fic: From the Ashes [SPN, Dean/Cas 1/3]

[littlehollyleaf]

Title: From the Ashes
Author: littlehollyleaf
Pairing: Dean/Cas
Spoilers: up to and including 7.10
Category: angst, h/c
Warning: non-explicit mentions of torture
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~9, 500
Summary: With Bobby gone Dean heads to Roman Enterprises looking for revenge. He finds something very different there instead.

Author's Note: I told myself I'd never post a WIP again because they are too exhausting! But I wanted to put this out there before 7.11 and I know I'm not gonna finish part 3 by then so... Title is because Castiel is Phoenix! (and I am ridiculous).

From the ashes
part one

The office block is so mindlessly corporate it makes Dean want to puke. It feels like his personality is being leeched away just by stepping through the revolving glass doors and all the suited employees hurrying past him blur together into a hive of faceless drones.

It makes his skin crawl.

And that's without knowing the place is run by monsters.

A quick glance round the expansive lobby with it's pyramid-shaped water feature stretching up three floors, shining chrome flooring and artfully positioned potted plants tells him he's already been spotted by at least five security cameras and three guards. Not counting the eyes on him during his walk up the path outside.

But screw it. This is all or nothing. It either works, or -

It doesn't.

He walks purposely up to the front desk and leans across, folding his arms over the marble surface.

The young, bespectacled secretary on the other side finishes tapping something onto his computer and turns Dean's way. His eyes widen behind his glasses, pupils expanding inky black. Shock. But not fear. This guy's one of them then. Maybe everyone here is. Hell, they could be running the whole company for all Dean knows. Sam is gonna be so freaking mad when he comes back from his research session and realises Dean's scrapped all his hard work at finding out the truth behind Roman Enterprises and the best way to infiltrate in favour of marching in through the front door.

By then it won't matter though of course. And whatever happens, Sammy will get over it. He's strong that way. Stronger than Dean's ever been.

"I need to see the Boss," Dean says, meeting the eye of the creature pretending to be the kid dead on. He holds the look without flinching, a numbing calm settling over him. This is it. Make or break.

It could all fall apart right now and that would be the end of it, but Dean doesn't feel afraid.

He doesn't feel much of anything.

"Um..." the kid starts, reaching for the telephone on his left. He glances at the panel beside the dial. All the lines are lit up like a Christmas tree, blinking fast enough to cause a seizure. His hand hovers over the intercom button. "Do you have an appointment?"

Dean rolls his eyes, hearing his father's voice in his head. It's all about confidence, Dean. If you believe it, they believe it.

"No. I'm just here like this to make a fashion statement," he snaps, waving a hand up and down his torso. The kid creature flinches at the tone and Dean presses his advantage. "Of course I have an appointment. New plan in the works. Only a few of us are in on it. Just tell me where he's at, I'll meet him there."

"I really should... call him first," the kid stammers. "Let him know you're here. But..."

He glances back at the flashing lights.

"Let me guess," Dean interrupts. "Conference call?" He leans closer, softening his expression so he's less 'impatient superior' and more 'brother in arms.' "You don't wanna interrupt one of those. Trust me. I'll wait for him upstairs. I'm kind of early anyway." He flashes a grin and adds, "The others will be here any minute."

The mention of others seems to give the story just the right touch of credulity, easing the secretary back into his seat.

"Okay," he nods at Dean. "Third floor. Room 42. There's a coffee room a couple of doors down where you can wait."

Dean's grin moves up a notch and he pats the edge of the counter.

"Thanks, man."

He brazens through a full elevator ride all the way up. Makes it there in less than twenty minutes.

A couple of those inside actually look scared at first, which is gratifying. But then the insanity of the real Dean Winchester walking, alone, into a nest of leviathans sinks in and their assumptions switch, the change evident on their faces when fear turns to flat smiles and awkward looks away. It's the kind of reaction that, on a group of genuine men and women, Dean might have called pity.

Not that all are as sympathetic of their supposed brother's plight. Most of the ones upstairs shoot him wry smirks as he passes, the transparent sense of 'rather you than me, sucker' coming across loud and clear.

Then Dean's right there. Room 42. And through the window he can see the dick he's come here for. Richard Roman. Or rather, his stand in, since they've got to assume there was a real Dick at some point. All other leviathan IDs have checked out so far.

Dean has to concede the guy's playing the part well. Just then he's at the head of a long table with a Bluetooth contraption in his ear, simultaneously addressing a group of about twenty others while taking a long-distance call on the miniature device. Every so often he gestures to a chart of some kind projected on the wall behind him and the others in the room nod and hum, some of them taking notes in neatly-bound folders. It looks every bit your average office meeting, full of soulless dickwads in suits so sharp you're surprised the cuffs haven't slit their wrists yet.

They could be talking profit margins or net growth or some shit like that.

In fact, they could be talking that. The stuff he and Sam have dug up on the company while trying to make some semblance of sense out of the scribblings Bobby made before he... Well, it all suggests old Dicky is working hard on keeping the business afloat.

But his methods give a whole new meaning to 'devouring the competition' that's for sure.

Dean slips a hand in his jacket pocket and fingers the warm, metallic curve of the flask inside. No holy water lining it today. Instead it's full to the brim with bright blue, borax-filled detergent. Not quite as readily available as salt, but common enough.

It's nice of monsters, Dean thinks, to make themselves vulnerable to such everyday things.

Then he thinks fuck, he's going to enjoy watching this guy burn.

There's even a chance that taking him out might somehow destroy the others as well. That's the latest theory Sam's been chewing over, in between the research and battling of inner voices and avoiding sleep. Separating the head incapacitates an individual leviathan. So if you separate the head of the Head...

