Fic: Hellblazer - Chapter 7 [SPN/Constantine]
TITLE: “Hellblazer” - Chapter 7
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: R for violence, gore, swearing, and UST
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: None, unless you mean Constantine, in which case… all of it.
WARNINGS: Constantine-AU, pre-slash, violence, blasphemous themes, multiple character deaths (sometimes repeatedly!), borderline crack given the nature of the work.
WORD COUNT: This part 2,813; overall WIP, but prolly more than 30k, since the screenplay is almost 25.
SUMMARY: Castiel Constantine, an irreverent supernatural detective, has literally been to Hell and back. When Constantine teams up with skeptical police detective Dean Winchester to solve the mystery of the death of Sam, Dean’s brother, their investigation takes them through the world of demons and angels that exists just beneath the landscape of contemporary Los Angeles. Caught in a catastrophic series of otherworldly events, the two become inextricably involved and seek to find their own peace at whatever cost.
DISCLAIMER: Because I’m basically doing twice the stealing here, extra disclaimer is required. The characters from Supernatural or Constantine: Hellblazer do not belong to me, and the dialogue/story taken from Constantine is the property of Jamie Delano and Garth Ennis (comic), and Kevin Brodbin and Frank A. Cappello (screenplay). No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have a confession to make: in spite of my (usually) good taste, Constantine is one of my favourite movies. It is, for the most part, horribly clichéd and terribly acted (no one’s looking at you, Rachel and Tilda), but I’ve seen it a bazillion times and still manage to squeal with glee through most of it. I suppose that’s owing mostly to the strength of the comics upon which the movie was based, but the film manages to pack quite the punch, too, especially in the latter half. Anyway, my point is that I love it to bits, and had a conniption fit upon my last viewing when I realized HOW FREAKING PERFECTLY the movie could overlap with the SPN-verse. It’s kind of scary. The Castiel/Constantine jokes have been flying fast and furious in the fandom on account of that damn trenchcoat, but no one, as far as I know, has actually attempted an AU/crossover. This is basically my way of saying, “See? See? TOLD YOU!” But for what it's worth, while I've tried to follow the screenplay as close as possible (as opposed to the movie), I do on occasion follow some scenes from the film where they differ wildly (moreso towards the end).
Hellblazer - Chapter 7 by nanoochka
It’s taken Zachariah a couple days to dry out, and in that time he hasn’t been able to sleep a wink. Every time he feels tired enough to try, the voices come back and he has a horrible moment of realization that he can’t reach for a bottle of alcohol to shut them up. He misses the feel of the amulet around his neck and the burn of whiskey in his throat, but most of all he misses the silence.
Damn Constantine to Hell.
Again.
Castiel calls Zachariah’s home the shittiest apartment in Los Angeles, but Zachariah knows for a fact that this isn’t true; he’s visited worth, both literally and in the metaphysical sense. Hell, he’s lived in worse. His current place shares a few things in common with the others, though: the mess, for one thing, empty bottles and food wrappers scattered amist the piles of newspapers and periodicals that take up almost each available spare inch of surface area, but also the aluminium foil that he has plastered across every wall and window.
That has to change; Zachariah begins stripping it down, bit by bit. The foil and the alcohol keeps the voices quiet, and right now-God help him-he needs them to come through loud and clear. The thought alone is enough to send his heart racing, and for a moment Zachariah does nothing more than stand in the middle of the living room with his hands full of crumpled foil, trying to get his breathing back in check. Instinctively, he reaches for the amulet around his neck, and remembers for the thirtieth time that day that it isn’t there. If possible, the thought rattles him even more than before.
Heaving a sigh, Zachariah finishes pulling off as much of the foil as he can manage-one window should be enough-and settles himself down on the floor in the middle of the stacks of newspapers and one of Castiel’s empty, discarded cigarette packs. It only takes a moment for the voices to start flooding in, gently at first, and then overwhelming him in a flood as he begins running his hands over the most recent newspapers from the last few days, listening for names, surfing the ether. His sixth sense is the only thing that guides him now, eyes rolled back into his head and showing only the whites. The voices direct him down and across the stacks of paper, fingers probing, searching, sorting through layers of information, voices, deaths, births, every detail recorded within the last week that might help Constantine in his search. Zachariah isn’t entirely sure what it is Castiel is hoping to uncover, but if it’s here, Zachariah will find it.
