SPN fic: Ideal in His Grief (2/9)
Title: Ideal in His Grief (2/9)
Author: Furius
Rating: G to R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: beginning of S4
Warnings: blood and blasphemy
Word count: 5000/22500
Summary: For a soul to be lifted upwards, another had to fall. Even ending the world require sacrifices. (An account of the descent of Castiel into Hell for Dean Winchester.)
His bones lengthened, his skin expanded. The demarcation between childhood and adolescence may not be distinct and obvious in the world, where time was imprisoned by the linear strictures of eventualities but where free will was wild as any bird in a primordial forest.
In the supernatural places of the universe, time was eternal, unconfounded by mortality, but will was a thing whispered as if a shameful, erotic secret. Each place out of the world was part of a dominion, and each dominion had a lord who gave and took away what it would.
Castiel, wandering in the lonely places of Hell, could have been a child of any age, and as innocent as a child. His slight human form had allowed him to slip pass through the tired sentries at the gates undetected and the pearl of his soul -- temporarily borrowed as the vessel's body waited for its time -- had allowed him to walk safely through even the muddy places, for pearls did not dissolve in mud. So long as James Novak was unborn, so Castiel was innocent.
But James Novak was growing inside his mother's womb and his parents were waiting to see him. God had willed his existence since the beginning of time as he had Castiel's and their destinies.
When Castiel woke, he realised he was naked. At the moment, it did not shame him, for he had no concept of shame, but he noticed that it was a strange thing that his body went uncovered unlike every other thing around him.
The materials in Nowhere were countless and abominable, a confusion of inanimate and animate melded together.
There were clothes from every where and every time: mink coats and jeans, watches and gowns, dresses and armor, diamonds and scarves. They adorned, affixed to the bodies which remembered them. The souls that could not forget even in death the texture and grain of material, the pleasure of having them against skin. And conversely, perhaps, the cold when they were taken away.
Castiel, of course, remembered none of these things. The body that would know them had not lived in the world yet. Still, he knew the floor beneath his feet were carpeted in the softest striped furs and the table, which he had propped his arm to stand, had the soft warm glow of mahogany. Castiel climbed onto it.
Everyone was moving very fast in one direction, hats or heads bobbing with movement. He was watching a herd, or a school of fish.
"Get down from there and keep moving."
"But I-" The name was lost as the table toppled and Castiel was tipped into the warm current, smelling of spices, cologne, perfume, scent and sweat. He was drowning beneath. He was running with them. Dizzy, he closed his eyes, and suddenly realised they were running in circles on a vast circular track. The stripes on the carpet designated lanes which kept the people moving as if in an ordered current. Occasionally, there would seem like something from the corner of his eyes that descended and went upward again, the long beaks piercingly red. When he passed the polished table, which still bore the mark of his fingerprint for the third time, he leapt onto the table, stepped onto the large centrepiece and grabbed wildly at the air.
The demon screeched, but Castiel held on, his leg tripping on the table runner. The demon opened its wings and flew, carrying Castiel with him, and the long purple velvet trailed beneath them like a banner.
-=-=
He was set down, none too gently, on a bare rock at night. Castiel was too big to escape into the crack into which the demon had plunged. The pebbles broke the skins of his knees and his palms.
The wind whipped, whistling past, hurtling bits of sharp grains of sand through the air. Castiel twined the velvet against his body and stared out into the stillness surrounding him. He tilted his head to listen, but the thread of song was so soft it might have been a lullaby instead of an order, a command, or his purpose.
"Why are you weeping?" Angels did not weep. Castiel's tears stopped.
"Why are you sad?" Angels did not know sadness. Castiel's sadness was stoppered.
"Why are you afraid?" He was afraid of failure. He was afraid of God. The latter was expected, the former he wanted to bury. But the song did not know the ways of hell. It only knew to command angels. Instead of his heart, it was his grace that Castiel heard thumping wildly inside his chest. It accused him of tarrying when he did not know how to fly or swim with these four limbs or the two lungs that insist on taking choking breaths of air.
It was unfair.
He could walk the width of the island in ten steps, the cover its length in twenty. At the twentieth step, he gazed downward into a whirlpool of water, a phenomena of variegated blue and green moving so animatedly as if someone had turned a fire upside down and inside out. He took another precarious step forwards, looking down into its depth. There were so many shadows that it was like looking into a flame. For all Castiel knew, this too, could burn. He was wary of pain, now.
"I am looking for a man, but there is no ship and there is no road to take me to him."
