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As Castiel came to awareness and opened his eyes, he realized four things. The first was that his hands were bound behind him to a chair, in such a manner that he couldn't tell if it was ropes or tape binding him but he couldn't move them more than half an inch in any direction. Second was that he was gagged with some sort of cloth, tied so tightly it was cutting into the skin at the corners of his mouth. Third, he had a splitting headache and his grace was somehow being dampened, preventing him from escaping. Fourth, and most importantly in his mind, Dean was bound in a similar manner 4 feet across from him, only he was gagged with tape and bleeding from the nose, still unconscious.
When he realized his legs remained unbound, Cas hooked one foot around the leg of his chair – it was an old fashioned leather wingback, and fortunately not too heavy – and slowly maneuvered so he was within touching distance of Dean. He reached out and kicked Dean's shins a few times, trying to yell his name but stopping when only harsh noises were coming through the gag. Dean jerked into consciousness at Castiel's hardest kick and kicked back, legs flailing and shoulders heaving as he tried to fight back through the restraints.
“Dean! Dean, wait,” Cas attempted through the cloth wrapped around his face, and even though it was garbled it was still his voice and made Dean startle enough to stop thrashing in his bonds and focus. Dean's eyes narrowed as he looked at Cas, hands tied behind him in the wingback chair, and then widened as he took in their similar states: tied, gagged, and possibly injured.
Cas dipped his head forward to try and get Dean's attention, locking eyes onto his and then glancing at his jacket sleeve, back to his face, and back to his jacket sleeve. Dean saw the gesture for what it was, 'do you still have your knife hidden in there?' He gave a minute shrug of his shoulders and then tipped his eyes from Cas' skyward, silently asking if Cas could just zap them out of there. Cas' face fell and he shook his head, letting out a sigh as his vision started darting around the room, looking for something, anything, that could give them a hint as to where they were or who had managed to capture them in such a way that he couldn't use his grace.
All in all the room was rather plain – wood paneled walls, minimal funiture, and no decorations to speak of save plain brown curtains over one window and, as their massive bad luck would have it, Enochian sigils painted across the walls and ceiling. One in particular caught his attention and his eyes widened as he tapped Dean's leg with his foot, signaling him to look the same direction. 'Binding,' Cas thought to himself bitterly. The rest were simply locks to prevent them from being detected, but the binding rune was the one Cas was focused on. Dean looked up and back down at Cas, raising an eyebrow in question.
Cas looked at the rune, down at himself, and back at Dean, shaking his head in the negative as he huffed out an irritated breath and pulled at his bonds again. 'No, Dean, that's why I'm stuck. That rune keeps me trapped.' He just hoped Dean understood.
Dean's eyes widened and he made a distressed noise behind the tape, trying to manipulate his bonds enough that he could reach one hand under his sleeve of his jacket for the knife he keeps hidden there. There was virtually no give, and his face got a pained look as the rough rope started to cut into his wrist. Cas was growing more worried by the minute, both by Dean's inability to move and by his own lack of grace, and his head began to drop as his thinking grew negative and circular. 'What if we can't get out? What if our captor comes back? What if...'
Dean stopped struggling as he watched Cas' head drop, and reached out a leg to nudge him gently. As Cas met his eyes Dean's hardened and his brows furrowed, as if to say, 'Dude, you're a warrior of God. You can't give up. Stop it.' Cas' eyebrows shot up and he gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod and tried to focus on the task at hand – escaping.
Castiel figured about 5 minutes had passed since they'd first regained consciousness, and so far there was no indication anyone was aware they were awake. He couldn't extend his senses the way he could have were his grace not contained, but they were still above average and he hadn't been able to hear anything but their own breaths and soft (and sometimes not so soft) noises, couldn't smell anything but their mingled sweat and Dean's deodorant.
As he was watching Dean still trying to get at the knife, something suddenly occurred to Cas. Dean was tied down much like himself, true, but whereas his own chair was large and cumbersome, Dean was in an average, ordinary wooden kitchen chair. He got Dean's attention and looked pointedly around him to where his hands were bound, and then made a circle in the air with his head, and then did it again. 'Dammit Dean, turn around! I have an idea!'
Dean looked confused at first, but when Cas stuck out his foot and started pushing at the chair leg, scooting it a little bit, Dean broke out into a grin and got to his feet as carefully as he could as to not wrench his arms, and turned around so the back of the chair was to Cas.
Cas' face lit up as he saw the style of the back of the chair; it appeared to be old fashioned wooden slats set into a frame. Not at all difficult to break, he hoped. He hooked his feet around the back legs of the chair and heaved it a little closer to himself so he could get the kind of force he would need to break out the slats. He counted out loud, “Ong, hah, heh!” and kicked the slat Dean's hands were tied to as hard as he dared without risking injury to Dean, and heard a slight but promising crack. He jolted the cracked slat again and again until he felt it give. Dean yanked his arms hard as Cas pushed with his foot until the slat finally came free and fell away, giving Dean's hands enough room to maneuver up into his jacket to finally get that damned knife he'd eventually hid there after one too many encounters like this.
Dean stood turning around to face Cas, and Cas could see him smiling through the tape as his hand worked the knife steadily through the stiff rope until it snapped. Arms finally free, Dean ripped the tape off his mouth, wincing, and reached around Cas' head to untie his gag. Cas licked his dry lips and worked his jaw as Dean went around to the back of Cas' own chair to release his hands, saying, “That was a damn good idea, Cas. I've been tied to chairs like that before, but I had no idea they'd break that easy. Usually my legs are tied too, though. Huh. Amateurs.” He paused for a moment as he finished sawing through the ropes that bound Cas. “They really didn't want you going anywhere though, did they? That rope of yours is threaded under the chair and tied to a steel rod attached to the back here. Guess whoever it is figured you might still have enough angel mojo to get out otherwise.”
Castiel sighed and shook his head. “Well, they were wrong. That rune up there is for binding an angel's grace. It's locked inside me and I have no way to access it until we destroy it. We need to destroy all of these runes, but that one needs to go first. Get up in one of these chairs and scrape it with your knife.”
“On it,” Dean replied as he moved the kitchen chair into position and clambered up, barely able to reach the rune with the tip of his knife. It took some time, as he was working with such a small area of his knife, but eventually he managed to scrape off enough of the rune that its power was gone, and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief as he flexed his grace in a bright flash, grateful to feel it coursing through him once again.
“Dean, do you still have that knife in your boot? If so I need you to give it to me; we have to work quickly to destroy as many of these as we can while we still have the upper hand. We still don't know who did this or why, and I'd like to find out on my terms, not theirs.”
Dean nodded gravely as he pulled out his boot knife and handed it to Cas, and together they managed to scrape away enough before anyone came looking for them that Cas felt satisfied the runes would be rendered ineffective.
They turned together to face the only door in the room, preparing to step out and fight, when Dean put his hand on Castiel's shoulder and gave a little squeeze. “Cas... good thinking back there. Thanks. I mean it. I... maybe I was wrong about you.” Dean squeezed again and smiled at Cas before he let go, and as Cas looked at Dean and smiled back, he felt like maybe everything would again be good between them.
“All right,” said Dean with a sneer, “let's go get these sons of bitches.”