dean/castiel: and i have never felt quite this close (to hell): (1/1)
title; and I have never felt quite this close (to hell)
author; fiveto_midnight
beta; the ever amazing matryoshkha ♥
recipient; reality0junkie
rating; r
fandom; supernatural
warnings; violence, blood, some gore,
genre(s); gen/drama/horror; pre-slash
character(s)/pairing(s); dean/castiel pre-slash; gabriel, anna, sam, zachariah,
word count; 4,733
spoilers; through 4.17, 4.20 and 5.22,
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; yeah, so so sorry for this being so incredibly late! I got a bit of troubles with rl, so it took a while actually getting to the fic document and finishing it off. However, here it is, after all this time, written for reality0junkie at the castielfest exchange! ♥also should be mentioned that the outline of Hell as seen here is inspired by Dante Alighieri’s render of it, as seen in the Inferno part of The Divine Comedy. It was hard choosing between the prompts, but finally I chose to mix up the “Castiel wakes up. And everything was just a dream. But if it was just a dream, why does it feel like there's someone out there calling to him?” and “AU’S” ones. Originally, I had meant to include a dean/castiel pairing, but this fic just didn’t want to have it, I really hope it’s okay nonetheless, and that you like it! title from hawksley workman's smoke baby
summary; dreams are the leftovers of impressions the brain has picked up, but never processed, during the day. most of the time they’re too vague to remember at all, or a recollection of too many events and time stamps, and at other times they’re almost painstakingly clear.
”I had... the strangest dream,” Castiel admits when he comes down to the kitchen, followed by his older brother’s scrutinize.
Gabriel, with a hint of a frown in his eyes, asks who the hell with a striped shirt had intruded on his mind during the night.
Castiel cocks his head at that, frowning as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, thoughts vaguely unclear around the edges. “No one wore a striped shirt, Gabriel.”
Gabriel raises an eyebrow slowly, before sticking his head into the refrigerator again.
“Baseball mask?” His voice is muffled, barely carrying to the other side of the room.
Castiel shakes his head, suddenly realizing what his brother is talking about.
“It wasn’t a nightmare… in that sense,” he says, sitting down at the end of the table. He fixes his gaze on Gabriel, who sits down at the other end, now in the process of soaking a piece of toast in peanut butter and jelly.
When he looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes, he merely shrugs.
“Well, can’t say I can help you either way, bro. Better call the Ghostbusters.”
Castiel would call it a reckless comment from his brother; Gabriel has a peculiar sense of humor after all. Regardless, the way he decidedly ignores Castiel when he says so makes him feel almost wary, for as long as the rest of their breakfast drags on.
It’s a silent business from thereon out. Apart from when Gabriel rises from his seat, yawning to the point where his jaw pops, pretending like nothing had happened and muttering about Castiel’s nonexistent knowledge (or taste) of pop culture, and tunes in to a radio station that still hasn’t moved on from 80’s greatest hits.
Castiel would have asked who out of the two of them didn’t have knowledge, or the taste, in popular culture, had he been the least inclined to.
He isn’t, as it is, and merely concentrates on not scalding himself too badly on the newly brewed coffee.
The bread must be over two weeks old, so unlike Gabriel, Castiel refrains from eating any of it.
The 7-11 at the corner street five blocks away is relatively cheap anyway.
He would have been on time had it not been for the sudden traffic jam on the hightail into the heart of the city.
Castiel isn’t especially pleased with this, but on the other hand, he knows it can be overlooked this one time. Anna will let it go with merely a tilted smile, saying it’s fine seeing how Castiel is always on time otherwise, just try to be out with a marginal tomorrow.
On the other hand, he’s never been much patient with undecidedly long jams in schedule. Be it during work, or at home, or this limbo between them both.
When he has got the time to think, and in this case, think entirely too much.
The memories are vague, as are all his memories of dreams. It’s a natural after effect and Castiel knows that.
Dreams are the leftovers of impressions the brain has picked up, but never processed, during the day. Most of the time they’re too vague to remember at all, or a recollection of too many events and time stamps, and at other times they’re almost painstakingly clear.
Now they’re battling for one or the other side in Castiel’s head, a collection of recollections of the longest dream he’s seemingly had. Eight hours of sleep had managed to fit a span of years.
It’s foggy, but amidst it all, there is a man.
He is bloody, torn to pieces, pushed together again, lying on a rack of old and rusted metal. Chained, and chaining. For years to go, and years to come.
“The righteous man,” Anael states, as zer looks upon Castiel with everything and nothing, speaking with a voice that transcends time and place.
Castiel is in no position to either agree or disagree and merely waits for Anael to continue.
“With him it shall start, and it shall also end. Those are the words spoken by The Voice.”
Anael never takes zer gaze from Castiel, who acts on orders that don’t need to be spoken out loud.
He is flying faster than he’s ever done, taking the lead in front of the many brothers and sisters that have been asked to accompany him to the steps into Limbo.
From there, there is a selected squadron of soldiers that flank Castiel deeper into Hell. Uriel is among them.
Years pass, years of fire and watching worlds go up in smoke and deceit.
And Castiel flies, with Uriel beside him.
Many succumb to Hell’s different circles. For few are meant to tread where Castiel has been asked to go. Because it is a matter of where Castiel can be sacrificed, where another shall take his place, those who are of higher ranks, cannot.
Castiel, along with his brothers and sisters, were created as individuals.
Whereas Anael is all of zer siblings, her consciousness threading in Samael’s, Michael’s, Gabriel’s, and Raphael’s. They who have shared thoughts, who cannot bare anything for themselves without baring it to zir siblings.
And ultimately, to God.
Those who are never meant to go further than what Heaven’s barriers can be stretched.
Castiel’s garrison was ultimately created as individuals, because as individuals, you are closer to man, and therefore closer to sin. As man, Castiel’s kind was created in amounts and easily replaceable.
Anael doesn’t need to tell Castiel that zer cannot go to Hell to raise The Righteous Man because Azrael’s succumbing to its yearning is a gash too freshly made in zir minds.
So Castiel continues to fly. Uriel is still beside him, the shadow of his wings towering menacingly over the second level of Prodigality.
Uriel doesn’t understand. He processes their orders and handles them like all he is supposed to. But Castiel knows his brother cannot see the same depth in this mission all the same.
Perhaps, this is for the best.
