SPN fic: Ideal in His Grief (6/9)
Title: Ideal in His Grief (6/9)
Author: Furius
Rating: G to R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: beginning of S4
Warnings: blood and blasphemy
Word count: 14200/22500
Summary: Castiel descends into Hell for Dean Winchester.
Author's Note: The story started out as a Valentine fic. I believe it still is.
"Still here then."
Alastair did not have a physically imposing form. If Castiel had been human, he could loomed over him, but he never had reason to intimidate using a mortal body and demons of Alastair's kind did not fear the shape of things, so Castiel merely rose from his seat and stood over Dean like an inadequate shield.
"Come to gloat?" Dean asked. He sat with elbows tucked in, pressing his hand against his stomach, still expecting the cool slide of metal against skin, the toothmarks and snaps of bone of his memory. He looked at Alastair then regretted it. Castiel and his blood drenched clothes filled his sight.
Alastair waved a hand at them, "I can leave you both here for a hundred years and it could be a second or a thousand years on earth. Reflect," he laughed and stepped from the shore and walked onto the water, "Reflect in these sewers; stay on these benches; the boat merely spins in place. Does he tell you what he sees?"
Castiel's voice was still raw from screaming, "I am, as you say, still here," Castiel said, casting his eyes on Dean and refusing to look at the black water or what visions it might hold, "Time doesn't exist if nothing changes. I am here for him."
"I could almost say you've done this before, but that is impossible." Alastair sniffed, "And yet, there's a burr in the air around you. It tickles me to see it. It gives me hope that perhaps you, too, will belong here one day. Will you accept everything and wait forever for a man who doesn't know you? Whose memory of earth cannot bring him happiness? You know he is not worth it."
"I am with him for all time and through all things." He had began his journey long before a demon could call himself Alastair and wear the name to suit, "His worth is not yours to judge."
"Will you torture him, Dean Winchester?" Alastair needled, "You already are because you refuse to be happy, look at how upset the man is. But, poor boy, how can you be happy here or elsewhere? Think of everyone you saved from us and think of everyone you didn't save and think of everyone you damned to your own fate or worse."
"I saved them," Dean's had not been screaming this time, but it was very quiet when he answered, "So they won't be like me."
Alastair laughed, high and piercing, an animal sound from a humanoid mouth. "Oh, no one's like you; no one's ever so committed to the craft, to the art, and so determined to be like me. The beauty is that even if it's for a different purpose, the results is the same. It's what we care for here, results. But what is it to be? Will you torture this barnacle here? He can feel nothing if he likes- a surprisingly tough shell, for all his delicate bones and pretty eyes," Alastair's gesture was obscene, "And you really can't save him; he's not going to go away by the usual methods. But you know what I think, Deano? I think you should give him his suffering, convince him that you want to stay. Might make him go away and make our relationship a little easier. Make your life easier here. That's the important thing. You know you don't want me angry. It's hateful glued to your seat, I know, all those faces in the water and so soon after being reminded how you died-"
And Castiel understood.
"Say yes, Dean Winchester." When Dean didn't speak, Castiel touched him lightly on the shoulder until he turned around, "Have faith, I have never lied."
"Not yet," Alastair added, soft with malevolence, but he released his hold. Dean could stand. In the darkness, his pupils rippled black across the green and the faint reddish light of a faraway fire ruddied his skin, but Castiel saw the man he wanted to know, who laid his faith in him. He extended his hand to Dean, who took it unhesitating. Alastair hissed and turned away.
"He doesn't deserve it," the words echoed inside the cavern. It might have been meant for them both, but Castiel knew he should have never minded demons, especially not this one. Let them gloat, let them mock, let them distract; they were always unimportant because lies and tricks were insubstantial things. Happiness was never the stuff of an hour, a day, or a lifetime.
Dean Winchester had never needed convincing. Alastair was wrong.
Why should a man's despair in Hell be different from his despair on earth? All men desired happiness yet it only existed in the perfect alignment of their will to that of the divine. They were for God and for each other. And even here, whatever the humanity of Dean desired of heaven, no matter how quietly, Castiel would obtain it for him. In this way, a man may be lifted from Hell by an angel chosen and created for this purpose.
