[FIC] In the Secret Places of the Stairs (NC-17) 1/3 for Ze_Pink_Lady
Gift type: Fic
Title: In the Secret Places of the Stairs (1 of 3)
Recipient: ze_pink_lady
Author: thevinegarworks
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Torture, mentions of non-con, Hell being a generally scary place, demon!Dean, sexuality.
Spoilers: None; this is an AU from 5x03. Put everything as of 5x04 and afterward out of your mind while reading.
Summary: Castiel has soothed his nightmares since the first night, though Dean will never know of it. Castiel has accepted this invisibility willingly; if it helps Dean Winchester grow into his role, he will oblige without argument and with no need for recognition. He simply wants to help.
Author notes: Title taken from the Song of Songs. All of the languages used herein are the product of copious dictionary-flipping and begging for translations via a sister with a PhD in Classics; translations can be found at the end of the fic itself. Enormous thank you to my beta, M, for refocusing my attentions and getting me on the right path, and also to K, whom I love dearly. Happy Christmas, Z bb, I hope you enjoy it! ♥
Angry red flames lick and tease at his flesh, singing the tips of his wings as he maps the descending roads into the innermost chambers of Hell.
It is difficult to keep his strides even, as the road shifts and rumbles beneath each step. At times it is searing coals; other times, barbed spools of razor wire cutting into the soles of his feet. Hell is a place of tar and filth, the muck of it dripping and splattering onto him from no apparent source. As if by his purity, all the shame and blackness of the place is drawn to him. As if Hell itself is attempting to cancel him out and coat him with the impossible weight of limitless sins.
He has wandered these paths of blood and bone for what would be years if time was of any consequence in this place. The souls that lay eyes on him betray mixed reactions - some spit and curse, while others reach and claw at his ankles, his wings, the hem of a robe. Some seek salvation, while others seek revenge, and it is these corroded souls that Castiel pities the most.
He winds through an intricate mesh of old bones, tanned skins and long ropes of organs strung from hook to hook. A dark-haired woman reaches down from her place nailed to the ceiling to grasp at his shoulder, attracting Castiel's attention with an agonized plea for salvation. Castiel bows his head and extricates himself from her grip, muttering a hushed apology - he cannot absolve her soul. Angel or not, this place is not his dominion and he cannot intervene.
He is here for one purpose and one purpose alone: find Dean Winchester.
When he does, the animal tearing into the flesh before him is hardly recognizable. Castiel does not spare a glance for the mess of dissected flesh on the slab beside him. He only sighs, and when Dean spins to confront him with a blade in his hand and a warning of stay away, angel on his lips, Castiel soothes him by touching two fingers to his forehead and commanding, "Do not remember this."
In a dark-lit Oregon motel room, Dean's face smooths from a tortured pinch into a peaceful slumber.
Castiel's hands slide into his pockets as he watches the transformation. Two months Dean has been out of Hell, yet the burden of memory he carries with him through sleep is heavier now than ever. Castiel has soothed his nightmares since the first night, though Dean will never know of it. Castiel has accepted this invisibility willingly; if it helps Dean Winchester grow into his role, he will oblige without argument and with no need for recognition.
He simply wants to help.
The rest of the night passes without incident once Castiel injects peaceful scenes of babbling rivers and quiet forests behind Dean's eyes. He lingers in the background for longer than necessary, making sure Dean is content, before slipping through time and space to leave him alone with his new dreams.
~ ~ ~
They always begin again after Castiel leaves. They prod and poke at the peace he has manufactured for Dean, until finally they rip completely through the carefully-constructed tapestry and smother it beneath wet slaps of red flesh and the stink of sulfur and death.
Castiel maintains his distance as Alastair slips the gleam of a razor through Dean's abdomen. He watches with tightened fists as small wires are strung through Dean's organs and slowly tightened, as Alastair wrenches through his ribs to get at his heart and another blossoms up from nothing in its place. Through it all, Dean screams. Not desperate pleas for pity, but sharp angry things that flinch Castiel's shoulders - motherfucker, kill you, you sonofabitch, fuck, fuck you, a litany of curses bubbling with an untamed wrath. He does not intervene, even as the blade maps thin horizontal and vertical lines across Dean's face to peel away a checkerboard of flesh.
When Alastair steps back to allow his pets - debased, animal creatures formed of pure evil instinct - to force Dean face-down over the rack, Castiel leans close and bleaches the images away.
"Do not remember this," he says, as Alastair and his minions dissolve into the warm glow of a bonfire and the thundering rumble of the sea not far away.
He leaves Dean's dream before being seen and stands over his bed for a long moment. Sam is nearby, one bed over, shifting uncomfortably in his sleep. Castiel feels it is somehow wrong, that he is somehow imposing by inviting himself to stay. In the corner, the air conditioning unit shudders to silence. Dean's legs stir in the sudden piercing silence and Castiel briefly panics, but ultimately moves closer.
He does not touch Dean. He never touches Dean, except to clear his mind of the nightmares - to do so would be to breach the respectable distance built between an angel and his charge. All the same there is a vague magnetic pull which tells him to quiet Dean's fears by any means necessary. Human beings speak in the language of physicality. Perhaps Dean would better respect and understand the regard Castiel pays him if he were to communicate on a level he is familiar with. A supportive hand or a sweeping touch to map the precise curve of muscle beneath Dean's ear - Castiel does not see the harm in it.
When he realizes his hand has moved to hover just above Dean's temple, he quickly withdraws and folds it at his side.
An angel should not want to touch his charge. An angel should not want.
But Castiel does want to touch Dean.
Castiel wants.
Perhaps it is not a product of any unnatural circumstance. Perhaps all angels feel this draw to their charges; perhaps they do not. Perhaps this relentless pull toward Dean Winchester is the result of some inexplicable bond forged between a thread of his Grace and the withered strip of Dean's soul raised out of Hell, helixed together in an impenetrable chain link. Perhaps this is singular to them and them alone.
By the time morning grows into the motel room and Dean shudders awake with a grand yawn and a symphony of cracking joints, Castiel has made himself undetectable to the human eye. He watches carefully as the Winchester brothers slowly stir into wakefulness. He observes Dean lazily scrub his teeth and expertly operate a coffee machine, even as his eyes are barely more than slits. When Dean retreats to wash himself beneath a hot spray of water, Castiel respectfully turns a blind eye.
When Dean emerges, newly clean and glistening with tiny beads of moisture, Castiel's gaze crawls surreptitiously along every exposed glide of browned skin.