They travel deeper, now a mere few compared to what first burst through Hell’s gates, intent on finding one man-
The bus rattles harshly from underneath Castiel. He startles from slumber.
He frowns as he stretches. Can’t feel the pull in his muscles or pops in his joints that stem from a sleep caused by preliminary exhaustion.
All that is left is the strange, cold heat left over from the dream, whispers stemming from the first level of Treachery.
He leans back into the seat and cannot remember whether he closed his eyes before or not, but nonetheless avoids doing so for the rest of the bus ride.
Anna Milton is a respectable figure.
She has been Castiel’s senior since he had started working at Milton Security a year and a half prior.
Gabriel had gotten his CV into the system, and although Castiel isn’t one for being either ungrateful or particularly distrusting, he’s surprised he has his brother to thank for anything in his current life.
Except for the slams in the headboard and into the walls next room at two thirty am an ordinary Saturday night -- occasionally Wednesday and Friday too -- and the candy wrappers, syrup and whipped cream lying around the refrigerator.
Castiel isn’t particularly overjoyed at the prospect of coming home to a severely untidy house he’s been sharing with his older brother for almost his entire life.
But he supposes he’s grateful that Gabriel is there, occasionally.
Milton Security is almost like a family business. Not the company per se, although Anna is a friend of the family, but the line of work Castiel finds himself in.
Gabriel has through some lesser miracle managed to climb to a CEO position, where Castiel isn’t one for miracles himself, but admits to it being the most believable option.
He is, however, still strictly positioned in Anna’s Economy branch himself, working with the company’s taxes and insurances. Fifth floor, third booth, straight from the elevator. It’s been Castiel’s for almost a year and a half now, and to be honest, he’s happy with it.
As happy as you simply are with a booth, of course.
Time is a non-required second assistant when you’re working on a report that is slightly late due to two sick days last week, or so Castiel is in the process of figuring out right now.
Still, he isn’t startled when Anna knocks in the wall to his left, quietly slipping in behind his chair.
“Anna,” Castiel says, turning his head for the briefest of seconds to look at her.
Anna tilts her head ever so slightly, studying him in return.
“Castiel,” she replies after a while, solemn, before a small smile curves her lips. He nods again, turning around fully to face her.
“Is there anything that requires my assistance?”
Again, Anna takes her time before replying. Not unusual, so Castiel merely waits, pushing the creeping stress over the report away from his mind with a sense of finality.
When she replies, however, it does take Castiel by surprise.
“I have an offer for you. A job offer.”
She arranges herself more comfortably against the separating wall, nails scratching absently up her left wrist.
Castiel follows her eyes, studying the boxed office space, thinking that it sure is quite a boring landscape to survey.
“Mr. Adler has specifically requested that you start working directly under his newest recruit.” There’s a flash of annoyance in her eyes, before it dies and she looks directly at Castiel again.
He understands it. Anna has never gotten along with Sandover Company’s Mr. Adler.
“Which would require me to...?”
“It would require you to switch buildings. I have the paperwork.”
She hands Castiel a neatly arranged red folder.
He nods, at the same time as she does, and something passes between them that he might have been called mutual understanding.
She gives him another half smile, as she stands up again, straightening the cuffs of her jacket absently.
“Anna?” Castiel asks before she leaves.
“Is it important?”
The smile is still there, worrying between her teeth.
“Yes, Castiel, it’s important.”
Castiel reads the first few lines of the description, takes one look at the photo carefully pinned to the page, and goes completely still.
Dean Smith.
Signed and approved by Sandover Cooperation’s board three weeks ago, eight forty-seven in the evening.
Gabriel’s face and this morning’s conversation flitters across Castiel’s mind as the first signs of a massive headache starts to pluck at his nerves.
And he just can’t shake the confusing feeling of déjà vu as he softly pushes down the handle belonging to the door to Anna’s office.
“Will you take it?” She asks immediately, as he enters.
Castiel doesn’t particularly feel like explaining his decision, so he nods wordlessly and hands the red folder back to her. All the papers have been signed.
Anna takes the time to study him before reaching for a ballpoint pen, flipping through the stack of papers and dotting down her own signature next to Castiel’s with trained precision.
It’s done in five minutes total, and during those three hundred seconds, Castiel’s headache has spread from the base of his skull to the crown, grabbing at his temples.
She suddenly looks concerned, her fingers entwined on the top of her desk.
“Are you sure of your decision, Castiel?” It’s in her voice too, coloring it soft.
Castiel nods, stubborn. “Yes, Anna, I am sure.”
Castiel’s lying about that certainty, and Anna seems to acknowledge that, however privately.
“I’d say you aren’t really needed here anymore today. I’ll see to that everything of importance is transferred to you tomorrow morning. See that you’re in Sandover’s lobby tomorrow at eight forty-five.”
Anna smiles, and Castiel returns it, thankful, as she waves him out of her office for the day.
In the end, Castiel is alone on his mission. His orders from Anael are still clear, and even Uriel has to obey when Castiel sees it fit that he no longer flies with him.
He sees himself hovering above the River Styx, where it lays serpent like, coiling past the depths of Dis.
In the distance, there can be heard the wrath of angels as his brothers and sisters battle those who are forever fallen and doomed to watch the walls of lower Hell.
There is nothing that hinders Castiel from continuing, and that he does, a prayer echoing alone in his mind for those who will perish today, as he takes off down Dis, and into the circle of Heresy.
Castiel blindingly reaches out, almost knocking an empty glass off of his bedside table, breath seemingly disappearing from his lungs, and he’s unable to get a hold of it again.
He grips the headboard, makes a feeble attempt to crawl to his knees, but stops halfway, catching up with his breathing again.
The digital clock reads 04:45.
Castiel lies down again, sweat clinging to his brow and his neck, shirt plastered to his back, and realizes that sleep won’t come again anytime soon.
He gets up, fumbling to get a grip of the drawers in his wardrobe to look for a decent towel, sifting through three before he finds something, at last.
Walking past Gabriel’s room with feet that are damp and seem to make too much noise for such an early hour, Castiel stops, listening intently to his brother snoring lightly.
He doesn’t wake up, and he doesn’t shift, so Castiel thinks better of showering upstairs and takes the bathroom downstairs again.