Suddenly, the voices stop; Zachariah’s eyes roll back to normal and he finds that his fingers have stopped on a newspaper page-the Obituaries section. When he edges his fingers away, he sees that the voices have led him to a single name.
Sam Winchester.
While Dean goes digging around in the kitchen for the biggest pot he can find, Castiel takes the opportunity to wander around Dean’s living room, blatantly snooping. He doesn’t go so far as to open drawers or touch anything-Jesus, he isn’t that creepy, yet-but doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s curious about the other man’s life, either.
His apartment is of a modest size, lived-in but not overly messy, a little bland and cookie-cutter by Castiel’s tastes; but then again, the detective probably only comes here to sleep if he’s lucky. There could be a sign over the door reading ‘LACKS A WOMAN’S TOUCH’, if the Xbox and beer bottles on the coffee table are anything to go by, but Castiel isn’t exactly one to judge, seeing as uses jugs of holy water to spruce up his place. The only pictures appear to be of family: Castiel recognizes Sam right away, a tall, good-looking kid who even managed to tower over Dean in photos, but was undisputably a Winchester. Although difficult for Castiel to pick up on any real happiness in his face, in the pictures he thinks there is true affection in the way he and Dean look at each other, their body language, a mutual protectiveness that Castiel doesn’t understand but has seen before in other siblings. It makes Dean’s grief more real to him. Other photos feature Dean and a man Castiel assumes is his father, John, both clad in police uniforms, artifacts of happier times. The box of Sam’s belongings Dean unearthed for him from the bedroom sits on the floor near the desk, mostly filled with clothes, some pictures, a couple awards for swimming he held on to from childhood. The sparseness of it gives Castiel a pang of sadness for Dean that he throws off, ruthlessly.
Dean returns carrying a giant roasting pan filled with water, but only raises an eyebrow when he catches Castiel out in the midst of his investigation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know whether this was supposed to be hot or cold,” he says, using the pan to gesture vaguely. The water sloshes back and forth.
Shrugging, Castiel drags Dean’s wooden desk chair into the middle of the room. “Doesn’t matter. Just put it in front of the chair.”
He does, muttering, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and Castiel smiles a little.
Indicating the cardboard box, Castiel asks, “These are all of Sam’s belongings?”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, and he wipes the palms of his hands off on his jeans. “There’s not much.”
Castiel notices that a grey cat has been following close to Dean’s heels since they arrived, twining around his feet and mewling constantly for attention or food or whatever it is cats want that makes them so annoying. A thought occurs to him. “How about the cat?”
Dean says, “Who, Bones?” and Castiel snorts a chuckle. It makes Dean smile, though he obviously doesn’t get what’s funny. “Yeah, why?”
“Bones,” is all Castiel says, deadpan, and at this Dean affords him the first real grin Castiel’s seen him make since they first laid eyes on each other. It’s quite the sight.
“Oh, you think that’s strange,” Dean quips, but he watches as Castiel disregards the box of items, and picks up the cat instead.
“Cats are good,” Castiel explains, cradling Bones carefully in his hands and going over to the chair. “Half-in, half-out anyway.” He sits down and looks at Bones’s green eyes as the cat regards him calmly back, totally unconcerned.
Crouching in front of the chair, Dean reaches up and ruffles the fur on Bones’s nape, fingers brushing Castiel’s. “If this is some kind of spell or something,” he says glibly, “don’t you need candles and a pentagram for it to work?”
Enjoying the warmth of Dean’s fingers, Castiel levels the detective with his best look of irony. “Why, do you have any?” He sinks his feet-shoes, socks and all-into the pan of water, and moderately savours the way Dean’s widen and flick up to his in surprise.
“This is crazy,” he informs Castiel.
