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“And how will I know (...) but this is all a dream?”
“Take that,” said the boy, “for a token,” and at the word the white horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin (...) a kick in the forehead (...). He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the regular print of a horse-shoe, upon his forehead as red as blood.
– The Giant's Stairs
Demons are abominations.
They used to be souls, the purest form of divine power. They got broken and twisted until the slightest spark of light, the smallest hint of goodness and light was carved out of them. They’re a crime against nature. Against holiness. That’s what angels perceive.
For humans—and for demons themselves—it is different. They rely too much on their physical senses. Demons have a monstruous appearance, in a human perspective: horns, fangs, crooked jaws, visible tendons and muscles, skin hanging around their shape or distended over their ones. They are the nightmares of humans who lost their humanity.
Castiel hardly gives demons his attention as he kills them, descending deeper and deeper into Hell, looking for the Righteous Man. He hates how everything is slow in down here. In Heaven or on Earth, he’d only have to spread his wings to reach anything he’d want to reach. In Hell, there are walls and corridors everywhere, solid in a way nothing is in any other realms. They’re obstacles, even for angels. They can be crossed only by paying a huge price.
A price none of them can pay before reaching for the Righteous Man.
Angels—angels—have to walk. They have to follow the rules of the demons, advancing in their labyrinth and fighting.
The whole ordeal is too slow. Castiel hates it.
They need to save the Righteous Man before the demons defeat him and force him to trigger the Apocalypse. They’re holding siege on Hell for seven days, and the Righteous Man has been here for four months. Humans are weak. They suffer deeply, in a way only other creatures of flesh can understand. It’s easy to break them—most of them. The Righteous Man is an exception. It’s the very essence of this title. It’d take more than four months, more than one year, to make him consider hurting someone else.
But Castiel hates wasting his time.
He knows why he has been chosen and why he’s the centerpiece of this mission. He’s the quickest and the better trained of them all. He’s skilled to adapt to new situations. The chain of command is ready, in case he fails. But he won’t.
He will be the angel who stopped the Apocalypse.
As Castiel dives deeper into Hell, he starts seeing souls at different levels of transformation. His frequencies twist in disgust. Demons are abominations.
He catches sight of three souls, a little brighter—they certainly ended down here because of a deal. He brushes them aside as soon as he notices them. None of them is the Righteous Man—their light is all wrong, not bright enough. They aren’t his to save.
Castiel finally reaches the torture chambers. Pain is echoing between the walls, throwing itself between his frequencies. The damned souls are screaming all around him. Thousands upon thousands of years of suffering, adding to each other, never disappearing, filling each molecule of this circle
The Righteous Man isn’t far from here.
Castiel slaughters a dozen of demons, only sparing one of them. He turns toward it, studying it as it doesn’t leave its post, guarding the door. It’s like the others, a grotesque traversy of a human turned monsters, the shape still here but all wrong. It’s devoid of light and emotions, and that’s all the angels need to know. There’s fear all around it. Castiel isn’t surprised. Demons are weaker than humans—they are nothing but the sum of their worst parts. He perceives resignation, too. The demon knows it’s no match for him. It’s making sure to not look at him. A useless precaution: they’re too deep inside Hell for Castiel’s true visage to be enough to kill it.
It’d have made things easier.
“Why are you here?” the demon dares to ask.
“I’m here to save Dean Winchester. He doesn’t belong in Perdition.”
“The hunter?”
“The Righteous Man.”
The demon flinches. It looks like it hoped this information to not have reached them. It underestimated Heaven.
It’s not a mistake it’ll do again.
The demon turns to face him and opens its eyes. Castiel tastes its horror as it’s catching a glimpse of him, without dying because of it. Its being longs to crumble and twist and disappear. It’s not made to see Heaven in its true glory. The demon is breaking. But it can’t. It can only waits here for Castiel to take pity on it and finishes it off.
“Who sent you?”
A grin opens over Castiel’s face, showing sharp teeth. The demon recoils.
“Who gives orders to angels?”
The terror sharpens. Torturers are so easy to frighten.
“It can’t be.”
“And yet...”
Castiel advances towards the demon. He towers over it.
“Lead me to the Righteous Man and I’ll offer you a painless death.”
“What if I refuse?” the demons says, as if they don’t already know he accepted.
“I’ll search for him in every room and I’ll find him. It’ll take more time, that’s all."
“What about me?”
“I’ll leave you here.”
The demon’s eyes travel on the corpses around them. Its thoughts work slowly. Everything is too slow. There’s an urgency in Castiel’s frequencies. He’s tempted to smite the demon but it finally understands the threat and what its superiors will think if it’s the only one to survive the angels attack.
“Deal.”
“It’s not a deal,” Castiel retorts, itching to stab its neck. “It’s an order. Show the way.”
The demon is smart enough to not retort. It turns around and steps in the corridors. Castiel follows it, guarded. The demon may try to lead him in a trap.
The demon doesn’t glance a single time to the doors lining on every side. If it’s lying, Castiel will have to check every room. The doors and the walls are too thick for him to know what hides in every room. He only senses pain and the sinister joy of inflicting it.
The demon takes a turn, then another. Castiel wonders if it’s trying to make him lose his way. It’d be a waste time for them both. The path they’re following is engraving in his mind.
They stop at the three hundred seventy sixth door.
“Dean’s here.” For the first time since it noticed Castiel’s presence, another emotion than fear is oozing from the demon: an unholy joy, not unlike the one exuded by their torturers “Good luck finding him on the rack,” it adds in a taunting voice.
Castiel kills it in one blow. He doesn’t have more time to waste. He collapses his wavelength as much as he can, until he’s a twenty feet tall human silhouette. It’s harder without a vessel to contain him. His wings feel too tight, and holding on this shape too demanding, but Castiel remembers how terrified humans are around them. He knows how their minds aren’t made to comprehend them. He can’t afford to strike fear in the Righteous Man’s heart.
