for automatically

[heavenonearth]

Come unto me, ye who are weary and overburdened, and I
will give you rest.

- Matthew 11:28

[ it has been one month on earth, and ten years in the pit since the angels began to lay siege to hell, a breath of time for castiel, whose mind spans eons, a much shorter period than the innumerable great wars he has taken part in, a brief window in the scheme of all that he knows, and yet the garrison grows restless. not only his, but all those chosen to answer the call. with no word from heaven nor stirring in hell to proclaim the first seal broken there is little enough reason to worry, and yet there is much that rides upon this mission.

for all intents and purposes, it is a small one. five garrisons of angels, roughly one hundred angels like himself and a handful of powerful seraphs have been given this task, and castiel has watched his brethren dive into the pit and come back battered and empty handed, or not come back at all, and still there has been no sighting of dean winchester. castiel has fought, and he has healed, and he has fought again and like his brethren, turned up nothing.

do not worry, castiel, samandiriel says, a breath of fresh air in all ways, his grace a warming presence, uplifting and inspiring. we fill find him.

but castiel is not so certain. there is an unsettling weight in his breast. things have been far too quiet, too much time has passed for them to have learned so little, and the demons do not fight as they should, but castiel does not question his orders, never questions his orders, and he fights with cool ferocity and destroys demons by the handfuls and thinks that that, at least, is enough to make the expedition worthy. and yet he worries still, though his brothers and sisters continue to tease him and proclaim your grace is too heavy, castiel, you will never have the strength to carry dean winchester from the pit, but he has always been more careful than the other members of his garrison, more thoughtful and prone to melancholy gloom. they do not take this as seriously as he does, and castiel feels the weight of the importance of this mission with every fiber of his being. this is no mere pickup, the apocalypse itself rides upon the prompt rescue of one righteous man, and both heaven and hell are too quiet for him to rest easy.

it has been one month by hell's time since castiel has resurfaced for healing and for fresh orders. hester had said he was being reckless, the last time he had burst free of hell, that he was taking too long, spending too much time down there, that he's going to get himself killed, but castiel is done with waiting. perhaps she's right. perhaps he is reckless. but as far as he is concerned there is no greater task to warrant his recklessness, no better time to risk himself than now; they may tease him all they want, but he takes this seriously, doesn't understand why they don't, but then the angels have never had a great love of humanity, and that they should suffer greatly should the apocalypse come to pass (if it does, they will win, of course, michael will destroy lucifer utterly, so what is there to worry about?) does not concern them. truth be told, castiel has no strong attachment to humanity either, but he has always had a healthy respect for life, and watching them die in droves will bring him no joy. these are his father's creations, after all, worthy of care and respect even if they are inferior in all ways, and castiel would see them protected.

so he fights with more and more determination with every subsequent dive into the pit. he is weary and wounded but repels demons with ease, running them through with a blade of light, blasting them apart with the holy fire of his grace as he continues his descent, digging further, deeper, taking the paths less trodden, finding the furthest nooks of hell and scouring them entirely, turning up nothing, nothing, nothing.

he thinks to turn back for now, for he is fatigued beyond words, has gone too long in this dark and bloody place, risked much even by his own standards, and the demons here are dead. it's quiet, and there were too few of them for him to think that they could be hiding the righteous man in this dark corner when all of hell must know by now that the angels are everywhere, searching relentlessly. castiel thinks to turn away, to resurface for air and a much needed rest.. but there is one more path still, one more crater to search, and so he summons the dregs of his strength and descends one more time, one more level.

this floor is barren and bloody, reeking of cold despair and broken flesh and bone, but for all intents and purposes it seems empty. three demons are stirred up from the darkness, they fly at his face like crows but even so tired they are no match for him, for even the weakest, smallest of angels are far greater in power than the smallest of demons, and castiel is an ancient seasoned fighter. he runs them through, skewers two on his blade and snatches the third from the air with his fist and as it disintegrates in a burst of divine flame it howls like a jackal. there is silence afterward, heavy and miserable, and castiel thinks despondently that this must have been another waste of time, another dead end, and he is near to unfurling his wings to begin the long climb back toward the light when he sees it - the warm flicker of something bright and small and hidden, a stirring in the darkness, a soul. a soul alone, and brighter than it should be, bearing the warm white lick of light that marks it as different, as not belonging.

it happens often enough - souls end up in hell that do not deserve to be there, for one reason or another. those with pure hearts, who sacrifice themselves for loved ones, make poor mistakes, or are pulled here against their will. the innocent are at times incarcerated, and that is a great shame, but heaven does not have the time to search every nook of the pit for those who were wrongly shuffled, and save for instances like this, heaven and hell operate separately from one another, and generally do not interfere with the business of the other. but he has found this soul, as he has found a few others before it during his ten years here, and as he did to them, so he will also offer this soul its chance at salvation.

so castiel reaches. to a soul in hell he must look a very foreign thing, a massive creature of light, in shape vaguely humanoid but in movement strange and surreal, not quite the correct proportions, a little to the left of what a human shape might be, too long, too disproportional, but wrapped up and hooded to keep its truest form concealed. but he has two arms that end in two hands with long fingers and palms like points of light to match those at his feet and shoulders and brow, like a constellation given form, stars given life. from his hood peer two blue eyes, the color of the depths of the ocean lit from behind like candle flames, and a halo of white light wreathes his head, thin as thread but bright as the sun itself. castiel unfurls his wings, and they are as shadow made form and lined in silver light, and in their depths shines the cosmos itself reflected and across countless feather forms, stars and galaxies made manifest and moving, painted into him, endless.

castiel leans toward this little soul, and casts his light down softly to peel the shadows away from it like filthy clinging garments, his palms open and gently pulling. his voice rings out in the space between them, unspoken but heard, rough like crushed glass and yet sonorous as a bell.