“Yeah.” He pauses, and shifts the cat so that Dean gets the message to let go. He knows the detective won’t like what he has to say next, but there’s a certain way of doing these things and Castiel isn’t so far gone that he would fuck up the process just for the sake of Dean’s ego. As far as visiting Hell goes, improvisation isn’t something which which Castiel likes to experiment. “I need you to leave,” he tells Dean solemnly and nods in the direction of the hallway.
“I’m sorry?” Dean responds, predictably.
“Dean, please,” says Castiel, and resorts to staring the man down until Dean gives an angry sigh and stands, albeit reluctantly.
Looking back at Castiel and Bones sitting in the middle of his living room, shirtsleeves rolled up in a way that can only mean business like Dean doesn’t even know what, he forgoes the impulse to say anything else regarding how crazy or nuts or weird this all is, because that much, at least, has been pretty well established by now. From Castiel’s expression, Dean thinks the other man might want to get on with it already, and so he takes just a second to glare back before withdrawing.
Hovering somewhere near the front door, Dean hears Castiel say, pointedly, “The apartment, Dean.”
“Be careful with that cat,” Dean snaps back, and with that he opens the door and goes to stand out in the hall.
From what he’s seen, Castiel estimates that Dean’s curiosity will get the better of him sometime within the next thirty seconds; he wouldn’t be a good cop if it didn’t. Although Dean will perceive no more than the passing of a split instant, times moves a bit differently where Castiel is going. The less he drags it out, the better-for everyone.
As such, he rolls his shoulders and gets to work, lifting the cat up to face-level and staring into its huge, unblinking eyes. Each time he does this-which admittedly is not often, because how often can he be expected to visit Hell in one lifetime?-there is the same moment of uncertainty wherein Castiel is unsure whether the ritual is working; but then all the air in the room seems to go sluggish and murky, and he knows it’s happening. For a moment he and the animal seem to connect: time slows and the water around Castiel’s feet begins to bubble, then boil, and the room literally flickers around him, caught in a ghostly, dim half-light that lets him know he has crossed over.
The layout of the apartment is unchanged, but the decorator is very different. As Castiel releases the cat and gets to his feet, he sees that the wall behind him has been torn away, leaving the room looking like a half-destroyed structure from the middle of a warzone. Castiel inhales a deep, shaky breath; instead of the Los Angeles skylight at night is an angry, red landscape of a bombed-out metropolis, an intersecting maze of crumbling, disintegrating freeways and highway overpasses. Burt-out husks of vehicles sit in row after row of eternal gridlock, while the cityline is no more than a haze of felled skyscrapers and empty craters of land. There is a low, insistent drone that penetrates the silence, and Castiel moves towards it, stepping over the wall and into Hell.
On the horizon is a bloated, dying, red sun, and Castiel walks in that direction even as its light struggles to cut through the putrid brown haze. All around him are the torn, writhing figures of the damned, a sea of half-destroyed and half-mad humanity spurred on by legions of monsters and demons more terrible than Castiel thinks the human mind is even equipped to envision. They ignore him for the most part, too caught up in their neverending torment to pay him much mind, so Castiel addresses his question out into the open.
“Is he here?”
His voice reverberates into infinity, and he continues calling out for Sam as he picks his way through the treacherous terrain, stepping over mutilated souls and grasping hands, faces registering everything from grief to agony to utter numbness.
“IS HE HERE?”
As Castiel’s voice increases in volume, so does that low drone, rising in pitch until the sound seems fit to envelop him. Over the next ridge he can see a huge, blanketing darkness crawling over the cityscape, closing in. This is the most unsafe place imaginable for the living, and Castiel’s walking straight into it.
“It’s a simple question!” he bellows out. “Is Sam Winchester here or not?!”
Suddenly, Castiel locks onto something far off in the distance, a male figure standing at the top of a decimated skyscraper. He is tall, shaggy-haired and wearing a pristine hospital patient’s uniform, and although Castiel can’t make out his face, he knows who it is, and knows he’s looking right at him.