His appearance isn’t the most charming - pale skin and harsh fluorescent light making his eyes translucent and the dark trail of hair down his chest stand out too starkly. Faint red marks by what Castiel suspects are nails have drawn patterns down his sides and his biceps, and dark areas mark the skin under his eyes.
The beat of the water against his skin makes everything slip away for the ten minutes he’s in.
Loosening knots in his shoulders and numbing his scalp, the heat fogging up the mirror to the point where he can’t see himself as he steps out of it.
He towels his hair quickly, popping his neck and pulling on a pair of sweatpants, figuring that they’ll have to do until he has to dress appropriately for work.
It’s only 05:10 when Castiel gets out in the kitchen, meticulously brewing coffee and searching out the old, worn and eared copy of Slaughterhouse Five from underneath the latest week’s stack of news papers.
By 06:10, Castiel has managed two cups of coffee, a sandwich, and another hundred and two pages of the book.
He can hear Gabriel’s wake up groan echo down the stairway, and the slam of something heavy against his cherry wood floor.
Castiel merely ignores it, since it’s an almost daily occurrence, and he’s learnt to avoid wincing each time the floor gets even more marred.
His brother stumbles downstairs a fifteen minutes later, bleary eyed and very much disoriented.
“What went down today, Gabriel?” Castiel asks calmly, carefully avoiding to sound the least dry.
Gabriel grunts something incoherent, more of a noise than actual words, and sticks his head into the refrigerator.
“Heard from around the building that you’re workin’ your way up, Castiel,” Gabriel notes when he’s eaten his regular PJ sandwich and started on his second black coffee.
“I would hardly call it working my way up though, Gabriel. I’m transferring to your building, but I doubt Mr. Adler wants me to do much else than what I’m already doing now,” Castiel replies, looking up from today’s paper.
Gabriel meets his eyes, momentarily stunned for a second.
It’s a flash that Castiel can only think he saw, before his brother is grinning again.
“What are you talking about? Dean’s your new boss.”
There is a slim line of ferocity to Gabriel’s teeth, and Castiel can’t avoid thinking that these last few days have gone very downhill on the normalcy scale, as he catches it.
“Don’t worry about him though. He’s harmless, but he’s good.” Gabriel finishes his cup and snatches the paper from Castiel’s seat when he rises, explaining that he’d better get ready for work if he’d even get to meet his new boss, as Gabriel’s dubbed him as harmless, but good, now.
“I distinctly can’t remember anybody else on your place of work receiving that description. Is there anything else that is particular about him?” Castiel furrows his brow, looking over at where Gabriel probably is in the kitchen as he shrugs his jacket on, checking to see nothing’s dropped out of his pockets.
Gabriel pokes his head around the corner, eyebrow raised.
“Well, avoid knocking into his left shoulder and you’ll be peachy!” he promises, taking a huge bite out of something Castiel thinks is a muffin.
“Is it-?“
“No time now, bro, Adler really is gonna be a pain up your rear end if you’re late!” Gabriel says, ever cheerful, pushing Castiel out the door before he’s able to ask anything further.
Castiel listens to the hum of the engine underneath the bus, watching skyscrapers and empty neon screens flash by, a mere reflected blur as he does not fall asleep on his way to work.
“Mr. Novak?”
Castiel has never met Mr. Adler personally, but he’s seen him around enough Milton Security’s building to know what he looks like.
The grey suit is impeccably ironed and the no-nonsense expression is there, along with the smile along the same vein.
The handshake is firm and brisk, though Adler quickly withdraws his hand, snaking behind his back to entwine his fingers there.
“Let me show you the floor where you’ll be working. Unfortunately, Dean isn’t in until this afternoon, but don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of work to do anyway,” Castiel notices the typical smile, the curves disappearing into Adler’s cheeks looking ever so slightly like a fox’s.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but Castiel can’t shake the uneasiness that settles heavily on his mind as he follows him into the elevator, packed with people. It’s a busy morning, as the doors close and the hushed conversation quiets.
“Hey, uh, Dean-?“
Castiel looks up, surprised, as a tall tech support steps into Dean Smith’s office, just as Mr. Adler has left, bidding Castiel a pleasant day with a smile that is only bordering on fishy.
“Oh I’m, uh, I’m sorry but, have you seen-?” He gesticulates to the smooth plate on the door where Dean Smith’s name is engraved.
The name sends a ripple of shivers down Castiel’s back each time, chills kicking him in the stomach and making him feel vaguely uneasy.
“Mr. Adler said he isn’t coming in until later,” Castiel replies, slightly confused.
The tech support guy scratches the back of his neck, pushing a couple of brown strands of fringe from his forehead. Castiel feels he should recognize this man, but firmly pushes the feeling down.
“Oh, right, he isn’t.”
It’s awkward for maybe half a minute, as Castiel doesn’t quite know what to do, trapped in the sparsely decorated but neatly arranged office, with the tall man who, by his name tag, goes by Wesson, blocking the door.
He seems to come back to his senses, however. Because he brightens considerably, smile lightning up his features, much like the switching on of a light bulb.
“I guess you’re Mr. Novak then, I’m Sam,” he takes a long step inside, thrusting out a broad palm.
His grip is considerably softer than Adler’s, but callous and firmness makes Castiel think that he’s probably more than just a tech support guy.
“Castiel,” he replies, returning Sam Wesson’s smile slightly.
“I mean, I heard around the office that Dean’d start working with a new guy, but I didn’t make the connection, sorry,” Sam Wesson grins, more than a hint sheepishly.
Castiel chuckles, feeling his shoulders relax slightly under the comfortable atmosphere that Wesson seems to just carry around with him.
“You’ll like Dean though. I mean, he’s kinda private at first, in the office space, y’know? But he’s easy, really. You just gotta give him somethin’ to work with, yeah?”
Wesson talks on, and when he suggests lunch later, Castiel agrees, before falling silent again, occasionally nodding and humming along as he follows Wesson out on the floor, who’s still babbling on contently.
He learns that Sam Wesson has been working here for roughly three weeks, and got on with Dean after a while, even though they didn’t really hit it off at first.
Sam listens to 70’s and 80’s rock, drives a ’67 Chevrolet Impala, and has a fiancé named Madison. He’s got two dogs and kind of likes his job, even though he’d rather not sit stuffed up in a too small box all day.
Castiel could agree with that, as he also does, when Wesson catches his eye, grinning before he digs into his salad.
“Man, could’ve really used a burger instead of this.”