Come with me. You are safe, now. I will not harm you. ]

Comments

[automatically]

( look. look around you, take in just where you are and ask him if he feels justified in being wary. he's surrounded by demons, little devils, can't trust anything as far as he can throw it, and – well. it's not as if that's ever really been much different, but in the pit, it just serves to keep him on his toes, the broken thing that he's ended up.

and he still doesn't believe in angels, or god, or any of that nonsense that sam has been trying to instill in him since they were kids. ( you gotta believe in something, dean. don't you want that sort of connection? ) everything in hell is lies and deception, and this bright, bright wash of light over him could be as much of any of that as it could be salvation in the form of shining blue eyes, but he's not buying it right off the bat.

he's not that stupid.

this thing peers at him as though he's looking into him, and that … makes him slightly uncomfortable. like there's an itch that he can't quite reach no matter how much he squirms for it, and he resigns himself with a small, almost-not sigh that there has to be something bigger going on here. that here has to be a reason for such a being of light to enter the depths of hell, even if he can't bring himself to believe that it has anything directly to do with him.

home.
you mean back upstairs.

that isn't to say that he wouldn't immediately jump on that chance, but if this is some kind of trick, he has to play the game. there isn't any real explanation his brain is giving him on why there would be ulterior motives to get him topside again, but he can't rule that out, because the second he does everything will go to shit and he'll be blaming himself all over again for not having the ability for forward think well enough to have seen it coming.

and then it asks his name. and, all right, sure – why not. dean winchester.

like that's really supposed to mean anything. the name winchester has only ever been attached to misery, to torment, and sometimes? he hates it. hates the weight it carries, if only by dint of living in john's shadow and trying to be the man he would have wanted his oldest son to be.

and not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but uh … why do you wanna drag me out of the pit? )

[heavenonearth]

[ whether dean is justified or not it not something that castiel can rightly parse. he is not familiar with the human experience, unable to comprehend the depths of their feelings in any way similar to what dean might expect, but he does know that this has never happened to him before, that no one has ever questioned him, has always been glad, desperate for a chance, any chance, however slim, to be removed from their suffering and pain.

but there is little enough time to be concerned with that, for once the soul supplies its name, castiel hears nothing that comes after. there is a very visceral reaction, castiel's grace rippling with shock and disbelief, and he has no lungs with which to breathe nor wind with which to gasp but there is a sound, a sound like surprise that fills the space around him, a high electric ringing.

dean winchester, he had said, and castiel can scarce believe it, can hardly comprehend that this might be the soul they have been searching for, that he had somehow been the one to find it, that their ten year struggle is at last over. this is the one. he is the one. this is the righteous man.

castiel leans forward again, desperation written in the long lines of his body, and his great wings tremble as he offers his hands again, more closely this time, all but cupped around the wounded soul of dean winchester. he does not touch, he does not grab, but he reaches with all that he has, his grace roiling and rushing, the light within him flickering like a guttering candle, heady with excitement.

You are him. We have been searching for you, Dean Winchester. Please, you must come with me. Let me save you, let me take you from this place.

there is no mistaking the echoing tone of castiel's voice, the way it thrums with urgency. a host of demons could very well be on their way this instant, ready to tear into him; he had left none alive through his path from there to here, but they must know that this chamber has been breached, they must know that dean winchester is being kept here. a lick of fear touches his breast, but castiel cannot waver, can only hold his palms out and hope that the warm, soothing light of his hands is enough to coax dean near, to earn his trust, however begrudging.

There is no time. Please. ]

[automatically]

( one can't really expect a celestial being such as an angel of the lord to understand something as frivolous as the justification behind a human being's choices, their emotions and where they take them. someone that has spent the majority of their lifespan watching the evolution of humanity as a whole, looking in from the outside can't possibly understand their whims, their mistakes, their means of repentance when it all comes back around again –

and even more so, there is this unfathomable creature dean winchester, with his jagged edges and steadfast will, cracked and chipped but just as resolute as he ever has been. he breaks the mold, and does it with a smirk, because conventional just isn't his style.

but it still stands to reason that he wonders whether or not he really does belong in the pit, a thought which still swirls around in his mind, would continue to do so if it weren't for the sudden change in the being before him. that sound – he can't quite put a word to it, perhaps because there isn't one – reverberates all throughout the surrounding space, like the residual vibration of a pinged tuning fork, and he stops. stops thinking, stops poking and prodding long enough to fully regard castiel with the whole of his attention.

because all he'd said was his name. and that's never been enough to give someone a stroke.

he is the one they've been looking for? who the hell are they, and why have they been looking for him in the first place? he wants to ask more questions – something that he normally wouldn't do, because talk is cheap and there's so much more promise in action, less room for a margin of error or some downright shady shit.

with words, it's easy to lie. he's done it often enough himself that he should more than know the ins and outs, but with the desperation practically shivering through the one standing before him, pleading with him to please come, he thinks it might be in his best interest to just … go with the flow of things for a while. see where it takes him.

and if it's up and out of the pit –

yeah, okay, fine. you get me the hell outta here and then i get to ask why you're looking for me in the first place.

his expression is almost expectant, as if he doesn't expect the other to deny him such a simple request, and he does inevitably step forward – into the warmth, the brightness of those outstretched hands, the overwhelming rush of it enveloping him the moment he's close enough.

sound fair? )

[heavenonearth]

[ castiel can hear it, the telltale scratching above them, the movement, the pull in metaspace that means the demons are drawing nearer, that they have even less time than he had thought. so when dean at last offers his ultimatum, castiel hardly even has to hear it to accept.

Yes.

he wastes no time. the moment dean accepts, the moment he is near enough, castiel scoops up his soul like a baby bird, closing his hands around it and sweeping it near and pressing it full into the heart of his grace. dean will be safe there, guarded by castiel's life energy itself, leaving him free to fight without the need to protect him or worry about losing him in the long climb back out of hell. it's dangerous, in its own way - human souls are incredibly strong, impossibly powerful and resilient, but too long within him and they could begin to erode, the hard lines between soul and grace beginning to blur and entangle.. but they have time, and castiel does not intend to dawdle.

a good thing, too, for they are upon him the moment he turns, black smoke demons screeching and tearing at him, and castiel worries, for a moment, that he will not have the strength for this, that it will be just as his brothers and sisters had teased, that he has spent too long down here that he is too weary to resurface, and it will cost him his life, and dean's rescue both.

in the end, however, there is no room for apprehension, not anymore, there is time only for action, for doing, and castiel must give all that he has left to see this thing finished. so he bucks them off, his blade of light materializing again, slashing the space between them, catching two demons - but castiel doesn't intend to fight, he intends to flee. in a burst of light he flings his wings wide and surges forward, one arm flung over his breast, over the great warmth of dean winchester's soul that he can feel within him, filling him with urgency, with the determination he needs to see this through, and as he flies he calls out, broadcasting to every angel in range, from the pits of hell to the high reaches of heaven.