In any case, taking out the leader will put the others in chaos. Hopefully enough of it to make them easy pickings for any hunter that stumbles across them from then on. Dean's got enough firsthand experience to know how that works. Hell, if even angels couldn't handle -

Dean steps to the side and leans back against the wall by the door. Waiting. Trying not to think of anything.

It's bad enough this place reeks of Sandover, with Zachariah's smug face in every corner. Which, of course, has Dean thinking of bloody sigils and white light, Zachariah's arrogant smirk contorting in rage as he's banished, leaving Dean with earnest blue eyes and an unexpected ally. An unexpected friend.

But now, damn it, he's turned his thoughts to civil wars and betrayals. The devastating cold in those eyes when his friend tried to fill the void of leadership back when Heaven lost its top dog.

He wishes he still hated Cas for that. For all of it. It would be so much easier.

Instead he's a fucking mess, emotions all over the place. A tight, tangled, fucked up twist of anger and pain that he's liable to break out in a sweat over even the thought of unravelling. And what's the point anyway? It's not like there's anything worth saving underneath it all.

Dean's not stupid enough to think this suicide run will make up for all the crap he's pulled and suffered over the years, even if it does work out for the best. Going out in a blaze of glory won't give his pathetic existence higher meaning all of a sudden. But it's better than nothing and there's nothing else Dean can think to do.

He's ruined, lost or losing pretty much everyone and everything that matters at this point and Bobby... Bobby's the last straw. The tough, usually so resilient, hunter's prone form laid bare across that hospital bed, full of tubing and with that droning flatline stretching out to infinity on the machine beside him is a constant waking nightmare. Vivid behind Dean's lids every time he closes his eyes.

But not for Sam.

Sam's as devastated as Dean's ever seen him, but he's handling it. He's good. Despite all the shit. Despite being dragged back a couple of lifetimes ago from what might have been paradise for all Dean knows, forced into a living hell that led him straight to the real thing all because his older brother was too selfish to leave him in peace. Despite all that - Sam's functioning.

If they can just take out this latest brand of evil, just get the world back on track one last time, Dean thinks his brother has a real chance at building a life for himself. The kind he always wanted. Or the hunting kind, whatever. Sam's more than capable of both. Maybe even together if he sets his mind to it, because if anyone can swing that it's Sam. He always was the smart one of the family.

Dean was the one destined to be the screw up.

Which is why he's decided to quit while he's ahead. Make one last ditch effort to give his brother the future he deserves and leave him to it.

Before he does something to screw things up again.

Before he destroys the one good thing in life he has left.

Dean grips the flask in his pocket tighter. Tells himself to focus on the now.

Wait until this meeting's over.

Follow Dick.

Chop off his head.

Carry it outside and bury it in the biggest vat of cement possible.

Try not to get eaten along the way.

He likes this plan. It's simple. Easy to remember.

"Hey, bad luck on the face, dude."

The voice and accompanying smack on the shoulder make Dean startle. So much for staying focused.

The guy talking is tall with close-cropped black hair and a goatee so small you'd be forgiven for mistaking it as lint and trying to brush it away. He's giving Dean that same 'shit I'm glad I'm not you' expression all the others have and Dean just shrugs, playing along.

"Thanks," he mutters.

"So the Boss is running another doppelganger scenario, huh?" the guy continues and Dean groans inwardly. Great, a chatty ancient evil. Just what he needs. "Well, let's hope for your sake they've worked out the kinks this time."

Mini Goatee chuckles and Dean scowls. It seems appropriate.

"Hey, lighten up," the guy presses, unfazed. "The Winchester look has its advantages. I hear the angel's a whole lot more fun with a Dean-suit on."

Dean's half turned back to the window in the door, watching as the meeting inside appears to be drawing to a close, everyone packing their stuff away. His mind's busy running through the best way to tackle Dick - whether he should sneak in now and hope they're left alone together, or tail him through the building for a bit and try and trap him in another part. It takes a few seconds for the words to filter through.

"Wait. What?" he says, snapping his head round.

"Oh, yeah," Mini Goatee nods back, grinning. "They say he screams loudest when it's his Righteous Man cutting him up."

It's like they've just switched from English to the kind of gibberish language only giants dorks and Sam understand. Elvish or Klingon or Welsh. Some shit like that. Dean can hear the words, he can even make out different syllables, but they don't.make.sense.

Fortunately, like most of the leviathans they've come across so far, this one is too far up his own ass to notice anything amiss with Dean's vacant stare.

"Hey, you should go down when you've got a minute," he continues. "I mean, you look really tense man. You could use a quick workout to loosen you up. Especially if you're meeting the Boss."

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out of it. His mind's too busy fixating on angel and Righteous Man. In the corner of his eye he sees Dick standing up and switching off the projector, turning to make a final address to the assembled group.

He's right there. The soulless thing responsible for ripping Dean's father away from him a second time. The monster Dean's come to think of as personally responsible for eating his best friend up from the inside.

Right there.

...but this guy said angel.

"You know what," Dean starts, making a snap decision. "You're right. I could do with a workout. He, uh... he still in the same place?"

The leviathan's grin widens, inhumanly wide, and the glint in his eye turns downright wicked.

"Yup, still down there in the basement."

The basement.

There's a shuffling and scraping sound from behind the door - chairs being pushed aside. Then the irregular beat of twenty footsteps crossing the room.

Dean turns and walks away, heading back to the elevator.

"Hey!" Mini Goatee calls after him. "Let me know what it's like. If it really is all that, I might try Dean Winchester on for size myself!"

