Chapter Text
After 40 years in hell, Dean recognized the place like an amputee still felt a missing limb. Hell was the place where they sliced, diced, and carved him up on a daily basis. The experience had left these holes in his soul he still felt today. They ached like a broken bone, only instead of warning him about foul weather, they foretold more loss to come. Hell, in all its red, sulfurous glory, was ingrained in him.
Dean was more than a little surprised that he was there again. To go from a great big well of emptiness to a honeycombed pit of fire and stink and pain was too much for the senses at first. It took a moment for details to seep in through the hellfire's afterimages. It was as if his eyes and ears were linked. Once the one worked, he couldn't stop hearing the constant background chorus. The ever-present screams and whimpers and mad laughter and begging weren't just echoes from distant torture chambers. There was a rack at his side. The weight of a blade in his hand drew his gaze down. It was dripping.
People didn't have bodies down here, not generally. They had souls, but their souls had memories of bodies. So it was "blood" that covered him to the elbows, that squelched beneath his shoes, that dripped from his blade.
He remembered this. He used to be this. Alistair’s prize pupil. Dean stared at the whimpering woman stretched out on the rack, her insides spewing out of her like a blooming onion. In this moment, staring down at her, he felt like he was still Alistair’s.
The blade fell from his nerveless fingers. "What the hell?"
A sudden boom shook him, and the overhang of stone--like some massive, jagged teeth--high overhead juddered. Dean flinched and ducked as some debris fell, but not before it lanced a line pain open on his skull. He pressed a hand against the bleeding as he turned. That's going to need stitches, he thought. Then laughed. The only stitches he had ever borne in hell were those used to seal the eyes and mouth shut. Another boom and shudder tripped him. He fell to his knees on the craggy floor, that no matter how slimy, could still be razor sharp. He snatched back up his blade, ready to fight it out.
That was when he saw it.
Something big, bright, and multi-winged fluttered above the maw-like entrance above his chamber. Dean lifted his left arm to shield his eyes from its glare.
That was when he noticed the bracelet on his arm. The bracelet Sam had tied. It was glowing, and the knot had disappeared. Now the spelled thread formed a smooth, seamless loop.
As freaky as that was, the bracelet didn't hold his attention long. His gaze flicked back to hovering bluish-white light.
It had come closer, now floating within the open, broken dome of his cell. Another one hovered further back, outside the teeth of the roof, but its attention was focused elsewhere. No doubt on the attack surging its way. A roiling black mass struck it, and the tangled mass tumbled down, spitting flaming bits of light and blackness before it passed out of sight. The resultant thud made the ground tremble.
The other light paid it no need. It darted a little closer.
The color, the feathers . . . An angel?
His heart thudded. Cas?
Before he could call out, the figure--the angel--Cas--was blindsided by another seething comet of black smoke. A demon.
Their joined forms twisted, slashed, hacked, and fought for supremacy as they too tumbled to the ground.
Dean ran toward them.
They thudded to the ground feet away.
The impact was a shockwave, knocking him flat on his ass. By the time his head stopped ringing and the world stilled, the fight was over. The pair lay in a heap on the blood-stained ground.
Dean sucked in his breath. His fingers ached where they clenched his knife's handle. Please, don't.
Then there was a twitch.
Thank -- his mind glitched on the familiar prayer.
Dean clambered back to his feet and ran for them, calling out, "Cas!" He skidded to a stop before the pile of wings and layers of demon. He flipped the blade in his hand, ready to stab down, as he reached for the black smoke. Grab and stab, was the plan.
The minute he touched it, he knew there was no need.
The thing was slashed to hell. He could see a shifting mass of brightness through the weeping gashes.
In hell, in their natural form, demons weighed a lot, had real substance. They could change that if they wanted, if it made torture more interesting.
This one felt like dead weight.
"Hold on." Dean gripped the demon awkwardly, one hand preoccupied, and he gave it a tug.