-=-=
James Novak was essaying a true kiss for the first time, the shape of his lips molded to seal another breath, an ecstasy so awkward and wonderful that he ignored the sudden contraction in his chest.
Subtly, quietly, in the darkness, the frame that held endless loop of discursive time shifted as Castiel took on all the limits of Dean Winchester onto the image of the inexperienced body not grown fully into himself, its fate still blank and unmapped.
At that moment, Castiel's superiors would've been surprised to learn that James Novak would be shot in the very near future.
Lashed to the rack, the first bullet had singed Castiel's hair. The second struck his side- the pain an exact replica of the ones that gave Dean the star-burst scars on his torso.
There were no chains or rope burns destined in the blood of a family that had offered itself to God and his agents since time immemorial. And yet, Castiel struggled. The rough fibers of the ropes tore the skin on his wrists and the cold metal of each link pressed bruises on his flesh. All these things, Dean Winchester knew and Castiel was learning. The acrid smell of burning flesh made him choke and his eyes leak.
"Will you go away?" Dean asked him, cupping the side of his face. The skin of his hand was cracked and bloodied, broken by the screw and the hammer that laid their marks on Castiel's body.
"No."
"But you can."
Taking a breath was difficult; Castiel was winded by the pain, shivering without volition. The torments of Dean Winchester's last hours had not been as awful as what he had suffered and endured in life. So this was agony-- fighting the urge to leave this body and to rest in the unknown-- because Dean Winchester was right, Castiel could leave, except he would not.
He had taken too long to answer. Dean took a mordant and it splattered across his chest. Blood rose to the surface, welled forth, and ran down in thin rivulets.
"I know all of this," Dean told him, meeting his eyes, "It is mine. Leave me be."
But Dean Winchester was chosen. Castiel was chosen. What was Michael's meaning: you shall wage war with your body and struggle with death? Castiel had imagined... No, it was Zachariah who had given him the interpretation: the vessel will feel strange, resurrection will be difficult. Castiel thought it referred to an engineering project, the perfect linearity had stunned him at first, but he had accepted the simplicity. How could he know that he himself shall experience the living flesh and desire its end and not its beginning?
Castiel's head ached; his vision swam. He swayed into each blow because his body was feverish, his mind bursting with staccato whispers. The abrupt flashes of pain grounded him. Dean was changing before his eyes, morphing into strange shapes. He was a clawing animal, a winged beast, a reptilian abomination, his maw filled with hooked teeth; he was a statue of black ice, a vagary within a jet of boiling water; he was blue fire that Castiel had only recently learned could burn--
"Go," the soughing was loud, "Go!"
But Castiel clung to the agony of Dean Winchester and refused. "Poor humanity-" Who said that? Castiel turned his head sharply, seeking the source.
"Why won't you go away?" The murderous ink of Deans' eyes were glistening. Castiel focused his attention on the odd shine. After a while, he realized that Dean was actually expecting an answer. The madness was passing. Dean looked human again, the clear delicate angles of his face beautifully reassuring.
"I promised you," he replied, "It was not a dream. I promised you-" He repeated, pain cutting off his words. His entire body felt wet: tear, sweat and blood sloshing inside of him and pouring out of him. The sheer volume astonished him.
"I made a promise, too," Dean finally said.
"You have fulfilled it," Castiel said.
"I'm sorry." And Dean Winchester would've been mortified to know that he could faint from relief, but he did, and there was no shame it in Hell when the angel who caught him stumbled beneath his weight.
-=-=
The solid substance that was Dean Winchester surprised Castiel so much that he almost let him fall. The wound on Castiel's thigh had not fully healed and they were both slippery with sweat and blood. For a moment, he felt the slick heat against his own skin. He drew a sharp breath, but then the sensation was gone. He was himself again.
Alistair was angry. He saw Castiel carry out Dean Winchester, his slight form unbowed beneath the weight. The bloom of pain in Castiel's leg and the sudden exhaustive joy for Dean took place where ignorance was considered virtuous. Alastair reached out to take them both, his long hands stretching, the long nails horned and twisting, snapping together in the emptiness.
"Come back, come back and be damned!" he shouted.