Castiel pushes the door open. It’s not a trap. The Righteous Man is here, the way he moves too quickly for a human, even in his soul form.
And he isn’t on the rack.
Castiel stares as the Righteous Man moves away from the rack, where another soul is splayed, hurting and terrified. It is the Righteous Man. Yet it can’t be. This soul is twice older than he should be. The Righteous Man—this Righteous Man, Dean Winchester—is twenty-nine. But this soul... This soul is seventy-one.
Castiel steps in the room and he feels it, the pressure of time. It’s moving faster in this room. He didn’t know demons own such skills.
He looks at the Righteous Man and finds they’re ten years too late. He held for one, ten, twenty years. He held out thirty-three years. Then he broke.
We failed.
The Apocalypse has been triggered.
It’s unconceivable.
Castiel shakes off his puzzlement. It’s not the time to dwell on this. The parameters changed, but his mission did not.
The Righteous Man is weighing a knife. He glances at the soul on the rack, shakes his head and picks another weapon. His soul is dim, rare sparks of light blinking in and out. His soul is corrupted, without a doubt—first by pain, now by doing the demons work—but it hasn’t reached its core. He’s letting go, but he isn’t twisted or broken yet. He’s still looking human, as souls do as long as they remember who they are. He can still be saved.
Castiel moves forward. Even now, the Righteous Man isn’t a third of his height. Humans tend to be afraid of beings taller than them but Castiel can’t make himself smaller.
The Righteous Man stills, his focus shifting to Castiel a second before he glances over his shoulder. Their eyes meet.
He keeps walking forward. The Righteous Man turns around. He points a knife at him.
“What are you?”
There’s neither awe nor fear in his voice.
“An angel of the Lord.”
He huffs. “Sure.”
“I’m here to save you from Perdition.”
The Righteous Man looks from him to the soul on the rack, pondering. He stares back at him, his emotions under such absolute control Castiel struggles to read them.
“Make me.”
“You want to stay here?”
The Righteous Man turns away from him. He puts down the knife and picks up a hammer.
“I belong here. Save someone else.”
“You are my mission.”
“I don’t care about your mission.” He puts down the hammer. “You’d better leave, before he comes back.”
Castiel takes a step forward. The motion is smooth, silent—something another angel wouldn’t hear. Yet, the Righteous Man slightly turns his head. Not enough to look at him. Just enough to give the impression he’s listening to something.
“Your torturer?”
“My master.” The Righteous Man’s eyes find him and take in his wings. Castiel waits, thinking he’s going to be struck by his angelic nature, but he shrugs. “I’m sure he’ll love to experiment on you... whatever you are.”
“An angel,” Castiel repeats.
The Righteous Man scoffs. Twists his face away. “Whatever.”
Castiel takes one last step. The Righteous Man isn’t broken, whether he’s or not aware of it. He has no idea how powerful Castiel is and that a demon is no match for him, and he’s giving him a chance to flee.
The Righteous Man turns around, a dagger in his hand. The blade sinks in Castiel’s belly. Dean is moving quickly, for a soul. Castiel wonders how it’d translate on Earth, in his body.
He stares at the soul. He doesn’t dislike this act of defiance. If the Righteous Man is able to fight, he’ll be able to live.
Confusion spikes from Dean but he doesn’t stand down. He withdraws the dagger and aims as high as he can, maybe aiming for the heart—if Castiel has one. A doubt flickers in the soul. He takes his blade back. His eyes dart to Castiel’s wings and his hand tightens on the hilt. Castiel’s amusement fades. He can’t allow that—and he won’t. Castiel moves before Dean: he shoves him, making him lose his balance, and pins him down. Dean is to fierce to be slowed by anything less than that.
His terror catches Castiel off guard. Dean lets go of his weapon and tries to curl on himself. Castiel keeps the soul on the ground and looks up at the room. There’s no one, except the soul on the rack. He looks back at Dean, absolutely still, all defiance forgotten, trying to swallow back its fear. His control on himself is good, but it’d be better if he didn’t have to fight off the Hell corruption. Castiel puts a hand on his chest and makes his grace travels over the soul, burning the corruption away. He’ll have to heal him anyway. The rest’ll be easier if the Righteous Man becomes himself again.
Dean gasps in pain—the corruption is taking roots in his soul, though it doesn’t reach deeply—then holds back any sound he could make. His soul is embracing his humanity again and the pain from it... as silent as he tries to be, this pain is screaming. Castiel feels it to his core, stronger than if Dean expressed it. It’s like he’s burning alive. Like they are burning alive. Castiel’s hand is connecting them. What the soul feels, he feels it too.
It’s for the greater good.
Castiel is relieved when the corruption is destroyed and he can take his hand back. But the soul... It is magnificient. It isn’t dim anymore. It is light, more blinding than an angel, bright colors shining from within, a human shape hiding a thousand of suns under its remembered skin.
Castiel never saw a soul shining that much.
Castiel’s wings move and he’s back on his feet, putting distance between them. The soul is curled up on the ground, shivering because of the too-many emotions trying to drown him. Castiel grants him a moment to recover. The time pocket allows it.
There’s something good about using the demon tools against themselves.
Dean sits up. He brings his knees against his chest and tries to breath, a surprisingly human reflex. His emotions are untangling themselves and hitting him in waves—first guilt, then self-hate, then horror. He’s reclaiming them. It’s painful, but this is what it means to be human.
“Dean Winchester.”
The Righteous Man looks up at him.
“Who are you?”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t.”
Castiel tilts his head toward him. “My name is Castiel.”
“And you’re here to bring me back.”
“Indeed.”
They’re making progress. At last.
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
Dean breaks their eye-contact. “I don’t– I did– The things I did– They are...”