Castiel makes a noncommittal sound in agreement, nimbly biting into a piece of lettuce.
Wesson gets called back on support duty about halfway through their lunch, and Castiel finds himself smiling as he takes off jogging, looking sheepish again, and having already apologized profusely for it.
Castiel tells him to not worry about it, and finishes his salad off alone.
The Sandover cooperation’s exclusive restaurant is a two store room with panoramic windows, dark wooden furniture and according to Wesson - surprisingly half decent food.
“Castiel?” he turns around, ready to leave when he spots the familiarly cut black jacket and red hair.
Anna smiles lopsidedly and Castiel nods for her to sit down.
“Hello Anna.”
“Looking nice and, settled in?” she asks, fluidly taking Wesson’s chair and leaning back into it, legs and arms crossed.
“I suppose so. It’s not much of a difference, to be truthful,” Castiel replies, furrowing his brow.
Anna nods.
“No, I don’t suppose it is,” she says, after a while of following the city skyline with her gaze, sounding vaguely subdued.
“Is there, any reason why you chose to come here?”
“Actually, not really. I just wanted to see that you’re not getting pushed around too much.” She looks perfectly serious, but Castiel can sense the edge of softness to her tone.
“I am fine, Anna, but thank you,” Castiel says, feeling like he’s repeating their conversation from yesterday, but means it, this time.
Castiel recognizes Dean Smith the instant he steps through the elevators, smiling politely and accepting a one armed, rushed hug from a female colleague.
He immediately stands up from his desk, still not quite used to as much space as he has in the fresh office next door to Smith’s.
He hurries down the stuffed corridor, briefcase gripped in one hand, knuckles whitening, and the other glancing repeatedly at his watch, as he disappears through the door to his own office.
Castiel waits for perhaps thirty seconds, following the tick of the stainless steel watch perched on his new desk as he does, fingers hooked in the pocket of his slacks.
Tick, tock, it goes, before he ventures into his new boss’ office.
He knocks once, twice, at the door, before simply stepping through it.
“Mr. Smith?”
Dean Smith very nearly jumps in his chair, chin flying up, eyes briefly widening, before he takes in Castiel’s figure, and seems to relax.
Castiel has to resist the urge to shuffle uncomfortably under the scrutinize of shockingly green that simply feels as though he’s known it for a long time.
“That would be me. Is there anything I can do for you Mr.-?”
“Novak. Castiel Novak,” Castiel replies, locking eyes with him.
“Oh, oh. Of course, I’m sorry, had a hectic morning, y’probably know how it is,” his new boss attempts to stand, and catches Castiel’s hand the same time he stretches it out.
A zing of electricity spreads through Castiel’s body, clenching around all his internal organs, his fingertips pressing tightly into the back of Dean’s hand, a fuzzy hot white noise strumming against his eardrums.
Souls are not individual in Hell - they all share the same fate when they arrive, one way or another, and the same knowledge that their sentiments alike should empower them to feel something.
They do not.
All Hell represents is merely a mutual feeling of weakened fear, of lingering horror that flashes through the strings of thoughts laid bare in front of what is torturing them.
From here Dean Winchester uses a special case of scalpel that carves shreds of minds and thoughts, that makes the metaphysical aspect of it turn surprisingly physical, words that are no longer words and coherent human language dangling in the mirror image of his eyes.
The torture methods of Hell delve deeper than simply breaking the physical and tearing out innards and pour acid in the wounds and wait by the hellfire and then move on.
The underworld is not, in itself, Castiel has learned, a very physical manifestation. It is more, like having a sixth sense. Perhaps akin to watching only the silhouette of what is really going on, and feeling it at the same time.
Hell and how it causes pain and its aftereffects is also nothing like fiction - there is nothing that stills the echoes of pain. Nothing that shallows them out and makes suffering run thinner.
Where you are put is half something that you decide, and something you cannot control.
Castiel is greeted by endless reddened planes of desert and blackened, sparse bushes that wail of misery, in the second ring of Violence.
And amidst it all, where the trees are chipped and rifted, and where the bushes are tangling their thorns into all the leaves, Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, is enclosed.
There is no such thing as sleep, for Castiel and his kin. Few know of the concept and those who do have never experienced it. They will not do so, either, for perhaps as long as they live.
So in conclusion, if there is no such thing as sleep, dreams do not exist in Heaven, either.
Castiel has been human.
He knows sleep, and he knows dreams.
That Father brought him back, and, as Dean would have said (had Castiel had a physical manifestation in Heaven, he would have smiled at this, just a little) upgraded his jet pack, does not mean Castiel doesn’t know what the concept of dreams is anymore.
He does, however, not expect that it would follow him.
Two years of being with Dean Winchester flashes idly past Castiel as he returns to Heaven and the brief glimpse of Zachariah’s alternate reality frequently accompanies them.
Castiel’s memory spans for centuries, merely details in them that are sometimes faulty, and that particular one is still fresh.
Dean is at the warehouse, left behind with junk and scraps of metal, banishing sigils and an empty note. Castiel hasn’t been able to warn them, and now, surely with them, is Jimmy Novak. And Castiel cannot do anything, say anything, cannot react.
“You see, Castiel, you weren’t created to walk among them. They are filthy maggots, serving only to destroy what God has built.” Castiel knows that Zachariah specializes in what is the physical plane, especially so now, as his superior grinds his nails into Castiel’s chin, shoving it up so that they’re level with each others’ eyes.
“You were sent out on a mission, and this is what you do?” Zachariah’s smile is too wide, and his fingers are slippery in the blood dribbling from the corner of Castiel’s mouth.
“I sincerely hope, Castiel, that this will serve enough as a lesson.”
The last thing Castiel remembers before the dream and its non-reality takes over, is the pure white light of Heaven slipping through the cracks in the walls of the storage house that had once housed Alastair.
Castiel also knows, that Zachariah knows, where to look for digging up the things Castiel has ever regretted the most.
Time, is a non consensual issue in Heaven.
As dreams and sleep, time does not exist, and most angels do not understand the idea of it.
Even so, Castiel’s skin jitters and itches as he manifests himself into flesh and blood, and what is ultimately human. What is no longer a vessel, but something else.
Castiel has no appropriate explanation for it.
