The pain rips through him in a furious explosion of nerves, he's never felt anything like this before, no one has ever - would ever - he's screaming, he realizes distantly, and scrambling to turn around, get his hands on Lucifer, but he's pinioned by the grip on his wings, so frantic and helpless that he can't even think to manifest his sword. He's all desperation; once the bones are broken there's no point in being careful, and he wrenches himself free, only worsening the damage, whips around and throws another punch, landing again, putting the weight of actual angelic force behind it now. He doesn't quit this time; lets loose a wrathful roar and strikes again and again, as hard and fast as he knows how. The agony of his broken wings sears hotly through him, muddling his reflexes, so he fights like a brawler, clumsy and wild and raw. He knows his place, he thinks angrily. His place is with Crowley, in some other universe far away, or, apparently, in this one. No Devil, especially not this Devil, is going to make him believe otherwise. And if defending that means fighting that Devil to the point of his probable death, then so be it.