Dean sips coffee while Sam concentrates on his computer. Occasionally one or the other will remark on insignificant details - what's around here for breakfast? think I saw a burger joint up the road; great, start the morning off with a triple bypass - but largely they maintain a companionable silence. Castiel is relieved to see that Dean seems quietly content, despite the dark stir gnawing at his center.
For all of his outward bravado, Castiel can see beyond Dean's tight smiles and simple quips. In every moment he has watched the Winchester brothers, he has lost count of the times Dean has answered with a clipped yeah, Sam, I'm fine at the tail end of Sam's curious interrogation. Each time, Sam has accepted his answer and let it lie, but Castiel has been burdened with watching the twist of Dean's core, pained with the weight of lying to his brother. Dean is not, as he claims, fine. Castiel more than anyone knows this. From walking nightly in his tangled memories of Hell, to the background burn of his slipped hold on the brother for which he has sacrificed more than can be tallied - Dean is far more fractured on the inside than his easy smiles and cool laughter project on the outside.
The memories of Hell never leave him. They may retreat and grow dim in the distractions of daily existence, but Castiel feels their presence, a constant rattle and hum just under skin, thrumming like a second pulse.
He wonders if it would help matters if he were to manifest physically in the room with the Winchesters. If Dean would find his presence a comfort, or if he would expect some larger significance to his visit. He ultimately decides to remain hidden, but remain nonetheless.
Until Sam makes a passing remark about Dean's nightmares.
The glow of Dean's soul flares, not a pure white but a dimmed streak of muddied scarlet.
"Dude, you keep picking at a scar, it's never going to heal."
Sam's expression bridges between annoyance and concern. "What about Castiel? You said he helped you that one night."
A whip of tension settles in Castiel's spine as he awaits the response. He allows himself a brief glimmer of hope that Dean will acknowledge the relief Castiel has brought to him so many times, but that spark is crushed beneath the dryness of Dean's response.
His lips bend downward as his head shakes. "Nah, he doesn't help. Why would he?"
A resigned silence blankets the room as a small fragment of Castiel's hope buckles.
Dean does not remember. Dean must not remember.
His clarity of mind is vital to the development of God's plan. Castiel chastises himself for latching onto expectations. Such things are menial when taken into account the larger scheme.
He leaves the Winchesters alone before hearing the final resolve of their pancakes versus waffles debate.
~ ~ ~
He finds Dean at the lowest abyss dug into the wells of Hell's interior. The searing metal chains that once suspended Dean's body are still strung taut, shining with the wetness of blood as Castiel bears the vertical descent into the gaping maw of the pit.
At first there is only intersecting nets of chain and wire, but as he sinks lower the air solidifies with the tangible wreckage of agonized screams. The sounds rip and tear at Castiel's resolve. Some are frightened, while others are being driven mad in their suffering; still others sling resentful curses that reverberate through the chamber and slicken Castiel's passage to dangerous lengths.
Far down enough that the mouth of the pit is no longer visible, Castiel begins to lose his grip on the brimstone and bone precipices jutting out as ladder rungs. His steps become infrequent and careful as the ledges lose their rigidity and become slippery, viscous nubs. More than once, Castiel slips, but then Dean's screams will resound through the tunnel and he will once again regain his footing.
He continues climbing until the screams of the tormented give way to a piercing absence of sound.
The passage darkens to palpable blackness as he climbs by feel alone. He pauses on a substantial rung to utter a prayer of protection, but even as he concentrates the message into a tightly-coiled pressure and sends it in the direction of the Host, it dies just out of his lips.
This area is a dead zone, barren of anything beyond void.
The silence and blackness serve to disorient lesser souls to trap them in this vacuous absence for ages, but despite losing the sound of Dean's screams and the sight of his surroundings, Castiel holds the advantage. He can still feel Dean, and therefore follow the pull towards his soul even through the deadness.
The next level is built of rot and excrement; Castiel continues to descend, even as the very air strangles in his throat.
He climbs beyond a fluid level built of suspended blood, another built of red coal and cinder, before finally he reaches Dean on the floor of the pit - spun into a tight curl, holding the only remaining dim filaments of himself together with a pair of trembling arms tight around himself.
He shivers and shakes as Castiel approaches him. Dean; Castiel pushes the soundwave forward to herald his arrival. For a brief moment, as Dean blinks hard blackened eyes up at him, Castiel offers as much of a smile as he can bear.
But Dean snarls and swipes at his face, catching five strips of flesh under the jagged chips of his fingernails.
Castiel spins away from the contact. Raising a hand to feel the wound, he heals its gape as Dean laps at the blood slicking his hand. "Finger-lickin' good," he says with a laugh.
Castiel does not hesitate before flinging out a palm and sealing it to Dean's forehead.
Do not remember.
~ ~ ~
He continues to draw the darkness from Dean's center as poison is drawn from a wound.
The Winchesters' bond is mending, though still frail. Uriel has accused him of keeping too close a watch over the Righteous Boy, but Castiel has shrugged his concerns away with a resigned silence.
"Dean is an important charge," he maintains.
Uriel snorts his disapproval with a low grumble. "The division between protection and infatuation is clearly lost on you, brother."
"He is still weak. He still carries Hell with him and it is my duty to protect him from the pain of these memories as much as I can."
"You still have orders," Uriel reminds him. "Don't get too comfortable." And with that he is gone, folded into space while Castiel continues to monitor Dean's slow sink into fitful sleep.
~ ~ ~
When Dean finds Anna and attaches himself to her in the back of a familiar vehicle, the first term that slams into Castiel's mind is one of Dean's own he uses quite frequently: skeevy.
Castiel has never particularly understood the connotation, but he has become adept enough at reading Dean's speech patterns to comprehend the word's negative connotations. And this - this rudimentary connecting after so brief a time and such a startling lack of intimacy... Castiel cannot understand it.
When foreign fingers brush the print emblazoned on Dean's shoulder, Castiel suffers a horrid clenching agony at the contact. For the first time in his existence he loses time, whether by unconsciousness or mere surprise, and awakens lying prostrate in the midst of a swaying cattail field. A shudder passes through his soul and he knows he is bleeding. Parts of his grace are seeping out as if liquid, uncontained even as he grasps at his physical body and curls tightly in on himself.
His grace, the very substance that made him the being he is, is slowly slipping out of him.
When the bleeding refuses to staunch, Castiel lashes his mind far into Oblivion and combs the globe until he finds Dean Winchester.