---

The basement is the polar opposite to the rest of the building. It's dark and dirty, the walls and floor bare and coated in dust and cobwebs. Unadorned pipes run along the walls and ceiling like rusty orange vines and there's a skittering noise as the elevator doors ping open. Skittering sometimes means poltergeist, of course, but Dean's aware of the subtleties enough to know rats when he hears them.

There are no meticulously engraved signs embedded in the walls for direction down here, so Dean picks a path at random.

It's after about ten minutes pacing down the gloomy corridor that he realises what else is different. No CCTV.

Huh.

Even respectable monsters need their privacy, Dean supposes.

He turns a corner.

And collides with a six-pack-shaped brick wall.

"Hey, watch it!" a gruff voice mutters somewhere above him.

Dean tips his head back and finds himself under the glare of a large, bald, stocky African American. The way his abs and shoulders bulge against his shirt, black tie fitting like a choker round his trunk of a neck, makes Dean think he'd be more comfortable in a sumo outfit than corporate gear.

The man narrows his eyes and Dean curses to himself. What's he doing down here? He could have taken a machete to Dick by now, but instead he's going to be chowder for a poor man's Samuel L. Jackson. What a waste.

Then the guy - leviathan - throws his head back and laughs, slapping Dean so hard on the shoulder Dean staggers under the pressure.

"Ha! Good one!" the guy says, nodding approvingly. "Me and Joey tried the Winchester trick last week. It was a riot. Finished up a pretty vigorous session just now, so you won't get much out of him. But I'm sure you'll find a way to make him scream somehow."

The leviathan lifts an eyebrow and nudges Dean companionably in the ribs. Dean tries hard to turn his grimace from the pain into a smile.

"Ha, yeah..." he answers, hoping his voice isn't as high-pitched as it sounds.

That's when he notices the rag. The guy's had it balled up in one hand until now, but as he sidesteps away from Dean he grips the cotton in both hands and rubs it over his fingers. Smears of crimson transfer from the monster's skin to the fabric.

Somewhere in the pit of Dean's self-imposed numbness a sense of horror and revulsion begins to stir. And somewhere beneath that, the small, fragile beginnings of hope.

"Anyway, have a good one."

The leviathan lifts a hand in goodbye and walks away. Once he's out of sight round the corner Dean takes a breath and turns around.

There's a door on the left a couple of feet away.

It's metal - thick stainless steel by the looks and bolted on the outside.

Dean approaches it slowly, like he's afraid it might rush him if he makes any sudden moves. Or fade into nothing like a mirage.

He makes out a small, grimy window at the top once he's close enough, but it's pitch black inside and he can't see a thing. There's only one way to find out what's in there.

Hesitantly, Dean reaches out and pulls back the bolt across the door.

It's heavy, but it slides through the latches with the ease of frequent use.

He pulls the door back and steps inside.

It's dark. The dull glow from the corridor does exactly nothing to help penetrate the gloom and once the door clunks shut there's nothing but the black.

Black, with a metallic tang in the air Dean is all too intimately familiar with.

Blood. And lots of it.

There's a series of clinking sounds across from him, each one following the other in a slow, almost sluggish, pattern. Chain links being pulled and twisted. There's no threat to the sound though. If anything it seems to be moving further away from him.

Dean reaches back with a hand, palming the wall. He falters for a moment when his fingers slip through something wet and sticky but finally locates a light switch.

He has to turn away from the glare when he flicks the thing and a hot, yellow, lightbulb-shaped burn flares behind his eyelids to match the bulb dangling from the ceiling. After some heavy blinking Dean's eyes adjust enough so he's no longer seeing spots and he glances back.

The light throws the figure backing against the wall into stark relief.

His clothes are in tatters, nothing but dirty rags that provide little modesty for the thin and shaking body they purport to cover. His hair is matted, plastered to one side of his face by something crusted black. Dean wonders about congealed goo, but the crimson oozing from the myriad of cuts and bite marks elsewhere across the pale skin puts paid to that idea.

There's a gash across one eye that drips down, collecting over the eyelash as the figure looks over. It obscures the colour and Dean can't make it out in the other eye. No sign of blue.

He doesn't need it anyway.

"Cas."

He can barely choke out the name, hating himself for the absolute joy rushing through him as his lips struggle with the syllable. The guy's hands and feet are chained to the wall for fuck's sake. He's bleeding. And god knows what else those Purgatory bastards have been doing, how long they've been keeping him here, but -

Alive.

It's Cas and he's fucking alive.

What he looks like doesn't matter, that fact alone has just made him the holy fucking grail, the Stanley Cup and the lost city of Atlantis rolled into one.

Joy swerves abruptly to vertigo, like the ground holding Dean up has been pulled far far away. It takes everything he has not to stagger from the shift.

Cas looks at him. Scowls. Then turns his head and spits on the ground.

Dean can't tell if the patch of red coating the stone is a result of the act or if it was there already. There's plenty of patches and smears and even the occasional handprint about the place after all.

"I'm so sorry..." The voice is raw. Bitter. But it still has that irrefutable texture of gravel and hard liquor that's unique to Castiel. Dean feels faint hearing it after so long. After months convincing himself he was never going to hear it again. "I have reached my quota of torture for today. Come back tomorrow."

Speechless hardly covers it. Dean's not sure he'll manage another word ever again. He's too scared the slightest sound might break the spell and see his angel double over, lips curled with manic laughter, black tendrils creeping up his neck like last time.

But no tendrils appear. No laughter. No disgusting black oozing over Cas' skin.