I have him. I have him. I have Dean Winchester.

there is a great clamor of voices, but castiel pays them no mind, funnels all of his focus into the climb. he is flying, flying high, flying fast, arcing through the space at impossible speeds, cutting down demons that fly at his face, shaking them off when they chew and claw at his wings. they crawl out of holes, they come from above him and below him, for all of hell is spilling out its resources now to slow him, to stop him, but castiel won't be waylaid, won't give up, can only push and push and pay no mind to the way they tear at his grace, cannot think about how tired he is, for he is revitalized now, and full of purpose.

the demons begin to pull away, burned by his grace, slinking back, and it seems at once ominous and gladdening for they are very nearly there, they are so close.

it catches him off-guard. the demon slams into his side, hurtling him back, impossibly strong, rippling with power. castiel's wings fold and his grace recoils with a shriek as he is flung to the far wall, and the demon rises in grey smoke, grinning wide and looming, filling up the space with its enormous, black presence, blocking the path. its voice is slick as spilled oil, its eyes white slits. all too familiar, he's sure, to dean winchester.

Now now, little angel, I can't have you robbing me of my favorite toy, can I? You're going to have to give that back, you know. ]

[automatically]

( if there's ever been a thing that he would have never thought to find himself in the face of, it most certainly is the fact that he's being taken in by an angel, as physically as anything could be in the intangible realm of hell, taken in and surrounded by the thing that drives the holy. his grace surrounds him in a warm blanket of light, electrified, so much so that he faintly shivers from the feel of it, and it's all at once so overwhelming that he's not quite sure he'd made the right decision. that something has to be wrong, here, and that he's just signed his own death warrant ten times over.

but then they're ascending, and though dean doesn't have much of a view from inside an angel, he can hear just as well as if he were back on the outside. the demons screeching, calling out to his rescuer in the sense of you will not take him, slamming into him bodily and slowing their already meticulous progress upward. he would worry that they won't make it, but there's a tiny little voice in the back of his mind that assures him he has nothing to worry about, that castiel will remain good to his word, get them both out without anything horrible getting in their way.

they're so close – so close – and he feels the jolt when something slams into castiel, jostling him from what he'd found as a moderately comfortable way to be … well, wrapped up in grace, and he can't help but to think this is it, it's all over, we're not gonna make it and i'm gonna be stuck down here for the rest of eternity.

but then he hears that voice, and freezes, immediately at full attention and wishing he weren't stuck inside. that he could somehow contribute, do something.

… alistair?
ah, hell.

of course he would recognize that voice. he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget it – it's ingrained into him, burrowed deep into the back of his mind, a nearly constant presence telling him what he's capable of, what he's already achieved, and just how proud he is of the progress he's made. that sort of thing stays with you, you know? in that haunting, incredibly fucked up way. like a nightmare that hangs around even after you've woken up, staying in the periphery of your vision in a shadowy haze.

he's tensed, on edge, and even though he knows full well there is nothing he can do from his current vantage point, it doesn't mean he's going to stay quiet. docile.

back off, alistair. your little jailbird's about to fly the coop.

dean … that … is not going to help any. you do realize that, right? )

[heavenonearth]

[ this is a problem.

angels are, generally speaking, far greater in power than demons, cosmic in their greatness, but there are notable exceptions. while most demons cannot hope to touch even a common footsoldier like castiel, there are other demons, stronger demons that are capable of inflicting great damage, far closer to his own ability, if not surpassing it. even the strongest of demons are still incapable of outright killing an angel, the best they can do is injure him, capture him, or send him back to heaven, but none of those options are high on his list right now, and castiel is carrying precious cargo. he is not strong enough to kill this demon, and he hardly has the energy left to defend himself, to fight enough to escape.

dean is calling from within him, and castiel can't help but be.. surprised. alistair can't hear it, of course, but castiel can, and he thinks perhaps, that humans are little wonders, aren't they? dean is still fighting, still brave in the face of all this, and it's really a little absurd, like an ant waving a sword at a tiger, but it's admirable nonetheless. castiel will have to borrow that bravery.

he doesn't rise to alistair's taunts, doesn't waste any more precious time, and instead dives onto him, blade whistling and wings snapping, his grace all but singing inside of him, funneled into laser sharp focus. they tear into one another like wild dogs, castiel's grace arcing like lightning over alistair's grey smoke, his blade striking home more than once. it's brutal and it's savage and it's fast, neither one giving the other even an inch of leeway, but alistair is the stronger of the two, and castiel is vastly weakened, and soon enough he loses what little chance he had of grasping the upper hand. it is no longer a fight, but a beatdown, and alistair laughs high and keening and wild while he lays into him, clawing at him, tearing at him, pulling at his wings with razor claws. he flings castiel bodily to the wall again, and castiel heaves, his grace flickering like a guttering candle, pain rippling through him in bursts of color.

alistair grins like a cheshire cat, and with one spindly hand keeps castiel pinned to the wall, surveying his work.

You did try.

he begins to pull, prying at castiel's grace, splitting it with his long fingers and pulling, pulling, pulling, prising open a space into him to shake dean loose, splitting him open, like prying open the bars of a prison door. the sound castiel makes is enough to shake the very foundations of hell, a wild, tormented scream of agony that surges through the space around them, shaking the grimy walls themselves, all shot through by the shrieking, primitive sound of alistair's laughter.

bright light shines like the sun, and something large and dazzling descends on alistair from above, crashing into him with immense speed and power and all at once alistair is gone from before him, and castiel is crumpling, seizing, folding against the wall for a handful of moments before he is able to catch himself. the center of the room is filled with light like the sun, and the seraph throws four of its six great wings wide, fire arcing from its wingtips. raziel.