But as he feels asphalt, wet with rain, underneath his boots, and sees the bleak white façade of Lisa Braeden’s house in front of him, he hopes that perhaps Dean does.
author; fiveto_midnight
beta; the ever amazing matryoshkha ♥
recipient; reality0junkie
rating; r
fandom; supernatural
warnings; violence, blood, some gore,
genre(s); gen/drama/horror; pre-slash
character(s)/pairing(s); dean/castiel pre-slash; gabriel, anna, sam, zachariah,
word count; 4,733
spoilers; through 4.17, 4.20 and 5.22,
disclaimer; nope. don't own a thing here.
notes; yeah, so so sorry for this being so incredibly late! I got a bit of troubles with rl, so it took a while actually getting to the fic document and finishing it off. However, here it is, after all this time, written for reality0junkie at the castielfest exchange! ♥also should be mentioned that the outline of Hell as seen here is inspired by Dante Alighieri’s render of it, as seen in the Inferno part of The Divine Comedy. It was hard choosing between the prompts, but finally I chose to mix up the “Castiel wakes up. And everything was just a dream. But if it was just a dream, why does it feel like there's someone out there calling to him?” and “AU’S” ones. Originally, I had meant to include a dean/castiel pairing, but this fic just didn’t want to have it, I really hope it’s okay nonetheless, and that you like it! title from hawksley workman's smoke baby
summary; dreams are the leftovers of impressions the brain has picked up, but never processed, during the day. most of the time they’re too vague to remember at all, or a recollection of too many events and time stamps, and at other times they’re almost painstakingly clear.
”I had... the strangest dream,” Castiel admits when he comes down to the kitchen, followed by his older brother’s scrutinize.
Gabriel, with a hint of a frown in his eyes, asks who the hell with a striped shirt had intruded on his mind during the night.
Castiel cocks his head at that, frowning as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, thoughts vaguely unclear around the edges. “No one wore a striped shirt, Gabriel.”
Gabriel raises an eyebrow slowly, before sticking his head into the refrigerator again.
“Baseball mask?” His voice is muffled, barely carrying to the other side of the room.
Castiel shakes his head, suddenly realizing what his brother is talking about.
“It wasn’t a nightmare… in that sense,” he says, sitting down at the end of the table. He fixes his gaze on Gabriel, who sits down at the other end, now in the process of soaking a piece of toast in peanut butter and jelly.
When he looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes, he merely shrugs.
“Well, can’t say I can help you either way, bro. Better call the Ghostbusters.”
Castiel would call it a reckless comment from his brother; Gabriel has a peculiar sense of humor after all. Regardless, the way he decidedly ignores Castiel when he says so makes him feel almost wary, for as long as the rest of their breakfast drags on.
It’s a silent business from thereon out. Apart from when Gabriel rises from his seat, yawning to the point where his jaw pops, pretending like nothing had happened and muttering about Castiel’s nonexistent knowledge (or taste) of pop culture, and tunes in to a radio station that still hasn’t moved on from 80’s greatest hits.
Castiel would have asked who out of the two of them didn’t have knowledge, or the taste, in popular culture, had he been the least inclined to.
He isn’t, as it is, and merely concentrates on not scalding himself too badly on the newly brewed coffee.
The bread must be over two weeks old, so unlike Gabriel, Castiel refrains from eating any of it.
The 7-11 at the corner street five blocks away is relatively cheap anyway.
He would have been on time had it not been for the sudden traffic jam on the hightail into the heart of the city.
Castiel isn’t especially pleased with this, but on the other hand, he knows it can be overlooked this one time. Anna will let it go with merely a tilted smile, saying it’s fine seeing how Castiel is always on time otherwise, just try to be out with a marginal tomorrow.
On the other hand, he’s never been much patient with undecidedly long jams in schedule. Be it during work, or at home, or this limbo between them both.
When he has got the time to think, and in this case, think entirely too much.
The memories are vague, as are all his memories of dreams. It’s a natural after effect and Castiel knows that.
Dreams are the leftovers of impressions the brain has picked up, but never processed, during the day. Most of the time they’re too vague to remember at all, or a recollection of too many events and time stamps, and at other times they’re almost painstakingly clear.
Now they’re battling for one or the other side in Castiel’s head, a collection of recollections of the longest dream he’s seemingly had. Eight hours of sleep had managed to fit a span of years.
It’s foggy, but amidst it all, there is a man.
He is bloody, torn to pieces, pushed together again, lying on a rack of old and rusted metal. Chained, and chaining. For years to go, and years to come.
“The righteous man,” Anael states, as zer looks upon Castiel with everything and nothing, speaking with a voice that transcends time and place.
Castiel is in no position to either agree or disagree and merely waits for Anael to continue.
“With him it shall start, and it shall also end. Those are the words spoken by The Voice.”
Anael never takes zer gaze from Castiel, who acts on orders that don’t need to be spoken out loud.
He is flying faster than he’s ever done, taking the lead in front of the many brothers and sisters that have been asked to accompany him to the steps into Limbo.
From there, there is a selected squadron of soldiers that flank Castiel deeper into Hell. Uriel is among them.
Years pass, years of fire and watching worlds go up in smoke and deceit.
And Castiel flies, with Uriel beside him.
Many succumb to Hell’s different circles. For few are meant to tread where Castiel has been asked to go. Because it is a matter of where Castiel can be sacrificed, where another shall take his place, those who are of higher ranks, cannot.
Castiel, along with his brothers and sisters, were created as individuals.
Whereas Anael is all of zer siblings, her consciousness threading in Samael’s, Michael’s, Gabriel’s, and Raphael’s. They who have shared thoughts, who cannot bare anything for themselves without baring it to zir siblings.
And ultimately, to God.
Those who are never meant to go further than what Heaven’s barriers can be stretched.
Castiel’s garrison was ultimately created as individuals, because as individuals, you are closer to man, and therefore closer to sin. As man, Castiel’s kind was created in amounts and easily replaceable.
Anael doesn’t need to tell Castiel that zer cannot go to Hell to raise The Righteous Man because Azrael’s succumbing to its yearning is a gash too freshly made in zir minds.
So Castiel continues to fly. Uriel is still beside him, the shadow of his wings towering menacingly over the second level of Prodigality.
Uriel doesn’t understand. He processes their orders and handles them like all he is supposed to. But Castiel knows his brother cannot see the same depth in this mission all the same.
Perhaps, this is for the best.
