Castiel inhaled a wheezing gritty breath as the heavy fog around his mind slowly began to clear and he fought his way into consciousness.
The first thing he noticed as he came round was the smell. It was the metallic smack of blood, which was something that he’d become more than accustomed to since his dalliance/liaison/relationship? with Dean had begun, but there was an underlying odour that he couldn’t quite fathom out. He struggled to force his eyes open; they felt too heavy and his whole face felt stiff and odd, his skin felt too tight like it was shrinkwrapped or something. He ran a tongue over his dry, cracked lips and tasted a coppery tang. Great. A dribble of sweat ran from the nape of his neck down between his shoulder blades.
Almost restored to full awareness, Castiel realised that he was bound to something – most likely a chair judging by the smooth wood feel under his ass – his arms were behind his back, tied with what felt like nylon rope and a quick attempt to twist his wrists against the rope resulted in nothing but a painful burn and a slight notch in his fear. His ankles were bound to what was almost certainly the legs on the chair and Cas tried the same tactic as he had with his wrists. It yielded the same frustrating result.
He glanced around looking for something sharp. The room was small and dimly lit by a small desk lamp on top of a metal table with wheels. He didn’t need to strain to see what items were laying on the shiny surface; various scalpels, a corkscrew looking thing, something that vaguely resembled a double ended fork… He turned away and closed his eyes. It was so clichéd of the ridiculous torture movies Gabriel had made him sit through, and under normal circumstances, he’d be laughing at how passé it all was, but his rising terror was more than enough to quell any small hilarity he found in the situation.
He looked to his right this time, choosing to ignore the Hostel style scene on his left and saw nothing but a concrete wall about 5 feet away. There was nothing on the floor surrounding him besides a heavy layer of something that resembled dust or sand, but it didn’t quite look like either. He had absolutely no idea where he was and worse still, no way of getting out. The dread that he could feel clawing at his heart was growing incrementally until he let out a small noise of panic, twisting against his bindings despite his earlier findings, because he had to do something. He couldn’t just sit here and wait for torture or death; he had to get the fuck out! The rope was biting into his wrists and he was sure that it wasn’t just his sweat helping the lubrication anymore. Fuckfuckfuck.
What the Hell did they want with him anyway? He was a goddamned librarian for fucks sake!
Of course Dean. This had to be some crazy bullshit that he’d gotten himself and the Club buried into and Cas was just collateral.
God fucking dammit Dean Winchester, you’d better be on your way to saving me or I’m gonna haunt your ass so hard, you’ll never-
His thoughts were cut off by the thud of a heavy sounding door groaning open and he stopped struggling, panting hard and chest heaving. Two sets of footsteps echoed on the concrete behind him and he strained, looking over his shoulder trying to see who the fuck these assholes were.
A man appeared next to the torture table. He was dressed smartly, as if about to take a business meeting, head to toe in a powder blue suit with a crisp white shirt underneath. His eyes were grey – like his hair and small goatee – and hard, completely devoid of empathy or compassion. His thin mouth twisted into a cruel smirk as he looked at Castiel dispassionately.
“Do you know why you’re here Castiel?” His voice reminded Castiel of scissors cutting through wrapping paper; sharp and lisping.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in Cas’s throat in lieu of an answer.
The man frowned; his brows drawing together. “Something funny, Mr Novak?”
Castiel smirked, ignoring the small pinch of pain when he felt his lip split again; his fear was palpable, but there was no way he was going down without a fight.
“You been laid recently?” Cas’s voice cracked when he spoke, sounding even lower and gravelly than usual. Damn he was thirsty.
The man appeared almost started by the non-sequitur. “You what?”
“I only ask because if you haven’t, it might be a good idea to. Sooner rather than later, ‘cause I don’t think you’ll have much of a later.” Castiel aimed for nonchalance and judging by the sharp intake of breath he heard from the other unidentified person somewhere behind him, it hit the desired mark.
“Dean teach you that kind of sass?” The man sounded amused.
“Nope. Learned it all by myself. Though, Dean has taught me a few useful things.”
The man picked up a scalpel off the table, twirling it between his fingers as he walked slowly towards Castiel, slightly off-kilter smile in place. Castiel swallowed hard, trying not to let his fear show.
Where the fuck is Dean?
“Yeah?” The man stopped about a foot in front of Castiel, his heavy boots crunching the grit underfoot. “Like what? How to suck dick like a good boy?”
