The Downward Course - Gen (Castiel POV)
Title - The Downward Course
Author - queerly_it_is
Pairing - Gen
Rating - R for gore and violence.
Word Count - ~1.7k
Warnings - Graphic gore (seriously), mentions of torture, violence, great mentions of canon character death throughout. Religious themes. Spoilers for Season 4.
Disclaimer - I own nothing and no one. I live entirely inside the mind of a psychotic hamster.
Summary - They have their orders - retrieve the Righteous Man from Hell before the first seal is broken. It will not be easy; but Castiel has full faith in his Father’s plan.
Authors Notes - I have no idea where this came from. I was trying to write wincesty PWP, and instead got the urge to write angel-fic with Cas POV. Nearly 1,700 words later and here we are; my imagining of Cas’ rescuing of Dean from Hell. Some images/ideas are taken from Dante’s Inferno. Title from the Lord Buddha.
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Castiel doesn’t understand why he’s here.
He knows the importance of his orders; and knows that his superiors would not send him where he was not needed, that this is all a part of his Father‘s plan. He simply cannot see why he was chosen for this task, this mission.
Looking around at the flesh-and-bone vessels of his brothers and sisters - so very crude compared to the eternal song of Grace he feels from within each of them - gathered together in the damp clearing, in a place he knows to be North America, he tries to take solace in the fact that with their combined faith, they will succeed. Failure is not an acceptable outcome.
It is of small comfort.
The highest-ranked of his brethren among them, chosen to lead this siege, calls for the attention of the rest of them. As one they turn, and fall silent. Angels are nothing if not harmonious, unified.
Castiel misses Heaven already.
“We will face much resistance” states Baruchiel, the words losing none of his usual smooth confidence and certainty as they flow from the determined face of his human host. “We will no doubt be forced to fight our way past many adversaries, many obstacles, but we must succeed. The Righteous Man cannot be allowed to break the seal.” He informs them of this as though they did not receive the same Revelation as did he, as though they do not know the price that all creation will pay if they are too late.
No answer from the assembled garrison. None is required. They will obey.
With a rend and tear of something fundamental and yet totally intangible, the thin fabric of the mortal world opens to the howling dissonance of Hell itself. Castiel has never ventured into the Pit, even though it is still his Fathers’ creation. He can almost feel the soul of Jimmy Novak twist away from the sense of deathbloodpaindespair radiating from the swirling mass of the portal, before quieting again in acceptance of his purpose.
Castiel chose his vessel well.
Moving without pause or hesitation, and with a speed that belies the physical nature of their current forms; the garrison leaps forward with a flap of wings and a rush of wind, and then down, into the howling emptiness.
The portal shuts behind them.
The battle is all-encompassing; demons and Hell-beasts rushing up around them immediately, mighty clash of angelic swords and demonic knives, thud of impacts as warriors of Heaven divide and destroy. Screams of pain and fear and rage fill what passes for air in this dimension; iron-tang of blood, stench of sulphur and brimstone clouding everything, heat rising like a physical touch, singing his wings and cloying at his Grace.
Around them, Perdition appears infinite; lightning flashing and dividing the ’sky’, gradually blackening horizon a testament to the unfathomable distance that comprises each Circle. Physicality all but meaningless; so-called ‘reality’ as bent and broken as the souls that inhabit it, and everywhere is the permeating lack of hope.
He reminds himself that here, so very far from Heaven, he is weaker; his strength not assured against the hordes of pure-form demons that swarm them like clouds of roaring, roiling insects. The thought does not slow him. He smites with sword and shove of Heavenly power, does not dwell on how much longer it takes; how draining it all is. He feels weighted in a way that angels were never meant to know.
The shiftrushskip in the flow of time compared to the almost sedentary and unchanging one of Earth is disorienting; time itself not something Castiel is at all accustomed to experiencing. Time in Hell is irrelevant, he knows this; every second an eternity, every rule that governs the natural order of things shredded and improperly pieced together again.
Time runs different in the Mound.
There is a profound sense of falling as they move, and it is…unsettling. The very word disturbing to the core of what Castiel is.
He glimpses the white and total purity of his brothers and sisters; all fighting demons and creatures of Hell in far greater number than their own. The glint of holy blades, flashing in blackredgrey light is all he can see of most of them, interspersed with bursts of Grace as some are overwhelmed and consumed, his sense of their existence dispersing into nothingness. There will be no mourning; they knew not all of them would survive, knows that he may not survive, but it is of no consequence. They are soldiers, and they have a mission.