They travel deeper, now a mere few compared to what first burst through Hell’s gates, intent on finding one man-
The bus rattles harshly from underneath Castiel. He startles from slumber.
He frowns as he stretches. Can’t feel the pull in his muscles or pops in his joints that stem from a sleep caused by preliminary exhaustion.
All that is left is the strange, cold heat left over from the dream, whispers stemming from the first level of Treachery.
He leans back into the seat and cannot remember whether he closed his eyes before or not, but nonetheless avoids doing so for the rest of the bus ride.
Anna Milton is a respectable figure.
She has been Castiel’s senior since he had started working at Milton Security a year and a half prior.
Gabriel had gotten his CV into the system, and although Castiel isn’t one for being either ungrateful or particularly distrusting, he’s surprised he has his brother to thank for anything in his current life.
Except for the slams in the headboard and into the walls next room at two thirty am an ordinary Saturday night -- occasionally Wednesday and Friday too -- and the candy wrappers, syrup and whipped cream lying around the refrigerator.
Castiel isn’t particularly overjoyed at the prospect of coming home to a severely untidy house he’s been sharing with his older brother for almost his entire life.
But he supposes he’s grateful that Gabriel is there, occasionally.
Milton Security is almost like a family business. Not the company per se, although Anna is a friend of the family, but the line of work Castiel finds himself in.
Gabriel has through some lesser miracle managed to climb to a CEO position, where Castiel isn’t one for miracles himself, but admits to it being the most believable option.
He is, however, still strictly positioned in Anna’s Economy branch himself, working with the company’s taxes and insurances. Fifth floor, third booth, straight from the elevator. It’s been Castiel’s for almost a year and a half now, and to be honest, he’s happy with it.
As happy as you simply are with a booth, of course.
Time is a non-required second assistant when you’re working on a report that is slightly late due to two sick days last week, or so Castiel is in the process of figuring out right now.
Still, he isn’t startled when Anna knocks in the wall to his left, quietly slipping in behind his chair.
“Anna,” Castiel says, turning his head for the briefest of seconds to look at her.
Anna tilts her head ever so slightly, studying him in return.
“Castiel,” she replies after a while, solemn, before a small smile curves her lips. He nods again, turning around fully to face her.
“Is there anything that requires my assistance?”
Again, Anna takes her time before replying. Not unusual, so Castiel merely waits, pushing the creeping stress over the report away from his mind with a sense of finality.
When she replies, however, it does take Castiel by surprise.
“I have an offer for you. A job offer.”
She arranges herself more comfortably against the separating wall, nails scratching absently up her left wrist.
Castiel follows her eyes, studying the boxed office space, thinking that it sure is quite a boring landscape to survey.
“Mr. Adler has specifically requested that you start working directly under his newest recruit.” There’s a flash of annoyance in her eyes, before it dies and she looks directly at Castiel again.
He understands it. Anna has never gotten along with Sandover Company’s Mr. Adler.
“Which would require me to...?”
“It would require you to switch buildings. I have the paperwork.”
She hands Castiel a neatly arranged red folder.
He nods, at the same time as she does, and something passes between them that he might have been called mutual understanding.
She gives him another half smile, as she stands up again, straightening the cuffs of her jacket absently.
“Anna?” Castiel asks before she leaves.
“Is it important?”
The smile is still there, worrying between her teeth.
“Yes, Castiel, it’s important.”
Castiel reads the first few lines of the description, takes one look at the photo carefully pinned to the page, and goes completely still.
Dean Smith.
Signed and approved by Sandover Cooperation’s board three weeks ago, eight forty-seven in the evening.
Gabriel’s face and this morning’s conversation flitters across Castiel’s mind as the first signs of a massive headache starts to pluck at his nerves.
And he just can’t shake the confusing feeling of déjà vu as he softly pushes down the handle belonging to the door to Anna’s office.
“Will you take it?” She asks immediately, as he enters.
Castiel doesn’t particularly feel like explaining his decision, so he nods wordlessly and hands the red folder back to her. All the papers have been signed.
Anna takes the time to study him before reaching for a ballpoint pen, flipping through the stack of papers and dotting down her own signature next to Castiel’s with trained precision.
It’s done in five minutes total, and during those three hundred seconds, Castiel’s headache has spread from the base of his skull to the crown, grabbing at his temples.
She suddenly looks concerned, her fingers entwined on the top of her desk.
“Are you sure of your decision, Castiel?” It’s in her voice too, coloring it soft.
Castiel nods, stubborn. “Yes, Anna, I am sure.”
Castiel’s lying about that certainty, and Anna seems to acknowledge that, however privately.
“I’d say you aren’t really needed here anymore today. I’ll see to that everything of importance is transferred to you tomorrow morning. See that you’re in Sandover’s lobby tomorrow at eight forty-five.”
Anna smiles, and Castiel returns it, thankful, as she waves him out of her office for the day.
In the end, Castiel is alone on his mission. His orders from Anael are still clear, and even Uriel has to obey when Castiel sees it fit that he no longer flies with him.
He sees himself hovering above the River Styx, where it lays serpent like, coiling past the depths of Dis.
In the distance, there can be heard the wrath of angels as his brothers and sisters battle those who are forever fallen and doomed to watch the walls of lower Hell.
There is nothing that hinders Castiel from continuing, and that he does, a prayer echoing alone in his mind for those who will perish today, as he takes off down Dis, and into the circle of Heresy.
Castiel blindingly reaches out, almost knocking an empty glass off of his bedside table, breath seemingly disappearing from his lungs, and he’s unable to get a hold of it again.
He grips the headboard, makes a feeble attempt to crawl to his knees, but stops halfway, catching up with his breathing again.
The digital clock reads 04:45.
Castiel lies down again, sweat clinging to his brow and his neck, shirt plastered to his back, and realizes that sleep won’t come again anytime soon.
He gets up, fumbling to get a grip of the drawers in his wardrobe to look for a decent towel, sifting through three before he finds something, at last.
Walking past Gabriel’s room with feet that are damp and seem to make too much noise for such an early hour, Castiel stops, listening intently to his brother snoring lightly.
He doesn’t wake up, and he doesn’t shift, so Castiel thinks better of showering upstairs and takes the bathroom downstairs again.
His appearance isn’t the most charming - pale skin and harsh fluorescent light making his eyes translucent and the dark trail of hair down his chest stand out too starkly. Faint red marks by what Castiel suspects are nails have drawn patterns down his sides and his biceps, and dark areas mark the skin under his eyes.