He is sweating and clutching as he bucks against Anna's physical form. Despite the cloaking of her grace through a thin veil of humanity, Castiel can still recognize the flare of what was once his sister, before she elected to abandon the Host to join the ranks of a much fragiler race. Dean's eyes snap closed when Castiel slips into the cramped space of the car; he flares with a heat bright enough to sting as he coils himself tightly within the raised marks of Dean's brand - his brand, the one he placed there to seal Dean back into one piece. By outward appearances it is only simple puckered scar tissue, but Castiel imbued a measure of his grace within the wound when he sewed Dean back to completion. A maelstrom races through Castiel and therefore through Dean as well - devotion, faith, belief, affection, trust - sincere enough that Castiel is not surprised when Dean's soul sparks like a flint stone and blazes with the white fire of a sun as his body shudders, then falls slack.
Castiel withdraws from his place on Dean's shoulder to coalesce once more into a solid being.
Uriel waits for him where he stands, a grimace of disapproval heavy on his face.
He sighs Castiel's name, and Castiel bows his head in a resemblance of shame.
~ ~ ~
The repercussions of his actions are sympathetic on the part of his superiors, but Castiel cannot disregard such ravenous flares of temperance so easily.
He struggles for days, bowed on hallowed ground until the joints of his vessel's knees creak and protest. He prays not for forgiveness in his penance, but rather understanding. Understanding, and the will to maintain the objective disconnect an angel should feel toward his charge. This clutching ownership - he refuses to entertain the term desire - is something he desperately does not understand, and by all accounts should not feel at all.
When he brings his concerns to Uriel, they are met with a smug laugh and a patronizing glance. "Be careful, Castiel," are the only words he offers, but Castiel fails to see how such advice could be beneficial.
Other angels have owned charges before and Castiel considers approaching them, but the condescending cut of Uriel's eyes at the question disheartens him. He does not ask. Surely his brothers would think less of him if such a connection as he feels to Dean Winchester was in fact out of the ordinary.
Castiel bites his tongue and bides his time, while his brothers remain oblivious to the soaring heights of his devotion to Dean Winchester.
Anna has been recalled and cannot provide any advice she may well have been able to before the Archangels reclaimed her. Uriel says he can smell the stink of humanity curling on Castiel's clothes when he stands near; he laughs beneath humorless remarks about Castiel shedding his wing feathers.
He fears the disapproval of his brethren, so he huddles his secret closely and does not expose it. And even were he to have the desire, he wonders if anyone would listen beyond a reprimand on the dangers of growing too close to humanity.
There is only one who would listen without premature judgment.
Dean is carefully extracting a middle-aged man's tongue when Castiel slips into his nightmare.
He sits close by and greets Dean with a hushed, "Hello, Dean."
A wet streak of blood gleams on his cheek as Dean glances briefly over his shoulder. "What do you want, angel?"
Castiel pyramids his hands as the middle-aged man begins to retch and drown in his own blood. "Conversation," he answers honestly.
Dean snorts. "Conversation? Go talk to Oprah - I'm not interested." A short red strip flies out of Dean's hand into a sloppy pile at his side; he carefully selects a new blade and begins flaying the meat from the man's thighs.
"If not conversation, then guidance," Castiel sighs.
Dean turns and displays his blood-dark hands. "Oh yeah, I'm always good for guidance. I'm a great role model, see?"
A heavier sigh leaves Castiel's chest as new air, acrid and bitter, crawls into his lungs. "My perception has been... compromised, Dean. By you."
The man's screams ratchet to new heights as Dean scrapes the blade dully down clean white bone.
"My brothers say I've grown too attached," Castiel continues, even as Dean seems wholly unconcerned with the words. "They don't approve of my devotion to you or to humanity as a whole. They say I have become soft."
A strangled scream cuts to silence as Dean clamps a rusted pair of pliers around the man's trachea and pulls.
Castiel leans forward onto his knees and meshes his fingers. He watches Dean's back shift and tighten as he works, sawing and twisting and artfully carving. "I have loved all of my Father's creations for an infinity, but you, Dean -"
A quick clang bites through the chamber as the pliers in Dean's grip clatter to the floor. He spins on a sharp axis, boring a hard line of black eyes into Castiel as he approaches. "Don't you bring him up, you sonofabitch," he hisses, the words hard and clipped. "Your god has no place down here. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear about your holier-than-thou, righteous bullshit. I don't want to hear about god's almighty plan and all the angels up there blowin' trumpets out their asses. Just - save it, okay?"
"I didn't come here to speak of God's plan, Dean. I came to ask -..."
Dean's expression hardens, the clench of his jaw tight as he shies weakly from Castiel's stare. "Ask what?"
Castiel's gaze subverts as the words trip clumsily from his lips. "How is devotion distinguishable from love?"
Dean laughs at that, loud and bright with his head tipped far back. "Love? How could an angel love me? Angel and demon, sittin' in a tree? Stop fuckin' around, man, that just doesn't happen."
"You are not a demon," Castiel says quickly as he pushes onto his feet. Face to face, Dean's reduction into this creature does not seem so complete. Bright facets of his true self shine through below the layers of corruption. Castiel latches onto their feeble glints and holds tightly. "You are the most beautiful of God's creations, Dean - the pinnacle of divine handiwork."
A slow exhaustion settles into Dean's face as he raises and inspects his hands, front to back and over again. "I don't want to dream this shit anymore, Cas," he whispers.
Castiel bends his lips in a wistful curve and raises a hand to Dean's forehead. "Don't worry," he says. "You'll remember nothing of this when you wake."
And with that, he swipes the history of his confessions from Dean's mind forever, but not from his.
~ ~ ~
This is the first time he has walked Dean's nightmares since his encounter with Anna. He knows it is unfounded, the distance he has kept from Dean since that night, but even angels are not perfect and, as Castiel is rapidly discovering, also prey to the vices of men. Temptation. Wrath. Envy.
Dean's expression smooths as Castiel trails his fingertips along his face. He maps the curve of Dean's forehead, the dent of his temple, the soft brush of his eyebrows and the fan of his lashes that slightly tickle against Castiel's flesh. Through it all, Dean remains oblivious and peacefully asleep.
A corner of Castiel's mouth hooks up.
Envy is pointless. The random indulgence Dean satiated with Anna bears no likeness to the depth and intimacy channeled between Dean and himself. Anna was a pastime, a quick flash of physical demand that passed within an hour's span; Castiel's presence within Dean is eternal. When he raised Dean, a sliver of the grace swirling in Castiel's center was donated. Castiel used the separated piece of himself to remake Dean's body cell by cell, from the inside out and up from a molecular level.
No other creature in the whole of God's creation could claim that sort of intimacy with Dean Winchester.