Go.

its great voice booms, resonant, before it's turning on alistair, the demon quickly shrinking away, searching for an exit, but castiel does not wait to see the end. he gathers himself, summoning his flagging strength in one final burst to open his torn wings and soar, up, up, up and through the veil. ]

[automatically]

( this is going to be an incredibly bumpy ride, he's almost certain, and even though it means ending his four-decade stint in his own personal hell, he can't help but to feel like this isn't going to end quickly, or go off without a hitch, because if alistair's presence means one thing, it's that they know what's happening.

which … dean still doesn't fully comprehend himself, because why would an army of angels fight their way into the depths of hell just for him? for a righteous man? it can't be him they're looking for, can't be this broken and sorry excuse for a soul, because it doesn't make any goddamn sense and he can't form enough of a hypothesis on his own to draw any sort of conclusion. which … just means that he'll have to wait, something that he's told himself already, for castiel to explain just what in the blue hell is going on here.

and of course he's still fighting from the inside, even if the demon can't hear him, because he's never quite been able to keep his mouth shut when it really counts, and there are a few things he's been wanting to say to that piece of demon garbage ever since he'd been dragged down. well, okay, more than just a few things that he can think of, but some are more important than others, and they all happen to be variants of fuck you.

maybe it doesn't matter that the demon can't hear him, better that he can't just by dint of not inadvertently making things worse for castiel himself. ( because really, all he needs is this mouthy righteous man goading a demon when it's already too much to carry him in the first place, fatigued as he is, having fought so hard for so long already that he's surely about to collapse. ) if castiel draws on that misplaced bravery, by all means, make use of it – because this poor little human soul is only going to remain useless while they're still in the pit, and it's all he can do to yell, words falling on deaf ears.

but it still makes him feel just the slightest bit better. and. sometimes that's all you can do.

the slight release of tension within him is all but lost when alistair presses in close, pinning the angel to the nearest surface, and that sound – that sound – it leaves him wincing, worrying and close to feeling a lick of fear that hadn't been there a moment previously. he can all but feel the shuddering of castiel's grace around him, shimmering and flickering as though on a low-grade power grid, surging and ebbing in a way that would have set his teeth on edge and his heart to racing.

castiel –

he's confused, angry and helpless, but it all seems to be over far more quickly than one would have thought. he doesn't see the bright flash of light as the seraph descends above them, but he feels the angel's grace taking on a more substantial wave, all but shivering back into its original shape around him, and he … he doesn't dare relax, because they're not out of the woods yet, but …

hey, you okay?

there's a part of him that doesn't expect an answer, at least not until they're perfectly in the clear, but he can't help but to ask. )

[heavenonearth]

[ 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. ]

[automatically]

( ah, that might be something they end up having in common. the desperation that drives a broken and battered being, a wilted soul, when there's so much farther to go and no energy left to expend, it can only be that push and pull of desperation that does any good at all. for him? it's always the adrenaline. the rush of blood pounding in his ears when there's nowhere left for him to run, when everything in him is screaming for him to stop, slow down, breathe or it's all going to come to an abrupt, painful end.

he doesn't know how to do anything but push. doesn't know when enough is enough and when to stop before it all breaks, and it's something that's followed him from earth to the pit, will follow him back out – and though he breathes a little easier when they finally break away from the pull of hell, his surroundings ripple and shimmer, and he finds himself transfixed by this private little pocket in timespace that is … well.

far too beautiful for any word he could have willingly put to it.

tugged free of the protection of the angel's grace, he can't help but to look around him, eyes scanning the endless depths of the floor's shimmering surface, the purples and blues and endless light swirling together to make everything seem to tilt on its axis, briefly making his whole world shift and turn completely upside-down.

what the hell –

he thinks it more to himself than the angel, and when he doesn't get much of an answer to his question, his attention turns back to him, hesitant concern written all over his expression even as he stays nestled securely in his embrace. he feels more than sees the pulse of castiel's grace as it works on healing him, and there's no surprise to him at all that the other needs a damn break. a vacation. do angels take vacations? is that a thing for them?

never mind. clearly, there are more important things to think about than angel vacations.

dean settles back into his previous position, the whole of him almost curled in on itself as he allows the quelling, calming quality of castiel's personal space seep into him. they're not in the clear, yet, are they? he shouldn't be allowing himself to relax as he is, but of course he would still be largely useless were trouble to come find them again, and it has him grumping all over again that he hadn't been able to do anything at all to assist the angel on their ascent from the pit. ( he tries to convince himself that it doesn't matter, that he wouldn't have been any match at all against even the lowliest demon in this state, but it doesn't mean that he can't still be grouchy about it.

that's kind of his lot in life, anyway. )

so. he settles, and he waits, the thrum of castiel's grace surrounding him and lulling him into a more secured sense of ease. and he waits for the angel to come back around. )

[heavenonearth]

[ trouble, thankfully, does not follow them here. they are far removed from earth and from heaven and hell, perched on the very edge of the universe, so far that it is hard for castiel even to hear the voices of the angels broadcasting, were he conscious to hear them at all.

in a place like this, time seems to stand still. there is nothing to mark the passage of the hours, nothing to say that time is even moving at all, that they are not in limbo of it, pulled by some ancient gravity that slows time and dilates it. it could be minutes that castiel spends unconscious, it could be hours, or weeks, or years - but soon enough his grace has finished its work, rebuilding his body, mending together his torn wings, and while it will take far more rest than this to restore him to his fullest capacity, he is healed enough to stir once more, soon enough.

castiel shifts with the downy whisper of rustling feathers, and his mind is full of voices, angels calling to be heard, searching for him, relaying again and again what castiel already knows, what the demon whispered to him in the pit - it is too late.

it's an easy thing to block them off, for the sound is already faint for how far they are from heaven, and castiel shuts the door on it. his eyes flicker to life, and with a painful sound like a groan but not, he moves and begins to lift himself - a bolt of panic lances through him. dean -- but dean, he finds, is still here. still safe. warm and bright as he had been in hell, in one piece, waiting in the circle of his grace. relief washes over him like water. dean winchester is saved.

but there is work to be done. dean is filthy, still dark with shadows, too broken to fit back into his body, too splintered to walk the earth again, if that is even to be the plan, anymore. with the first seal broken, he has no idea what is to be done with dean winchester, if the entire mission will be deemed a failure, if he is already missing orders to cast him back into the pit. castiel fought too hard for that. and besides, dean is marked, still, he does not belong there, and so he will keep to his original orders, to restore him, to make him whole, to return him to earth. he must focus on that, and not on his own grandiose failure, his inability to find and rescue the righteous man before it was too late. one task at a time.

when he speaks out at last, castiel's voice is whole, but thin, weary, stretched.