He trails off, not having the words.
“You want to stay here?”
Dean’s eyes snap up to him. Horror fills him and he isn’t enough of a hypocrite to say yes.
“I can leave you here.” Castiel lies. Dean is his mission. He’ll bring him back, whether he wants it or not. Subduing a soul is harder than controlling a living human being, but it’s not insuperable. Dean winces and Castiel feels a taste of his fear before he shoves it down. He’s a good warrior. “You’d rather become one of them?”
Dean flinches. His hand slides towards the dagger. He turns his face to the soul on the rack. His fingers brush the hilt, stop.
“No,” he utters in a broken voice. “I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”
“No, this isn’t possible.”
Dean closes his eyes, getting his pain under control—it’s hitting Castiel more and more softly.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone like this ever again.”
“The only way for this is to follow me.”
Dean opens his eyes. He nods. He raises to his feet and starts to turn around but Castiel curls a wing around him.
“Come with me.”
“What about him?”
Castiel turns away, without bothering to answer. He moves his wing forward, forcing Dean to walk by his side. He heads for the door and prompts Dean to cross it first. Dean seems to freeze on the other side, his time so much slower. Castiel joins him. He left this corridor less than one second ago.
Dean glances at the demon corpse. He looks around him, worry rippling over his soul, as if he felt the change of the time stream.
Castiel half-folds his wings, trusting Dean to follow him, and retraces his steps. He only has to exfil the Righteous Man. It’s the easiest part—he already knows the way, and reached his goal—so he has to stay particularly alert. Too much confidence leads to make mistakes. Dean trails after him. His gaze slows on every door and everytime something strikes his soul—shame, guilt, compassion. He winces every time he hears a scream. Outrage rises in him, covering the other emotions. It grows slowly, expands all over his soul, weaving a strong armor over it.
“You could have saved someone else. An innocent.”
“It’s not my mission.”
Dean stops. Castiel turns around.
“Fuck your mission! We’re talking about innocent people, here.”
“They made deals. They have to face the consequences.”
“So did I!”
“You’re different.”
“Bullshit. I’m no better than any of them.”
And yet, none of them would fight off their savior and risk to stay trapped here to save the souls of people they don’t know. None of them would have hold out their lifetime of being tortured to not have to hurt someone else.
Dean is indeed the Righteous Man.
“I’ve got blood on my hands.”
“You’re a warrior.”
“This isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”
“Who do you think you are to question me?”
The worry—the fear—doesn’t last a hearbeat. Dean straightens up, picking back the pieces of him together to challenge him and do what’s right.
He’s already healing. Castiel can’t help but be impressed. To say Dean has spent forty-three years down here.
(He wonders how his soul would be, without any trauma at all.)
“What do you want with me?”
“I’m saving you.”
“Why?”
“You’re important.”
“You aren’t answering my question, Castiel.”
Hearing his name said by the soul takes Castiel by surprise. Feeling the emotions Dean’s associating with him: defiance, mistrust, and a small amount gratitude that Dean’s trying to stomp down, but that Castiel feels more strongly than the other emotions.
“You’re wasting our time.”
Dean opens his mouth to reply, but he renounces. He too knows they can’t linger too long.
They set off again. The corridors are empty. Castiel did a good job. He wonders for a bit if Heaven shouldn’t keep laying siege on Hell. If they kill enough of them, the demons wouldn’t be able to unleash the Apocalypse.
“Where you’re taking me?”
“On Earth.”
“You can’t! Ghosts hurt people. I’d better stay here.”
“I’ll bring you back to life.”
Dean stops, shocked still. Castiel’s wing brushes his back. Dean jumps forward. Castiel tries to not think too much about the little contact. It feels different now the soul is—mostly—healed. It feels different on his wing.
Dean side-eyes him. “I never saw anything like you.”
“You couldn’t have. We haven’t walked among your kind for two thousands of years.”
Dean makes a noncommittal sound, still refusing to believe he’s an angel.
“I’ll remember?”
“What?”
“You feel like something that can’t be remembered. I know I’ll remember Hell. It’s everywhere,” he winces, gesturing at himself. A wave of self-loathing threatens to sweep Castiel away. He ruffles his feathers, chasing it from his frequencies. “But you. This. It feels different.”
“I do not know much about human minds. Maybe you’ll forget.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “And you’re going to bring me back to life?”
“I will.”
“You’ll be here when I’ll wake up?”
“Certainly.”
“If I don’t recognize you, I won’t trust you,” he snarls. “I will kill you.”
Amusement whispers in Castiel’s frequencies, something small, imperceptible for other angels. Impossibly, the human soul narrows his eyes in offense.
“You can try. I’m hard to kill.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Good.
If there’s enough fire in him to get angry at his savior, then he’ll be strong enough to leave Hell behind him and move on.
If he’s ready to be angry at an angel to not protect Hell-bound souls, then he’ll give everything he is to prevent the Apocalypse to tear Earth apart.
There’s more hope left for their mission than Castiel thought when he stepped in the room and saw Dean next to the rack.
Dean’s defiance fades into something more vulnerable. His thoughts sharpen and bounce back and forth, following a path that increases his anxiety.
“How I can be sure it’s real? It could be a trap. Maybe Al– Maybe they want to test me. Maybe they want an excuse to punish me.” Dean lets out a wry laugh and, for a beat, his soul dissolves in pain. “I’ve been so obedient they have to create the reason themselves.”
Certainty hits him. It’s a trap, screams his mind. He got bored. He wants to do it all over again.
The ‘he’ involved is a demon without the slightest hint of mankind left in his shape. How old he is to look like that?
Dean turns around. He dives under his wing—Castiel can’t help but notice how smooth and elegant the motion is—before breaking into a run.
Castiel stares after him, rooted into place by shock. He’s running away from him? Here? Now?