"I will take you to him. I know every man." It seemed as if the whirlpool was speaking, though the churning of the water made it as seem that it was laughing with every syllable.
"I am looking for Dean Winchester."
"Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester..." The whirlpool gurgled the name. It echoed through all the levels of Hell. John Winchester, hearing his son's name ringing against the chains, broke on the rack. Alastair, hearing the call, smiled.
"I know where he is, jump in and I will take you to Dean Winchester," the whirlpool continued. Castiel leapt.
-=-=
"There is a man here for you," said Alastair to Dean, "He traveled a long way and not by the usual way, otherwise we could have him right here with you."
"Sam," Dean remembered. He was neither beyond pain nor beyond thought; the present was one infinite moment, his last moment- an endless stretch of time with claw and teeth tearing at his flesh.
"Our yellow-eyed friend might pay us a visit soon, then. Sam will ask to see you of course."
"Sam," repeated Dean. He breathed harshly through his nose, then drew a breath so sharp that it felt like his throat was being cut. Alastair had leaned in very close, his hands disturbingly free of wood or metal or plastic, one placed lightly against his chest, the other cradling his neck.
"You ask for him so often, yet you're so cheerless when I tell you the good news. All of Hell rings with your name, Dean Winchester. We know he came here for you."
The hands dragged across him, cutting off precise bits of shirt, skin, and flesh- Dean's last moment, variations on a theme.
-=-=
Castile's plunge had been into empty space. The whirlpool caught him and transported him. He was not wet. He was not burned. Pain was curiously absent from the experience.
He found himself in a domed cavern in front of a contraption of solid gold, the surface as smooth as a mirror. A figure in gray rags stood in front of him. The face that turned did not belong in any century or any country. It was as wrinkled as a walnut with brown blood trickled and dried around the tiny black stitches threaded into skin.
"Dean Winchester is inside," he whispered, pointing with one thin finger at the gold.
Castiel went forward and knocked. His fist sank into the soft metal. Each knock produced a clang like a clash of bells. He knocked three times.
Later, in Heaven reporting the proceedings regarding his doings in Hell and elsewhere, Castiel found himself interrogated regarding this specific moment.
"What do you have?"
"Myself."
"What did you have?"
"The command of God."
"Is that all?"
"It was enough." Castiel would answer, uncertain of the import of his statement, that he had not yet seen his own reflection, nor cared that he had one and what it might mean. Thought, for his superiors in heaven, was not a commendable trait in a soldier. Castiel's reply pleased them then.
"Enough!" The figure in hell cried out, the volume much greater than his size, "Don't knock it down. You shall see him."
The door did not open. Instead, the demon rose from the earth, yawning. He froze, seeing Castiel in his foyer.
"You are not him."
"I have come for Dean Winchester."
"You are not him," repeated the demon. He frowned, "Why are you not him?"
"I am not Dean Winchester," Castiel was patient, "Because I have come for him."
The demon glanced at the bell, the dented marks, then at Castiel. He bowed, deeply.
"You're in the house of the panjadarum of Nowhere. I do not hold the one called Dean Winchester yet Alastair said to expect one of our kin, I did not realise he meant someone like you." He chuckled to himself.
Castiel froze.
"Do you wish for a feast? Rest? Clothes? We have all the sensual delights of all past and future fantasies of men." A table laden with food appeared, then a riot of fineries and kneeling servants, carrying mantle of precious stones and sceptres of every hue.
"Dean Winchester-" He began, but the demon sighed. "They are always a bit slow," he seemed to say to no one in particular, "Only one thing at a time. Curious, isn't it, the funny thing about innocence and ignorance?"
He walked closer to Castiel, then, astonishingly, tapped the side of his head.
"I shall take you to Alastair. Be careful of your head. It's a narrow passage."
-=-=
"We have waited for days, Dean," Alastair's needles scratched little red marks into the skin, the last decorative touches around the lacerated meat, "But Azazel has not come, neither has your brother. He must be...delayed."
"Please, don't let him..." Dean's voice faded.
Alastair perked up; he thought Dean would take longer. "What is that?"
"Let me down."
"Oh," It was the boring chant again: let me down, let me go, stop. If Alastair loved perfection less, he would be bored.
"But we haven't had all the fun you are due." And undoubtedly, pleasure, too. A deal was a bargain struck both ways. The universe was a fair, fair thing.
"I can't..." At this point, Dean's pupils had eaten all the green, his skin had gone very pale. It was very dark in here, after all, and if not for the blood, it would be pitch black. As it was, the room's painted a spidery incarnadine.