It ripped along the slashes like melted cheese pulling apart. Tendrils popped like fat in fire as its form tore apart. Dean lurched back at the sudden release, and he accidentally gashed his hand open on the serrated blade. In disgust, he dragged the section of blubbery smoke onto the ground. Then, he stopped to wipe the blood seeping into his eye. Blinking rapidly despite the sting, he dove back in, hacking and slashing to make the dead demon more manageable. Under his breath, he kept muttering, "Hold on, hold on, hold on."
His hands were stained with black soot and sticky ichor by the time he tore the second piece off.
Cas, who must have been stunned, did more than twitch this time. With a sudden unfurling, he scattered the remaining pieces. Dean ducked, and they sailed through the air before landing several feet away with squishy splats.
With a great, dog-like shake, the multi-winged form slung mingled "blood"--grace--and muck everywhere, making Dean raise up shielding arms and mutter a "f**k" beneath his breath. "Take it easy there, Cas. I'm standing in the splash zone."
When he lowered his hands and straightened up, it--this form of Cas--loomed over him, heaving. He was all light and feathers. As far as he could tell there was no head, just six wings branching off a tear-shaped body, which ended in long, forked tail. Some of the smaller feathers on its wings had to be ten-feet tall. It used the lower, smallest pair of wings to prop itself up.
In the barn, there had been only two wings. When Cas had postured against Raphael, only two. These were no shadows and thunderclaps, and they numbered far more than two. A memory came to him. "I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that. . . . Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong."
It was hard to reconcile this . . . visage with Cas.
Cas had always seemed human, even when he wasn't, when Dean knew he wasn't.
"And what visage are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?"
But . . . it had to be him.
"Cas." Dean reached out and brushed his hand along the nearest wingtip. They didn't feel like feathers. They felt like thousands of threads of heat and prickles, living flames of purity that didn't burn.
The wing shuddered.
A high-pitched hum rang out, and something pinched on his left wrist. The bracelet, he thought, as his fingers seized on the wing, his whole body undergoing some kind shock. A separate memory crackled into his head, like some strange interference ghosting in.
The creature of light heaved off the dead demon, and for the first time, in a long time, Dean felt something other than pain and guilt tearing at him. The sight of it locked his legs in place, even as his mind whispered this had to be some trick, to not trust it, to kill it. How? he thought, eyes raking the huge creature. It's just taken out a demon with its wings.
Dean's heart skipped a beat as the creature turned on him. There has to be a weakness, some weakness. It approached Dean, in a movement not unlike a scorpion, with its greatest pair of wing held high overhead and pointing his way. All its feathers were raised like hackles. Its voice was deep and sonorous as it proclaimed, "I have found you, Dean Winchester."
Dean replied, "Good for you," right before he stabbed the nearest section of feathers.
It froze, and its bright "blood" seeped onto him, into him, through him. All thoughts of fight fled as the blood burned him clean. Dean fell to his knees as awareness of this creature seared into his soul. It felt like breaking. "W-what are you?" he managed to gasp out.
"I am the angel Castiel, and my garrison is here to save you."
The intruding memory fizzled in the background while his current, tuned-in reality played out. He was aware of the sting of the golden, unbroken bracelet on his wrist. He was aware that his fingers had tightened on the fistful of grace-damp feathers, even though Cas tried to retreat. The faint twitch wrenched him off his feet, making him stumble in the landing. Their blood--his soul, Cas's grace--intermingled, and his thoughts went on the fritz. All he could do was feel, and that feeling was overwhelming. The electric awareness of something far bigger, far stranger, so familiar, and yet so unknowable breached upon him.
As it died down, he could hear, vaguely, Cas's voice booming the words: "I have found you, Dean Winchester."
Pride--Cas's pride--vibrated through him.
Then, unlike the old memory, it was followed with, "You should unhand my wing."
It was Dean's turn for a whole-body shudder. It came with a sudden, desperate inhalation. His whole body went nerveless with it. His fingers dropped away. The blade fell from his nerveless fingers for a second time, and the feathers slipped free. A bloody smear marred their brightness as the wing lifted away.