Instead, Cas simply ignores Dean in favour of very carefully stretching his arms out one at a time, taking advantage of the light Dean's provided to assess the damage to them. He's stoic as always as he rubs his hands over the broken skin, pressing down with his fingertips to see if the hurt goes beneath the surface. But his left wrist, partly obscured by the thick cuff binding it to his chains, must be broken or something because when Cas touches it he flinches, a sharp hiss sounding round the room, drawn through pursed lips and clenched teeth.

A flash of chunky black hands wiping themselves clean passes through Dean's mind and he has the irrational urge run out and track that leviathan down, pound him to a pulp.

Instead he moves forward, blotting out the red and black finger paint on the walls and focusing on Cas' face.

"Cas, it's me," he says, voice croaky, like it's been months since he used it last not minutes.

Castiel doesn't react at all, still gently prodding his wrist and twisting it under the cuff until his tense expression softens. Dean can see in the twist of the angel's mouth and the way his eyes squint at the corners that the pain's still there, but whatever Cas did has made it the least it can be.

"Cas," he tries again and he's close enough this time to make out the shine in Castiel's eyes. Close enough to see it dim.

"Please..." Castiel says, and suddenly the defiance from seconds ago is gone. Castiel's voice is barely a whisper. He's pleading. "Be someone else. You can cut me as deep as you desire and I won't scream, I promise." His eyes flick up. "Or I will. As loud as you wish. Just be someone else."

Anger would be a comfort, but Dean can't seem to find any. He wants to rage against the monsters who've driven Cas to this, who've reduced the angel who took defiance further than the Devil, whose arrogance carried him a few brief moments higher than god, to this broken, begging existence.

But what he feels more than anything at seeing his friend brought so low is pity.

Pity and an awful, cold sense of guilt and regret. Shame, however unjust, at having left Cas to such a fate all this time, that he hadn't thought to check somehow if he was still alive. And mingled within it all, the nagging suspicion that he played a part in leading Cas here as much as anything.

"I..." Dean finds he has to pry his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth before he can continue. "Cas. It's me, I swear. I... I'm gonna get you outta here."

Cas drops his head with a sigh.

"Of course," he mutters, resigned.

He leans back against the soiled wall and slides down it, chains pooling in his lap. Dean glances up at the bolts above Cas' head that hold the chains for his wrists, fearful of the length running out and yanking Cas' arms up and above him. But the chains are long enough for Cas to rest his hands on his knees. Now, anyway. Dean sees various holes further up the wall where he presumes the chains have been attached before, designed to keep Castiel stretched out, muscles tense.

The sinew is easier to cut that way, Dean remembers.

"You will free me from my bonds," Castiel starts, voice dull. "Lead me down the corridor to the elevator. Then, perhaps, we will very fortunately avoid any guards along the offices upstairs and reach the front door. Perhaps this time you will take me through it before revealing your true colours. Perhaps there will be a group of you waiting on the other side, ready to laugh at my humiliation. I'm sure it will be most satisfying for you."

There's the anger, bubbling up Dean's gut and clenching his jaw until he's aching from the tension. Fucking bastards! How many times had they pulled this trick, for no other reason than because they could? When he gets Cas out of here, he's gonna slaughter every last one of those sons of bitches!

He kneels down and tries to meet Cas' eye but Cas won't look at him. Dean doesn't blame him.

"Look," he says. "You've no reason to believe me, but this time... it's just, it's different. I..." Dean shakes his head. What could he possibly say? "Let's just get these off, okay?"

He reaches in his jacket and pulls out a couple of lock picks. Just cos he wasn't planning on making it out of the complex didn't mean he hadn't come prepared. The cuffs holding Cas are freaking medieval, it shouldn't take him long to break them open.

It's quiet as Dean works, the scrape and click of metal on metal and the occasional sigh from Cas the only sounds in the room. Cas doesn't hinder Dean, but he doesn't help either. He just sits there, passive.

Until Dean shifts to get a better angle.

"You even replicated the knife?" Cas asks suddenly.

The question puzzles Dean until he realises Cas is focused on where his jacket has pulled back, the hilt of Ruby's demon-killing knife jutting prominently out of his belt.

"Nope," he answers. "That's the original, Cas."

Cas meets his eye for a second, then turns his gaze away.

Dean can tell Cas doesn't believe him and he tries not to think about it as he gets back to work.

He's picked the cuff over Castiel's bad wrist to unlock first and when the mechanism finally gives and the metal pulls apart the movement puts a pressure on the joint that makes Castiel bite down on his lower lip. A soft moan rumbles in the back of Cas' throat and Dean reacts on instinct, dropping the chain and putting his picks to one side so he can grip Castiel's forearm in both hands. A quick brush along the bruised and bleeding spot tells him that yup, it's broken. He can feel the spiky edges of snapped bone poking beneath the skin.

Holding the wrist firmly in one hand, Dean uses his other to feel inside his pockets. Eventually he comes across a grubby handkerchief and ties it as best he can about the wound. It won't offer much support, but it's better than nothing.

There's another low moan as Dean finishes the knot.

"Sorry," he mutters, glancing up to make sure it's nothing worse than the pain of the makeshift bandage Cas is reacting to.

The angel's expression is already relaxing by the time Dean's eyes scan over him so, satisfied his friend has no other immediate concerns, Dean picks up his tools again and moves to the other cuff. He lowers Cas' arm slowly and carefully into the angel's lap once that hand is free and moves to the chains on Cas' feet.

He can feel the angel's eyes boring into him now, but Dean doesn't mind. It's not like it's new.

"I commend you," Cas says when Dean reaches the final lock. "You've been the best so far. I might almost believe your compassion genuine."

Dean swallows but doesn't look up. The mindlessness of the last few minutes has proven somewhat therapeutic and he's loathe to break from that and start thinking again.