The beat of the water against his skin makes everything slip away for the ten minutes he’s in.
Loosening knots in his shoulders and numbing his scalp, the heat fogging up the mirror to the point where he can’t see himself as he steps out of it.
He towels his hair quickly, popping his neck and pulling on a pair of sweatpants, figuring that they’ll have to do until he has to dress appropriately for work.
It’s only 05:10 when Castiel gets out in the kitchen, meticulously brewing coffee and searching out the old, worn and eared copy of Slaughterhouse Five from underneath the latest week’s stack of news papers.
By 06:10, Castiel has managed two cups of coffee, a sandwich, and another hundred and two pages of the book.
He can hear Gabriel’s wake up groan echo down the stairway, and the slam of something heavy against his cherry wood floor.
Castiel merely ignores it, since it’s an almost daily occurrence, and he’s learnt to avoid wincing each time the floor gets even more marred.
His brother stumbles downstairs a fifteen minutes later, bleary eyed and very much disoriented.
“What went down today, Gabriel?” Castiel asks calmly, carefully avoiding to sound the least dry.
Gabriel grunts something incoherent, more of a noise than actual words, and sticks his head into the refrigerator.
“Heard from around the building that you’re workin’ your way up, Castiel,” Gabriel notes when he’s eaten his regular PJ sandwich and started on his second black coffee.
“I would hardly call it working my way up though, Gabriel. I’m transferring to your building, but I doubt Mr. Adler wants me to do much else than what I’m already doing now,” Castiel replies, looking up from today’s paper.
Gabriel meets his eyes, momentarily stunned for a second.
It’s a flash that Castiel can only think he saw, before his brother is grinning again.
“What are you talking about? Dean’s your new boss.”
There is a slim line of ferocity to Gabriel’s teeth, and Castiel can’t avoid thinking that these last few days have gone very downhill on the normalcy scale, as he catches it.
“Don’t worry about him though. He’s harmless, but he’s good.” Gabriel finishes his cup and snatches the paper from Castiel’s seat when he rises, explaining that he’d better get ready for work if he’d even get to meet his new boss, as Gabriel’s dubbed him as harmless, but good, now.
“I distinctly can’t remember anybody else on your place of work receiving that description. Is there anything else that is particular about him?” Castiel furrows his brow, looking over at where Gabriel probably is in the kitchen as he shrugs his jacket on, checking to see nothing’s dropped out of his pockets.
Gabriel pokes his head around the corner, eyebrow raised.
“Well, avoid knocking into his left shoulder and you’ll be peachy!” he promises, taking a huge bite out of something Castiel thinks is a muffin.
“Is it-?“
“No time now, bro, Adler really is gonna be a pain up your rear end if you’re late!” Gabriel says, ever cheerful, pushing Castiel out the door before he’s able to ask anything further.
Castiel listens to the hum of the engine underneath the bus, watching skyscrapers and empty neon screens flash by, a mere reflected blur as he does not fall asleep on his way to work.
“Mr. Novak?”
Castiel has never met Mr. Adler personally, but he’s seen him around enough Milton Security’s building to know what he looks like.
The grey suit is impeccably ironed and the no-nonsense expression is there, along with the smile along the same vein.
The handshake is firm and brisk, though Adler quickly withdraws his hand, snaking behind his back to entwine his fingers there.
“Let me show you the floor where you’ll be working. Unfortunately, Dean isn’t in until this afternoon, but don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of work to do anyway,” Castiel notices the typical smile, the curves disappearing into Adler’s cheeks looking ever so slightly like a fox’s.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but Castiel can’t shake the uneasiness that settles heavily on his mind as he follows him into the elevator, packed with people. It’s a busy morning, as the doors close and the hushed conversation quiets.
“Hey, uh, Dean-?“
Castiel looks up, surprised, as a tall tech support steps into Dean Smith’s office, just as Mr. Adler has left, bidding Castiel a pleasant day with a smile that is only bordering on fishy.
“Oh I’m, uh, I’m sorry but, have you seen-?” He gesticulates to the smooth plate on the door where Dean Smith’s name is engraved.
The name sends a ripple of shivers down Castiel’s back each time, chills kicking him in the stomach and making him feel vaguely uneasy.
“Mr. Adler said he isn’t coming in until later,” Castiel replies, slightly confused.
The tech support guy scratches the back of his neck, pushing a couple of brown strands of fringe from his forehead. Castiel feels he should recognize this man, but firmly pushes the feeling down.
“Oh, right, he isn’t.”
It’s awkward for maybe half a minute, as Castiel doesn’t quite know what to do, trapped in the sparsely decorated but neatly arranged office, with the tall man who, by his name tag, goes by Wesson, blocking the door.
He seems to come back to his senses, however. Because he brightens considerably, smile lightning up his features, much like the switching on of a light bulb.
“I guess you’re Mr. Novak then, I’m Sam,” he takes a long step inside, thrusting out a broad palm.
His grip is considerably softer than Adler’s, but callous and firmness makes Castiel think that he’s probably more than just a tech support guy.
“Castiel,” he replies, returning Sam Wesson’s smile slightly.
“I mean, I heard around the office that Dean’d start working with a new guy, but I didn’t make the connection, sorry,” Sam Wesson grins, more than a hint sheepishly.
Castiel chuckles, feeling his shoulders relax slightly under the comfortable atmosphere that Wesson seems to just carry around with him.
“You’ll like Dean though. I mean, he’s kinda private at first, in the office space, y’know? But he’s easy, really. You just gotta give him somethin’ to work with, yeah?”
Wesson talks on, and when he suggests lunch later, Castiel agrees, before falling silent again, occasionally nodding and humming along as he follows Wesson out on the floor, who’s still babbling on contently.
He learns that Sam Wesson has been working here for roughly three weeks, and got on with Dean after a while, even though they didn’t really hit it off at first.
Sam listens to 70’s and 80’s rock, drives a ’67 Chevrolet Impala, and has a fiancé named Madison. He’s got two dogs and kind of likes his job, even though he’d rather not sit stuffed up in a too small box all day.
Castiel could agree with that, as he also does, when Wesson catches his eye, grinning before he digs into his salad.
“Man, could’ve really used a burger instead of this.”
Castiel makes a noncommittal sound in agreement, nimbly biting into a piece of lettuce.