Castiel runs after him. He catches up with him in two heartbeats. Dean is only human... and he traps himself in a dead-end. He whirls around to flee but Castiel cuts his way. Terror weaves all around him. Questioning is one thing, but that won’t do. Dean hasn’t been afraid when he saw his face. He hasn’t been afraid either when he walked by his side. Nothing changed.
And they can’t allow to linger.
As if to prove him right, Castiel detects a demon, nearing them. Dean tenses. He straightens up, trying to peek over his shoulder.
“He’s going to be mad,” he whispers. Horror fills his soul. “He’s going to be so happy.”
Castiel lunges forward and grabs him. Dean tries to push him away. Realizing he isn’t strong enough, he tries to wriggle out of his grasp. Castiel holds him tighter. Dean thrashes around. Pity they can’t knock souls unconscious. Physical bodies do have advantages.
(Castiel knows it’s not what Balthazar implies.)
They have to leave. Now. Fighting is easy as long as you don’t have to protect something.
He has to fly.
They’re close enough to the surface for his wings to not suffer too much.
He hopes.
It doesn’t matter. Missions always demand sacrifices. His wings aren’t a big price to pay to save the world from chaos and billions of people—billions and billions of living beings—to die before their time.
The walls of Hell sink into his wings, cut them, slice them, stab them, tear them apart. His feathers are pulled out one after the other, disintegrating, and he feels all of them. His frequencies stutter and twist, almost torn apart. The struggling soul makes him sway more often than Castiel is ready to admit. He holds Dean with all his might and it’s not enough. Dean keeps struggling.
Castiel doesn’t spare a thought into self-pity. Success is within his reach. After one last effort, he breaks free of Hell. The sun is shining, welcoming them back and burning away the pieces of Hell clinging to them.
“DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED!”
And he keeps fighting his hold. For a moment—a moment so short humans wouldn’t be aware of it—the illusion of his body shatters and his soul shines freely, eclipsing the sky and the sun itself. Castiel never saw such glory.
He never felt that much power between his hands.
The power throws him off balance. He falls.
He has the presence of mind to curl around the soul before the impact.
A crater appeared, on an unhabited island, lost in the middle of the sea.
Castiel is lying in its center, checking on his injuries. His wings are broken in forty-one places but he’s still able to use them. The pain isn’t strong enough for him to call the Rit Zien.
Dean holds himself still on him, the memory of his heart hammering inside his chest, translating his fear. Castiel reaches a hand to him. Dean tenses, ready to act, but he doesn’t try to avoid him.
“You weren’t harmed,” Castiel informs him, taking his hand back.
Dean frowns at him before looking around them. He sits up, his fear and his puzzlement diminished by a soft awe. He looks up at the sky, then at the Pacific brushing lazily the shore.
“You brought me back?”
“I told you I would.”
“Where are we?”
“Not where we should be.”
Castiel sits. The soul stumbles down from him. He catches Dean before he hits the ground and lowers him to the ground. Dean follows him with his eyes as he stands up. Fear is lingering at the back of his emotions, but he’s mostly curious about him. His eyes skim over his face and his shoulders to stop on his right higher wing. His disgust hits Castiel. He folds his wings in his back, hiding them from him.
“I– I did that?”
You did.
“Hell did,” Castiel says instead.
It’s not a lie. If Dean acted like this in any other plane, the consequences would have been different.
Guilt intertwines with the repulsion. “It’s because you saved me.”
“Every mission demands a sacrifice.”
“You must be hurting so much.”
The compassion is a surprise. Castiel focuses all his attention on the soul as it’s surrounding him in the softest frequencies he ever perceived. He leans closer, allowing them to mingle with his own frequencies and soothe them.
I shouldn’t.
He doesn’t understand the sensation, but he knows angels aren’t meant to feel things like this. It’s too soft.
“I can do something?”
Dean could. He is powerful. Castiel suspected so before he unleashed his power on him.
But this power isn’t Castiel’s. The mission to save Dean has been decided in the highest places. He isn’t any human or a vessel. He wasn’t his to use.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t. Your wings are– They–”
“It’s not your concern.”
“It is! It’s my fault.”
“Are all humans as annoying as you?”
Dean grits his teeth. How humans cling to their mortality, even after death, is fascinating.
“I’m trying to help.”
“You want to help me? Obey.”
Defiance shines brighter, without recuding the compassion. Castiel forces himself to not step back—or lean forward. Are humans supposed to feel that much?
Dean crosses his arms.
“You decided to save me. I didn’t ask you anything.”
“It was an order.”
“From who?”
“God.”
Every emotion shuts down. The silence is absolute, an emptyness Castiel doesn’t associate with Dean’s presence. The soul is gaping at him, his shoulders slumping, his arms going loose. He recovers.
“Nah.”
“Nah?”
“Can’t be. God doesn’t exist. I went to– to Hell. What happens there...” A wave of emotions swells in Dean. He pushes it down before Castiel can read any of them. “God can’t exist.”
“He does.”
“He does not!”
Castiel wants to retort but they’re wasting time—time they don’t have. He has another mission to complete. What would his superiors say if they saw him bickering with a human instead? It’s unworthy of him.
“I’m bringing you back to your body.”
Dean jumps back. What he thinks he’s doing? Castiel only has to reach out to catch him. It’d be even easier if he unfolded to his true height.
Something stops him. He’s towering over him, but the difference between them would be so much more impressive. Dean isn’t as big as the smallest of his eyes. Castiel... doesn’t dislike them being so close in size.
(They’d be even closer with a vessel.)
“With your wings looking like that?”
“I can bear it.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“I’m a warrior.”
Dean hisses of frustration. Castiel startles. That’s true.
“I’m letting you bringing me back to life to one condition.”
Castiel scoffs. Who does he think he is to give conditions to an angel?
