avoid whatever emotional turmoil his brother might be going through now. Sam already had an emotional epiphany earlier, saying something about being pissed that I can't even be pissed anymore and I really need to talk with Cas when we get him home.

Of course, there was no guarantee that Castiel would feel at home with the Winchesters and Bobby. Outside the Impala, Bobby's house was the closest they had to a true home. Dean flinched as he remembered that the last real interaction he and Castiel had shared there was the night Bobby painted the anti-angel sigils on his walls and windows to keep the angel the fact that Castiel had seen the place as a form of sanctuary after he'd been wounded by Rachel, it wasn't only the sigils that kept the atmosphere feeling unlike that of a home.

Dean thought about Castiel, trapped in the ring of fire, saying, "It sounds so simple when you say it like that. Where were you when I needed to hear it?" He pictured the defeated expression on the angel's face when he spoke and the weary set of his shoulders that spoke of his trials in the war.

He hadbeen there, just like he told Cas then. But maybe he should have asked more questions. He still didn't understand exactly what Castiel had been through, and that was partially his fault and partially Cas'. They had both been stubborn, and while Dean hadn't really listened Castiel hadn't really volunteered much.

Dean shook his head to clear his thoughts as he focused again on the feeling of cold spreading through him, and the tugging sensation at his arm. He pressed down on the accelerator and hoped Bobby could keep up in his truck behind them.

Several hours and definitely out of Minnesota and into Wisconsin, the Impala nearly swerved off the road—saved only by Sam and his amazing reflexes that Dean was totally going to tease him for when he felt less grateful—as pain came crashing through Dean's body. He recognized this sort of pain, knew exactly what it meant. This was the sort of tearing, ripping, mangling pain that he felt when the hellhounds had rended his body to shreds and torn his screaming soul away from it and down into the depths of Hell. It was the same pain he felt every day on the rack as demons shredded and maimed and tore him to pieces.

It was the pain of being taken apart at one's very core, having one's essence shredded.

Dean became aware of Sam calling his name, saw that they were now safely on the shoulder of the highway, felt Sam's huge hands pawing at his shoulders and shaking him. Then Bobby ripped open the driver's door and demanded to know what just happened. Dean held up a hand to signal to them that he needed a minute, and breathed through the pain as it became gradually numb within his chest. When he could, he looked up to glance at his brother and Bobby respectively.

"We really have to hurry. He isn't going to make it much longer."

That stopped them from further comment or query, and Bobby gave a jerky, grim nod before he rose and dusted off his knees. "Sam drives," he declared, and glared at Dean when the elder Winchester made to argue. "Sam drives," Bobby repeated, his tone brooking no argument. Dean sighed under that withering glare, and nodded. He and Sam switched places, and with a final, worried glance in his direction Sam pulled back onto the highway. Bobby was close behind in his truck. Dean did something he only ever had to do once. Silently, just thinking it. Calling it wishful thinking rather than what it really was.

Please let Cas keep breathing until we get there. Please let us reach him. Please.

Castiel could no longer think in clear syllables. He let go of his prayers some time ago, when the words began to jumble together and stopped making any sense. God wouldn't answer if not even Castiel could understand what he was asking for. The pain became a distant thing, and the instinctive base of Castiel knew that that was more the human condition known as shock than being desensitized to it. Crowley had a little v indenting his brow, and he kept mumbling invectives at Castiel. The demon stopped healing the cuts and spilled nearly all of the light that Castiel had left in him, leaving the former angel weak and shivering. The room was getting very cold. Castiel could see his breath as vapor in the air now.

Castiel felt something push at him from deep within. Something murmured encouragement, hold on Cas, you're gonna be fine, but Castiel let his breathing grow shallow and stutter. He still had made no sound, first out of power of will and now out of powerlessness of voice. The fact that he had yet to murmur or sob seemed to make the indentation of Crowley's brow grow more defined. The vitriol spilled from the demon's lips like acid and increased in volume.

When his body became so tired Castiel started to close his eyes, Crowley stopped. Castiel's eyes widened and he tried to focus, but the King of Hell was simply a splotch of blurred colors in his vision.