Castiel looked up at his captor’s face. It was easier to see the scars littering the man’s skin now; one above his left eyebrow, on his lip, across his left cheekbone… They were all little nicks out of his skin; It looked like the guy had been hit with a nail bomb or shrapnel. They were recent too; still purple, not the normal white of scar tissue. He idly wondered if Dean was responsible for the scars. He kind of hoped so. He didn’t dwell too much on the idea that if Dean had harmed this guy, that maybe the situation Cas found himself in now could be some kind of retaliation.
Castiel threw the guy a dazzling smile. It hurt, but he knew that the sight he presented – covered in blood and grinning like a psychopath – was far from the quiet little librarian from Denver they imagined they’d kidnapped. As far as defence mechanisms went, it was weak, but at least he was defying their projected opinion of him and not crying and begging for his life. The thought made him laugh, deep and dark.
“If you wanted me to suck your dick, you should have said. Not that I don’t appreciate the bondage.” He tugged at the ropes binding him, for emphasis.
“Jesus,” The other person in the room muttered.
“He can’t help you now,” Castiel quipped calmly. “Though it may not be a bad idea to make peace with your maker,” He looked at the man in the eyes. “’Cause you’ll be meeting him soon.”
The punch that landed on his cheek caused his head to snap sharply to the side and it felt like the skin had split. The blast of pain barely registered through; he was too revved up on adrenaline and fear. He’d suffer for it later though.
If I have a later.
Castiel spat out a wad of saliva and blood that landed at the guy’s feet. Shit, he’d been aiming for his shoes. “What do you want anyway? I’m a hole for Dean Winchester to fuck. I don’t know anything.” A small amount of exasperation made its way into his voice.
A tutting sound came from his right and then there was a woman standing there, looking at Castiel with a mix of scorn and surprise on her face. He supposed she was semi-attractive; her long blonde hair was… nice? But her dark eyes were too far apart and her mouth had too many teeth for her to be anything other than average. She was dressed in a grey pantsuit with black pumps.
Good thinking, can’t do with getting blood on your Jimmy Choo’s.
For a split second, Castiel pondered on how ridicuously gay he was to be thinking about designer shoes when he was potentially about to have his brain pulled out through his nose, but his homosexuality had been well established the first time he’d let his first boyfriend, Michael, stick his –quite frankly, average - dick up his ass.
“Come on now, Castiel.” Her voice didn’t match her body, it seemed both too slimy and old for her. “Do you really have that low an opinion of yourself? ‘Cause we know exactly what and who you are to Dean Winchester.”
Castiel gritted his teeth. Fuck.
“Well, then you should understand what kind of shit you’ve just brought down on yourselves.”
The man bent over, so that his face was inches from Cas’s and a grin spread across his face like an oil slick.
Castiel closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
How the fuck had he gotten here – to this point? How had he let himself get into a situation where he could potentially be kidnapped by a maniac with a dentistry kit and a penchant for blood? When did he get so obsessed with Dean Winchester that he no longer gave a shit about anything else? Including his own safety? In fact, the answer to that last one was pretty simple; He’d become infatuated with Dean the second he had laid eyes on him. He’d been screwed from the very start, and even now, under the promise of a brutal death,he still couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Any of it.
Fuck Dean Winchester and his fucking handsome face.
This was why Dean didn’t have old ladies. Or whatever the male equivalent was, ‘cause Cas was very much a male with his runner’s body; all strong lithe muscles and toned abs and fuck Dean needed to find Castiel and hurt the guys who took him.
The Club had had a meeting to decipher what they should do about Cas; they all had differing opinions as to who had taken him and why and it was something they’d been trying to pre-empt in light of recent events, but Cas – ever the stubborn asshole – hadn’t listened to Dean; had gone to work at the library as normal and according to the Prospect that Dean had assigned to watch Cas, that’s when he’d been taken.
Dean knew he’d been an unbearable bastard in the few hours since Cas’s kidnapping, but none of the guys held it against him. They’d all be the same if their old ladies were taken from them.
Dean started when Sam dumped a large black duffel bag of guns on the table in front of him.
“That’s all I could get our hands on at short notice.”
Dean stood up and with slightly shaking (though he’d deny it to his dying day) hands pulled the zipper open to reveal a mix of guns; there were some Glock 17’s, 9mm’s and various shot guns. He nodded his approval and zipped the bag back up.
His brother was looking at him with pity in his eyes and Dean couldn’t deal with the sympathy he was getting left, right and centre. So he did what Dean Winchester always did; he acted like an ass to avoid talking about his emotions.
“Stop looking at me like that Samantha. You’re getting on my last nerve.”
He threw himself into his chair and scrubbed a hand across his face. He desperately wanted a smoke, but he and Cas had quit together. He’d made the blue-eyed bastard a promise that he wouldn’t smoke again under any circumstances.
God fucking damn it.
Out of frustration, Dean banged his fist down onto the wooden table, making Sam jump like the big girl he was. Dean’s lips twitched as he fought against a smile. He was nothing, if not a poster boy for maturity.
“Dean, he’ll be okay, he can hold his own.” Sam said softly, shifting his weight from one foot to another, looking at Dean as if his brother were a wild animal and Sam was wearing a suit out of meat.
Dean’s head snapped up and he stared at Sam with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? I’m sure he can hold his own completely unarmed and surrounded.”
Sam rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but Dean held up his hand; he wasn’t done.
“He’s a fucking librarian Sam! What’s he gonna do, read them to death? Club them over the head with some Dickens?”
Actually, that sounded too much like Cas. Dean could imagine Cas kung-fuing his way out of a warehouse full of Die Hard villains with nothing but a copy of Slaughterhouse Five. And in all honesty it was one of the hottest things ever. Cas was already most of Dean’s kinks wrapped up in a sexy as Hell package, but the night he’d found out he was a librarian? Whoa, that had been it. Game over.
Judging by Sam’s smug smirk as he lugged the duffel over his shoulder, he knew exactly what Dean had been thinking about and if Dean had any shame, he’d probably be blushing right now, but he didn’t. Shame was a useless emotion anyway.
Dean’s phone vibrated on the table between them and he lunged to answer it.
There was the crackle of static and then a familiar, but no less creepy voice was at the other end.
It was the voice that Dean had heard in virtually all of his nightmares since his release from prison. It was snake like and sycophantic all-in-one.
“Alistair.” Dean replied coldly, though his heart was starting to pound in his chest. What if Alistair had Cas?
Alistair was a hitman for the Italian Mafia who Dean had met in jail when he was doing his four year stretch for assault with a deadly weapon. The creepy bastard had approached Dean repeatedly trying to get him to become his ‘student’. Of course, with Alastair being a master of torture, it had never been as straight-forward as simply being asked.
During those four years, Dean had been subjected to some pretty gruesome emotional, mental and occasionally physical torture at the hands of Alistair and his cronies and he still had the scars in his mind and on his body to prove it.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He knew a few basic facts about Alistair, but being as Dean had the emotional intellect of a toaster, it wasn’t something they had covered in great detail.
“I have something that belongs to you Dean.”
Dean froze and his blood ran cold.
Please not Cas, please not Cas.
Sam noticed his brother tense up and mouthed at him ‘What is it?’
Dean shook his head. He needed to know if this bastard had Cas. His Cas.
“And what would that be?”
“How many blue-eyed angels are you missing, Dean?”
Dean grit his teeth and nodded at Sam, who bit his lap and rushed out of the boardroom with the guns, no doubt to get the other guys. This was going to need all their manpower.
“He’s got quite a mouth on him, hasn’t he?” Alistair mused, filling the tense silence.
Dean hadn’t dared to give Alistair an inch. It was a mistake he’d made in prison and was determined not to make again, but he huffed a laugh imagining Cas with his quick, biting wit, giving Alistair Hell. He felt a small swell of pride and affection for the scruffy haired librarian.
“What do you want?” Dean’s tone was even and calm, belying the anger concealed just below the surface as he began to pace the boardroom, shakily running a hand through his hair.
“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is what you want.”
And then the phone went dead.
“FUCK!” Dean shouted, flinging the phone at the wall and watching as it shattered into pieces.
“Fuck, fuck fuck fuck!” He braced himself against the table; palms flat as he sucked in deep breaths.
As his immediate anger ebbed away into something calmer and more constructive, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing in deeply. How the fuck had he gotten here – to this point? How had he let himself get into a situation where someone he cared about could potentially be kidnapped by a lunatic with a torture fetish and a love of making people vomit up their own lungs? When did he get so wrapped up in Castiel Novak that he no longer gave a shit about anything else? In fact, the answer to that last one was pretty simple; He’d become infatuated with Castiel the second he had laid eyes on him. He’d been screwed from the very start, and even now, under the promise of a fight that he may not come out of alive, he still couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Any of it.
Fuck Castiel Novak and his fucking blue eyes.