When he reaches the fine rise of Dean's nose beneath his fingertips, Castiel folds his hand into his lap. He sighs as his gaze lands on the unmade bed beside Dean's. Sam is absent again, as he usually is, sneaking through dark wet alleys to sink into the demon Ruby's vices. A part of Castiel wishes to shake Dean awake right now and lay the truth of his brother's addictions bare, but his orders are not so and he fears it would somehow only make matters worse. Dean is ravenously protective of his brother. To suggest such a filthy, debased thing of him would distort Castiel's image in his eyes. He would suggest insanity, an ulterior motive, and probably several unsavory actions Castiel should do to himself. Dean would defy all reason and disregard any proof that Castiel laid in front of him, because Dean needs so badly to believe his brother is still savable.
Castiel very nearly pities him the fact, but smothers the sentiment as he feels the burn of Sam's presence quietly approaching. He leaves just as a bright slice of light cuts into the room's darkness through the open door.
~ ~ ~
Castiel wavered for a moment.
He believed he might subvert his orders and aid Dean not in the quest of the Apocalypse but in his own matters. He believed he could ride the precipice of disobedience and help Dean intervene in his brother's free-fall, help Dean, but he had been caught and now they are taking him away - taking Dean away from him.
They leave his vessel intact as they rip him from its familiar confines and drag him back. Heaven's chambers are unfamiliar now, huge intimidating structures built of light and the praise of innumerable holy choirs. They reprobate him for entertaining the thought of disobedience, and when he respectfully explains that it was not disobedience as much as it was a personal benefaction to his charge, his superiors snort in disapproval. They remind him that his orders are not to help Dean Winchester; his orders are not to think independently and act on unfounded actions. This is not the role of an angel. The luxury of choice is not an option readily available to someone in a position as precarious as his own.
They sully his wings until they hang in a dirty gray shroud, a mark of ill favor set as an example for the other angels. Do not transgress, his stained wings say. The Archangels pour holy verdicts and threats into him until he feels nearly split apart with it all. They stamp their authority on his grace and rip each thread of independence from his core, then reboot him in a new state of consciousness, fresh with orders and a fiercely loyal holy mandate.
By the time Castiel is flung back to Earth and seeps back into Jimmy Novak's body, he is a new animal. It is lost on him why he ever could have wanted to help Dean; why he ever entertained the thought of anything outside of his orders.
He is a soldier. He is not built for thought, or even action. He is built to follow orders handed down from a more privileged hierarchy than himself. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
But even as he knows this beyond any shadow of doubt, when he says, "And I certainly don't serve you," something twinges and he feels that somehow, some part of him still does.
With a sprawling wreck of shock and hurt on Dean's face before him, Castiel turns his back and walks away.
~ ~ ~
He does not understand Dean's propensity for such profound influence.
Dean is not a sinless man. He has a tangled bramble of faults stewing just beneath his flesh; he is not an ideal model for the gracefulness and sincerity of humanity as a whole, yet Castiel can think of no better representative for the fierce combination of loyalty and purpose and love than Dean Winchester. He is a perfect conglomeration of all of these things - the base, simple components that complete the prism of humanity's beauty.
Castiel thinks perhaps it is Dean's imperfections that make him so perfect, and so utterly convincing when he spins Castiel around and forces him to meet his eyes.
He thinks perhaps it is Dean's relentless tenacity to sacrifice his own well-being for the sake of others - his brother, the small band of individuals he has labeled friends, and even a global population of faces Dean will never himself lay eyes on. Dean is determined to fight the destruction Castiel's superiors want to bring; as long as there is a breath left in his mortal body, Dean will dig his heels in and plow the opposite direction than what they want of him, and Castiel thinks maybe he would find a way to keep on fighting even after that breath expired.
Dean is worth saving.
Dean is worth saving, so humanity must be worth saving. Even if all Castiel could take away from this war was Dean's soul, huddled close and tucked small and warm against his grace, Castiel thinks it would be worth the sacrifice. Dean fights for the sake of man as a species, while Castiel fights for merely one out of billions.
Choice has never been an option before. Castiel has knuckled under and followed blindly whatever string his superiors fed him, but they have never once credited him with the gift of choosing.
Dean gives him that choice.
And because there was no other way for it to ever be, Castiel chooses Dean.
~ ~ ~
He does not remember the feel of being destroyed. The vacuous absence of being unmade is not noticeable until he returns from it, remade and whole again, rewarded with a perfect replica of the body he so long animated as his own. This one is completely his; an empty gap yawns in his center where he is accustomed to keeping Jimmy Novak. He feels... alone. Irrevocably and frighteningly alone.
But alive.
Oblivion is not definable by any means Castiel possesses in his limited understanding. It is not painful, but not numb and certainly not pleasant; not consciousness, but not rest either.
He thinks perhaps he should meditate on the nature of the Oblivion he has just survived, but instead he is drawing from pure physical instinct and acting without restraint as he buries a blade to the hilt in the backs of his brothers. He brings one down easily, then another in a flood of light, until Zachariah is the only one left standing, inspecting him with a cautious glare. The vision he has returned with is much dimmed from its full breadth, but he can still detect the satisfying shrink of Zachariah's presence from him as the edges of his grace yellow and withdraw.
Castiel knows he could be destroyed at any moment. One raise of Zachariah's hand and he could be scattered back to the Oblivion he, for unknown reasons, has just escaped. Zachariah does not threaten him, though, and Castiel thinks perhaps it is the energetic confidence brimming along his edges that is making his former superior think twice.
Dean's eyes, though slit with uncharted depths of pain, find him in the thick net of shadows and lock on.
Castiel bristles with another flourish of confidence and as a result, Zachariah leaves and the Winchesters' pain retreats as suddenly as it had manifested.
Dean's greeting is not as warm as it is shocked and confused, but Castiel does not begrudge him the lack of congeniality. The world is in a quick spin of motion and pieces are falling into place that Castiel never expected or understood. He shifts close and with a hand flattened to the brothers' chests, veils them from Zachariah's sight - from all angels' sight, himself unfortunately included.
Even still, despite Dean's disappearance from the awareness in Castiel's core and despite the flurry of events he has not yet had time or chance to comprehend, Castiel feels somehow eased by the contact. His time away was an empty draw of blank void beyond the concepts of time or existence, but now, back on Earth in the present, he touches Dean and is instantly anchored. It is frightening, the knowledge that there is no source which Castiel can base from anymore. He is a renegade, a fugitive of every moment of his existence gone before, but when he extends a measure of his grace forward to carve secret spells into Dean's ribs, Castiel is secure in the knowledge that this is where he belongs.
With Dean's questing search of his face and all the armies of Heaven and Hell at his back, Castiel delights in the fact that Dean is now just as deeply marked with Castiel as Castiel is with him - carved permanent and ingrained in his very bones.