Just focus on the twists and the clicks.

He can deal with the other crap later.

"Does it please you? This pretence?" Cas continues, shooting Dean's intentions straight to hell. No passing Go. No two hundred dollars. "Does it make you proud, tricking me? Or is it simply a way to pass the time? Nothing but a game?" Castiel breathes out through his nose - a snort of derision. "That's all any of this is to your kind, isn't it? You think I'm nothing, that the people of this world are nothing. Just pawns for you to use and discard..." Cas takes a breath, then stutters it out in a dark chuckle that makes Dean think of Croats and amphetamines. His hand slips and he's forced to start his lock-picking over again. "You will not find the Winchesters so when they kill you. And make no mistake. They will. They will eradicate every last one of you. They will not rest until your whole race is destroyed. You will never be safe from them."

There's a cold, angry certainty to Castiel's words that makes Dean's chest ache.

"That's a tall order," he rasps. "They're only thre-" He swallows hard. "Two. Only two. And they're human. Weak..."

Cas shakes his head and when Dean looks up his sees a thin smile on his friend's face. Against the macabre backdrop of blood splatter and the bruises and cuts over Castiel's white, clammy skin the expression looks horrific.

"They fought the Devil and were victorious. All of Heaven and all of Hell fell before them. You are the ones who are nothing," Cas answers, full of grim determination. "You can beat me and break me and slice me open a million times but you will not break my faith. I... I thought they were less, once. That I was better. Could be better. Your very existence in this world proves me wrong. I will not doubt them again."

Hands shaking now, Dean is forced to stop and hold himself still.

To think that, after everything, after their friendship brought him exile, made him a fugitive from his own family, stripped him of his powers and led him to his death twice over - to think that Castiel should come out of all that still holding Dean and his brother in esteem seems so tragically unfair. And while Cas had been using his loyalty to withstand endless bloody horrors, had only his belief that Dean was out there fighting to keep him going, Dean had come here ready to give up that fight, to end it all and let the world burn.

Dean makes himself a promise then and there. Not any more.

He's been running low on reasons to keep fighting lately it's true, but now, out of the blue, he's stumbled across one again. Bobby had told him to take whatever he could and this is something all right. Today Cas is his reason.

Tomorrow... well he'll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Taking a breath Dean makes the final twist and the cuff on Castiel's right ankle drops off. Dean puts his tools away and hooks an arm under Cas' shoulder, pulling them up together.

For a couple of seconds Cas is a dead weight against him. Then the angel moves like lightening, slamming Dean back against the wall and snatching the knife from Dean's belt. Castiel's eyes sparkle, cold and unfeeling, as he holds the blade to Dean's throat.

"Every one of you comes in here arrogant and overconfident," Cas hisses, leaning in close. "You think you will be the one to break me but you are wrong. I will not be broken. I will not. Now you will listen. I don't care what punishment you threaten me with, I have borne them all, so you will change yourself until you are a stranger to me or I will sever your head from your body as many times as my strength allows me. Do not mistake me. I know it will not kill you. I know I cannot succeed in this indefinitely. But I can delay you for hours, and I know your 'boss' does not appreciate tardiness. So if you wish to keep in his good graces you will change. Now."

Cas presses the knife down and Dean feels the serrated edge break his skin. It's the emptiness in Castiel's eyes that pains him the most though. He's never seen Cas like this. Bitter, yes, and angry, disapproving, distant. But not shut down. Even in those early days when being a soldier had been all Cas knew there had always been something in those eyes that told Dean there was more to this guy than his orders.

Now there's just a chilling absence. Like his friend has taken every part of himself, everything that makes him him, and buried it away.

It's a classic coping mechanism. The most efficient way to withstand torture. Dean learnt it well back in the Pit and thinks Sam must have too because he sees the occasional glimmer of it in his brother's face from time to time. That sudden blankness that tells him Lucifer, or whatever, is getting too much so Sam's stepping out for a while, taking a vacation from his head until it's safe to come back.

But if he thought it hurt seeing that in his brother, seeing it in Cas is breaking him up inside. Because though Dean fought it as hard as he could, that kind of tragedy was always on the cards for Sam as much as it had been for Dean himself. But Cas - Cas was the one out of all of them who shouldn't have had to endure that. The one part of their fucked up lives that through it all Dean had somehow believed could stay pure.

And Cas worked so fucking hard at finding himself, leaving Heaven's Stepford regime and living for himself. Sure, he'd screwed it up, but at least he'd tried, which is more than Dean ever has.

That Cas should have been forced to unlearn that independence is like a double loss.

Yet, at the same time, Dean is proud. Proud that Cas has at least found a way to keep his strength. That he hasn't just rolled over and let those leviathan bastards break him like Dean had been about to let them do.

Cas tightens his grip on the hilt of the knife and the edge scrapes down Dean's neck, reminding Dean of the precariousness of his situation. Part of him almost welcomes this, thinks it might be poetic - being ganked by the same angel who'd raised his sorry ass. But the thought of what the sight of his decidedly human corpse will do to Castiel's already fragile state of mind is more than enough to quash those suicidal plans even as they form.

"Okay, okay," Dean gasps, feeling the press of the knife with each undulation up and down his throat.

He tries to resist Cas' hold but the press of his friend's arms is hard as stone, broken wrist notwithstanding. It's more than human that's for sure, which makes Dean think Cas might actually have some of his mojo hidden away there, even if healing seems to be out at the moment. He certainly has more strength than he'd been letting on while Dean was working on his cuffs anyway, the faker.