I will take you Home, soon. First I must heal you. ]

[automatically]

( it's almost funny, in that satirical, mocking way that time does seem to stand still here. that for all it had seemed to speed by him in the blink of an eye down in the pit, he wouldn't have been able to tell you how long they lingered between time and space itself had you deigned to ask him, and there's something so satisfying about that that he can't bring himself to think about anything else. it's one thing for time to fly, another for it to crawl, and something else entirely for it to stop. it's … a calming sort of thing, truth be told, and he doesn't quite mind being caught up in it.

it's far from over, that which had been set into motion the very first time he'd raised a hand and struck against a tortured soul; and it's even longer still before he knows the full breadth of what he's done, that the coming apocalypse could have been staved off for just a little longer if he hadn't given in. if he'd held on just as long as it had taken an entire army of angels to fight through the varying layers of grit and grime and sin to get to him, to raise him up, as if he really were something worth saving.

if he hadn't given up.

it's something that will haunt him, plague him with a vengeance until it's all over and done, and even still, it will follow him like a lingering shadow, a cancer metastasized and ingraining itself ever deeper within him along with all of his past mistakes. shortcomings. reasons in spades that he isn't worth the time and effort put forth by the holy brigade, but it's too little, too late for that, isn't it? because here he is, wrapped up in the grace of the one that had nearly died to save him, and he doesn't know a goddamned thing about what his is all about.

ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and sometimes, dean winchester should be the happiest human being on the planet.

when castiel speaks to him again, he still has no idea of how long they've been in this little pocket paradise, but he can't deny that he's reassured by the sound of the angel's voice, tangible or not. he still sounds like he isn't up for the rest of the trek back topside, but he does sound like he's a little further away from the jaws of death, and that gives dean a bit of hope.

something that he's been sorely lacking as of late, but it isn't without reason.

you okay there, clarence? hey, he can't help but to jab a little, here, even if he's just been risen from hell and might just be back on his way from a dirt nap, and sometimes … he doesn't know when it's best to keep his dumb jokes to himself. like, probably, right now, but the words have already slipped out of his mouth and are probably well on their way to confounding his resident savior. sorry about that, castiel.

i don't really think i'm going anywhere, so if you need to regenerate some more of your mojo, by all means. i'm good.

meanwhile, he's still just as broken as he's ever been in the miserable extent of his mortal life, but he isn't about to show any sort of weakness now. not while he's still –proverbially – breathing, in any case. )

[heavenonearth]

[ castiel is not at his full strength, no, but truth be told he will not be fully healed for some time. crawling through the pit for so long will take its toll on even the holiest of creatures, and castiel had been at the end of his rope even before he found dean, before the demons clawed him up, before he and alistair fought one another like rabid dogs. it will take a little more time for him to fully recuperate, but he has already wasted enough of it in how long they have lingered here, how long he has been asleep, however the flow of time here might be altered. there will be time enough for rest, soon. the worst has passed, and once he deposits dean on earth again he will be able to retire to heaven to rest, at last.

for now, though? for now he has dean to tend to. dean, who speaks so strangely, in riddles castiel can hardly fathom. for the second time, his haloed head tilts, blue eyes calm but puzzled as they regard dean from beneath his hood.

My name is Castiel.

he repeats, because perhaps dean hadn't heard him right the first time.

You do not need to worry about me. I have more than enough strength for this.

angels are, if nothing else, incredibly resilient, and certainly built to last, indestructible save against another angel, or god himself. he might have been worn thin, but he'll bounce back, he already is. it helps, to have dean to tend to, to have something to put his hands to, work to do. gently, he lifts dean in his hands again, pulling him higher into the space around him, to the level of his head and his watchful eyes.

This may be a little painful. I will try to be gentle.

like anything else, a soul is capable of great pain, and a wounded soul is hardly different from a wounded body part - sometimes it might hurt to clean and suture and bandage, but it is a scouring sort of feeling, and there is a necessity to it, the sort of crisp, sharp pain of alcohol over a wound.

Tell me when you are ready. ]

[automatically]

( just one more thing that he couldn't feasibly wrap his head around even if he were given ample time to attempt to do so; fighting for a decade, ten straight years in order to get to him? unfathomable. ridiculous. stupid. even though, once he's topside he will be grateful beyond all measure of the word for being given a … what would it be, now? second, third, fourth chance at life? just one more chance to right the wrongs he's made, blah blah blah, be the righteous man the entire army of heaven believes him to be?

yeah, he's still trying to understand that, and for all the bullshit he thinks it is, he still doesn't think it's going to ever even remotely make sense to him.

more importantly, castiel needs to continue resting himself, even though he's pretty sure the guy doesn't know when to call it quits. ( the pot calling the kettle black, here, but that's neither here nor there. )

he's not sure why he'd bothered with the pop culture reference in the first place – old habits die hard, maybe – but the re-giving of the angel's name has him chuckling, the sound of broken glass rolling around in the back of his throat. a small amount of amusement where there otherwise wouldn't be any at all, and even if they're far from being in the clear, he still feels lighter than when they'd still been in hell.

small victories, you know?

yeah, yeah, i know, but – never mind.

the aspect of being healed is a new one – especially when he's painfully aware of the fact that he remains as nothing but a soul, a wholly intangible thing, and he can't keep himself from wondering just what healing a soul should entail. much like a deep burn must be debrided, the dead skin removed in order for new cells to grow, there has to be so much of his soul that needs cleansing in order for it to begin to heal at all. he's quiet, for a small moment, as he thinks; of course, it isn't the aspect of pain that bothers him, because he's a winchester and pain tends to come with the job description. more like … it's just weird, really, to think he's probably about to be badtouched by an angel in order to set the healing process in motion.

whatever you got, i can take it. let's hurry up and get this over with.

he should be thankful that this option is being given over to him, but it's the roughness in his thoughts that give rise to the thought that he might not be, even though he's never been one to look the proverbial gift angel horse in the mouth. )