"Can't what?"
"Let him..."
"See you." Alastair finished for him with a flourish. It was easy now, these last moments. He simply liked to savor. Not everyone had the grace of the hell hounds visited upon their person. The bargains of cross-road demons were mostly boring, but this one had an interesting brother and an interesting enemy. Lilith herself asked for his expertise. And even more fascinating now, even if Alastair did not know his name before, his head now fairly pound with it. Dean Winchester...Dean Winchester...He would remember it, he supposed, though it was not a very interesting name.
"Of course you'll let him see you. We'll show him just what you sacrificed for him, just what he means to you. Meant, I mean."
Dean was in his last throes, his limbs twitching, uncoordinated, but Alastair let off, allowed him to gather one gulp of breath through a punctured lung, "Don't let him see me, like this."
"What are you trying to say?"
The next words were muttered, almost silent, but Alastair heard them. With a smile, Dean's torment in hell ended.
-=-=
The passages were indeed narrow. They were also long and winding. The demon disappeared into a door that disappeared at one point and asked him to continue.
The roof grew lower until Castiel found himself crawling on the ground to move forward, his elbows and knees cramped in the small space. However, when he emerged, there was only one extraordinary creature holding a burning brand in front of a half-flayed soul.
"Alastair, I have come for Dean Winchester." Dusty, ragged, with an anger that was more impatience than resentment, perhaps that was what made Alastair turn from his work.
"Dean's not here," Alastair said, nonchalantly, "But do go look for him."
Dean Winchester had been broken on the rack a long time ago. Alastair had already forgotten about him.
"Where shall I look?"
"He's mine," Alastair said, "And I seem to remember him begin quite good. So he's somewhere around here." He waved in the general area. What Castiel had thought were black walls, he realized, were actually extensions into endless dark space.
"I need a more precise location."
"He will find you, if you know him. It's how these things work." Alastair threw back over his shoulder. He was working.
-=-=
It was lightless where Dean Winchester dwelled. Castiel had never been afraid before. The voice of heaven had long melted into the darkness. He had nothing except the impression of his grace to guide him as he ventured to see Dean Winchester, who, it appeared, was already broken, but that did not matter. It was expected that all humans in hell were broken but as long as the soul remained, they had not strayed beyond God's thoughts.
"Come," Dean Winchester said, "Come closer." His voice was low, "I'm not here to hurt you."
Castiel went closer. He couldn't see who was speaking and asked for a name.
"I'm Dean Winchester."
So Castiel found Dean Winchester. Except, now he did not know what to do.
"Stay with me," said Dean Winchester, "You know me."
Castiel did know Dean Winchester. He knew his name and he knew he must find him. Castiel looked all around him, everywhere darkness and memory of ruin and mortal deaths. He was lost. He would stay with Dean Winchester until he found a way out.
-=-=
For Castiel, who had never had nightmares or lain awake fancying phantasms he could not defeat laying in wait under the bed, in the closet, or in life, there was a strange gentleness to the dark.
Castiel was taken, there was no other word for it, but Dean's hands were smooth and cool on his forearm as he guided Castiel to a house granted to him. That, too, lay in the depth of Nowhere in Alastair's domain, but it belonged to Dean Winchester the moment he remembered his name. Every stone was saturated with the remnant of his soul that knew someone had been looking for him.
And someone had come.
No power in Hell could have denied a bartering of souls; it was the trade that had built its realms and constructed its armies. And like all mercantile powers, Hell was unwilling to lose what it gained.
That Alastair, Hell's best servant, should have been at the rack of the Winchesters was not by chance. It could not be any demon who bore a grudge against human hunters with knowledge of the supernatural. Alastair was a surety. Souls broken beneath his hands were incapable of comprehending that offerings and sacrifices exist.
But the conspiracy of the archangels was only beginning. It had bid Castiel, reduced into the shadowy form of the mortal James Novak to walk through the underworld like an offering for Dean Winchester when Castiel's form was not his own and angels were beings of light, soulless.
If Dean Winchester accepted the trade, Castiel could leave with him, leaving Hell to gape at its own foolishness. If he had not, Castiel would find another way. He had been chosen; he had been charged; therefore, he could not fail. He never had.
Hell twisted all reason and purposes until only an impression of the original was left behind and it allowed Dean to take Castiel into his house.
"Everything here that is mine, is yours," Dean told Castiel as they crossed the threshold, "You are mine, now."