But angel powers or no, Cas is still hurt bad and Dean doesn't want to have to add to those injuries if he can help it. He needs another tack and as another scrape stings his throat Dean kicks himself for not thinking of the obvious solution sooner. Sam's right, his head's really not in the game right now.

"You want me to change. Okay. Sure thing," he says, playing for time. "Just, just humour me first, alright? Just in this one thing." Cas holds the knife still, listening. "Look at the knife you're holding. Just look at it. You don't even have to let it go, just look."

Since Cas doesn't immediately decapitate him Dean assumes he's considering the request. A moment later Castiel flicks his eyes down then back up.

The angel's expression is unchanged at first, save for a slight raise of his left eyebrow as if to say 'there, we're done.' But then what he must have seen starts to dawn on him and Castiel's hardened expression grows slack. He looks down properly, eyebrows drawing together. This opens the barely crusted cut above his right eye again so a drop of blood wells up at the corner. Castiel doesn't seem to notice.

"You've been here for months, right Cas?" Dean prompts. "You... you've fought god knows how many of these fuckers. So tell me. They ever bleed red? Even once?"

For the longest time Castiel just stares. Then, with agonising slowness, he pulls the blade away.

Dean knows he could take Cas now. A quick twist of his arm would be enough to wrench the weapon away from him. But he doesn't want that. He wants Cas to figure it out. Wants to see his reaction. To see if there's enough of his friend left to react, or if this tortured Cas even cares that Dean Winchester is here in person this time.

Castiel holds the blade to his face and watches the traces of crimson glint off the metal. He runs a thumb along the flat edge and peers at the smudge of red collected by his skin, face a mask of concentration. His eyes track back to Dean, finding the cut, and his free hand reaches out.

The cut isn't deep and doesn't even sting when Cas rubs two fingers along the wound. But Dean tenses anyway. Waiting.

He knows the exact moment the truth hits because Castiel gasps, loud and deep, and snatches his hand away like he's been stung.

"Oh god," Castiel breathes, stepping back. "Oh god..." He looks up then away, like a child caught in a lie, scared and ashamed. All he needs is the glow of flames on his cheeks and he's back in that ring of fire and while the memory burns Dean is glad of the expression because it means the Cas he knows is still there. "I thought - I didn't -"

"It's okay," Dean tells him, stepping forward. But Castiel jerks his head from side to side, waving his hands. Since one hand is still holding the knife this brings the blade dangerously close to Dean's face, forcing him back.

"No. No it isn't, I could have -"

Cas' carefully blank mask crumbles away and dark, panicked lines etch across his face in its stead. It's like he's spent all this time only waiting for Dean to come and bring him back to himself, but now Dean's here for real he's unprepared. As if waiting was the only thing keeping him grounded and now he no longer has that he's untethered. A kite without a string.

"I could have killed you - I would have -" His breathing turns shallow and his arms tremble. He starts to lift his hands to his face, seeming to have forgotten this will bring the pointed edge of a weapon straight to him.

"Cas," Dean snaps, frightened now. "I'm telling you man, it's okay."

If Cas hears him he doesn't acknowledge it.

"I'm sorry - I'm -" he stammers, still refusing to look at Dean and still waving the knife about unchecked.

He should have expected this, Dean realises. When you've conditioned yourself to the kind of pain Cas must have suffered these last few months, when you've hardened yourself to it until you can't imagine anything else, a change of any kind is bound to shake you.

"I should have - I -"

The easiest way to break the hysteria would be to slap the guy, but Dean's not sure that would work on an angel, even a de-powered one. In any case, the knife is stopping him getting close enough.

But if he lets Cas carry on this way he could end up seriously hurting himself.

"Cas! Hey, hey!" he tries again. No dice.

Instead Cas presses the ball of his knife-welding hand to his temple, the blade skimming his hairline.

Okay, that's it.

Lunging forward with Cas mid-babble Dean manages to grip the arm holding the knife in one hand and stretch it out wide, keeping the weapon far away from both of them. He uses his other hand to hold Cas' shoulder. His fingers are curled tight enough to bruise and he hates it, but there's no other way, it's going to take some pain to get through to his friend here.

"Stop!" He dips his head until Cas is forced to look at him. "Cas, just stop."

Cas doesn't even struggle, he holds still at once, eyes fixed on Dean's. His gaze is wide and wet and, oh god, so lost.

"It's okay," Dean tells him again, voice hushed. The tone for a feral child, or a wounded animal.

Castiel falls silent, save for the deep in and out of his breath, and they hold that way for Dean doesn't know how long. Enough for his fingers to start cramping. But he doesn't let go and he doesn't look away. If this is what it takes to get through to his friend then he'll wait it out as long as he has to.

"Dean..." Cas whispers finally and with reverence, like Dean's the eighth wonder, the answer to every unsolved mystery of the universe, or both.

His body relaxes and Dean doesn't know what happens next exactly, just that all of a sudden he has the knife back in his own hand and is using his other to pull Cas close, gripping him fiercely about the shoulders while Castiel locks one arm round Dean's waist and reaches up with the other, fingers clasping the back of Dean's neck and holding Dean against him like he never means to let go.

"It's okay," Dean murmurs again as Cas shudders and buries his face in the dip of Dean's collarbone, uncertain if the assurance is for Cas or himself at this stage. "I got you, it's okay." He closes his eyes, wrapping his arms tighter round his friend and pretending, just for a moment, that the worst is over and they're already out. That there are no leviathans out for their blood and that Sam and Bobby are waiting for them just outside the door. "It's okay."

Slowly the tremors wracking Castiel's body begin to calm and he lifts his head enough to speak.

"I can't believe you're here. I thought I would never see you again."