(Castiel doesn’t hate it. He should. Dean is only human. He shouldn’t act as if they’re equal. They’re not.
But... Castiel doesn’t hate him standing in front of him, glaring at him because he disagrees with him. Not dying because of his glory. Not fearing him.
Acting as if they’re equal.)
“We heal your wings.”
“You’re stubborn.”
Dean jerks his chin. “You ain’t the first one to tell me. We leave only when you’re better. Or– Or–”
“Or?” Castiel goads him.
Dean glares at him. “Or I do what I did last time and we crash again.”
Castiel tilts his head. Is Dean threatening to hurt them both to blackmail him into healing him? Humans are so... incoherent.
Dean squares his shoulders, trying to look bigger.
“We’d both fall into the ocean,” Castiel points out.
“And? I’m already dead. I don’t risk anything. You don’t look like shark food, whatever you are.”
“Sharks, like all sensible creatures, don’t provoke those who are bigger than them,” Castiel remarks.
“You ain’t that big.”
“I’m usually bigger.”
Dean furrows his brow, trying to picture him. Castiel has to strengthen his control over his frequencies. They long to stretch to his full height and show him in his whole glory. It’s stupid. Arrogant.
With wings looking like that?
His frequencies still.
“You said I’m powerful.”
Castiel didn’t. He thought it.
“Don’t boast. You can’t use that power.”
“But you can,” Dean guesses.
But I can, echoes Castiel’s mind.
“We have a deal?”
Castiel should reply angels don’t make deals.
“I don’t want to fall into the water... even if I’m not ‘shark food’. I hate wasting my time.”
Dean nods. He hesitates before walking to him, all his instincts screaming defiance, in a willing attempt to trust him.
It’s worth more than a blind faith.
Dean’s eyes fall shut and he lifts his face toward Castiel. Several seconds pass. He opens one eye.
“You’re gonna kiss me or not?”
“Kiss... you?”
Dean eyerolls.
“Like demon deals. And fairy tale kisses. It’s symbolic. I read, you know?” he adds in an annoyed voice. He closes his eye. “C’mon. Hurry up, will you?”
“You’re the one who wasted our time.”
Dean makes a noncommittal sound.
Castiel leans toward the human. Dean arches closer and his mouth touch him. The soul exhales, giving him its power. Castiel forces himself to accept it, without drawing. It’s harder than it should be.
Dean’s soul is powerful. Holding him... The outburst... were only glimpses. Now Castiel feels his real power. It taste like life and death, freshly turned earth, a spring day. And there are emotions, of course. This is why souls are so unique. Castiel tastes a deep guilt and a lingering fear, regrets, worry and anger. And, behind all that, impossible after the forty-three years he spent in Hell, love. Once Castiel identifies it, all the other emotions seem to fade, shadowed by its power and steadfastness.
His frequencies tune back together. His grace resplenishes and his feathers straighten back to their original shape. The ones that can’t be healed come off. Castiel feels lighter.
Dean steps back and his power—his love—withdraws with him. Castiel stops himself from chasing it down. That’s all he can do. He can’t bring himself to move away from the soul.
“You fine?”
Dean’s eyes roam on his wings. Castiel stretches them. They’ll never recover completely, but they aren’t broken and hurting anymore. Dean kept his promise.
“You need more?”
Castiel forbides himself to answer ‘yes’. He doesn’t need it. He quells down this urge and the lingering taste of human love—a deep human love, shattered and raw and desesperate and more selfless than anything should ever be.
“I don’t.”
Dean doesn’t look convinced. He doesn’t retort but he leans toward him again and presses a kiss on his cheek, pouring power into him again. There’s something... softer this time. About the touch. About the offering. Something about Castiel deserving it because he didn’t ask for it.
Castiel’s lost feathers grow back, stronger than they were. He can feel power humming in each of them. His wings have never been that powerful. They aren’t back to their original shape—there are torsions even Dean’s power can’t erase—but Castiel doesn’t mind.
Dean moves back to study him. A worried frown contorts his face.
“I don’t think I can do more.”
“It helped.”
Castiel flaps his wings to move Dean’s focus on them. The soul’s expression—his emotions—soften. The hint of a smile appears on his face.
“Good. I owed you that much.”
Dean lifts his hand to his lowest wing and trails his fingers along it, his soul brushing his grace. It’s gentle. Castiel isn’t used to gentle.
Dean drops his hand and stares at him, his eyes reflecting his grace, his face. Castiel stands his ground, despite his surprise. He never saw himself in the eyes of a human...
A soul, Castiel corrects. It’s different... but not that different. Souls have the same mental limits than living humans. This is because they meet in Hell, then, it’s another plane... Except it doesn’t make any sense. Heaven is in another plane too, souls can’t see them in their full glory. Angels have to use the appearance of their vessels to hang around them. It means Dean is...
No. He can’t be. What are the odds for the Righteous Man to be one of those legendary humans, able to see them?
“You don’t have features.” Dean’s eyes skim over him. “Or a skin. Your shape is changing.”
“I’m a wavelength.”
“You look like northern lights. Blue and white ones.” Dean scrunches up his nose. “If they exist.”
Northern lights are solar particles and the Sun, like any other star, is weak. Castiel could absorb thousand stars without gaining power.
He would scoff at it, without the soft awe in Dean’s soul. It seems like, for him, this comparison is a compliment.
The gleam of his grace keeps dancing in Dean’s eyes. Castiel remembers the saying, eyes are windows of the soul. If it were true, his grace and Dean’s soul are nestling together. Castiel stands up, bringing some distance between them.
“Our job isn’t done,” he says.
“What do we do now?”
“I’m bringing you back.”
Dean winces. He diverts his eyes.
“I don’t want to live.”
“It’s better than Hell.”
Dean closes his eyes.
“It is.”
Castiel holds out a hand. Grabbing Dean feel wrong after the way he offered him his soul power.
“It’s better than turning into a ghost.”
Dean opens up his eyes and, for an impossible moment, he feels as old as Castiel is.
“It is.”
Dean lays his hand on his.
Dean holds onto him, this time. His arms are around his neck, his face is pressed against him and his eyes squeezed shut. He confessed being afraid to flying—another proof of trust: warriors don’t share their fears with their enemies. Castiel’s grip on him is gentler, a hand spread on his back, his other arm around his tighs. His wings beat effortlessly. The air feels nice against his feathers, bowing to him instead of cutting them. Dean healed him well. Castiel’d almost regret to move so quickly.
Almost.
There’s nothing he likes more than being skilled.
Castiel reaches Dean’s burial site. It’s among the trees, hidden from the sky by the foliage—but not hidden to him. He dives. Dean’s arms tighten around his neck and he presses his eyelids tighter.
I won’t let you fall.
Dean nods.
Castiel lands. The shock wave brings down the trees in a perfect circle around them—around Dean’s grave. Dean half-opens an eye. He glances down and relaxes at seeing the firm ground under them.
“You can put me down.”
Castiel does. Dean takes one step aside, but he remains in the curve of his wings. It’s another proof of trust. Something shakes inside Castiel.
He crouches over the grave.
“You body is here. You see it?”
Dean narrows his eyes in concentration. Human limits. He can’t see through the soil. Castiel’s hand moves closer to this arm. Dean hardly stiffens au contact, surprised but not afraid.
You can trust me, Castiel echoes inwardly.
He vows Dean to see, like him, beyond the soil, the treasure in its wooden chest. Dean’s reaction isn’t the one he expects. He winces in disgust, impervious to the beauty of the moment. Castiel is... disappointed, he thinks. He wanted to share this with him.
“They should have burnt that. They are hunters.”
That Castiel understands. He’d be annoyed too if his fellow warriors missed an easy step of their mission.
“It’d make my job easier.”
Dean turns his face to him. “What you’d have done if they burnt me?”
“It’d have taken more time.”
“’S all?”
“Yes.”
Dean is the most important of their missions. Heaven would have used all its power to bring him back to life. But his body is here, almost intact. Castiel won’t need help to bring Dean back to life.
Dean stares at him. His thoughts and emotions swirl and dance and it’s beautiful. Castiel doesn’t try to undertand them, he only enjoys the sight. Dean sits by it and presses against his side. For a moment, nothing moves. Castiel doesn’t know what to do about this change. Less than two hours ago, Dean feared his touch.
You trust me?
There have been several proofs, since they broke free from Hell, but Castiel doesn’t ask. He dreads to be answered no.
This means something anyway.
“I’ll have to grow before healing you.”
Dean raises curious eyes on him. Castiel lessens his control on his frequencies, allowing them to loosen—forcing them to on his right side, to not disturb Dean. He grows until his hand is as big as Dean’s body. His frequencies try to rebel when he tightens his control again. He doesn’t measure a quarter of his true height.
Dean mouthgapes at him.
“You’re big.”
“It’s not my true height.”
Dean blinks in surprise, without moving.
Castiel reaches out for his body. He knows to heal. He used this power many times in the course of his life. It’s the first time he resurrects someone, but it’s not harder.
But it’s Dean, and it feels different.
Castiel bathes the body in his grace. Resurrection demands more power than their vessels can bear. He has to fix everything at the same time.
Dean watches dispassionately as he builds his body back. Castiel knew humans aren’t as emotive and weak as his brethern say.
“It’s hard to believe it’s real. It looks like a dream.” He scoffs. “Or a bad acid trip.”
“It’s real.”
“If I don’t remember you, I’ll attack you.”
It doesn’t sound like a threat anymore. Castiel even hears a note of apology is Dean’s soul. He looks at the soul, his grace keeping the body safe.
“I detect less anger in you.”
Dean rubs a hand on his neck. “Well, you saved me. I’d have turned like them, without you. You’ve got to have some ulterior motive–”
“I don’t.”
“–but it’s important. For me. If I come back to life... if I don’t remember... I’ll assume the worst.”
“Like any good warrior.”
Dean doesn’t seem convinced. Castiel bends his face closer to him and presses it to his head. Dean stills—not out of fear. All his attention focuses on him. His emotions turning into a puzzled mix.
“I won’t be mad if you stab me.”
“I don’t care,” Dean lies.
“It’d prove I completed my mission.”
Dean grumbles. He thinks he’s mocking him, and Castiel lets him believe it in spite of his sincerity. He doesn’t mind meeting this way again, on Earth, when Dean’ll be alive again, a being of flesh and blood.
It won’t be. His mortality will hold most of his fierceness back.
“None of this proves it’s real,” Dean mutters.
Castiel moves his free hand to Dean and presses a fingertip to his shoulder. His grace reaches for the soul. Instead of mixing with it or skimming through it, it focuses on a single point.
“Take this, as a token.”
Dean tenses. Castiel takes his hand away, leaving a red hand-shaped mark on his shoulder. Dean frowns and pokes at it.
“It’s real,” Castiel says. “Not a trick. Not a trap. You’ll have it with you when you’ll live again.”
Castiel forces his eyes away from Dean as he keeps studying the mark, following its outline, pressing his finger on it. He doesn’t know... He doesn’t understand...
His mission. Castiel has to resurrect him. He was almost done when he was distracted. He checks everything is perfect. He won’t allow Dean to come back to life with a malfunctioning body. His bones are sturdy, organs efficient, muscles as strong as they were right before his death. There’s not much to do left. Castiel just has to ignite a spark on life in his body and settling back the soul in its home.
In its body. Humans’ real home is Heaven.
“You’d like me to change something about you?”
Dean stares at him. Castiel doesn’t say it’s an apology gift. Heaven doesn’t apologize. But they should have found him sooner. They should have saved him before Hell broke him.
Castiel has been too confident.
“Nuking me?”
“If you don’t want anything...”
Hesitation fills the air between them. Dean lays his hand on Castiel’s mark. Castiel shouldn’t notice this. Dean studies his body and Castiel hears on the surface of his thoughts what he doesn’t like about it. There are several things, more than Castiel would have thought. Worrying enough, the freckles are high on the list. How Dean can hate them? It’d be like hating stars in a night sky, spots on a jaguar fur or flowers in a meadow: something turning beautiful what would have been dull otherwise.
“Scars,” Dean whispers. “Can you... not put them back?”
“Of course,” Castiel answers, toning down his relief.
His understanding was warriors are proud of scars, but he’d rather be wrong about this than have to erase the freckles.
Castiel starts with the scars marking his skin and digging into his flesh, weaving back his skin and his flesh as if nothing damaged them.
“It’s done.”
Dean nods.
“And now?”
“Now, I put you back in your body.”
Dean worries at his lower lip. Breathes out.
“’Kay.”
“It’ll be painful.”
“Sure.”
“For your soul.”
Dean nods.
“I’ll make it as quick as I can.”
Castiel reaches out for Dean.
“Wait!”
Castiel stills.
“Don’t forget the clothes. I don’t wanna run around half-naked.”
Castiel peers at the body. The clothes are torn into shreds, indeed. He forgot how important they are for humans.
He fixes them with a brush of his grace.
“Done.”
“So quickly?”
His frequencies tangle together. He used more time than he needed to heal Dean.
“You’re ready?”
Dean smirks. “I was born ready.”
Castiel reaches out to Dean. Dean doesn’t move away. The urge of dodging him doesn’t brush his thoughts. Castiel wonders if he’ll win back this trust, on Earth.
Dean ’s mouth curves into a little smile.
“See ya, Cas.”
There’s a pause. Castiel forces himself to focus on the moment. Handling the power of one soul is difficult. He has no room for error.
Dean shuts his eyes and forces his shoulders loose. Castiel closes his hands around him. He breaks the illusion of a human shape and squeezes until the soul looks like a tiny star, as big as Dean’s heart.
No pain runs up his arms. Dean didn’t fight back. He has ignored every soul instincts, that push them to fight off angels and hurting when angels touch them.
This is something Castiel will never win again, with another human. Even those driven by faith can’t control the reactions of their soul.
Thank you for this gift.
Castiel reaches his hands through the earth, to the body resting safely. He settles the soul in the chest and lets go. He watches the soul unfold, until it’s drawing every muscle, hiding behind every freckle and filling each cell of his body. Castiel’s frequencies still when he sees a red handprint burning into Dean’s shoulder.
That wasn’t planned.
The token was meant to be a reminder for his soul, not a mark on his body.
Castiel has no time to mull over this. Dean’s brow furrows and his consciousness rises.
The Righteous Man is coming back to life.
Castiel longs to stay and be the first being Dean’ll see when he’ll open his eyes. This is an odd thing, coming from himself, not from Heaven, not from duty. Not because this is the Righteous Man, he realizes, but because this is Dean. This something keeps him rooted here, no matter how unpleasant this plane feels against his frequencies. No matter that there’s his vessel waiting for him and he has work to do. He pictures Dean’s green eyes with hazel notes taking in his shape, not able to see all of him because he’s too small...
Not able to see all of him...
Humans can’t see them. There’s a legend—and if this legend is true, then Dean is one of them—but Castiel can’t bet Dean’s safety over it. He can’t bet his life.
He has to recover his vessel.
After one last glance to Dean, Castiel spreads his wings and flies away. A doubt chases after him, the few moments he spent with the soul circling in his mind. The soul that looked at him. The soul that has not been afraid.
Maybe maybe maybe.
Maybe not.
It tastes like a foolish hope. Castiel never met one of those special humans. He never heard about an angel meeting one of them.
He retraces his path. He can’t bet Dean’s life over it, but he can test his limits.
Dean already left his grave. He digged out of it more quickly than Castiel thought he would. He glides right above a road, his senses reaching out for Dean. He’s in a building, not far from there, gathering what he needs to travel.
“Dean?”
His voice disturbs electronic waves and a TV lights up. Dean turns it off.
“Dean?”
A radio sizzles. Dean tenses, his eyes darting around.
“DEAN WINCHESTER. HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ABOUT ME?”
Dean winces. He grabs the salt and runs to the window. He pours it along it. Offense rises inside Castiel.
“I AM NO DEMON!”
Dean presses his hands against his ears. The window bursts toward him. Dean falls to his knees, hiding his face. Castiel recoils. He hasn’t meant to...
He flies from the gas station. Dean... The Righteous Man has things to do. He has things to do. He still hasn’t reported to his superiors nor he has sealed his alliance with his vessel.
Castiel feels weirdly heavy.
A whisper grabs his attention. Castiel straightens, his senses alert. Is it a revelation? So soon? He hasn’t completed his mission yet.
The whisper resumes, lilting. It’s not heavenly. It’s–
“I invoke, conjur, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”
–human.
In spite of their numerous skills, angels can’t resist to invocations. Castiel feels himself being dragged away. He tries to fight it. He doesn’t have his vessel yet. A human can’t see him.
But the invocation is using his grace. There’s no way he can fight it.
“I invoke, conjur, and command you, appear unto me before this circle.”
The voice gets stronger. It’s a female—a psychic. More perceptive to supernatural than most humans, but it’s not enough to be able to see angels.
Even their vessels can’t stand their glory.
“I invoke, conjur, and command...”
“I am Castiel.”
“Castiel?”
“Now, you know my name. This is enough. Turn back. You won’t like what will happen if you keep reaching for me.”