~ ~ ~
Next Part
Title: In the Secret Places of the Stairs (1 of 3)
Recipient: ze_pink_lady
Author: thevinegarworks
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Torture, mentions of non-con, Hell being a generally scary place, demon!Dean, sexuality.
Spoilers: None; this is an AU from 5x03. Put everything as of 5x04 and afterward out of your mind while reading.
Summary: Castiel has soothed his nightmares since the first night, though Dean will never know of it. Castiel has accepted this invisibility willingly; if it helps Dean Winchester grow into his role, he will oblige without argument and with no need for recognition. He simply wants to help.
Author notes: Title taken from the Song of Songs. All of the languages used herein are the product of copious dictionary-flipping and begging for translations via a sister with a PhD in Classics; translations can be found at the end of the fic itself. Enormous thank you to my beta, M, for refocusing my attentions and getting me on the right path, and also to K, whom I love dearly. Happy Christmas, Z bb, I hope you enjoy it! ♥
Angry red flames lick and tease at his flesh, singing the tips of his wings as he maps the descending roads into the innermost chambers of Hell.
It is difficult to keep his strides even, as the road shifts and rumbles beneath each step. At times it is searing coals; other times, barbed spools of razor wire cutting into the soles of his feet. Hell is a place of tar and filth, the muck of it dripping and splattering onto him from no apparent source. As if by his purity, all the shame and blackness of the place is drawn to him. As if Hell itself is attempting to cancel him out and coat him with the impossible weight of limitless sins.
He has wandered these paths of blood and bone for what would be years if time was of any consequence in this place. The souls that lay eyes on him betray mixed reactions - some spit and curse, while others reach and claw at his ankles, his wings, the hem of a robe. Some seek salvation, while others seek revenge, and it is these corroded souls that Castiel pities the most.
He winds through an intricate mesh of old bones, tanned skins and long ropes of organs strung from hook to hook. A dark-haired woman reaches down from her place nailed to the ceiling to grasp at his shoulder, attracting Castiel's attention with an agonized plea for salvation. Castiel bows his head and extricates himself from her grip, muttering a hushed apology - he cannot absolve her soul. Angel or not, this place is not his dominion and he cannot intervene.
He is here for one purpose and one purpose alone: find Dean Winchester.
When he does, the animal tearing into the flesh before him is hardly recognizable. Castiel does not spare a glance for the mess of dissected flesh on the slab beside him. He only sighs, and when Dean spins to confront him with a blade in his hand and a warning of stay away, angel on his lips, Castiel soothes him by touching two fingers to his forehead and commanding, "Do not remember this."
In a dark-lit Oregon motel room, Dean's face smooths from a tortured pinch into a peaceful slumber.
Castiel's hands slide into his pockets as he watches the transformation. Two months Dean has been out of Hell, yet the burden of memory he carries with him through sleep is heavier now than ever. Castiel has soothed his nightmares since the first night, though Dean will never know of it. Castiel has accepted this invisibility willingly; if it helps Dean Winchester grow into his role, he will oblige without argument and with no need for recognition.
He simply wants to help.
The rest of the night passes without incident once Castiel injects peaceful scenes of babbling rivers and quiet forests behind Dean's eyes. He lingers in the background for longer than necessary, making sure Dean is content, before slipping through time and space to leave him alone with his new dreams.
~ ~ ~
They always begin again after Castiel leaves. They prod and poke at the peace he has manufactured for Dean, until finally they rip completely through the carefully-constructed tapestry and smother it beneath wet slaps of red flesh and the stink of sulfur and death.
Castiel maintains his distance as Alastair slips the gleam of a razor through Dean's abdomen. He watches with tightened fists as small wires are strung through Dean's organs and slowly tightened, as Alastair wrenches through his ribs to get at his heart and another blossoms up from nothing in its place. Through it all, Dean screams. Not desperate pleas for pity, but sharp angry things that flinch Castiel's shoulders - motherfucker, kill you, you sonofabitch, fuck, fuck you, a litany of curses bubbling with an untamed wrath. He does not intervene, even as the blade maps thin horizontal and vertical lines across Dean's face to peel away a checkerboard of flesh.
When Alastair steps back to allow his pets - debased, animal creatures formed of pure evil instinct - to force Dean face-down over the rack, Castiel leans close and bleaches the images away.
"Do not remember this," he says, as Alastair and his minions dissolve into the warm glow of a bonfire and the thundering rumble of the sea not far away.
He leaves Dean's dream before being seen and stands over his bed for a long moment. Sam is nearby, one bed over, shifting uncomfortably in his sleep. Castiel feels it is somehow wrong, that he is somehow imposing by inviting himself to stay. In the corner, the air conditioning unit shudders to silence. Dean's legs stir in the sudden piercing silence and Castiel briefly panics, but ultimately moves closer.
He does not touch Dean. He never touches Dean, except to clear his mind of the nightmares - to do so would be to breach the respectable distance built between an angel and his charge. All the same there is a vague magnetic pull which tells him to quiet Dean's fears by any means necessary. Human beings speak in the language of physicality. Perhaps Dean would better respect and understand the regard Castiel pays him if he were to communicate on a level he is familiar with. A supportive hand or a sweeping touch to map the precise curve of muscle beneath Dean's ear - Castiel does not see the harm in it.
When he realizes his hand has moved to hover just above Dean's temple, he quickly withdraws and folds it at his side.
An angel should not want to touch his charge. An angel should not want.
But Castiel does want to touch Dean.
Castiel wants.
Perhaps it is not a product of any unnatural circumstance. Perhaps all angels feel this draw to their charges; perhaps they do not. Perhaps this relentless pull toward Dean Winchester is the result of some inexplicable bond forged between a thread of his Grace and the withered strip of Dean's soul raised out of Hell, helixed together in an impenetrable chain link. Perhaps this is singular to them and them alone.
By the time morning grows into the motel room and Dean shudders awake with a grand yawn and a symphony of cracking joints, Castiel has made himself undetectable to the human eye. He watches carefully as the Winchester brothers slowly stir into wakefulness. He observes Dean lazily scrub his teeth and expertly operate a coffee machine, even as his eyes are barely more than slits. When Dean retreats to wash himself beneath a hot spray of water, Castiel respectfully turns a blind eye.
When Dean emerges, newly clean and glistening with tiny beads of moisture, Castiel's gaze crawls surreptitiously along every exposed glide of browned skin.
Dean sips coffee while Sam concentrates on his computer. Occasionally one or the other will remark on insignificant details - what's around here for breakfast? think I saw a burger joint up the road; great, start the morning off with a triple bypass - but largely they maintain a companionable silence. Castiel is relieved to see that Dean seems quietly content, despite the dark stir gnawing at his center.