"Yes," Castiel said, amiable, "I am yours."
-=-=
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue
Author: Furius
Rating: G to R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: beginning of S4
Warnings: blood and blasphemy
Word count: 5000/22500
Summary: For a soul to be lifted upwards, another had to fall. Even ending the world require sacrifices. (An account of the descent of Castiel into Hell for Dean Winchester.)
His bones lengthened, his skin expanded. The demarcation between childhood and adolescence may not be distinct and obvious in the world, where time was imprisoned by the linear strictures of eventualities but where free will was wild as any bird in a primordial forest.
In the supernatural places of the universe, time was eternal, unconfounded by mortality, but will was a thing whispered as if a shameful, erotic secret. Each place out of the world was part of a dominion, and each dominion had a lord who gave and took away what it would.
Castiel, wandering in the lonely places of Hell, could have been a child of any age, and as innocent as a child. His slight human form had allowed him to slip pass through the tired sentries at the gates undetected and the pearl of his soul -- temporarily borrowed as the vessel's body waited for its time -- had allowed him to walk safely through even the muddy places, for pearls did not dissolve in mud. So long as James Novak was unborn, so Castiel was innocent.
But James Novak was growing inside his mother's womb and his parents were waiting to see him. God had willed his existence since the beginning of time as he had Castiel's and their destinies.
When Castiel woke, he realised he was naked. At the moment, it did not shame him, for he had no concept of shame, but he noticed that it was a strange thing that his body went uncovered unlike every other thing around him.
The materials in Nowhere were countless and abominable, a confusion of inanimate and animate melded together.
There were clothes from every where and every time: mink coats and jeans, watches and gowns, dresses and armor, diamonds and scarves. They adorned, affixed to the bodies which remembered them. The souls that could not forget even in death the texture and grain of material, the pleasure of having them against skin. And conversely, perhaps, the cold when they were taken away.
Castiel, of course, remembered none of these things. The body that would know them had not lived in the world yet. Still, he knew the floor beneath his feet were carpeted in the softest striped furs and the table, which he had propped his arm to stand, had the soft warm glow of mahogany. Castiel climbed onto it.
Everyone was moving very fast in one direction, hats or heads bobbing with movement. He was watching a herd, or a school of fish.
"Get down from there and keep moving."
"But I-" The name was lost as the table toppled and Castiel was tipped into the warm current, smelling of spices, cologne, perfume, scent and sweat. He was drowning beneath. He was running with them. Dizzy, he closed his eyes, and suddenly realised they were running in circles on a vast circular track. The stripes on the carpet designated lanes which kept the people moving as if in an ordered current. Occasionally, there would seem like something from the corner of his eyes that descended and went upward again, the long beaks piercingly red. When he passed the polished table, which still bore the mark of his fingerprint for the third time, he leapt onto the table, stepped onto the large centrepiece and grabbed wildly at the air.
The demon screeched, but Castiel held on, his leg tripping on the table runner. The demon opened its wings and flew, carrying Castiel with him, and the long purple velvet trailed beneath them like a banner.
-=-=
He was set down, none too gently, on a bare rock at night. Castiel was too big to escape into the crack into which the demon had plunged. The pebbles broke the skins of his knees and his palms.
The wind whipped, whistling past, hurtling bits of sharp grains of sand through the air. Castiel twined the velvet against his body and stared out into the stillness surrounding him. He tilted his head to listen, but the thread of song was so soft it might have been a lullaby instead of an order, a command, or his purpose.
"Why are you weeping?" Angels did not weep. Castiel's tears stopped.
"Why are you sad?" Angels did not know sadness. Castiel's sadness was stoppered.
"Why are you afraid?" He was afraid of failure. He was afraid of God. The latter was expected, the former he wanted to bury. But the song did not know the ways of hell. It only knew to command angels. Instead of his heart, it was his grace that Castiel heard thumping wildly inside his chest. It accused him of tarrying when he did not know how to fly or swim with these four limbs or the two lungs that insist on taking choking breaths of air.
It was unfair.
He could walk the width of the island in ten steps, the cover its length in twenty. At the twentieth step, he gazed downward into a whirlpool of water, a phenomena of variegated blue and green moving so animatedly as if someone had turned a fire upside down and inside out. He took another precarious step forwards, looking down into its depth. There were so many shadows that it was like looking into a flame. For all Castiel knew, this too, could burn. He was wary of pain, now.
"I am looking for a man, but there is no ship and there is no road to take me to him."