“Sam?” he says, for good measure. The darkness continues to approach, with it the forms of demons beginning to manifest, and Castiel quickens his step. “Sam!” The demons emerge, fully-formed, and give chase; Castiel sets off for the lone figure at a dead run.
Distantly, he hears Sam say, “Constantine,” and then lift something off his wrist which he tosses it into the air. Castiel watches as the small object tumbles towards him on the rank breeze, only just managing to outrun the moving, liquid darkness. When it’s just within reach, Castiel sucks in a breath and leaps with every ounce of strength he’s got, reaching to scatch it out of the air as the demonic hoarde catches up. It’s a hospital bracelet-it twines around his fingers and then Castiel is crashing onto the carpet of the living room.
“Dean!” he shouts.
The sound draws the detective back inside, looking panicked, and at the same moment Bones decides he’s had enough of this shit and scampers into the hallway.
“Jesus,” exclaims Dean as he finds Castiel lying on the floor, pan of water almost all boiled out and smoke rising off of his skin like a hastily put-out campfire. The air smells singed. Dean is at his side in a second and tries to roll Castiel over, but he curses and snatches back his hands as the heat from Castiel’s body and clothes burns his hands. “Cas, what happened?”
Coughing, Castiel opens his hand and presses the hospital band into Dean’s palm, wrapping his fingers around it. The name ‘SAM WINCHESTER’ is there with perfect clarity, and the sight completely floors Dean, even as a semi-convert. What’s unnecessary is an explanation for what it means; Castiel knows Dean understands, that his brother killed himself and is damned to Perdition.
Still clutching at the band as well as Castiel’s fingers, Dean makes a low, painful noise and seems to collapse in on himself as whatever was previously holding him together disintegrates. His breathing goes ragged and harsh, and the look of sheer brokenness on his face rattles Castiel more than he cares to admit. Not knowing what else to do, he lifts his free hand and settles it upon Dean’s shoulder, squeezing. To his surprise, the contact seems to open a floodgate of emotion, and Dean fully collapses into his arms, shoulders heaving in silence as he wrestles between letting go and getting a grip. It’s been an age since Castiel has been this close to anyone, and the floor is hardly an ideal place for it; but the feel of Dean’s face and hot breath against his neck is far from unpleasant, and releases something slow and protective in Castiel that he’s been struggling to pinpoint all evening.
He finds his hand carding through Dean’s hair, whispering, “It’s okay,” in a rough voice as the shudders eventually begin to subside and Dean composes himself.
Into Castiel’s throat, he says, “How? How is this possible?” When Castiel just swallows, Dean pulls back slightly and forces himself-forces them both-to make eye contact. Castiel tries not to stare, because even crying and messy Dean breaks his heart a little, but mostly he fails. “How did you do this?”
For a moment, Castiel isn’t sure how to respond; the answer is not only complicated and long, but revealing. It’s one thing to try and remain calm with another man crying in your arms, and quite another to return the favour by pouring out one’s life story. The last person Castiel shared his history with was probably Zachariah, and at the time the old psychic had just intuited the whole thing; from there he’s sort of counted on the rest of it to make its way around the gossip circles of the underworld. Castiel’s never told anyone about himself personally, and he almost can’t believe he’s starting to consider it.
Smothering a cough, Castiel extricates himself from Dean as gently as possible and pulls himself to his feet before extending a hand to help Dean up as well. He misses the warmth as the sweat on his skin begins to cool, but fuck-this is all getting a bit ridiculous, he thinks. He can tell by the flush across Dean’s cheekbones and bitten lips that the cop is a little embarrassed as well, though Castiel doesn’t blame him for reacting to the news of his brother’s damnation in such a way. Normal people feel grief, and it isn’t Castiel’s place to judge just because he convinced himself he was immune to sadness a long time ago. But all the same, definitely better to put the big girl panties back on and move this onto safer ground.
“Okay,” he says eventually, and mentally curses himself for the decision as soon as the words are past his lips. “I’ll tell you, but I’m going to need a drink.”