[heavenonearth]

[ dean says he's prepared, and that is enough for castiel to begin.

with the soul suspended in space before him, castiel begins his task, closing his eyes and cupping his long hands around the warm light of dean winchester, and beginning to pull. it's careful work, and castiel cannot rush it, cannot move too quickly lest he disrupt the delicate balance of dean's already fractured soul, but thankfully dean landed himself a very fastidious angel, as far as angels are concerned, and castiel is nothing if not meticulous, careful, and thorough.

so he doesn't work slowly, but he does work attentively. it's not an easy task, to mend a soul, and dean's has certainly seen a good amount of wear. but he peels away the shadows as gently as possible, pressing his grace against and around and through all the cracks of dean's soul, hot and abrasive like boiling water scouring him clean. it's bound to be painful and invasive, he's scraping the grit and grime out of every nook and cranny of him, clearing away the dark and the filth, and in the end he is left with broken pieces in need of healing, but clean and crisp and new as the day he was born.

it's.. incredible, how brightly he shines, how much heat and light there is now that he has cleansed the corruption and impurity away. he's never seen anything like it. even broken, dean winchester is beautiful to behold, fiery with strength and determination, but beneath it all there pulses a soft, kind center - castiel can feel it, he is in him, and there is so much love, so much loyalty here, an impossible warmth that he's never seen or known before. he certainly is.. much more than meets the eye.

The worst has passed.

with the shadows pried away and dean's soul shining new, all that's left is to soothe the aches and put the pieces back together. castiel moves around him in slow circles, his lidless eyes watchful, for this takes great care, but he is fluid and gentle as he carefully eases dean winchester's parts back into place, like fitting the pieces of a puzzle together. rather than boiling with heat and holy fire, his grace is now soothing as a balm, cool and gentle as water licking at his wounds, pulling him back together with laser precision, and sealing all the broken seams left behind.

it's tedious work, and it takes a good amount of time, but castiel is nothing if not utterly thorough, his technique exact, because there can be no mistakes in this. when he is finished, he takes dean's soul full in his hands again, bringing him close to inspect his work, to wash him over fully with the healing salve of his grace, and he finds that he is satisfied. the end result is a soul that shines brighter and more fiercely than any he has seen before, and if there had been any doubt in his mind before that this man before him was the righteous man, it's certainly dispelled now. he is whole and complete again at last, and marked by castiel himself, like a thumbprint left behind, or an artist signing his work. how it will manifest on the planes of earth is anyone's guess.

How do you feel? ]

[automatically]

( better that he just go ahead and get it over with, because he won't ever be more ready than he is right now, in this very moment – a moment that stretches on endlessly in their little corner of private universe, squared away and briefly shielded from that which might have followed them from below.

dean knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt and more deeply than he would ever willingly admit that there is darkness in his soul; within, without, surrounding him in the shroud of his mistakes like a twisted little security blanket. mistakes, shortcomings, wrong paths taken and wrong decisions made, every turn he's ever made from the moment he was born to the moment he'd been dragged to hell as a hellhound's chewtoy. and he can feel it, somewhere deep within the shell that remains, when castiel begins to peel all of that away – when he sets to scrubbing away the dirt, grime, filth that has coated him like oil, slick and sickening, a wrench in his gut.

it hurts. it hurts more than he can think to put words to, more than he thinks anything has ever before, and he's been through it all. bullet wounds, monster bites, claw swipes and blade slashes, and none of it amounts to the gritting, grinding, cleansing pain that slices through him now as a hot knife through butter. if he were to try to put words to it, he might say it feels like he's being flayed alive, laid open and stripped of flesh that he currently is not possessed of, and if the waves that radiate from him are any indication, he could have screamed his throat raw, and it still wouldn't have been enough to soothe.

the worst has passed.

thank … thank god.

it's a thought that doesn't linger very long, just a tiny little thing in the forefront of his consciousness, perhaps not something that he fully believes in yet. god is something that sam has always busted his chops for not believing in, for not having faith in anything beyond the distance of a bullet or the sureness behind a blade, and really, he dares anyone to argue with him. there has never been any god in what they do, only luck and skill, and even finding himself in the presence of an angel of the lord still has him casting doubts.

( doubts that will, eventually, fade away. but for now … )

it's numbness that creeps over him once the actual healing process begins, the bites and pieces of his fractured soul being mended and stitched back together as though they had never been chipped away from him. truthfully, were anyone to ask him, he would say he doesn't remember the last time he'd felt whole – not even when he'd been younger, before the years had sullied him and left him as something undesirable beyond the long hours of the night in a strange bed, a warm body to satisfy. it's disorienting, above all else, and when that question comes, it's a small stretch of silence that serves as the initial answer.

… dunno. uh.

another pause.

weird. kinda tingly. )

[heavenonearth]

[ it brings him no joy to feel dean suffer as he cleanses the shadows and the filth away, but castiel is an angel, and he cannot fully understand, cannot entirely sympathize, but he's glad, still, when he's finished and able to move on, to soothe the aches left behind by the scouring process. healing and saving - these have always brought him far more gratification than the fight.

still, dean's answer is a little bit puzzling, but then, dean has been puzzling him from the first moment they spoke in the pit.

It is done.

he says, because dean is clearly coherent, and castiel's meticulous work has finished. there are no cracks left, no seams left behind, no scar or mark to even show that he had once been broken, nothing save for the brand left behind by castiel's grace, and the bright, endless light of dean's soul that shines upon him like a little sun. castiel is satisfied by his work, in the end, and glad to be finished with it, because he's tired, flagging, not even near to fully recovered, and he'd spent nearly all he had left to restore dean's soul.

it was all worth it. of that there is no doubt. castiel would face a thousand more demons for the privilege of this, to be the one to find dean winchester, to save him and lift him up, to heal him and feel the incredible warmth and indomitable strength of his soul. a hundred angels laid siege to the pit, but it was castiel who finished the thing.

it will be good, to get back to heaven to rest at last. at least for a short while.

If you are ready, I will take you home again.

a pause.

You may not remember this. This place. You may not remember me. But I will find you, soon enough.

an angel's work is never done, after all, and you can be sure that castiel does not rest long, even when he needs it. there is much to know, much to learn about, orders he is sure to be issued, needs to fulfill, and a righteous man to guide and watch over. no rest for the weary - and certainly not for the angels. ]

[automatically]

( well, that would have been a little bit comforting if he'd known. maybe. ( he's spent a little too long in the pit with all of those tortured souls, many of which have been tortured by him to think that there is no joy at all to find in such a thing, because even though he's far from admitting it aloud or even to himself in his own head – consciousness? since he doesn't currently have a physical form – there had been some taken on his end, and it's a slippery slope he's been stumbling down ever since he'd been taken downstairs. surely, he can't fall any further than he already has, but it's always been, for him and sam, that just when they start to think things can't get any worse, that's when they choose to take a nosedive.

suffice it to say that this – this pain – might not be the worst thing he's ever been put through, but by now, he's pretty sure he's been put through the ringer a couple of times over. at least there's no joy being taken in it. )

dean doesn't intend to be puzzling; he's never been in the habit of beating around the bush, always giving the most precise and, more often than not, blunt answers that come to mind – mostly because he has never been possessed of a brain-to-mouth filter and it all just comes tumbling out of him without so much as a second thought to offending someone. whether or not a joke he makes might be taken as off-color, or if it would have simply been better to keep his mouth shut from the very start. he's coherent enough, all things considered, and the fact that castiel happens to think that he's speaking in riddles or possibly another language entirely isn't even a blip on his radar. for the very first time since he'd been dragged to hell, he doesn't feel the layer of grime clinging to him, the slick sort of sin and ruin that encompasses everything it touches.

it's … there are no words for it. and even given that he's never been all that great with them, he's almost convinced that the word he's looking for hasn't been invented yet. the closest he can come is thinking that he feels whole for the first time in years, having bits and pieces and shards of himself unerringly chipped away, left to turn stale, erode for so long that he'd simply resigned himself to it.

yeah. whole fits.

it's a moment, maybe more before he gives anything back to the angel, so overwhelmed by everything that he still has no idea just how long they've been there, how long it's been since they made the climb away from the grips of hell itself, castiel himself running on nothing but angel fumes and the strongest will of anything he's ever seen. he can't think, can't wrap his head around the idea that he might not remember this, because how could he not? surely, when he wakes up topside, he'll –

i might not? the hell am i supposed to think when i just … wake up? there's a grim sort of pause, and if anything bleeds into his words next, it's the slightest bit of uncertainty. … am i gonna remember hell?

he can't help but to ask, because there's a part of him that won't let him get away with not, even though the rest of him is nearly terrified of the answer – because he's pretty sure he knows it. )

[heavenonearth]

[ mindreading, for an angel, is not a cut and dry thing, and generally speaking, unless they are specifically tuned into an individual, it's all very vague. here in this place, with no boundary of flesh between his grace and dean's soul, the veil is thin, and he can perceive him easily.

it's still an ambiguous thing though, still not entirely clear, he cannot hear dean't thoughts exactly, but he can sense how he is feeling, can absorb his pain or his happiness or his fear. that dean feels whole again is not entirely lost on him, so he doesn't need to hear him say it, is content enough to feel he's ready to pull dean back to earth, ready to leave this little pocket universe at last.

it will be a shame to leave it behind. castiel loves this place, insomuch as an angel can love anything. it is his own corner of the universe, a place he has carved out for his own, and while that sort of behavior is strange and unbecoming of an an angel (a little too independent, a little too free), he's always been an odd sort among his own kind. a little more isolated. a little more autonomous. just enough for him to see the beauty in something like this, a private place for himself, just enough to find enjoyment in silence and the ring of his own quiet thoughts.

not enough, however, to risk the angels' wrath for lingering here too long when there is work to be done, a great deal of work, and they have already overstayed, castiel is sure he had rested too long. still, it's hard to feel hurried in a place like this, even if they haven't much time.

I.. cannot say for sure. Your memory may be unreliable in the veil, in Hell, and in this place, too. I don't know what you will remember, and what you will not.

it's an insufficient answer, he knows, but the best that he can rightly give. what dean will recall is not in castiel's hands to decide, and if he decides he wants his memories restored or erased once he's back on earth, they can deal with it then. after he's circled and settled into his vessel, that is. soon.

It is not in my power to change that. Not here, at least. My apologies. But I will find you nonetheless, whether or not you remember my face, or my voice.

for dean is his charge now, his responsibility, for better or for worse. it is castiel's mark upon him, and it shall be castiel who will be set to lead him from this point forward, in a frantic race against the seals that keep the cage tightly locked. it has him weary already, just thinking about it, and what an impossible feat it seems to keep the forces of hell at bay, to manage and protect every seal - there aren't enough angels in heaven to possibly cover them all, and castiel knows this, but still they must try.

We must go soon, Dean. ]

[automatically]

( dean has never fancied himself an open book – even for as much as sam tends to be able to read him like one, even when he's lying through his teeth and expects it to go off without a hitch, to find belief where there shouldn't be any. ( much like sam has always begged him to have a little faith even when their futures look bleak, and when you're staring down the proverbial barrel of the gun meant to kill you? it's … kinda hard to find faith in anything, especially when you're surrounded by nothing but destruction, death and general chaos.

always the beacon of light, aren't you, dean?

it's no big thing that he can't find the right words to lend a meaning to what he's feeling, because that's just par for the course for our resident monster hunter; it's sam that's good with words, and so long as there's a general blanket understanding of what's just happened, how it's made him feel outside of that whole being-flayed-alive feeling, they're good. he's clean, he's whole, he's so close to being back where he needs to be that he can almost taste it – on the tip of his tongue, catching behind his teeth, almost choking him with the realness of it all.

suffice it to say that this is all pretty damned overwhelming, and he likes to think that he can take a lot without feeling over-encumbered. there's still something of a heavy feeling sitting in the middle of his chest, right over his heart, and he can't put a finger on what it feels like, exactly, but … hell, it's better than everything that had bled into him in hell, and he thinks he'll be just fine with it. ( and maybe, somewhere along the way, he'll figure out what it means. maybe once he's topside, maybe once he's had a bacon cheeseburger and a beer and hugged his brother so tightly that he just might pop.