Fighting his way single-handed past walls of flesh and meat and bone, human skin stretching like blood-soaked canvas over much of what Castiel sees around him, sense and sounds of torment everywhere. He searches for the one soul that they are here to save.
But there are so many.
They are all in agony; some calling out to him as he passes, others reaching for him from wooden racks, hanging meat hooks or dangling chains, some embedded in the very walls themselves; bodies a grotesquery of architecture. The twisted, snarling faces of their torturers swivel toward him, howls of rage spat at his retreating form as he moves faster, deeper, further.
He cannot help them.
In a moment of atypical curiosity; he wonders where the Fallen are; names and presences of those that have been absent from the resonant perfection of Heaven for so long now that he cannot recall many of them. He feels what could almost be called longing, but moves it aside - irrelevant to his mission - and continues his search.
Then he feels it. The subtle hum and frequency of the soul - the Righteous Man - committed to memory by every angel now battling through this place. His sense of purpose narrows, focuses, and he quickens his pace. Turning corner after corner, bloody hallways and forked passages spreading everywhere like capillaries. No hesitation. No doubt.
He follows the sound.
Arriving at the source an indeterminate amount of time later - progression of existence here never constant, never regular, one more perversion of creation itself - he enters a poorly-lit chamber; with a low, dome-like ceiling. Veiny membranes cover the curved, sloping walls, fires burning in the ‘corners‘, dripdripdrip from the rack in the centre.
The Righteous Man is not what Castiel had expected.
Still obviously human - hum of his soul not yet twisted into the discordant note of a demonic presence - but not entirely whole either. He has not yet noticed the angel standing in the bone-lined entryway to his left. He has a curved, wicked-looking blade in his right hand, slight smirk twisting his features, shadows dancing over him, making his face appear harsh and cruel in the reflections and refractions of the shiny-wet walls. The blade is soaked with blood.
It is then that Castiel notices the underlying, broken note of another soul; bound to the rack in the middle of the room, facing the far wall. The soul of an old - not that such terms have a great deal of meaning here - man, whimpering and struggling to breathe without the lung that is lying at his feet. For the first time since this siege began, Castiel is unsure of how to proceed.
‘Too late’ is the first coherent thought that flashes through his being. The blood has been shed; the seal is broken.
It has begun.
Lacking any other recourse, and unwilling to leave the Righteous Man here now that he has found him, Castiel rushes to his side, paying no heed to the shout of anger and surprise it elicits, and drags the man from the chamber. The soul struggles, and Castiel grips it tighter, begins his rapid ascent away from the swirling pull of Hell. He encounters none of his brothers, sees nothing of the garrison.
More demons attempt to intercept him, and he dispatches them quickly or ignores them altogether, not slowing in the least.
Reaching the point of their earlier entry, he sees what few of their number have survived; some with
swords in hand, some spilling Grace-light from stubborn wounds that refuse to heal in this dimension. They regard him with something akin to relief, perhaps satisfaction in the knowledge that they have completed their mission.
‘Too late’ flashes through him once more.
No time to waste; demons already screeching toward them from the blackness, Castiel follows the others back through the reopened portal before it is closed for good; lines of the world reconnecting in their proper order, snap of reality reaffirming itself.
Before a single moment has passed, Castiel locates the somewhat decayed flesh-form of the soul in his charge, interred beneath the dirt - flow of Grace and Healing, mending every cell and tissue and organ - and returns the Righteous Man’s soul to his earthly body, the abrupt rush of power felling trees and unearthing plants in a wide circle, soul-deep imprint of Castiel’s efforts left on the mans shoulder. He notes the gasp of air and twitch of muscle; ribcage suddenly expanding as the human revives; cells dividing, metabolism jump-starting - so fragile, these creatures - before he retreats, to wait for the proper time.
Materialising with a muffled flap of invisible wings - no doubt blackened and slightly ragged now, after his struggle through Hell - next to the other surviving members of the garrison; a ragtag, worn-looking group that must appear somewhat odd standing in empty woodland. He sends a brief nod in answer to the grim look Uriel sends his way, and acknowledges Karael and Rizoel when they do the same, neither in thanks nor recrimination; simply in acceptance.
Finally; clean air filling his human lungs, trench coat rustling as he moves, scent of brimstone fading; Castiel turns the eyes of his vessel upward to the cloudless sky, sun pleasantly warm on his face, boundless blue a startling contrast after the unending red-black nothingness of Sheol. With a thought, he sends word to the Host of Heaven, thoughts resonating among every angel in creation.
Dean Winchester is saved.
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