Chapter Eight
AUTHOR: nanoochka
RATING: R for violence, gore, swearing, and UST
PAIRINGS: Dean/Castiel
SPOILERS: None, unless you mean Constantine, in which case… all of it.
WARNINGS: Constantine-AU, pre-slash, violence, blasphemous themes, multiple character deaths (sometimes repeatedly!), borderline crack given the nature of the work.
WORD COUNT: This part 2,813; overall WIP, but prolly more than 30k, since the screenplay is almost 25.
SUMMARY: Castiel Constantine, an irreverent supernatural detective, has literally been to Hell and back. When Constantine teams up with skeptical police detective Dean Winchester to solve the mystery of the death of Sam, Dean’s brother, their investigation takes them through the world of demons and angels that exists just beneath the landscape of contemporary Los Angeles. Caught in a catastrophic series of otherworldly events, the two become inextricably involved and seek to find their own peace at whatever cost.
DISCLAIMER: Because I’m basically doing twice the stealing here, extra disclaimer is required. The characters from Supernatural or Constantine: Hellblazer do not belong to me, and the dialogue/story taken from Constantine is the property of Jamie Delano and Garth Ennis (comic), and Kevin Brodbin and Frank A. Cappello (screenplay). No infringement intended.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have a confession to make: in spite of my (usually) good taste, Constantine is one of my favourite movies. It is, for the most part, horribly clichéd and terribly acted (no one’s looking at you, Rachel and Tilda), but I’ve seen it a bazillion times and still manage to squeal with glee through most of it. I suppose that’s owing mostly to the strength of the comics upon which the movie was based, but the film manages to pack quite the punch, too, especially in the latter half. Anyway, my point is that I love it to bits, and had a conniption fit upon my last viewing when I realized HOW FREAKING PERFECTLY the movie could overlap with the SPN-verse. It’s kind of scary. The Castiel/Constantine jokes have been flying fast and furious in the fandom on account of that damn trenchcoat, but no one, as far as I know, has actually attempted an AU/crossover. This is basically my way of saying, “See? See? TOLD YOU!” But for what it's worth, while I've tried to follow the screenplay as close as possible (as opposed to the movie), I do on occasion follow some scenes from the film where they differ wildly (moreso towards the end).
Hellblazer - Chapter 7 by nanoochka
It’s taken Zachariah a couple days to dry out, and in that time he hasn’t been able to sleep a wink. Every time he feels tired enough to try, the voices come back and he has a horrible moment of realization that he can’t reach for a bottle of alcohol to shut them up. He misses the feel of the amulet around his neck and the burn of whiskey in his throat, but most of all he misses the silence.
Damn Constantine to Hell.
Again.
Castiel calls Zachariah’s home the shittiest apartment in Los Angeles, but Zachariah knows for a fact that this isn’t true; he’s visited worth, both literally and in the metaphysical sense. Hell, he’s lived in worse. His current place shares a few things in common with the others, though: the mess, for one thing, empty bottles and food wrappers scattered amist the piles of newspapers and periodicals that take up almost each available spare inch of surface area, but also the aluminium foil that he has plastered across every wall and window.
That has to change; Zachariah begins stripping it down, bit by bit. The foil and the alcohol keeps the voices quiet, and right now-God help him-he needs them to come through loud and clear. The thought alone is enough to send his heart racing, and for a moment Zachariah does nothing more than stand in the middle of the living room with his hands full of crumpled foil, trying to get his breathing back in check. Instinctively, he reaches for the amulet around his neck, and remembers for the thirtieth time that day that it isn’t there. If possible, the thought rattles him even more than before.
Heaving a sigh, Zachariah finishes pulling off as much of the foil as he can manage-one window should be enough-and settles himself down on the floor in the middle of the stacks of newspapers and one of Castiel’s empty, discarded cigarette packs. It only takes a moment for the voices to start flooding in, gently at first, and then overwhelming him in a flood as he begins running his hands over the most recent newspapers from the last few days, listening for names, surfing the ether. His sixth sense is the only thing that guides him now, eyes rolled back into his head and showing only the whites. The voices direct him down and across the stacks of paper, fingers probing, searching, sorting through layers of information, voices, deaths, births, every detail recorded within the last week that might help Constantine in his search. Zachariah isn’t entirely sure what it is Castiel is hoping to uncover, but if it’s here, Zachariah will find it.