For all of his outward bravado, Castiel can see beyond Dean's tight smiles and simple quips. In every moment he has watched the Winchester brothers, he has lost count of the times Dean has answered with a clipped yeah, Sam, I'm fine at the tail end of Sam's curious interrogation. Each time, Sam has accepted his answer and let it lie, but Castiel has been burdened with watching the twist of Dean's core, pained with the weight of lying to his brother. Dean is not, as he claims, fine. Castiel more than anyone knows this. From walking nightly in his tangled memories of Hell, to the background burn of his slipped hold on the brother for which he has sacrificed more than can be tallied - Dean is far more fractured on the inside than his easy smiles and cool laughter project on the outside.
The memories of Hell never leave him. They may retreat and grow dim in the distractions of daily existence, but Castiel feels their presence, a constant rattle and hum just under skin, thrumming like a second pulse.
He wonders if it would help matters if he were to manifest physically in the room with the Winchesters. If Dean would find his presence a comfort, or if he would expect some larger significance to his visit. He ultimately decides to remain hidden, but remain nonetheless.
Until Sam makes a passing remark about Dean's nightmares.
The glow of Dean's soul flares, not a pure white but a dimmed streak of muddied scarlet.
"Dude, you keep picking at a scar, it's never going to heal."
Sam's expression bridges between annoyance and concern. "What about Castiel? You said he helped you that one night."
A whip of tension settles in Castiel's spine as he awaits the response. He allows himself a brief glimmer of hope that Dean will acknowledge the relief Castiel has brought to him so many times, but that spark is crushed beneath the dryness of Dean's response.
His lips bend downward as his head shakes. "Nah, he doesn't help. Why would he?"
A resigned silence blankets the room as a small fragment of Castiel's hope buckles.
Dean does not remember. Dean must not remember.
His clarity of mind is vital to the development of God's plan. Castiel chastises himself for latching onto expectations. Such things are menial when taken into account the larger scheme.
He leaves the Winchesters alone before hearing the final resolve of their pancakes versus waffles debate.
~ ~ ~
He finds Dean at the lowest abyss dug into the wells of Hell's interior. The searing metal chains that once suspended Dean's body are still strung taut, shining with the wetness of blood as Castiel bears the vertical descent into the gaping maw of the pit.
At first there is only intersecting nets of chain and wire, but as he sinks lower the air solidifies with the tangible wreckage of agonized screams. The sounds rip and tear at Castiel's resolve. Some are frightened, while others are being driven mad in their suffering; still others sling resentful curses that reverberate through the chamber and slicken Castiel's passage to dangerous lengths.
Far down enough that the mouth of the pit is no longer visible, Castiel begins to lose his grip on the brimstone and bone precipices jutting out as ladder rungs. His steps become infrequent and careful as the ledges lose their rigidity and become slippery, viscous nubs. More than once, Castiel slips, but then Dean's screams will resound through the tunnel and he will once again regain his footing.
He continues climbing until the screams of the tormented give way to a piercing absence of sound.
The passage darkens to palpable blackness as he climbs by feel alone. He pauses on a substantial rung to utter a prayer of protection, but even as he concentrates the message into a tightly-coiled pressure and sends it in the direction of the Host, it dies just out of his lips.
This area is a dead zone, barren of anything beyond void.
The silence and blackness serve to disorient lesser souls to trap them in this vacuous absence for ages, but despite losing the sound of Dean's screams and the sight of his surroundings, Castiel holds the advantage. He can still feel Dean, and therefore follow the pull towards his soul even through the deadness.
The next level is built of rot and excrement; Castiel continues to descend, even as the very air strangles in his throat.
He climbs beyond a fluid level built of suspended blood, another built of red coal and cinder, before finally he reaches Dean on the floor of the pit - spun into a tight curl, holding the only remaining dim filaments of himself together with a pair of trembling arms tight around himself.
He shivers and shakes as Castiel approaches him. Dean; Castiel pushes the soundwave forward to herald his arrival. For a brief moment, as Dean blinks hard blackened eyes up at him, Castiel offers as much of a smile as he can bear.
But Dean snarls and swipes at his face, catching five strips of flesh under the jagged chips of his fingernails.
Castiel spins away from the contact. Raising a hand to feel the wound, he heals its gape as Dean laps at the blood slicking his hand. "Finger-lickin' good," he says with a laugh.
Castiel does not hesitate before flinging out a palm and sealing it to Dean's forehead.
Do not remember.
~ ~ ~
He continues to draw the darkness from Dean's center as poison is drawn from a wound.
The Winchesters' bond is mending, though still frail. Uriel has accused him of keeping too close a watch over the Righteous Boy, but Castiel has shrugged his concerns away with a resigned silence.
"Dean is an important charge," he maintains.
Uriel snorts his disapproval with a low grumble. "The division between protection and infatuation is clearly lost on you, brother."
"He is still weak. He still carries Hell with him and it is my duty to protect him from the pain of these memories as much as I can."
"You still have orders," Uriel reminds him. "Don't get too comfortable." And with that he is gone, folded into space while Castiel continues to monitor Dean's slow sink into fitful sleep.
~ ~ ~
When Dean finds Anna and attaches himself to her in the back of a familiar vehicle, the first term that slams into Castiel's mind is one of Dean's own he uses quite frequently: skeevy.
Castiel has never particularly understood the connotation, but he has become adept enough at reading Dean's speech patterns to comprehend the word's negative connotations. And this - this rudimentary connecting after so brief a time and such a startling lack of intimacy... Castiel cannot understand it.
When foreign fingers brush the print emblazoned on Dean's shoulder, Castiel suffers a horrid clenching agony at the contact. For the first time in his existence he loses time, whether by unconsciousness or mere surprise, and awakens lying prostrate in the midst of a swaying cattail field. A shudder passes through his soul and he knows he is bleeding. Parts of his grace are seeping out as if liquid, uncontained even as he grasps at his physical body and curls tightly in on himself.
His grace, the very substance that made him the being he is, is slowly slipping out of him.
When the bleeding refuses to staunch, Castiel lashes his mind far into Oblivion and combs the globe until he finds Dean Winchester.
