A/N: Thank you guest Laureleaf for your review! I had my own experience with ptsd and severe anxiety this past summer, and the tactile anchoring was something I learned as a coping strategy. The example used was a coin, but I got myself a bracelet of various textures so I could always have it within instant reach.

Chapter 11

Over the next couple of weeks, Sam tried to think of things they could do to keep Cas engaged, to gradually get him out of the cycle of falling into his mind. It didn't always work, and there were times he often slipped away, right under their noses. Sometimes they could prompt him back; other times they just had to wait until he suddenly 'woke up' from wherever he'd gone off to. At least he wasn't having severe flashbacks or panic attacks like he'd had at the bunker.

He liked spending time outside, watching sunrise and sunset, looking at the stars. Sam had figured being in the open and far away from concrete walls would help, and was glad to see it was doing the trick.

"What if he can't ever go back to the bunker?" Dean asked solemnly one morning while Cas was out on the porch.

"He will," Sam replied with wholehearted conviction.

They just needed to give him time, as much as he needed.

Sam found jobs for them to do around the cabin, such as cleaning out the gutters and raking the leaves, repairing some things so Jody wouldn't have to. He had Cas help. Things were smoother when Cas could keep his hands busy.

Sam taught him some plumbing and Dean taught him some auto mechanics, since of course Dean still had to work on the Impala to keep her in tip-top condition.

Between odd jobs, they would play board games and watch movies. Sam and Cas went on long walks every day.

Things weren't perfect. But they were slowly getting better. Cas's throat was healing bit by bit, and he could talk for longer stretches of time before his voice wore thin and he needed to rest it.

His grace, however, was another matter. It seemed to be recovering even more slowly than his vessel. The way Cas described it, it was almost like his grace was resisting coming back to life. Cas couldn't fathom why, aside from maybe the collar had inflicted permanent damage.

Sam suspected something else, though. He'd been doing a lot of reading on the connection between mind and body. Or in this case, mind and grace.

So on one of their morning hikes, Sam decided to broach a topic he knew had to be addressed eventually, and hoped it would lead to the breakthrough Cas needed.

"Cas," he started. "Do you want to talk about what happened? At the arena."

Cas drew to a stop, taken aback, and looked away. "No." His normal gravel was twice as thick with an almost reedy whistle sometimes.

"Talking about it can help," Sam pushed gently.

Cas angled a wry look at him, and raised his arm to show the bracelet. "I thought this was to help me forget it ever happened," he said a tad pointedly.

Sam paid no heed to Cas's borderline tetchiness, and shook his head. "Not forget. To stop reliving it. And when you're ready to talk about it without reliving it, that will help too."

He waited, but Cas didn't seem at all forthcoming. Sam wasn't going to give up just yet, though. This was too important.

"When Dean was in Hell, he was forced to do terrible things. Whatever you would tell him, you need to tell yourself."

Cas's mouth pressed into a tight line, and he dropped his eyes to the ground. "I've endured torture before," he whispered. "I've endured being possessed by Lucifer, arguably the worst thing imaginable." He shook his head. "I don't understand why this was different. It shouldn't be any different."

Sam's heart constricted. "Because it wasn't just torture," he replied. "It was humiliation and degradation. They dehumanized you. And before you say you're not human, you're a sentient being, and they tried to make you nothing more than property. Lucifer was cruel and he relished in the torment he dished out, but there was…" Sam struggled to find the words. "Lucifer never let you forget who you were, what you'd lost, or could lose. He liked mind games and that required an active participant. What those hunters did was the exact opposite. They tried to take away everything of who you were and make you nothing more than an animal."

Cas closed his eyes, expression pinching in distress. "And they succeeded."

Sam opened his mouth to counter that, but Cas kept going.

"I did refuse to fight, at first. My opponent 'killed' me—" He used the air quotes. "—multiple times. Sybil healed me. She healed all the fighters so they could fight again the next night. And the next. They never stopped."

Sam's stomach clenched, but he held his tongue and let Cas continue.

"I started to defend myself, mostly to bide time while I tried to find a way to escape, and to convince the other prisoners to fight with me. I got my hands on a remote and disabled the collars on myself and my regular opponent, a demon." Cas shook his head with a derisive huff. "You can probably guess how well that team-up went."

Sam's heart sank with the knowledge of what came next. "They caught you."

Cas nodded and closed his eyes again. His hand started to drift toward his neck, but then aborted and went for the bracelet instead. He took in an audible breath. "That's when they…brought out the special collar. Lars said I talked too much."

Sam clenched his fists. The crack in Cas's voice was still a stark reminder of exactly what that collar had done. Sam wanted to kill the man all over again.

Though Cas's expression was fraught with remembered anguish, he seemed to be on a roll and couldn't stop.

"I stopped fighting altogether after that. Got torn to pieces a few times and Sybil wasn't allowed to heal me. Until one time. I must have been close to real death, because she was brought in and fixed the worst of it." Cas looked up to meet Sam's gaze. "And then I remembered that dying would mean I'd never see you and Dean again. That I wouldn't be able to help you when you needed me. And so I decided to do what I had to, to survive. I picked up the sword the next night and never lost another fight." His eyes welled with tears. "But I lost everything else, and they won."

Sam's own eyes were brimming with hot moisture as well. "Listen to me, you didn't lose anything. You put it in a box and hid it away because that's what you had to do in order to survive. And what we're doing right now, spending this time out here at the cabin, is unlocking that box so you can be whole again. Because you can, Cas. I know you can."

Cas's expression wavered with sorrow. "You've always had remarkable faith, Sam," he whispered.

"A remarkable angel once had faith in me."

Cas huffed out a broken laugh. Sam reached out to take his arm, and then pulled him into a gentle embrace. Cas was trembling slightly, and it still felt like he could shatter at any moment. But he was strong. One of the strongest people Sam knew. Maybe he'd fractured, but he hadn't broken.

And he would get through this. He'd taken a big step today, and Sam hoped it would open the floodgates to the final stage of healing Cas needed.

Castiel sat on the porch, watching the rising sun cast golden shards through the trees. The rays were warm on his face, and he closed his eyes to soak it all in—the kiss of sunlight on his brow, the whisper of wind behind his ear, the thrum of the earth beneath his feet. He could feel the chorus of the cosmos again.

As each day went by, Castiel felt more and more like himself. His grace, which he'd worried would never revive, had finally started to uncurl. After opening up to Sam about what he'd been through, it was like a last invisible restraint around his grace had snapped. The horrors were still there, in his mind, but he could look at them with more objectivity and distance, and somehow that had seemed to make his grace feel…safe, to return.

Sam had been wiser than Castiel gave him credit for.

Castiel had gained his voice back, in more ways than one. It no longer hurt to speak, though he couldn't carry much volume yet.

His vessel was still covered in scars.

It could take a very long time for his grace to recover enough to wipe them all clean, but Castiel found he wasn't that bothered by it. He'd born marks of survival before, and that's what they were.

He fingered the hemp bracelet Sam had given him—another reminder of what he'd overcome.

Castiel basked in the morning tranquility for a few minutes longer before he rose and went back inside. Sam and Dean had just gotten up and were puttering around the kitchen sleepily while waiting for the coffee machine to spit out its magic brew.

Castiel went to the fridge and got out ingredients to make breakfast. He wasn't a very skilled cook, but he could make scrambled eggs decently enough. He tossed in some bell peppers, ham, and cheese, and when it was done, dished it out onto three plates.

"Thanks, man," Dean grunted groggily, coffee mug in hand as he slid into a chair at the table.

Castiel waited until the meal was underway before saying, "I'm ready to go back to the bunker."

Sam and Dean both froze with forks halfway to their mouths, and exchanged glances with each other.

"You sure?" Dean asked.

"There's no rush," Sam put in.

Castiel nodded. "I'm sure. I've been able to remember what day it is for the past week," he admitted. "And as peaceful and…helpful, as this place has been, the bunker is home."

Dean perked up at that, looking pleased.

Sam offered an encouraging smile. "Yeah, sure. We can pack up and head back today. But if we need to, I'm sure Jody wouldn't mind us coming back."

"Maybe sometimes," Castiel said, and returned the smile with a small one of his own. "We all deserve a vacation every now and then."

And so, after breakfast they packed up and headed back to Lebanon. Castiel was fine with his decision, right up until they parked outside the bunker's concrete exterior, and then his anxiety started to creep back in at the sight of the huge door that would slam shut behind them once they went inside.

He took a deep breath, rubbed the bracelet, and got out.

Sam and Dean had already grabbed some of their bags and were heading for the door, but started shooting worried looks back at him. Castiel drew his shoulders back and strode forward.

Dean unlocked the door and pushed it open with a grating screech. But it was a different tone and texture from the gates of the arena. Castiel stepped inside. It was exactly as they'd left it.

He descended the stairs with measured steps. The air was slightly musty and tinted with the scent of old paper. Warm light suffused from the lamps and fixtures that turned on with their arrival.

Castiel walked right by the tables and shelves and toward the back hallway. The stone corridor stretched deeper into the underground bunker, but the linoleum floor wasn't covered in grime and smeared drag marks. The bottom portion of the wall was made of brick, meticulously placed and polished with care.

Castiel stopped on the threshold, and reached up a hand to press against the concrete wall. It was cool to the touch, but not harsh and biting. There was a familiar hum through the wall from the pipes and vents. The bunker had life in its veins, not death.

"Cas?" Dean called worriedly.

"I'm alright," he replied softly, and meant it.

He was home where he belonged. Where he was loved and cared for. Where Sam and Dean had held onto him for dear life and carried him when he couldn't carry himself. But it didn't make him weak.

Because despite all the challenges Castiel had had to contend with…he had come out the other side.

A/N: The end. :)