"This is getting tiresome," Crowley growled. "It's no fun if you don't feel it enough to respond. Less fun that he can't seem to feel it." The demon was practically pouting. Castiel's mouth twitched in a failed smirk. Crowley scowled. "You aren't getting out of here alive, anyhow. Perhaps I can catch up after Winchester finds you." The idea seemed to please him, because his frustrated expression split into a delighted grin. "That sounds like a lot more fun than this is anymore." With a crueler smile, he glanced at the knife he used on Castiel. In one flourishing motion, Crowley drove it deep in between the former angel's ribs. Castiel managed a weak gasp and a twitch. The demon twisted the knife as he pulled it out with a sickening slurp. Then Crowley patted him on the chest pleasantly, as though greeting an old friend, and leaned over Castiel to button up his shirt. He winked, "Need you looking tip-top for the Winchesters, eh? It was a pleasure, Cas, really. You weren't one of my favorite subjects, but you certainly held it together long enough for us to have a bit of fun. Toodles!"

Crowley vanished.

Castiel couldn't help but remind himself that he always anticipated the demon would double-cross him in some form or another. He took a moment to regret his decisions once again as the room grew very quiet around him. His harsh breathing was the only sound in the large room, yet somehow it was comforting to him for a reason he couldn't quite explain. He felt a bone-deep chill shuddering through him, and he realized he felt peculiarly heavy. His eyes felt as though they were drifting closed on their own and he recognized the strange sensation as sleepiness. He shivered, his body fighting the cold as he fought the draw of sleep valiantly for a few moments.

His shivers started to even out, and he thought he could maybe close his eyes. Just for a moment. His eyes fell closed, and didn't reopen.

It had been a few hours, and all Dean could feel was a low, terrible ache. For some reason, it worried him. The hunter shared this information with Sam, who nodded silently but chewed on the corners of his mouth like he did when he was thinking about something. Dean left him alone after that, and worried silently on his own. He couldn't help but wonder if things would have turned out differently if he'd just listened to Cas from the beginning. Distantly, he recalled a similar incident that had happened only recently.

"Dean. Dean," the angel called reproachfully. Dean turned to face the half-disbelieving, half-chiding look on Castiel's face almost impatiently. "Millions of lives are at stake here, not just two. Stay focused."

Dean gave him a look. "Are you kidding?"

"There's a greater purpose here—" Castiel started.

Dean talked over him, "Y'know what, I-I-I'm getting a little sick and tired of the greater purposes." He gave Castiel a pointed look. "Okay? I think what I'd like to do right now is save a couple of kids. If you don't mind." His words dripped with sarcasm as he and Castiel exchanged a look—Dean feeling agitated, Castiel appearing incredulous. Ignoring the emotions flickering over his friend's expression, Dean said with a tone of finality, "We'll catch up."

Dean also ignored the utterly disappointed look on Castiel's face as he turned and joined Sam to escort the boys to safety.

Dean thought about the things that hadn't been spoken during that exchange, and wondered briefly if he would have found them if he had been looking. He thought about the look of betrayal in Castiel's face when he left with Sam, and wondered now if he should have paid more attention to that. He recalled the outright frustration the angel had displayed when they had realized that Ryan had been part of Eve's plan. Because Dean hadn't listened to Castiel, a monster had been unleashed.

Dean shook himself from his thoughts when they broke through Wisconsin to the northern half of Michigan, skirting the borders of Lake Superior as the pull in Dean's scar commanded until suddenly the tug became a throb and Dean called to Sam to pull over, stop, they were really close and he felt it like a sobbing thing curling around his arm and chest and tightening. Sam pulled off to the side of the road, and they climbed out just as Bobby veered in behind them.

"I take it the idgit found Feathers?" Bobby asked Sam as Dean studied the area around them. There was an expanse of trees to the right, encircling what looked like an old building in the near distance. Something drew on Dean, whispered there, and he pulled his duffel out of the back of the Impala and marched through the woods. Fumblingly, Sam and Bobby cursed him and hurried to trail him. Dean clutched his shotgun close, eyes scanning the shadows beneath the trees around them closely. It was nighttime under a new moon, so everything was dark and eerie but Dean didn't sense any danger around him and that put him on edge. It seemed like something wanted them to get to that building. The scar on Dean's arm pulsed and warmed with every step nearer the building, but strangely his chest tightened again.

When Dean choked the first time while trying to take a deep breath, he realized what that feeling meant.

"Guys. I think..." he started, and then his lungs seized like he'd been plunged underwater and hadn't been able to take in a breath for too long, body forced into fight-or-flight and choosing to struggle against the sensation of drowning when the air around him was right there. He gasped, and coughed violently, nearly falling to his knees. Sam caught Dean and scooped him up, held him against his chest while Bobby leaned in to thump him hard on the back and eased him through the episode. Tears leaked from Dean's eyes and his face felt hot when he could finally breathe again. He looked up, winded and panicked, and met Sam's gaze. "He stopped breathing."

"Crap." Sam tugged Dean to his feet and pulled one of his brother's arms around the expanse of his shoulders so he could help Dean stumble through the woods. Behind them, Bobby carried Dean's abandoned gun and covered each step they took, eyes narrowed on the defensive. At a half-jog, Sam and Dean broke out of the woods and into the clearing where a massive building resembling a prison stood tucked behind a crumbling barbed wire fence. Wrapped around the fence like a box was a shimmering, translucent indigo barrier.

"Anyone care to tell me the hell that is?" Bobby asked when he joined them a moment later, gesturing with the shotgun at the strange barrier.

"Um." Dean looked to his brother, whose eyes were wide and wondering. "Sammy?"

"I think I've seen something like this. Just once, though," Sam marveled. "It looks like a barrier to the Between." Dean raised an eyebrow. When it became obvious that neither he nor Bobby understoodd whatever Sam just said, Sam sighed, "A barrier to the space between Earth and Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. It supposedly acts like a prison and holds the same time-altering powers as any of the three superhuman worlds." Dean suddenly didn't really care about what the barrier was so long as he could break through it. Cas was in there, he knew. He glanced sidelong at Sam, who nodded again. "It should just be a binding barrier. We can probably walk right in."

Dean didn't think about why Crowley would want Cas in a place overlapping with the Between or whatever. If he thought of that, he'd go right back into thoughts about his actions in Hell and the tactics behind creating a space where he could manipulate time to slow or speed as he desires. He shrugged out of Sam's grip, feeling better now that he had the opportunity to breathe freely for awhile. When he approached the barrier, it shimmered then rippled. He reached out a hand and the ripples progressed into lapping waves. Dean's hand brushed against the quintessence of the barrier, and the waves finally lifted as the barrier split open to accomodate his hand. Dean spared a glance at Sam, smirked, and stepped through the barrier.

It was cold on the other side of the barrier, and Dean trembled as an arctic wind swept through. Many people considered Hell hot, a place of holy fire and brimstone. Dean knew very well that in fact, sometimes Hell was freezing, tinged blue and purple with the stain of blood. The cold that swept through him now cut him straight to the bone and reminded him sharply of those parts of Hell where he sometimes walked with Alistair in search of newly-arrived souls. He urged Sam and Bobby to hurry so that they could tackle their next goal and navigate the abandoned prison in search of Castiel. Dean didn't like that his chest was still sore but he felt no pressure to breathe. It felt far too still.

Dean shivered again, and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. Hold on, Cas.

Getting past the barbed wire fence was only a matter of letting Bobby go at it with his wire-cutters. Finding a way into the abandoned prison took only a few more minutes, and then Dean followed the throbbing in his shoulder which didn't seem to dissipate despite the fact that his sense of Castiel seemed to be numbing (which frankly scared the ever-loving crap out of Dean). Dean led Sam and Bobby through the maze of halls, jaw tight and teeth grinding until they reached what looked like the medical wing of the prison.

Dean suddenly felt a sense of panic that quickened his heartbeat and pounded a rhythm in his ears. He checked each of the exam rooms in the infirmary, and when he came to the last one something felt like it burst in his chest and he knew this was where Cas was. He burst into the room and his footsteps stuttered to a stop when he saw Castiel lying prone atop a surgical table before him.

There was blood everywhere—pooling all over that table, dripping to the floor below. Dean heard Bobby and Sam give quiet murmurs of disbelief as they entered the room after him.

Dean, Sam, and Bobby all stared at the former-angel hopelessly for a glanced at the knife wound in Cas' ribs then at the stillness of Cas' form, and flattened his lips. That strange pressure was still tugging at his lungs and he leaned down at once, laying his ear nearCas' blue-tinged lips.