Dean opens his eyes and nods, sad to lose his fantasy but at the same time glad of the hot, persistent truth of Castiel's breath on his skin.

"Tell me about it."

The embrace must be painful for Cas, whose body feels thinner and more fragile by the second. But he doesn't try and pull away and Dean doesn't force him.

"I... I would rather not," Cas starts, hesitant. "Tell you -"

The familiarity of the misunderstanding actually puts a smile on Dean's face.

"It's just an expression, Cas."

"Oh."

There's a pause. Then Cas shifts his hand from Dean's neck, wiping his face with the dangling threads passing for a sleeve over his wrist.

"How did you find me?" he asks.

"Well, uh..."

I was trying to off myself and...

"Doesn't matter," Dean answers, easing the two of them apart. "Let's get out of here. Can you walk?"

He has hands on both Castiel's shoulders, knife jutting up in his left, because he's half afraid his friend will collapse without the support, despite having been successfully threatened by him moments before. Seriously though, the guy's nothing but skin and bone, and at least one of those is snapped, how the fuck is he functioning?

Cas doesn't object to the hold, just purses his lips and considers the question.

"If I can have a few minutes I will be capable," he replies.

"Like, you'll heal? You can still - I mean you're..." Dean trails off. He and tact never have been on the best of terms.

Fortunately, Cas and tact hail from separate solar systems.

"Am I still an angel?" Cas completes, blunt and to the point and not offended by the question in the least. "I don't know. I... since they brought me here I can't... I can't feel my wings..." He stops, a familiar blankness taking him over, and Dean has half a mind to hug him again. "But conversely," Cas continues after a moment, composed. "Were I simply human I would have been unable to sustain the injuries inflicted upon me for as long as I have and I would, no doubt, have perished some time ago."

The conclusion of this matter-of-fact speech has Dean digging his fingers into Cas' shoulders in a way he knows must bite but he can't help it. He needs some kind of outlet for the horror of the thing better than the cry rising up his throat. Cas has been alive all this time, but even so, he could have died down here. And Dean would have lost him twice over. Three times. Four. The only reason he hasn't is, what? Luck of the draw? Cas' angel ability to withstand more than a human just happening to stick around while the rest of his mojo hadn't? And if Dean hadn't found him today, what then? Would his body eventually have succumbed to the torture, his heart giving out and taking all that was left of Cas with it?

This was too close, way too close, to another family tragedy.

"Right..." Dean manages. "Well, take your time. We got a few minutes."

He's almost proud. It sounds very much like he has a plan.

Cas certainly seems to think so, giving a sombre nod back before taking a step away from Dean's support and focusing on standing straight without swaying.

"Where are Sam and Bobby?" Cas asks after a moment.

It's such an obvious question Dean can't believe how much it blindsides him, seizing his throat up and turning him cold. When his dad died he'd had almost a year of searching for the man to prepare for the loss, he was ready to shut down over it. But this... he can't even hear the name without...

"Sam's, um..." he tries as he slips the knife back in his jeans. "He's..." He turns away, forcing out a laugh. He thinks maybe if he keeps it light he can do this. "Well, wherever he is he's thinking up some pretty creative ways to rip me a new one by now for being so reckless... And... And Bobby's... He's..."

Dean stops, like Cas before when he'd mentioned his wings. He has to. Because if he tries to say anything else he's going to lose it and they've got a lobby full of leviathan to get through yet.

He doesn't need to say more in any case because it seems Castiel hears the rest in his tone, a soft 'no...' reaching Dean in response.

"Was it -?" Cas starts, then cuts himself off.

While Dean appreciates the attempt to drop the subject, he finds the following silence a hell of a lot worse and spits out a reply anyway.

"Yeah. Their Dick of a boss." That helps as much as anything has the last few days. Focusing the blame. Fixating on something he can work up some anger towards instead of being crushed under the weight of... of the other stuff. "And he - he fucking shot him. With a gun, you know? Right - right in the head... He's upstairs right now. I was this close to him, this fucking close."

Dean's barely aware of the finger and thumb he's holding together. The world around him is blurring, swirling into a single image, then another. A bloody trucker's cap. And Dick Roman's face smirking at him through a limousine window.

"All I had to do was walk in there. I'd like to see him look so smug with a machete in his neck!"

"You didn't come for me."

It's spoken as fact not accusation, but Dean burns with the shame of it regardless. And it's worse when he turns because Castiel's expression is back to an empty slate, not angry or disappointed or even sad. Dean doesn't know whether to be apologetic, consoling or what.

"You came here for revenge," Castiel adds, voice as devoid of emotion as the rest of him.

"I... yeah. I mean. I didn't even know you were alive, man. You went into that lake and... and that was it, you were gone. I found your... your fucking trenchcoat and..." Dean spares a thought for the battered coat, neatly wrapped up in the duffle he'd brought with him and left in the car he'd jacked to get here. He's been carting the damn thing around with him ever since he'd fished it out of the water, for god knows why. Luck maybe. Not that it had brought them any. But anyhow, he knew he couldn't come today without it. He wishes he could have brought his baby too, but at least this way she'll be safe at the garage Bobby stashed her in for him. The thought of Dick and his disciples getting their hands on her was far worse than the lack of a familiar wheel and worn upholstery on the drive down. "I couldn't believe it when I heard them talking about you upstairs."

Castiel continues his robotic stance for a beat. Then he blinks and shakes his head.

"Dean... you need to get out of here."

"Yeah," Dean nods. "Yeah. You good to go?"

"No, you misunderstand me. You need to leave, Dean. Alone."

Dean frowns.

"What -?"

And then Castiel's rushing forward, eyes blazing with that righteous fury Dean knows so well.