“No. Sorry, Castiel. I don’t scare easily.”
He hears the pride in the human voice. This is why pride is a sin. She’s so sure she’s right for her doing, so sure she knows better. All her past invocations went well, giving her too much confidence.
It’ll be different, this time.
“Turn back. It’s your last chance.”
“Castiel?”
Dean.
That’s where she found some of his grace, of course. Castiel can feel her hand on the token he gave Dean.
He should have thought things more thoroughfully.
But Dean... Dean is searching for him.
“Its name. It’s whispering to me, warning me to turn back.”
“BREAK THE CIRCLE,” Castiel shouts through the planes, to the psychic and Dean. “TURN BACK. NOW. THIS IS THE LAST OF YOUR WARNINGS.”
“I conjur and command you, show me your face.”
No.
Castiel spreads his wings, resisting as much as he can. Most of his siblings would have complied at the first call, letting the humans deal with the consequences of his actions. It’s quicker. This fight is a lost cause.
But he may convince her to give up if he stalls her enough.
“I almost got it. I command you, show me your face.”
No...
“Show me your face!”
The order cracks. Castiel stumbles in front of the psychic. Her mind eye spots him. It’s too much. She’s only a psychic, not one of those mythical special humans. Her mind eye shatters. A scream breaks through her throat and her physical eyes burn out. Castiel flies away, quickly enough to spare her life. She’ll never use her eyes again, but he warned her. Why humans never listen to warnings?
(Dean is searching for him.)
Dean ends up in a bar swarming with demons with the boy-with-demon-blood. Castiel watches. Dean is his responsability and he called for him. Castiel waits for an opportunity to reach back to him.
Dean goads one of the demons. He throws nonsense about Castiel, comparing him once more to a demon, but, at least, he knows those demons are no match against Castiel and that his protection makes him untouchable.
Castiel watches him hit a demon and leave. He wants to follow him.
But those demons did threaten Dean and they haven’t paid for this.
Castiel descend into the bar and shines of all his glory. The demons shrieks, their eyes burning out.
“YOU WILL NOT HARM DEAN WINCHESTER.”
They press their hands over their ears, still screaming. Two demons think about running away. One dives into another room. Castiel grasp the second and forces it to face him. The demon shrieks but it’s too weak to escape him.
Castiel scoffs in contempt. It’s hard to imagine such weak and pathetic creatures dared to threaten Dean.
He drops the demon and turns toward a locked door. The last demon is hidden behind it. He stalks to it, brushes the door. He has hardly touched that it creaks. The fear of the demon spikes on the other side.
“YOU GUESS WHAT I AM, DON’T YOU?”
The demon doesn’t answer with words, but it knows. Its terror prove it.
“YOU KNOW WHAT WE WILL DO TO YOU. I’M LETTING YOU WALK AWAY, TODAY, BUT THIS IS NOT MERCY.”
Castiel takes another moment to enjoy its fear, before flying back to Dean.
Dean, the boy-with-demon-blood and an older man go in a motel. Dean and the boy-with-demon-blood settle in the same room. Castiel’s frequencies twist in frustration. He wants to contact Dean but the boy-with-demon-blood would die if he tries.
Thankfully, he leaves.
Castiel waits. Dean is sleeping. Humans need sleep.
But the boy-with-demon-blood can come back at any moment.
“Dean?”
The TV snaps to life. The radio spreads white noises in the room.
“Dean, do you hear me?”
Dean startles awake. He jumps out of his bed and grabs a shotgun. Castiel is proud to see how quick to react he is.
“DEAN.”
He feels the mark on Dean’s arm. It’s the proof they met and saw each other. All of this has been real. Still is.
“YOU REALLY DON’T RECOGNIZE ME?”
The mirror on the ceiling shatters. Dean presses his hands over his ears and falls to his knees. There’s pain, and it bothers Castiel, but Dean isn’t breaking down. His eardrums aren’t shattering. His brain isn’t collapsing. He just has to overcome this pain and he’d hear him.
“DEAN, IT’S ME. CASTIEL. I SAVED YOU FROM PERDITION.”
The mirror blows up. Its pieces are falling on Dean and a scream tears its way out of his throat. But the pressure on his body doesn’t change. It’s different from the psychic.
Castiel wants to push his luck, until Dean’ll hear him. He knows he can.
But he’s hurting.
His beat of hesitation is enough for the old man to rush into the room. He wouldn’t be able to hear him. Castiel won’t risk to kill him. He hears Dean declare that he’ll invoke him. He retreats, heading for Pontiac to retrieve his vessel. If only he had more time... Dean is one of those special humans. Castiel’s sure of it. His soul can see him. And with a little more time...
They don’t have time.
Castiel gets the final yes from his vessel and waits for Dean’s call. It happens soon. He doesn’t fight it. He wants to answer it and meet with Dean again. Maybe he won’t see his true visage ever again—or in decades, when he’ll reach Heaven—but Castiel won’t pretend to be human. He allows his power to seep out of his vessel as he gets closer to the barn, reaching the place before him, letting a storm announce his arrival. Wind and electricity fly with him. The doors burt open. And he is here. Dean.
The walls are covered with sigils. Castiel’s eyes take them in. Only the Enochian’s are missing.
The only ones able to lock him out... if done perfectly.
Dean and the older man defend their ground. They waste their bullets on him, in a careful range attack, but then he faces Dean, and Dean stabs him right in the heart.
Castiel’s last sparks of disappointment bleed away. His vessel’s mouth curls up, the amusement echoing in his frequencies translating into a smile.
Dean feels his power and that’s his reaction. Like it has been in Perdition.
He looks up at him, feels his surprise all around him—surprise but no fear. This is the Dean he met.
Something sings in his frequencies that feels very much like hope.
Dean isn’t lost to him.
They can recreate what they have lost.