He is sweating and clutching as he bucks against Anna's physical form. Despite the cloaking of her grace through a thin veil of humanity, Castiel can still recognize the flare of what was once his sister, before she elected to abandon the Host to join the ranks of a much fragiler race. Dean's eyes snap closed when Castiel slips into the cramped space of the car; he flares with a heat bright enough to sting as he coils himself tightly within the raised marks of Dean's brand - his brand, the one he placed there to seal Dean back into one piece. By outward appearances it is only simple puckered scar tissue, but Castiel imbued a measure of his grace within the wound when he sewed Dean back to completion. A maelstrom races through Castiel and therefore through Dean as well - devotion, faith, belief, affection, trust - sincere enough that Castiel is not surprised when Dean's soul sparks like a flint stone and blazes with the white fire of a sun as his body shudders, then falls slack.
Castiel withdraws from his place on Dean's shoulder to coalesce once more into a solid being.
Uriel waits for him where he stands, a grimace of disapproval heavy on his face.
He sighs Castiel's name, and Castiel bows his head in a resemblance of shame.
~ ~ ~
The repercussions of his actions are sympathetic on the part of his superiors, but Castiel cannot disregard such ravenous flares of temperance so easily.
He struggles for days, bowed on hallowed ground until the joints of his vessel's knees creak and protest. He prays not for forgiveness in his penance, but rather understanding. Understanding, and the will to maintain the objective disconnect an angel should feel toward his charge. This clutching ownership - he refuses to entertain the term desire - is something he desperately does not understand, and by all accounts should not feel at all.
When he brings his concerns to Uriel, they are met with a smug laugh and a patronizing glance. "Be careful, Castiel," are the only words he offers, but Castiel fails to see how such advice could be beneficial.
Other angels have owned charges before and Castiel considers approaching them, but the condescending cut of Uriel's eyes at the question disheartens him. He does not ask. Surely his brothers would think less of him if such a connection as he feels to Dean Winchester was in fact out of the ordinary.
Castiel bites his tongue and bides his time, while his brothers remain oblivious to the soaring heights of his devotion to Dean Winchester.
Anna has been recalled and cannot provide any advice she may well have been able to before the Archangels reclaimed her. Uriel says he can smell the stink of humanity curling on Castiel's clothes when he stands near; he laughs beneath humorless remarks about Castiel shedding his wing feathers.
He fears the disapproval of his brethren, so he huddles his secret closely and does not expose it. And even were he to have the desire, he wonders if anyone would listen beyond a reprimand on the dangers of growing too close to humanity.
There is only one who would listen without premature judgment.
Dean is carefully extracting a middle-aged man's tongue when Castiel slips into his nightmare.
He sits close by and greets Dean with a hushed, "Hello, Dean."
A wet streak of blood gleams on his cheek as Dean glances briefly over his shoulder. "What do you want, angel?"
Castiel pyramids his hands as the middle-aged man begins to retch and drown in his own blood. "Conversation," he answers honestly.
Dean snorts. "Conversation? Go talk to Oprah - I'm not interested." A short red strip flies out of Dean's hand into a sloppy pile at his side; he carefully selects a new blade and begins flaying the meat from the man's thighs.
"If not conversation, then guidance," Castiel sighs.
Dean turns and displays his blood-dark hands. "Oh yeah, I'm always good for guidance. I'm a great role model, see?"
A heavier sigh leaves Castiel's chest as new air, acrid and bitter, crawls into his lungs. "My perception has been... compromised, Dean. By you."
The man's screams ratchet to new heights as Dean scrapes the blade dully down clean white bone.
"My brothers say I've grown too attached," Castiel continues, even as Dean seems wholly unconcerned with the words. "They don't approve of my devotion to you or to humanity as a whole. They say I have become soft."
A strangled scream cuts to silence as Dean clamps a rusted pair of pliers around the man's trachea and pulls.
Castiel leans forward onto his knees and meshes his fingers. He watches Dean's back shift and tighten as he works, sawing and twisting and artfully carving. "I have loved all of my Father's creations for an infinity, but you, Dean -"
A quick clang bites through the chamber as the pliers in Dean's grip clatter to the floor. He spins on a sharp axis, boring a hard line of black eyes into Castiel as he approaches. "Don't you bring him up, you sonofabitch," he hisses, the words hard and clipped. "Your god has no place down here. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear about your holier-than-thou, righteous bullshit. I don't want to hear about god's almighty plan and all the angels up there blowin' trumpets out their asses. Just - save it, okay?"
"I didn't come here to speak of God's plan, Dean. I came to ask -..."
Dean's expression hardens, the clench of his jaw tight as he shies weakly from Castiel's stare. "Ask what?"
Castiel's gaze subverts as the words trip clumsily from his lips. "How is devotion distinguishable from love?"
Dean laughs at that, loud and bright with his head tipped far back. "Love? How could an angel love me? Angel and demon, sittin' in a tree? Stop fuckin' around, man, that just doesn't happen."
"You are not a demon," Castiel says quickly as he pushes onto his feet. Face to face, Dean's reduction into this creature does not seem so complete. Bright facets of his true self shine through below the layers of corruption. Castiel latches onto their feeble glints and holds tightly. "You are the most beautiful of God's creations, Dean - the pinnacle of divine handiwork."
A slow exhaustion settles into Dean's face as he raises and inspects his hands, front to back and over again. "I don't want to dream this shit anymore, Cas," he whispers.
Castiel bends his lips in a wistful curve and raises a hand to Dean's forehead. "Don't worry," he says. "You'll remember nothing of this when you wake."
And with that, he swipes the history of his confessions from Dean's mind forever, but not from his.
~ ~ ~
This is the first time he has walked Dean's nightmares since his encounter with Anna. He knows it is unfounded, the distance he has kept from Dean since that night, but even angels are not perfect and, as Castiel is rapidly discovering, also prey to the vices of men. Temptation. Wrath. Envy.
Dean's expression smooths as Castiel trails his fingertips along his face. He maps the curve of Dean's forehead, the dent of his temple, the soft brush of his eyebrows and the fan of his lashes that slightly tickle against Castiel's flesh. Through it all, Dean remains oblivious and peacefully asleep.
A corner of Castiel's mouth hooks up.
Envy is pointless. The random indulgence Dean satiated with Anna bears no likeness to the depth and intimacy channeled between Dean and himself. Anna was a pastime, a quick flash of physical demand that passed within an hour's span; Castiel's presence within Dean is eternal. When he raised Dean, a sliver of the grace swirling in Castiel's center was donated. Castiel used the separated piece of himself to remake Dean's body cell by cell, from the inside out and up from a molecular level.
No other creature in the whole of God's creation could claim that sort of intimacy with Dean Winchester.
When he reaches the fine rise of Dean's nose beneath his fingertips, Castiel folds his hand into his lap. He sighs as his gaze lands on the unmade bed beside Dean's. Sam is absent again, as he usually is, sneaking through dark wet alleys to sink into the demon Ruby's vices. A part of Castiel wishes to shake Dean awake right now and lay the truth of his brother's addictions bare, but his orders are not so and he fears it would somehow only make matters worse. Dean is ravenously protective of his brother. To suggest such a filthy, debased thing of him would distort Castiel's image in his eyes. He would suggest insanity, an ulterior motive, and probably several unsavory actions Castiel should do to himself. Dean would defy all reason and disregard any proof that Castiel laid in front of him, because Dean needs so badly to believe his brother is still savable.
Castiel very nearly pities him the fact, but smothers the sentiment as he feels the burn of Sam's presence quietly approaching. He leaves just as a bright slice of light cuts into the room's darkness through the open door.
~ ~ ~
Castiel wavered for a moment.
He believed he might subvert his orders and aid Dean not in the quest of the Apocalypse but in his own matters. He believed he could ride the precipice of disobedience and help Dean intervene in his brother's free-fall, help Dean, but he had been caught and now they are taking him away - taking Dean away from him.
They leave his vessel intact as they rip him from its familiar confines and drag him back. Heaven's chambers are unfamiliar now, huge intimidating structures built of light and the praise of innumerable holy choirs. They reprobate him for entertaining the thought of disobedience, and when he respectfully explains that it was not disobedience as much as it was a personal benefaction to his charge, his superiors snort in disapproval. They remind him that his orders are not to help Dean Winchester; his orders are not to think independently and act on unfounded actions. This is not the role of an angel. The luxury of choice is not an option readily available to someone in a position as precarious as his own.
They sully his wings until they hang in a dirty gray shroud, a mark of ill favor set as an example for the other angels. Do not transgress, his stained wings say. The Archangels pour holy verdicts and threats into him until he feels nearly split apart with it all. They stamp their authority on his grace and rip each thread of independence from his core, then reboot him in a new state of consciousness, fresh with orders and a fiercely loyal holy mandate.
By the time Castiel is flung back to Earth and seeps back into Jimmy Novak's body, he is a new animal. It is lost on him why he ever could have wanted to help Dean; why he ever entertained the thought of anything outside of his orders.
He is a soldier. He is not built for thought, or even action. He is built to follow orders handed down from a more privileged hierarchy than himself. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.
But even as he knows this beyond any shadow of doubt, when he says, "And I certainly don't serve you," something twinges and he feels that somehow, some part of him still does.
With a sprawling wreck of shock and hurt on Dean's face before him, Castiel turns his back and walks away.
~ ~ ~
He does not understand Dean's propensity for such profound influence.
Dean is not a sinless man. He has a tangled bramble of faults stewing just beneath his flesh; he is not an ideal model for the gracefulness and sincerity of humanity as a whole, yet Castiel can think of no better representative for the fierce combination of loyalty and purpose and love than Dean Winchester. He is a perfect conglomeration of all of these things - the base, simple components that complete the prism of humanity's beauty.
Castiel thinks perhaps it is Dean's imperfections that make him so perfect, and so utterly convincing when he spins Castiel around and forces him to meet his eyes.
He thinks perhaps it is Dean's relentless tenacity to sacrifice his own well-being for the sake of others - his brother, the small band of individuals he has labeled friends, and even a global population of faces Dean will never himself lay eyes on. Dean is determined to fight the destruction Castiel's superiors want to bring; as long as there is a breath left in his mortal body, Dean will dig his heels in and plow the opposite direction than what they want of him, and Castiel thinks maybe he would find a way to keep on fighting even after that breath expired.
Dean is worth saving.
Dean is worth saving, so humanity must be worth saving. Even if all Castiel could take away from this war was Dean's soul, huddled close and tucked small and warm against his grace, Castiel thinks it would be worth the sacrifice. Dean fights for the sake of man as a species, while Castiel fights for merely one out of billions.
Choice has never been an option before. Castiel has knuckled under and followed blindly whatever string his superiors fed him, but they have never once credited him with the gift of choosing.
Dean gives him that choice.
And because there was no other way for it to ever be, Castiel chooses Dean.
~ ~ ~
He does not remember the feel of being destroyed. The vacuous absence of being unmade is not noticeable until he returns from it, remade and whole again, rewarded with a perfect replica of the body he so long animated as his own. This one is completely his; an empty gap yawns in his center where he is accustomed to keeping Jimmy Novak. He feels... alone. Irrevocably and frighteningly alone.
But alive.
Oblivion is not definable by any means Castiel possesses in his limited understanding. It is not painful, but not numb and certainly not pleasant; not consciousness, but not rest either.
He thinks perhaps he should meditate on the nature of the Oblivion he has just survived, but instead he is drawing from pure physical instinct and acting without restraint as he buries a blade to the hilt in the backs of his brothers. He brings one down easily, then another in a flood of light, until Zachariah is the only one left standing, inspecting him with a cautious glare. The vision he has returned with is much dimmed from its full breadth, but he can still detect the satisfying shrink of Zachariah's presence from him as the edges of his grace yellow and withdraw.
Castiel knows he could be destroyed at any moment. One raise of Zachariah's hand and he could be scattered back to the Oblivion he, for unknown reasons, has just escaped. Zachariah does not threaten him, though, and Castiel thinks perhaps it is the energetic confidence brimming along his edges that is making his former superior think twice.
Dean's eyes, though slit with uncharted depths of pain, find him in the thick net of shadows and lock on.
Castiel bristles with another flourish of confidence and as a result, Zachariah leaves and the Winchesters' pain retreats as suddenly as it had manifested.
Dean's greeting is not as warm as it is shocked and confused, but Castiel does not begrudge him the lack of congeniality. The world is in a quick spin of motion and pieces are falling into place that Castiel never expected or understood. He shifts close and with a hand flattened to the brothers' chests, veils them from Zachariah's sight - from all angels' sight, himself unfortunately included.
Even still, despite Dean's disappearance from the awareness in Castiel's core and despite the flurry of events he has not yet had time or chance to comprehend, Castiel feels somehow eased by the contact. His time away was an empty draw of blank void beyond the concepts of time or existence, but now, back on Earth in the present, he touches Dean and is instantly anchored. It is frightening, the knowledge that there is no source which Castiel can base from anymore. He is a renegade, a fugitive of every moment of his existence gone before, but when he extends a measure of his grace forward to carve secret spells into Dean's ribs, Castiel is secure in the knowledge that this is where he belongs.
With Dean's questing search of his face and all the armies of Heaven and Hell at his back, Castiel delights in the fact that Dean is now just as deeply marked with Castiel as Castiel is with him - carved permanent and ingrained in his very bones.
~ ~ ~
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