Wesson gets called back on support duty about halfway through their lunch, and Castiel finds himself smiling as he takes off jogging, looking sheepish again, and having already apologized profusely for it.
Castiel tells him to not worry about it, and finishes his salad off alone.
The Sandover cooperation’s exclusive restaurant is a two store room with panoramic windows, dark wooden furniture and according to Wesson - surprisingly half decent food.
“Castiel?” he turns around, ready to leave when he spots the familiarly cut black jacket and red hair.
Anna smiles lopsidedly and Castiel nods for her to sit down.
“Hello Anna.”
“Looking nice and, settled in?” she asks, fluidly taking Wesson’s chair and leaning back into it, legs and arms crossed.
“I suppose so. It’s not much of a difference, to be truthful,” Castiel replies, furrowing his brow.
Anna nods.
“No, I don’t suppose it is,” she says, after a while of following the city skyline with her gaze, sounding vaguely subdued.
“Is there, any reason why you chose to come here?”
“Actually, not really. I just wanted to see that you’re not getting pushed around too much.” She looks perfectly serious, but Castiel can sense the edge of softness to her tone.
“I am fine, Anna, but thank you,” Castiel says, feeling like he’s repeating their conversation from yesterday, but means it, this time.
Castiel recognizes Dean Smith the instant he steps through the elevators, smiling politely and accepting a one armed, rushed hug from a female colleague.
He immediately stands up from his desk, still not quite used to as much space as he has in the fresh office next door to Smith’s.
He hurries down the stuffed corridor, briefcase gripped in one hand, knuckles whitening, and the other glancing repeatedly at his watch, as he disappears through the door to his own office.
Castiel waits for perhaps thirty seconds, following the tick of the stainless steel watch perched on his new desk as he does, fingers hooked in the pocket of his slacks.
Tick, tock, it goes, before he ventures into his new boss’ office.
He knocks once, twice, at the door, before simply stepping through it.
“Mr. Smith?”
Dean Smith very nearly jumps in his chair, chin flying up, eyes briefly widening, before he takes in Castiel’s figure, and seems to relax.
Castiel has to resist the urge to shuffle uncomfortably under the scrutinize of shockingly green that simply feels as though he’s known it for a long time.
“That would be me. Is there anything I can do for you Mr.-?”
“Novak. Castiel Novak,” Castiel replies, locking eyes with him.
“Oh, oh. Of course, I’m sorry, had a hectic morning, y’probably know how it is,” his new boss attempts to stand, and catches Castiel’s hand the same time he stretches it out.
A zing of electricity spreads through Castiel’s body, clenching around all his internal organs, his fingertips pressing tightly into the back of Dean’s hand, a fuzzy hot white noise strumming against his eardrums.
Souls are not individual in Hell - they all share the same fate when they arrive, one way or another, and the same knowledge that their sentiments alike should empower them to feel something.
They do not.
All Hell represents is merely a mutual feeling of weakened fear, of lingering horror that flashes through the strings of thoughts laid bare in front of what is torturing them.
From here Dean Winchester uses a special case of scalpel that carves shreds of minds and thoughts, that makes the metaphysical aspect of it turn surprisingly physical, words that are no longer words and coherent human language dangling in the mirror image of his eyes.
The torture methods of Hell delve deeper than simply breaking the physical and tearing out innards and pour acid in the wounds and wait by the hellfire and then move on.
The underworld is not, in itself, Castiel has learned, a very physical manifestation. It is more, like having a sixth sense. Perhaps akin to watching only the silhouette of what is really going on, and feeling it at the same time.
Hell and how it causes pain and its aftereffects is also nothing like fiction - there is nothing that stills the echoes of pain. Nothing that shallows them out and makes suffering run thinner.
Where you are put is half something that you decide, and something you cannot control.
Castiel is greeted by endless reddened planes of desert and blackened, sparse bushes that wail of misery, in the second ring of Violence.
And amidst it all, where the trees are chipped and rifted, and where the bushes are tangling their thorns into all the leaves, Dean Winchester, the Righteous Man, is enclosed.
There is no such thing as sleep, for Castiel and his kin. Few know of the concept and those who do have never experienced it. They will not do so, either, for perhaps as long as they live.
So in conclusion, if there is no such thing as sleep, dreams do not exist in Heaven, either.
Castiel has been human.
He knows sleep, and he knows dreams.
That Father brought him back, and, as Dean would have said (had Castiel had a physical manifestation in Heaven, he would have smiled at this, just a little) upgraded his jet pack, does not mean Castiel doesn’t know what the concept of dreams is anymore.
He does, however, not expect that it would follow him.
Two years of being with Dean Winchester flashes idly past Castiel as he returns to Heaven and the brief glimpse of Zachariah’s alternate reality frequently accompanies them.
Castiel’s memory spans for centuries, merely details in them that are sometimes faulty, and that particular one is still fresh.
Dean is at the warehouse, left behind with junk and scraps of metal, banishing sigils and an empty note. Castiel hasn’t been able to warn them, and now, surely with them, is Jimmy Novak. And Castiel cannot do anything, say anything, cannot react.
“You see, Castiel, you weren’t created to walk among them. They are filthy maggots, serving only to destroy what God has built.” Castiel knows that Zachariah specializes in what is the physical plane, especially so now, as his superior grinds his nails into Castiel’s chin, shoving it up so that they’re level with each others’ eyes.
“You were sent out on a mission, and this is what you do?” Zachariah’s smile is too wide, and his fingers are slippery in the blood dribbling from the corner of Castiel’s mouth.
“I sincerely hope, Castiel, that this will serve enough as a lesson.”
The last thing Castiel remembers before the dream and its non-reality takes over, is the pure white light of Heaven slipping through the cracks in the walls of the storage house that had once housed Alastair.
Castiel also knows, that Zachariah knows, where to look for digging up the things Castiel has ever regretted the most.
Time, is a non consensual issue in Heaven.
As dreams and sleep, time does not exist, and most angels do not understand the idea of it.
Even so, Castiel’s skin jitters and itches as he manifests himself into flesh and blood, and what is ultimately human. What is no longer a vessel, but something else.
Castiel has no appropriate explanation for it.
But as he feels asphalt, wet with rain, underneath his boots, and sees the bleak white façade of Lisa Braeden’s house in front of him, he hopes that perhaps Dean does.