"Do you have any idea the danger you have placed yourself in?"

"Yeah, I -"

"If they find you here they will not hesitate to kill you! Do you understand? And you are here, alone, without back up, you -" Cas stops and gapes, as if Dean's stupidity is too vast to contemplate. "Leave now. The way you came. Before they realise."

"Cas, no. We're leaving together."

Cas turns away.

"You can't risk it."

"Well, I'm going to."

"Dean -"

"No, Cas. You really think I'm gonna leave you here so those sons of bitches can do fuck knows what? No! I can't do that."

"Yes, you can. You... you have no obligations towards me, Dean." Cas stills and drops his head and something about the curve of his shoulders, the way they droop, hunching him over, reads like defeat to Dean. "You do not need to risk yourself on my account. And if you feel a duty to, I absolve you of it."

Initial attempts to respond to this lead Dean through various goldfish impersonations before he settles on a standard -

"The fuck, Cas?" He paces over and in front of his friend, wanting to spin Cas round by the shoulder but too wary of his condition to try. "What are you talking about 'duty' and 'obligation'? I'm trying to help you here."

"Yes," Cas answers and his voice shakes on the word, eyes glistening as he looks up. "But Dean... Bobby is dead? I know he was like a father to you, maybe more. And... and it's my fault. All of this. Bobby, the leviathans, it is all because of me and my choices." Castiel takes a breath and holds Dean's gaze. "I would not begrudge you, Dean, for leaving me here. On the contrary, I would respect you for it."

Dean stares at Cas, dumbfounded, mind whiting out. Cas is seriously asking him to... to deliberately... The whiteness grows hot and Dean moves without thinking, slamming Cas against the nearest wall and pinning him there. Cas cries out from the shock and the pain of it but Dean doesn't care.

"You fucking dick," Dean grinds out through clenched teeth. "You think that's how this works? That leaving you here, like some damn eye for an eye, will somehow make things right?"

"No..." Cas gasps, wincing under Dean's hold. "But there would... be some justice in it."

Even through the pain Cas is so unbelievably sincere. Dean has to resist the urge to smack his head against the brick.

"Justice?! There's no justice in you dying here, you -!" he yells. "All that means is that instead of losing a father, I'd have lost a father and a friend. A friend I thought I'd already fucking..." Dean fists both hands in Castiel's pathetic excuse for a shirt, the fabric so thin he can feel his nails digging through it into his palms. A welcome sensation if it distracts from the memory of Castiel melting away in that reservoir and the gut-wrenching realisation that he was really gone this time. "Fuck you, Cas! The last time I saw you, before those, those goddamn things took over, you told me, you swore, you were gonna make things up to me. Did you mean that, or was it just another lie?"

"Dean, I..." Cas is cowed now, flinching from Dean's harsh words. "Of course I meant it."

"Good," Dean growls back. "Because this is how you do it. You and me? We're gonna walk outta here and you're gonna fucking live, you hear? No grand gestures, no sacrifices. You don't get to take the easy way out. I'm not gonna let you." That this comes so soon after Dean's own attempt at a fatal escape from his troubles, the taste of hypocrisy rank and cloying in the back of his throat, only increases Dean's fury. "Do you understand me, Cas?" He spares Cas barely a moment before he's shaking the angel and repeating the question. "Do you understand?!"

"I understand," Cas answers quickly.

The tone is one Dean knows well. It's the immediate response of someone long conditioned to offer compliance while under duress. He'd learnt to instil it in soul after soul once, making it as much a part of Hell as the agonised screams and the sobbing.

But it's not for here. Never for here.

Chest heaving, Dean lets his fists uncurl, fingers shaking as he untangles them from Cas' clothes and steps back.

"Dean..." Cas says, stepping after him.

Dean thinks he should stop him. Apologise. But Cas is meeting his eye before he can find the words, holding them together until their breathing settles.

"I understand," Cas repeats, clearer this time, the words his own.

It's not enough, not anywhere near enough, to fixing things between them. It doesn't change the lies and mistakes and betrayals. But if the losses and the heartache and the cold, terrible numbness of the last few weeks have taught Dean anything, it's that life's too fucking short to let anything keep you from the people you care about.

Cas is here. That's all that matters. Anything else they can deal with, just as long as his friend's alive.

"Alright," Dean says. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

When Cas speaks next it's no longer with reproach. Just in question.

"How?"

In-between their heated back and forth a half-baked plan had been forming in Dean's mind about this and he thinks now he might just have the answer.

"They've pulled this before you said, right?" he asks. "Pretending to be me?"

"Yes. They have led me as far as the main entrance before renewing my bondage and dragging me back," Cas explains. He's frank at first, but then bites his lip and looks down. "It has taken me... a shamefully long time to stop being taken in by the deception."

"Well, you're gonna be taken in again," Dean tells him. "Only this time, you're gonna make it through that entrance. And you're never coming back."

Castiel's forehead creases only slightly as he looks up.

"You plan on leading me outside. In full view of all leviathan in the building?"

"Not all of them," Dean protests. "Only the ones in the lobby."

Castiel blinks at him.

"Even so..." he starts. "The chances of such a plan achieving even a modicum of success are... extremely low."

A kind of youthful excitement grows in Dean. The kind that puts butterflies in his stomach and makes him feel invincible. The kind he'd felt on those first few hunts with Dad. That wild yet paradoxically calm sense that while anything was possible, everything would be fine. Had to be. Because they wouldn't let it be otherwise.

He grins.

"Just how I like 'em," he answers, holding out a hand. "Now, you coming or what?"

Cas' eyes move from Dean's to the hunter's outstretched palm and his lips start to curve.

part two