"I will take you to him. I know every man." It seemed as if the whirlpool was speaking, though the churning of the water made it as seem that it was laughing with every syllable.
"I am looking for Dean Winchester."
"Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester..." The whirlpool gurgled the name. It echoed through all the levels of Hell. John Winchester, hearing his son's name ringing against the chains, broke on the rack. Alastair, hearing the call, smiled.
"I know where he is, jump in and I will take you to Dean Winchester," the whirlpool continued. Castiel leapt.
-=-=
"There is a man here for you," said Alastair to Dean, "He traveled a long way and not by the usual way, otherwise we could have him right here with you."
"Sam," Dean remembered. He was neither beyond pain nor beyond thought; the present was one infinite moment, his last moment- an endless stretch of time with claw and teeth tearing at his flesh.
"Our yellow-eyed friend might pay us a visit soon, then. Sam will ask to see you of course."
"Sam," repeated Dean. He breathed harshly through his nose, then drew a breath so sharp that it felt like his throat was being cut. Alastair had leaned in very close, his hands disturbingly free of wood or metal or plastic, one placed lightly against his chest, the other cradling his neck.
"You ask for him so often, yet you're so cheerless when I tell you the good news. All of Hell rings with your name, Dean Winchester. We know he came here for you."
The hands dragged across him, cutting off precise bits of shirt, skin, and flesh- Dean's last moment, variations on a theme.
-=-=
Castile's plunge had been into empty space. The whirlpool caught him and transported him. He was not wet. He was not burned. Pain was curiously absent from the experience.
He found himself in a domed cavern in front of a contraption of solid gold, the surface as smooth as a mirror. A figure in gray rags stood in front of him. The face that turned did not belong in any century or any country. It was as wrinkled as a walnut with brown blood trickled and dried around the tiny black stitches threaded into skin.
"Dean Winchester is inside," he whispered, pointing with one thin finger at the gold.
Castiel went forward and knocked. His fist sank into the soft metal. Each knock produced a clang like a clash of bells. He knocked three times.
Later, in Heaven reporting the proceedings regarding his doings in Hell and elsewhere, Castiel found himself interrogated regarding this specific moment.
"What do you have?"
"Myself."
"What did you have?"
"The command of God."
"Is that all?"
"It was enough." Castiel would answer, uncertain of the import of his statement, that he had not yet seen his own reflection, nor cared that he had one and what it might mean. Thought, for his superiors in heaven, was not a commendable trait in a soldier. Castiel's reply pleased them then.
"Enough!" The figure in hell cried out, the volume much greater than his size, "Don't knock it down. You shall see him."
The door did not open. Instead, the demon rose from the earth, yawning. He froze, seeing Castiel in his foyer.
"You are not him."
"I have come for Dean Winchester."
"You are not him," repeated the demon. He frowned, "Why are you not him?"
"I am not Dean Winchester," Castiel was patient, "Because I have come for him."
The demon glanced at the bell, the dented marks, then at Castiel. He bowed, deeply.
"You're in the house of the panjadarum of Nowhere. I do not hold the one called Dean Winchester yet Alastair said to expect one of our kin, I did not realise he meant someone like you." He chuckled to himself.
Castiel froze.
"Do you wish for a feast? Rest? Clothes? We have all the sensual delights of all past and future fantasies of men." A table laden with food appeared, then a riot of fineries and kneeling servants, carrying mantle of precious stones and sceptres of every hue.
"Dean Winchester-" He began, but the demon sighed. "They are always a bit slow," he seemed to say to no one in particular, "Only one thing at a time. Curious, isn't it, the funny thing about innocence and ignorance?"
He walked closer to Castiel, then, astonishingly, tapped the side of his head.
"I shall take you to Alastair. Be careful of your head. It's a narrow passage."
-=-=
"We have waited for days, Dean," Alastair's needles scratched little red marks into the skin, the last decorative touches around the lacerated meat, "But Azazel has not come, neither has your brother. He must be...delayed."
"Please, don't let him..." Dean's voice faded.
Alastair perked up; he thought Dean would take longer. "What is that?"
"Let me down."
"Oh," It was the boring chant again: let me down, let me go, stop. If Alastair loved perfection less, he would be bored.
"But we haven't had all the fun you are due." And undoubtedly, pleasure, too. A deal was a bargain struck both ways. The universe was a fair, fair thing.
"I can't..." At this point, Dean's pupils had eaten all the green, his skin had gone very pale. It was very dark in here, after all, and if not for the blood, it would be pitch black. As it was, the room's painted a spidery incarnadine.