Ignoring the ramble behind him, Castiel carried Dean away. He didn't know where he was going, but Alastair was not the only demon in Hell and Castiel did not know the way out.
-=-=
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: 14200/22500
Summary: Castiel descends into Hell for Dean Winchester.
Author's Note: The story started out as a Valentine fic. I believe it still is.
"Still here then."
Alastair did not have a physically imposing form. If Castiel had been human, he could loomed over him, but he never had reason to intimidate using a mortal body and demons of Alastair's kind did not fear the shape of things, so Castiel merely rose from his seat and stood over Dean like an inadequate shield.
"Come to gloat?" Dean asked. He sat with elbows tucked in, pressing his hand against his stomach, still expecting the cool slide of metal against skin, the toothmarks and snaps of bone of his memory. He looked at Alastair then regretted it. Castiel and his blood drenched clothes filled his sight.
Alastair waved a hand at them, "I can leave you both here for a hundred years and it could be a second or a thousand years on earth. Reflect," he laughed and stepped from the shore and walked onto the water, "Reflect in these sewers; stay on these benches; the boat merely spins in place. Does he tell you what he sees?"
Castiel's voice was still raw from screaming, "I am, as you say, still here," Castiel said, casting his eyes on Dean and refusing to look at the black water or what visions it might hold, "Time doesn't exist if nothing changes. I am here for him."
"I could almost say you've done this before, but that is impossible." Alastair sniffed, "And yet, there's a burr in the air around you. It tickles me to see it. It gives me hope that perhaps you, too, will belong here one day. Will you accept everything and wait forever for a man who doesn't know you? Whose memory of earth cannot bring him happiness? You know he is not worth it."
"I am with him for all time and through all things." He had began his journey long before a demon could call himself Alastair and wear the name to suit, "His worth is not yours to judge."
"Will you torture him, Dean Winchester?" Alastair needled, "You already are because you refuse to be happy, look at how upset the man is. But, poor boy, how can you be happy here or elsewhere? Think of everyone you saved from us and think of everyone you didn't save and think of everyone you damned to your own fate or worse."
"I saved them," Dean's had not been screaming this time, but it was very quiet when he answered, "So they won't be like me."
Alastair laughed, high and piercing, an animal sound from a humanoid mouth. "Oh, no one's like you; no one's ever so committed to the craft, to the art, and so determined to be like me. The beauty is that even if it's for a different purpose, the results is the same. It's what we care for here, results. But what is it to be? Will you torture this barnacle here? He can feel nothing if he likes- a surprisingly tough shell, for all his delicate bones and pretty eyes," Alastair's gesture was obscene, "And you really can't save him; he's not going to go away by the usual methods. But you know what I think, Deano? I think you should give him his suffering, convince him that you want to stay. Might make him go away and make our relationship a little easier. Make your life easier here. That's the important thing. You know you don't want me angry. It's hateful glued to your seat, I know, all those faces in the water and so soon after being reminded how you died-"
And Castiel understood.
"Say yes, Dean Winchester." When Dean didn't speak, Castiel touched him lightly on the shoulder until he turned around, "Have faith, I have never lied."
"Not yet," Alastair added, soft with malevolence, but he released his hold. Dean could stand. In the darkness, his pupils rippled black across the green and the faint reddish light of a faraway fire ruddied his skin, but Castiel saw the man he wanted to know, who laid his faith in him. He extended his hand to Dean, who took it unhesitating. Alastair hissed and turned away.
"He doesn't deserve it," the words echoed inside the cavern. It might have been meant for them both, but Castiel knew he should have never minded demons, especially not this one. Let them gloat, let them mock, let them distract; they were always unimportant because lies and tricks were insubstantial things. Happiness was never the stuff of an hour, a day, or a lifetime.
Dean Winchester had never needed convincing. Alastair was wrong.
Why should a man's despair in Hell be different from his despair on earth? All men desired happiness yet it only existed in the perfect alignment of their will to that of the divine. They were for God and for each other. And even here, whatever the humanity of Dean desired of heaven, no matter how quietly, Castiel would obtain it for him. In this way, a man may be lifted from Hell by an angel chosen and created for this purpose.
-=-=
James Novak was essaying a true kiss for the first time, the shape of his lips molded to seal another breath, an ecstasy so awkward and wonderful that he ignored the sudden contraction in his chest.