Suddenly, the voices stop; Zachariah’s eyes roll back to normal and he finds that his fingers have stopped on a newspaper page-the Obituaries section. When he edges his fingers away, he sees that the voices have led him to a single name.
Sam Winchester.
While Dean goes digging around in the kitchen for the biggest pot he can find, Castiel takes the opportunity to wander around Dean’s living room, blatantly snooping. He doesn’t go so far as to open drawers or touch anything-Jesus, he isn’t that creepy, yet-but doesn’t bother to hide the fact that he’s curious about the other man’s life, either.
His apartment is of a modest size, lived-in but not overly messy, a little bland and cookie-cutter by Castiel’s tastes; but then again, the detective probably only comes here to sleep if he’s lucky. There could be a sign over the door reading ‘LACKS A WOMAN’S TOUCH’, if the Xbox and beer bottles on the coffee table are anything to go by, but Castiel isn’t exactly one to judge, seeing as uses jugs of holy water to spruce up his place. The only pictures appear to be of family: Castiel recognizes Sam right away, a tall, good-looking kid who even managed to tower over Dean in photos, but was undisputably a Winchester. Although difficult for Castiel to pick up on any real happiness in his face, in the pictures he thinks there is true affection in the way he and Dean look at each other, their body language, a mutual protectiveness that Castiel doesn’t understand but has seen before in other siblings. It makes Dean’s grief more real to him. Other photos feature Dean and a man Castiel assumes is his father, John, both clad in police uniforms, artifacts of happier times. The box of Sam’s belongings Dean unearthed for him from the bedroom sits on the floor near the desk, mostly filled with clothes, some pictures, a couple awards for swimming he held on to from childhood. The sparseness of it gives Castiel a pang of sadness for Dean that he throws off, ruthlessly.
Dean returns carrying a giant roasting pan filled with water, but only raises an eyebrow when he catches Castiel out in the midst of his investigation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know whether this was supposed to be hot or cold,” he says, using the pan to gesture vaguely. The water sloshes back and forth.
Shrugging, Castiel drags Dean’s wooden desk chair into the middle of the room. “Doesn’t matter. Just put it in front of the chair.”
He does, muttering, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” and Castiel smiles a little.
Indicating the cardboard box, Castiel asks, “These are all of Sam’s belongings?”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, and he wipes the palms of his hands off on his jeans. “There’s not much.”
Castiel notices that a grey cat has been following close to Dean’s heels since they arrived, twining around his feet and mewling constantly for attention or food or whatever it is cats want that makes them so annoying. A thought occurs to him. “How about the cat?”
Dean says, “Who, Bones?” and Castiel snorts a chuckle. It makes Dean smile, though he obviously doesn’t get what’s funny. “Yeah, why?”
“Bones,” is all Castiel says, deadpan, and at this Dean affords him the first real grin Castiel’s seen him make since they first laid eyes on each other. It’s quite the sight.
“Oh, you think that’s strange,” Dean quips, but he watches as Castiel disregards the box of items, and picks up the cat instead.
“Cats are good,” Castiel explains, cradling Bones carefully in his hands and going over to the chair. “Half-in, half-out anyway.” He sits down and looks at Bones’s green eyes as the cat regards him calmly back, totally unconcerned.
Crouching in front of the chair, Dean reaches up and ruffles the fur on Bones’s nape, fingers brushing Castiel’s. “If this is some kind of spell or something,” he says glibly, “don’t you need candles and a pentagram for it to work?”
Enjoying the warmth of Dean’s fingers, Castiel levels the detective with his best look of irony. “Why, do you have any?” He sinks his feet-shoes, socks and all-into the pan of water, and moderately savours the way Dean’s widen and flick up to his in surprise.
“This is crazy,” he informs Castiel.
“Yeah.” He pauses, and shifts the cat so that Dean gets the message to let go. He knows the detective won’t like what he has to say next, but there’s a certain way of doing these things and Castiel isn’t so far gone that he would fuck up the process just for the sake of Dean’s ego. As far as visiting Hell goes, improvisation isn’t something which which Castiel likes to experiment. “I need you to leave,” he tells Dean solemnly and nods in the direction of the hallway.
“I’m sorry?” Dean responds, predictably.
“Dean, please,” says Castiel, and resorts to staring the man down until Dean gives an angry sigh and stands, albeit reluctantly.
Looking back at Castiel and Bones sitting in the middle of his living room, shirtsleeves rolled up in a way that can only mean business like Dean doesn’t even know what, he forgoes the impulse to say anything else regarding how crazy or nuts or weird this all is, because that much, at least, has been pretty well established by now. From Castiel’s expression, Dean thinks the other man might want to get on with it already, and so he takes just a second to glare back before withdrawing.
Hovering somewhere near the front door, Dean hears Castiel say, pointedly, “The apartment, Dean.”
“Be careful with that cat,” Dean snaps back, and with that he opens the door and goes to stand out in the hall.
From what he’s seen, Castiel estimates that Dean’s curiosity will get the better of him sometime within the next thirty seconds; he wouldn’t be a good cop if it didn’t. Although Dean will perceive no more than the passing of a split instant, times moves a bit differently where Castiel is going. The less he drags it out, the better-for everyone.
As such, he rolls his shoulders and gets to work, lifting the cat up to face-level and staring into its huge, unblinking eyes. Each time he does this-which admittedly is not often, because how often can he be expected to visit Hell in one lifetime?-there is the same moment of uncertainty wherein Castiel is unsure whether the ritual is working; but then all the air in the room seems to go sluggish and murky, and he knows it’s happening. For a moment he and the animal seem to connect: time slows and the water around Castiel’s feet begins to bubble, then boil, and the room literally flickers around him, caught in a ghostly, dim half-light that lets him know he has crossed over.
The layout of the apartment is unchanged, but the decorator is very different. As Castiel releases the cat and gets to his feet, he sees that the wall behind him has been torn away, leaving the room looking like a half-destroyed structure from the middle of a warzone. Castiel inhales a deep, shaky breath; instead of the Los Angeles skylight at night is an angry, red landscape of a bombed-out metropolis, an intersecting maze of crumbling, disintegrating freeways and highway overpasses. Burt-out husks of vehicles sit in row after row of eternal gridlock, while the cityline is no more than a haze of felled skyscrapers and empty craters of land. There is a low, insistent drone that penetrates the silence, and Castiel moves towards it, stepping over the wall and into Hell.
On the horizon is a bloated, dying, red sun, and Castiel walks in that direction even as its light struggles to cut through the putrid brown haze. All around him are the torn, writhing figures of the damned, a sea of half-destroyed and half-mad humanity spurred on by legions of monsters and demons more terrible than Castiel thinks the human mind is even equipped to envision. They ignore him for the most part, too caught up in their neverending torment to pay him much mind, so Castiel addresses his question out into the open.
“Is he here?”
His voice reverberates into infinity, and he continues calling out for Sam as he picks his way through the treacherous terrain, stepping over mutilated souls and grasping hands, faces registering everything from grief to agony to utter numbness.
“IS HE HERE?”
As Castiel’s voice increases in volume, so does that low drone, rising in pitch until the sound seems fit to envelop him. Over the next ridge he can see a huge, blanketing darkness crawling over the cityscape, closing in. This is the most unsafe place imaginable for the living, and Castiel’s walking straight into it.
“It’s a simple question!” he bellows out. “Is Sam Winchester here or not?!”
Suddenly, Castiel locks onto something far off in the distance, a male figure standing at the top of a decimated skyscraper. He is tall, shaggy-haired and wearing a pristine hospital patient’s uniform, and although Castiel can’t make out his face, he knows who it is, and knows he’s looking right at him.