"Can't what?"
"Let him..."
"See you." Alastair finished for him with a flourish. It was easy now, these last moments. He simply liked to savor. Not everyone had the grace of the hell hounds visited upon their person. The bargains of cross-road demons were mostly boring, but this one had an interesting brother and an interesting enemy. Lilith herself asked for his expertise. And even more fascinating now, even if Alastair did not know his name before, his head now fairly pound with it. Dean Winchester...Dean Winchester...He would remember it, he supposed, though it was not a very interesting name.
"Of course you'll let him see you. We'll show him just what you sacrificed for him, just what he means to you. Meant, I mean."
Dean was in his last throes, his limbs twitching, uncoordinated, but Alastair let off, allowed him to gather one gulp of breath through a punctured lung, "Don't let him see me, like this."
"What are you trying to say?"
The next words were muttered, almost silent, but Alastair heard them. With a smile, Dean's torment in hell ended.
-=-=
The passages were indeed narrow. They were also long and winding. The demon disappeared into a door that disappeared at one point and asked him to continue.
The roof grew lower until Castiel found himself crawling on the ground to move forward, his elbows and knees cramped in the small space. However, when he emerged, there was only one extraordinary creature holding a burning brand in front of a half-flayed soul.
"Alastair, I have come for Dean Winchester." Dusty, ragged, with an anger that was more impatience than resentment, perhaps that was what made Alastair turn from his work.
"Dean's not here," Alastair said, nonchalantly, "But do go look for him."
Dean Winchester had been broken on the rack a long time ago. Alastair had already forgotten about him.
"Where shall I look?"
"He's mine," Alastair said, "And I seem to remember him begin quite good. So he's somewhere around here." He waved in the general area. What Castiel had thought were black walls, he realized, were actually extensions into endless dark space.
"I need a more precise location."
"He will find you, if you know him. It's how these things work." Alastair threw back over his shoulder. He was working.
-=-=
It was lightless where Dean Winchester dwelled. Castiel had never been afraid before. The voice of heaven had long melted into the darkness. He had nothing except the impression of his grace to guide him as he ventured to see Dean Winchester, who, it appeared, was already broken, but that did not matter. It was expected that all humans in hell were broken but as long as the soul remained, they had not strayed beyond God's thoughts.
"Come," Dean Winchester said, "Come closer." His voice was low, "I'm not here to hurt you."
Castiel went closer. He couldn't see who was speaking and asked for a name.
"I'm Dean Winchester."
So Castiel found Dean Winchester. Except, now he did not know what to do.
"Stay with me," said Dean Winchester, "You know me."
Castiel did know Dean Winchester. He knew his name and he knew he must find him. Castiel looked all around him, everywhere darkness and memory of ruin and mortal deaths. He was lost. He would stay with Dean Winchester until he found a way out.
-=-=
For Castiel, who had never had nightmares or lain awake fancying phantasms he could not defeat laying in wait under the bed, in the closet, or in life, there was a strange gentleness to the dark.
Castiel was taken, there was no other word for it, but Dean's hands were smooth and cool on his forearm as he guided Castiel to a house granted to him. That, too, lay in the depth of Nowhere in Alastair's domain, but it belonged to Dean Winchester the moment he remembered his name. Every stone was saturated with the remnant of his soul that knew someone had been looking for him.
And someone had come.
No power in Hell could have denied a bartering of souls; it was the trade that had built its realms and constructed its armies. And like all mercantile powers, Hell was unwilling to lose what it gained.
That Alastair, Hell's best servant, should have been at the rack of the Winchesters was not by chance. It could not be any demon who bore a grudge against human hunters with knowledge of the supernatural. Alastair was a surety. Souls broken beneath his hands were incapable of comprehending that offerings and sacrifices exist.
But the conspiracy of the archangels was only beginning. It had bid Castiel, reduced into the shadowy form of the mortal James Novak to walk through the underworld like an offering for Dean Winchester when Castiel's form was not his own and angels were beings of light, soulless.
If Dean Winchester accepted the trade, Castiel could leave with him, leaving Hell to gape at its own foolishness. If he had not, Castiel would find another way. He had been chosen; he had been charged; therefore, he could not fail. He never had.
Hell twisted all reason and purposes until only an impression of the original was left behind and it allowed Dean to take Castiel into his house.
"Everything here that is mine, is yours," Dean told Castiel as they crossed the threshold, "You are mine, now."
"Yes," Castiel said, amiable, "I am yours."
-=-=
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue