It's what Circe would call a "playroom", but Dean just calls it his office. His own little bit of paradise in the dungeons, where he takes those that Sam wants broken extra special and works them over, tears them down to their core and then slowly, relentlessly, and joyful chips away at what's left inside them until it's nothing but shards. It's
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He is beyond hope. Beyond his Father's, his brothers', reach. So he closes his eyes, tries to ignore the inappropriate touches of the man he was meant to save, and prays with all his remaining strength.
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"I usually like to start with a blank canvas, dude. So it's only my marks on you, nobody else's. Cause mine, Angel, are the best you'll ever have." He moves around toward Castiel's head, and he backhands the angel, hard, whipping his head to the side.
"Your Father, such as he is, can't hear you down here. You've failed, flyboy. Failed hard. Let dear old daddy down. Look at you, trussed up and naked like some fetish club's main act." He goes to his tray of toys, picking up a thin, wickedly sharp straight razor, turning back to him.
"Got anything to say? Gonna quote "Footprints" at me or anything before I get started?"
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"You can still be saved, Dean Winchester."
He knows its true, but he lacks the strength to fight harder for his mission. He's too broken, already, and he knows what must come next. All he can pray for is that the experience kills him before it drives him mad.
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