“They’re controlling us, Castiel!” Samandriel shouted, hoping that he was getting through to Castiel even as he knew just by the way the other angel was looking that Naomi was already deep in his head.
In that breath, Samandriel accepted that he was going to die. Castiel was going to kill him or maybe take him back to heaven where Naomi would do the deed herself. Maybe at least he wouldn’t die in vain, maybe somehow Castiel would realize and he would fix things. The moment came and Samandriel...wasn’t dead. Or dying. Or in the dark anymore at all. He was standing in a parking lot, gravel scraping under the soles of his shoes. The Impala was gone. There were no Winchesters in sight (though honestly, Samandriel didn’t think he could find them anyway if they were around what with the warding on their ribs and all,) or Demons or…
Samandriel collapsed to the ground. He’d lost too much strength over the past few weeks, broken right down to his very grace. Standing wasn’t going to happen, much less flying anywhere.
“Help,” he rasped. “Somebody. Anybody.” Samandriel lay on his side in pain. “Please.”
It was hard not to hear the cries for help, the same way it was hard not to feel the immediate difference in the city when someone like himself showed up. Castiel had noticed the presence of grace nearby - messy and not properly contained like it should have been, and after that it was just a matter of focusing before he landed himself in a flap of wings next to --
"Samandriel?" The vessel was unfamiliar, but the grace was not, now that he was so near it. There was no real question, despite tacky, bloody striped shirt and -- well, more blood-- that this young looking vessel was Imagination.
Castiel frowned, looking around for signs of what might have done this before coming to the conclusion that Samandriel had the same bizarre timing as the rest of them when it came to being pulled into this city, before dropping down to his knees and laying a hand on his forehead. "You're safe," he told him, attempting to heal at least whatever physical damage was done to his vessel.
Samandriel’s eyes shot open to see a very familiar wrist attached to a hand on his forehead. “Castiel,” he said, voice sounding stronger and sure enough whatever injuries remained in his vessel no matter how badly the angelic parts of him still suffered were healed. At least Alfie would be okay. Well, for a given level of okay. Samandriel tipped his head to find Castiel’s face. “You’re...earlier.” It was a strange thing to be looking at another angel and knowing that this was not the brother who’d just held him close and proclaimed him saved.
"Yes," Castiel agreed, frowning at his blood stained celestial brother. "And you're later." It was hard to make specifics when it came to things like time travel, but he could definitely tell he was out of time compared to Castiel himself. He shifted into a crouch and looked around again, as if considering the tactical practicality of being out in the open in the middle of the street like this. There was, of course, no practicality in that.
"Can you stand?"
“No,” Samandriel confessed. He couldn’t keep the note of fear out of his voice, his eyes keeping track of Castiel’s hands as though no matter that Purgatory should still be a reality for the other angel, something was still going to happen. “You can’t take me home. Please don’t take me home.” His fingers curled tightly against the sleeve of that trenchcoat. “Castiel.”
"We can't anyway." Yes, Samandriel was bloody, but Castiel felt a wave of confusion over it anyway. What had happened to make his brother act this way? Desperate, afraid. Afraid of Heaven?
"I won't take you back there," he reassured -- because frankly even if he could have left this city, Heaven would not be on the list of places he would like to go. Not after everything he'd done.
He didn't have a place here, had seen no reason for it. The last few days he'd just wandered aimlessly, trying to make heads and tails of everything, but now he did see a need for shelter, if only to be out of the general gazes of the public. He closed his eyes, searched the city with a blank face, and then found what he was looking for.
Not a second later, the two of them were in the middle of an abandoned loft apartment, dusty, messy but not too worse for wear as far as human apartments without electricity went.
Samandriel found himself on the floor of a place that smelled like something other than his own blood and sweat. It was progress as far as indoor places went. It occurred to him, looking up at his brother that Castiel knew nothing of where he’d been or what he’d been through.
“Ward the place,” he said softly, weak while he tried to memorize the way Castiel was supposed to look and not how he’d been with Naomi in his head. “Keep...keep the demons out.” If there were a way to keep angels out without trapping the both of them as well, Samandriel would do it, but not only that, he didn’t want to see another sigil of angel warding for a very long time. He tried to pull himself to stand, wanting to get away from the sad looking chairs and couches and to a bed. Something...anything without arms and a back for him to be bound to.
There weren't any demons. None that counted toward their own detriment (Castiel hardly counted Meg as dangerous, not on the level that she assumed herself to be anyway), but noted that it seemed important to Samandriel, and so moved to do it anyway.
There were no pens around, no markers, and he didn't care to wait or leave Samandriel alone in order to find one. It was such an easy, thoughtless thing to slice the skin on his palm and draw on the windows and doors in his own blood. "Easy," he said, frowning over his shoulder at the other angel. "I will help you."
Samandriel managed to stand, unsteady on his legs though he might have been. Each step was slow, measured before he took it as if he had to continually promise his poor vessel that it wasn’t that far. He made it through the broken double doors into the room with the bed in it and promptly collapsed the wrong way across it.
“Where are we?” he finally thought to ask all while he wondered if perhaps Castiel could brand his vessel’s ribs if maybe...maybe Heaven wouldn’t be able to find him.
Done with the wards, Castiel healed and cleaned himself of excess blood with only an idle thought on the matter. Having been here a few days now, and doing nothing more excessive than some healing, his grace had replenished well enough from his long, but possibly not long enough, bout in Purgatory.
"I don't know," he said, squinting at Samandriel and cocking his head to the side slightly. "But we can't leave. What happened to you?" Cas never had been particularly subtle in terms of conversation.
There was a lot that could be said on the subject, but Samandriel couldn’t bring himself to speak about it. He stretched out his hand for Castiel, and when the other angel was close enough, he took Castiel’s hand and placed it on his bloodied forehead. It took more strength than he thought he could muster to relive those weeks, the auction, being taken...everything that followed. He tried to keep his own feelings out of it, to present an objective record of events as befitting a field report, but Samandriel also knew that repressing those feelings took so much more effort.
It was effort Samandriel couldn’t bring himself to expend. If Castiel bothered to notice the heartbreak when Dean said Cas didn’t make it or the swell of relief and love that shot through him when Samandriel was freed from the device and brought back into awareness only to see Castiel...then perhaps that would be fine. If he didn’t, that would be fine too.
When his mental report caught up to where Cas found him, Samandriel let go of his hand, head hitting the bed again hard and eyes fluttering closed.
When it was over, Castiel pulled his hand away, looking shocked, awed, regretful. Samandriel was good, loyal. He always had been, and did not deserve the trauma that he had been put through, even if it was apparent that he'd been saved in that time as well (by Castiel himself, no less). There were as many questions that came from that report as there were answers, but the Angel of Thursday wasn't going to push it, not yet.
It brought up a few stranger points yet -- like if the future or past could be changed when they all figured a way out of this city. Could this be avoided? Changed? It would take some consideration.
"You're safe now," he said, as gently as he knew how, sitting himself down next to the other angel on the bed. "Rest. I'll watch over you."