Subtly, quietly, in the darkness, the frame that held endless loop of discursive time shifted as Castiel took on all the limits of Dean Winchester onto the image of the inexperienced body not grown fully into himself, its fate still blank and unmapped.
At that moment, Castiel's superiors would've been surprised to learn that James Novak would be shot in the very near future.
Lashed to the rack, the first bullet had singed Castiel's hair. The second struck his side- the pain an exact replica of the ones that gave Dean the star-burst scars on his torso.
There were no chains or rope burns destined in the blood of a family that had offered itself to God and his agents since time immemorial. And yet, Castiel struggled. The rough fibers of the ropes tore the skin on his wrists and the cold metal of each link pressed bruises on his flesh. All these things, Dean Winchester knew and Castiel was learning. The acrid smell of burning flesh made him choke and his eyes leak.
"Will you go away?" Dean asked him, cupping the side of his face. The skin of his hand was cracked and bloodied, broken by the screw and the hammer that laid their marks on Castiel's body.
"No."
"But you can."
Taking a breath was difficult; Castiel was winded by the pain, shivering without volition. The torments of Dean Winchester's last hours had not been as awful as what he had suffered and endured in life. So this was agony-- fighting the urge to leave this body and to rest in the unknown-- because Dean Winchester was right, Castiel could leave, except he would not.
He had taken too long to answer. Dean took a mordant and it splattered across his chest. Blood rose to the surface, welled forth, and ran down in thin rivulets.
"I know all of this," Dean told him, meeting his eyes, "It is mine. Leave me be."
But Dean Winchester was chosen. Castiel was chosen. What was Michael's meaning: you shall wage war with your body and struggle with death? Castiel had imagined... No, it was Zachariah who had given him the interpretation: the vessel will feel strange, resurrection will be difficult. Castiel thought it referred to an engineering project, the perfect linearity had stunned him at first, but he had accepted the simplicity. How could he know that he himself shall experience the living flesh and desire its end and not its beginning?
Castiel's head ached; his vision swam. He swayed into each blow because his body was feverish, his mind bursting with staccato whispers. The abrupt flashes of pain grounded him. Dean was changing before his eyes, morphing into strange shapes. He was a clawing animal, a winged beast, a reptilian abomination, his maw filled with hooked teeth; he was a statue of black ice, a vagary within a jet of boiling water; he was blue fire that Castiel had only recently learned could burn--
"Go," the soughing was loud, "Go!"
But Castiel clung to the agony of Dean Winchester and refused. "Poor humanity-" Who said that? Castiel turned his head sharply, seeking the source.
"Why won't you go away?" The murderous ink of Deans' eyes were glistening. Castiel focused his attention on the odd shine. After a while, he realized that Dean was actually expecting an answer. The madness was passing. Dean looked human again, the clear delicate angles of his face beautifully reassuring.
"I promised you," he replied, "It was not a dream. I promised you-" He repeated, pain cutting off his words. His entire body felt wet: tear, sweat and blood sloshing inside of him and pouring out of him. The sheer volume astonished him.
"I made a promise, too," Dean finally said.
"You have fulfilled it," Castiel said.
"I'm sorry." And Dean Winchester would've been mortified to know that he could faint from relief, but he did, and there was no shame it in Hell when the angel who caught him stumbled beneath his weight.
-=-=
The solid substance that was Dean Winchester surprised Castiel so much that he almost let him fall. The wound on Castiel's thigh had not fully healed and they were both slippery with sweat and blood. For a moment, he felt the slick heat against his own skin. He drew a sharp breath, but then the sensation was gone. He was himself again.
Alistair was angry. He saw Castiel carry out Dean Winchester, his slight form unbowed beneath the weight. The bloom of pain in Castiel's leg and the sudden exhaustive joy for Dean took place where ignorance was considered virtuous. Alastair reached out to take them both, his long hands stretching, the long nails horned and twisting, snapping together in the emptiness.
"Come back, come back and be damned!" he shouted.
Ignoring the ramble behind him, Castiel carried Dean away. He didn't know where he was going, but Alastair was not the only demon in Hell and Castiel did not know the way out.
-=-=
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue