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Dean Winchester had been dragged into the warehouse like an animal, stripped of his jacket and flannel, his shirt hanging half-torn from the brutal fists that had already worked him over. Twelve angels surrounded him, their grace burning faintly in the shadows like dim candles. The broken windows let streaks of light fall across their faces—every one of them twisted with hatred.
This time, it wasn’t Castiel they wanted.
It was Dean.
He was the one they believed had defiled an angel, pulled their once-brother down into the dirt of humanity, chained him to sin and weakness. Castiel had been their commander once, their brother in arms. And now, because of Dean Winchester, he was a traitor.
Two large angels pinned Dean by the arms, their grip like iron. His boots scraped against the floor as they forced him to his knees. Eugard, their leader, sauntered forward with that same smug sneer Dean had seen on too many monsters before.
“Well, well. The famous Dean Winchester. The man who dirtied an angel of the Lord.”
Dean spat blood at his feet. “You got the wrong guy. Cas made his own choices.”
Eugard's smile widened. “Defiant. Just like him. You really are his weakness.”
The first punch to Dean’s stomach nearly folded him in half. He grunted through clenched teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. Another fist cracked across his jaw. His vision swam, blood already dripping from his split lip.
“Are you angry, Dean?” Eugard mocked. “So are we.”
The angels took turns. Arnoldi stepped in next, kicking Dean’s ribs until he gagged and choked, yanked upright only so he couldn’t breathe properly. Kindom hammered his fists into Dean’s jaw until a gash above his brow bled freely down his face.
Eugard called them off just before Dean lost consciousness. “Not yet. Our little toy still has work to do.”
When the bats appeared, Dean’s stomach dropped.
“You love baseball, don’t you, Dean?” Eugard asked with a cruel grin. “Well, congratulations. You’re the ball.”
The brutes hauled Dean upright, twisting his arm until he cried out. Then the first swing landed across his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. Dean hit the ground hard, clutching his midsection, coughing wetly. The cheers around him were deafening.
Another swing cracked across his back, sending white-hot agony down his spine. Dean collapsed flat to the floor, trying to crawl, only for another bat to slam into his chest and roll him onto his side. The beating continued—legs, ribs, arms, until every breath came ragged and shallow.
At last, they tired of the game. Dean was forced upright again, bloodied and swaying between them. His shirt clung red to his skin, his face battered beyond recognition.
“Ask for mercy,” Eugard said, tightening a hand around Dean’s throat.
Dean glared at him through one swollen eye, lips trembling with blood. “Screw you.”
The angels twisted his arms until he cried out, finally rasping the word Eugard wanted to hear. “Mercy…”
One by one, they came forward. Brass knuckles to his ribs. A fist to his jaw. A blow to his gut. Dean begged each of them through gritted teeth, and each answered with violence.
Until one angel hesitated. He looked at Dean’s broken form and faltered.
Dean’s bloodied lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Guess not all of you are bastards.”
Arnoldi answered with a cruel strike to Dean’s spine, sending him sprawling. They pressed his wrists to the ground under their boots while Eugard planted a foot on Dean’s chest, grinding down until Dean coughed blood.
“You’re pathetic,” Eugard whispered. “Worthless. Not even worth the angel’s devotion.”
At his command, the others carved into Dean’s chest and back with angel blades, shallow but deliberate. When they were done, a word burned into his flesh in jagged, red letters.
“CORRUPTOR.”
Satisfied, they left him in a broken heap. Hours later, the warehouse was silent but for Dean’s shallow, pained breaths.
Then, footsteps.
Dean flinched at the sound, curling in on himself, expecting another round. A gentle hand touched his shoulder.
“No, no, please,” Dean rasped, barely audible. “Mercy… please…”
“Dean,” came the voice—low, urgent, achingly familiar. “Dean, it’s me.”
His swollen eye blinked open. Through the haze of blood and pain, he saw a familiar face above him. Trench coat. Blue eyes wide with horror.
“Cas?”
“I’ve got you,” Castiel whispered, gathering him carefully into his arms. His hands glowed faintly, just enough to dull the worst of the pain. “I’m here.”
Dean let out a shuddering breath, his head tipping against Castiel’s chest. “I'm sorry... I... ruined you.”
Castiel’s jaw clenched as he held him tighter. “You could never ruin me.”
Dean gave a faint, broken laugh that turned into a cough. His hand, trembling and blood-stained, clutched at Cas’ coat. “Knew you’d come.”
Castiel bent his head, lips brushing against Dean’s temple as he whispered fiercely, “Always.”
And for the first time that night, Dean let himself go slack, safe in Castiel’s arms.