“Sam?” he says, for good measure. The darkness continues to approach, with it the forms of demons beginning to manifest, and Castiel quickens his step. “Sam!” The demons emerge, fully-formed, and give chase; Castiel sets off for the lone figure at a dead run.
Distantly, he hears Sam say, “Constantine,” and then lift something off his wrist which he tosses it into the air. Castiel watches as the small object tumbles towards him on the rank breeze, only just managing to outrun the moving, liquid darkness. When it’s just within reach, Castiel sucks in a breath and leaps with every ounce of strength he’s got, reaching to scatch it out of the air as the demonic hoarde catches up. It’s a hospital bracelet-it twines around his fingers and then Castiel is crashing onto the carpet of the living room.
“Dean!” he shouts.
The sound draws the detective back inside, looking panicked, and at the same moment Bones decides he’s had enough of this shit and scampers into the hallway.
“Jesus,” exclaims Dean as he finds Castiel lying on the floor, pan of water almost all boiled out and smoke rising off of his skin like a hastily put-out campfire. The air smells singed. Dean is at his side in a second and tries to roll Castiel over, but he curses and snatches back his hands as the heat from Castiel’s body and clothes burns his hands. “Cas, what happened?”
Coughing, Castiel opens his hand and presses the hospital band into Dean’s palm, wrapping his fingers around it. The name ‘SAM WINCHESTER’ is there with perfect clarity, and the sight completely floors Dean, even as a semi-convert. What’s unnecessary is an explanation for what it means; Castiel knows Dean understands, that his brother killed himself and is damned to Perdition.
Still clutching at the band as well as Castiel’s fingers, Dean makes a low, painful noise and seems to collapse in on himself as whatever was previously holding him together disintegrates. His breathing goes ragged and harsh, and the look of sheer brokenness on his face rattles Castiel more than he cares to admit. Not knowing what else to do, he lifts his free hand and settles it upon Dean’s shoulder, squeezing. To his surprise, the contact seems to open a floodgate of emotion, and Dean fully collapses into his arms, shoulders heaving in silence as he wrestles between letting go and getting a grip. It’s been an age since Castiel has been this close to anyone, and the floor is hardly an ideal place for it; but the feel of Dean’s face and hot breath against his neck is far from unpleasant, and releases something slow and protective in Castiel that he’s been struggling to pinpoint all evening.
He finds his hand carding through Dean’s hair, whispering, “It’s okay,” in a rough voice as the shudders eventually begin to subside and Dean composes himself.
Into Castiel’s throat, he says, “How? How is this possible?” When Castiel just swallows, Dean pulls back slightly and forces himself-forces them both-to make eye contact. Castiel tries not to stare, because even crying and messy Dean breaks his heart a little, but mostly he fails. “How did you do this?”
For a moment, Castiel isn’t sure how to respond; the answer is not only complicated and long, but revealing. It’s one thing to try and remain calm with another man crying in your arms, and quite another to return the favour by pouring out one’s life story. The last person Castiel shared his history with was probably Zachariah, and at the time the old psychic had just intuited the whole thing; from there he’s sort of counted on the rest of it to make its way around the gossip circles of the underworld. Castiel’s never told anyone about himself personally, and he almost can’t believe he’s starting to consider it.
Smothering a cough, Castiel extricates himself from Dean as gently as possible and pulls himself to his feet before extending a hand to help Dean up as well. He misses the warmth as the sweat on his skin begins to cool, but fuck-this is all getting a bit ridiculous, he thinks. He can tell by the flush across Dean’s cheekbones and bitten lips that the cop is a little embarrassed as well, though Castiel doesn’t blame him for reacting to the news of his brother’s damnation in such a way. Normal people feel grief, and it isn’t Castiel’s place to judge just because he convinced himself he was immune to sadness a long time ago. But all the same, definitely better to put the big girl panties back on and move this onto safer ground.
“Okay,” he says eventually, and mentally curses himself for the decision as soon as the words are past his lips. “I’ll tell you, but I’m going to need a drink.”
Chapter Eight