My blood.
My blood. Dean got a hold of himself, grabbing up hunks of scattered senses and thoughts, and jamming them together. To stay shocked in places like this or Purgatory was a death sentence. He had to be fast on his feet.
Cas had always been distracting. But damn, if he wasn't outdoing himself this time.
This time, he had a tail.
"Cas--" he croaked out, reaching. The wings slipped further away. Right. Focus. "Cas, it's me. I don't know what this is, but--" Dean wiped at his face. He was surprised to find the gash in his hand, gone, healed. He touched his brow. That was healed too. His skin seemed . . . cleaner. Cleaner than he ever remembered it being down here. "What the hell? Was that you, healing me? Mojoing me clean?" It had never felt like that before.
Or had it? He could never remember this moment in hell.
At least, not until now.
If that was what this was. He had no idea what this was.
"My name is Castiel," Cas said oh-so helpfully, "and the healing was an unintentional, though beneficial, act. Your soul shines brighter now."
Dean blinked at him. Then moved on, quickly. Fast on his feet, after all. "Cas, you know me. You saved me from . . . " He flung out his arms. "This. Eleven years ago. So what is this?"
"We have fought many years of hell-time to reach you, Dean Winchester, but the number is not 11."
Dean scrubbed his face. He seemed so like Cas, but not. More like good soldier Cas. He groaned into his hands. "What is happening here?"
"My garrison has come to save you, Dean Winchester."
No. No, this . . . what was this? None of this made sense. Cas was talking about raising him from hell, as if that still needed to be accomplished. This was done, over. He couldn't be here. They were in the Empty. Cas was supposed to wake up. He wasn't supposed to wake up back here . . .
"I sense your soul is troubled. Peace, human. You are saved."
Peace? Peace? Dean laughed. "Right. Forget the fact I am losing my mind. Fine. Then let's get on with the saving." Another memory crackled in, echoing this words. Only that Dean had tossed aside the blade and held out his arms. This Dean had nothing to toss aside. He stepped closer under the arch of the retreating wing. The harsh red glare of the place softened under its shielding presence. "I'm ready to go."
The tail twitched cat-like. Cas craned away from as far as it could, and something rippled through the feathers in a pattern too deliberate to be the equivalent of a feline arching its back in protest. It reminded him of the lights on some of the old machines in the bunker, flicking in some pattern as it did it work. Finally the whole body shifted, half turning from him. Dean jumped back before he was knocked off his feet by the tail sluicing through the inches of muck.
"I cannot sense Lahabiel. Where--? I was guarding him."
Guarding? "There was another . . . angel further behind you. It was attacked by a demon? I didn't see it get back up. Oh. There was a thud."
The feathers hackled. "No! I was distracted. I should not have been--" Cas's mourning rolled over him like thunder. "I failed him." His whole form sagged with it.
"Look." Dean seized the nearest dipping wingtip. It flinched, tension in every line. Dean carefully let it go, holding up appeasing hands. "Let's . . . let's work it all out, somewhere away from here."
"Lahabiel is the one appointed to secure you. My role is to lead, fight, and . . . " The feathers flattened, dulling. "Defend."
An echo from the past slipped through him, with another humming pinch to his wrist. "Look, buddy," that Dean said, "you're the only one here. So let's get on with the rescuing, if you really are what you say you are."
Now, this Dean repeated, "You are the only one here."
The form and wings dipped further. "You are right." Then after a beat, he shifted, the tail whipping out, startling Dean. It froze next to him. "Do you permit me to grip you, Dean Winchester?"
"Yes, yes, let's just go!"
"It's just Dean." Dean nodded. "Yes."
The tail wrapped around his midsection, and the wings gave a heavy beat. Dean was knocked flat from their gust one second, and the next he had left his stomach behind him as they ripped through the air.
Even so, he managed to recall a pertinent memory: "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
Apparently, Cas had done so with his tail!
They sailed up through the maw of his chamber, where all the fires blazed, and more than a few specks of smoke in the distance smoldered as they closed in.