[ castiel is sure that he will never know where he ever found the strength to do this thing, to keep himself together and carry himself high on all but broken wings, but even in angels, desperation will drive you to unimaginable heights. and so with his hand clasped tight over the tear in his grace, over the warm, strong presence of dean winchester within him, castiel passes out of hell at last.
but it isn't to heaven that they go, nor to earth, but through a surging wormhole instead to a quiet and empty place, a pocket dimension of castiel's own signature, his quiet room, his favorite place.
the stretch is endless, the ground a black rippling mirror of water, but there is no depth to it, nor wetness when it is touched. it reflects in perfect crispness the dark, velvety sky above that is bright with stars and streams of cosmic gas, arms of galaxies flung wide and splendid. it is a silent place, still and serene, the only movement the slow passing of stars overhead, the only sound a quiet, lilting hum, the noise of the living universe.
I.. I am.. --
[ castiel bursts from the glassy floor like a whale breaching the surface of the still ocean, and like the waters of the sea the hole in timespace curls in on itself and snaps shut and they are alone, at last, far from everyone and everything, far from the clamor of angel voices and the rip and tear of demons and the stink and rot of the pit. castiel crashes hard, collapsing in a heap onto the watery floor that ripples beneath the force of his fall. heaving, he scoops dean from his grace at last, pulling his soul into the palms of his hands, keeping him tucked close protectively, wrapped up in his arms.
after that, he does not move. castiel is utterly spent, broken and torn and exhausted. thrown onto his side with dean pulled in close, one wing is flung across the ground, shadow feathers bent and shredded, the other curled over his body, over dean, trembling and ragged, the cosmos within them faded and flickering. he does not answer, but instead falls very quiet, unearthly still, for angels do not breathe or move as humans do, and when they slip into unconsciousness it is as hushed and placid as death.
but his grace still moves, pulsing gently like the beat of a heart, gathering at his wounds and slowly, systematically knitting him up, healing him of its own volition, his form and structure mending, languidly, methodically pulling itself back together. ]
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but it isn't to heaven that they go, nor to earth, but through a surging wormhole instead to a quiet and empty place, a pocket dimension of castiel's own signature, his quiet room, his favorite place.
the stretch is endless, the ground a black rippling mirror of water, but there is no depth to it, nor wetness when it is touched. it reflects in perfect crispness the dark, velvety sky above that is bright with stars and streams of cosmic gas, arms of galaxies flung wide and splendid. it is a silent place, still and serene, the only movement the slow passing of stars overhead, the only sound a quiet, lilting hum, the noise of the living universe.
I.. I am.. --
[ castiel bursts from the glassy floor like a whale breaching the surface of the still ocean, and like the waters of the sea the hole in timespace curls in on itself and snaps shut and they are alone, at last, far from everyone and everything, far from the clamor of angel voices and the rip and tear of demons and the stink and rot of the pit. castiel crashes hard, collapsing in a heap onto the watery floor that ripples beneath the force of his fall. heaving, he scoops dean from his grace at last, pulling his soul into the palms of his hands, keeping him tucked close protectively, wrapped up in his arms.
after that, he does not move. castiel is utterly spent, broken and torn and exhausted. thrown onto his side with dean pulled in close, one wing is flung across the ground, shadow feathers bent and shredded, the other curled over his body, over dean, trembling and ragged, the cosmos within them faded and flickering. he does not answer, but instead falls very quiet, unearthly still, for angels do not breathe or move as humans do, and when they slip into unconsciousness it is as hushed and placid as death.
but his grace still moves, pulsing gently like the beat of a heart, gathering at his wounds and slowly, systematically knitting him up, healing him of its own volition, his form and structure mending, languidly, methodically pulling itself back together. ]