Oh, God. "He isn't breathing," Dean gasped as he straightened, and reaching for his friend's wrist added, "No pulse."

The words seemed to produce a shockwave effect on Sam and Bobby, who immediately moved into action. Sam exchanged a short glance with Dean, who cringed at the silent message he read there: CPR. His brother was already ripping open the white button-down to get clear access for compressions. Both Dean and Sam stared when they caught sight of the extent of the damage to Castiel's chest. There were raised welts swollen with bruising around shallow, surgical incisions that Dean recognized and he felt bile rising in his throat at the sight. Damn you, Crowley... He knew that the demon was out there, but when Dean found him he was going to murder him. He hadn't seen work like this since his last victim in Hell...

"The hell did he do to him?" Dean asked.

Sam shot him a look. "Dean, we don't have time."

Dean nodded sharply, angling Castiel's head to open his airway. He glanced up at Sam, who traced his hands nervously over Castiel's chest until he found the area to properly begin compressions. Sam flattened the heel of his palm against Castiel's sternum and laced his fingers together, pressing firmly against Castiel's chest to begin. Dean then nodded at Bobby who was shaking loose the blanket they brought with them to spread over Castiel's legs and picking up his wrist to keep track of the pulse that just wasn't there. Dean kept his eyes on Sam through the count: "One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three, one-thousand. Four..." Castiel's head jerked slightly, his body shaking each time Sam pushed sharply against his counted his way through 30 compressions then gave Dean a nod and said, "Breathe."

Dean hesitated only briefly. He had to do this before for Sam after a near-drowning accident a few years back, but this left him feeling very uneasy because this was Cas—his friend. He shoved his discomfort aside after a moment and pinching Cas' nose,awkwardly pressed his mouth to Castiel's cold lips. Castiel's chest contracted for the first breath, then the second, but didn't rise on its own. Dean glanced questioningly at Bobby, but with a shake of the elder hunter's head Sam moved back into the compressions.

"One, one-thousand. Two, one-thousand. Three—" Sam hesitated, shifted his grip and swallowed. "I think...I think a rib just popped," he admitted reluctantly with a glance upward to Dean. Dean shrugged helplessly, nothing we can do for that now, and urged him on. Sam took a deep breath. "Th-three, one-thousand. Four, one-thousand. Five, one-thousand..."

They repeated the process, Dean's heart hammering against his ribs as he felt the slight tug of what should have been breath. He inhaled deeply and forced himself calm as he breathed for Castiel again. Still nothing.

C'mon Cas. You gotta breathe.

"Nine, one-thousand. Ten, one-thousand. Eleven, one-thousand..." Sam continued with the compressions, his timbre low and harsh against Dean's thoughts.

"Dammit, Cas, breathe!" Dean snarled, and the table Cas lay on quivered as Dean's clenched fist collided with it to emphasize his command. Sam reached his count of 30 and Dean swooped in and pressed his mouth against Castiel' breathe for him again. Dean felt the pit in his stomach roil and he tasted bile at the back of his throat, but he nodded desperately at Sam to continue.

They repeated the process again and again until finally Sam stumbled, glanced up at Dean with something apologetic and sad in his puppy dog expression. "Dean..."

"No, Sam," Dean said, glaring at his brother.

"Dean, boy, this ain't workin'." Bobby reached to grasp Dean by the shoulder, but the hunter shrugged him off.

"I said no." He stared down at Castiel, then shot a glare at Sam. "Again, Sam."

"Dean—"

"Again, Sam!" Dean interrupted, his glare sharpening. Sam exchanged a glance with Bobby, and nodded at him before returning his hands to Castiel's chest. They repeated the compressions and the breathing four more times. Dean felt pain penetrating across his chest like the soreness of a new bruise during each compression. He lifted a hand briefly, pressing the heel of his palm against his sternum. Deal with it, Winchester.Sam finished another set of compressions and Dean breathed for Castiel shook his head miserably when Dean shot him a questioning look.

Dean angled his glare to Castiel's face. This wasn't happening. The stupid, stubborn, infuriating ex-angel was not giving up on them. He didn't getto give up. "Not yet, Cas," Dean growled lowly, and bent to take over the compressions himself when Sam hesitated again. "C'mon, Cas!"

Dean's words echoed in the room around them. Castiel didn't respond.