there are a lot of maybes. always have been, always will be, and there's not a lot that he can do to change any of that. his life is mapped out in maybes, would-have-beens, could-bes, endless possibilities tracing the lines of years he has left, and he has no fucking clue what he's supposed to do with them now that he's being given another chance to right his mistakes. )

there's a quiet sort of calm that creeps over him at the angel's words, the sort of calm that has a lingering wariness to it, even when the eye of the storm has passed. he thinks again that he's clean and he's whole, and this celestial being is about to take him back to the life he'd left behind, a brother and a father-figure and everything else he'd been convinced he would never see again, and – jesus, forgive him for just a second, because this is all so heavy that even though he's consciously accepted what's happened, it's still taking him time to acclimate to it.

an equivalent to what could have been a sigh shivers around him. he knows they can't stay here, knows that he has things he needs to get back to, needs to find sam and bobby and figure out this whole mess – but he doesn't like not knowing, doesn't like not having a single damn clue about what he's supposed to do from here on out, because how can you just pick back up from forty years ( or, topside, four months ) in hell like nothing ever happened?

you promise me. there's a firmness in his words, resolution. you find me, and if i don't remember, you beat it into me. got it? this ain't something i wanna let stay in the dark.

he doesn't want to forget this, because it means a debt will remain unpaid, and there are already so many things that he can't do anything about that he doesn't want this to be added to the list. there's another small moment of silence, and damn it all, there's no profit in holding off until the very last minute, is there? might as well get this over with.

yeah, yeah … i'm ready when you are. )

[heavenonearth]

[ for all he knows they must move quickly, castiel tries to be patient. tortured souls can be fragile things, and while dean is healed and whole again this is not a thing to be rushed too severely. dean is more important than he knows, and while angels as a rule are not wont to wait on human fancy, castiel is a little more tranquil than most.

it's clear as the ringing of silver bells, how overwhelmed dean is feeling, how difficult it is to process what he is learning and experiencing. castiel can't understand it, cannot possibly empathize, can barely sympathize; they are two very different creatures, programmed two very different ways, and while all of this is surely the most important mission work of castiel's long life, he is accustomed to it. to all of this.

still, he tries. he waits, in silence, and he watches dean's soul, listens to it resonate. in truth there may not be enough time in the world for dean to come to terms with all that has happened, with all he has experienced and witnessed and felt. they could linger here for eons and never find an end to it, never find satisfaction for dean. there is only so long that he can wait, only so much time that he can give.

thankfully, dean finds his way on his own.

I swear it.

he promises, assuredly, and if dean's memory needs jogging, if he wants it pieced back together, castiel will give that to him too. whatever is required. whatever dean needs in order to be what he must be, to do what he must do.

dean has given him permission, however, and castiel can no longer tarry. weary as he is, he forces himself up again, because they are very nearly done now and he is ready to see this thing through to the end, to finish it at last, at least for now. there is still so much more to be done, but the siege of hell at last has ended, and at least for a short while he will have the chance to breathe. so castiel does not waste any time. with dean still in his hands he straightens tall again, and opens his broad and aching wings again.

castiel offers no further warning before he's pulling dean close again, and tucking him safely back into his grace once more. it's unlikely that they'll meet any demons on the journey back, but until he gets dean safely back to earth he will take no risks, and prefers to keep his hands free.

leaving the placid comfort of this pocket dimension is bittersweet, and feels a bit like what leaving home would feel like, if he were to understand that sort of feeling, but in the end castiel is a creature of duty. with a simple snap of his wings he is flying, cutting through spacetime like a knife, diving into wormholes and weaving through the fabric of the cosmos like a needle passing through the veil. it's a short trip, if one could measure it in time, and there is nothing to stop them, no angel or demon to bar their way, no call to stop him as he coasts the planes of the universe like an eagle riding a thermal column, pulling them through space and back at last to savage, beautiful earth, dean's home.

drawing dean free from his grace for the last time, castiel deposits him in the earth. it takes some effort to reunite soul to body, and castiel's grace flows against it and through it, rejuvenating the flesh left behind, filling it up with marrow and life, spirit married again to bone and blood and sinew, and within the earth itself castiel wraps his long hands around dean winchester once more.

all it takes is a simple movement, the smallest application of his energy to restart dean winchester's heart, to fill his lungs with breath, and with that restoration he must withdraw from dean, push him away into the third dimension where he belongs, slamming his very being back into existence with force enough to shake the earth and level the grass and trees in a broad swath out from the epicenter of his grace. it crackles in the air, leaving behind the sharp scent of plasma and ozone, his energy thrumming in the soil itself, but castiel is gone from him, invisible and imperceptible to dean in his own dimension, leaving him with little more than a whispered farewell at the back of his mind before he is withdrawing at last, more hesitant to leave the righteous man behind than he ever would have thought.

Goodbye, Dean. ]

[automatically]

( yeah. they can't stay here. no way that he could be that lucky, just to be able to take a little bit more time to catch his breath, let it all sink in. castiel, this angel out of nowhere has other things he needs to attend to now that he's rescued the righteous man, and he can't be expected to babysit him for the rest of forever. ( not that dean would call it as much, hell no, but it's still going to take him a while to get his head back in the game, and having a little bit of help along the way never hurt anyone.

but that's neither here nor there. )

the angel has made his promise – because it's been made clear that this isn't over, that even though he might not remember what's transpired here, they aren't finished with one another. he can't really think to wonder what it all means, what else is going to be in store for him or his brother, but having gone to all this trouble just to bring him topside again must mean there's something in the works, gears turning and wheels rolling even if he has no idea what it's going to be.

he supposes it comes with being a winchester. their lives are never going to be easy, even when those lives have effectively been forfeited, there's always going to be some sort of loophole that drags him back into the thick of it all over again, a never-ending circuit of heartache and pain the likes of which he's convinced no human being should ever be put through. he's been run through the ringer, dropped into hell and strung up and hung by chains, and who the hell knows what's going to be waiting for him once he's back above ground.

castiel brings him in close again, and the warmth that emanates from the touch of his grace fills him once more with that pleasant thrum of electricity, peaceful in the sense of security. he's never felt safe like this before in his entire life, and damn it all, he wants to be selfish and stay like this – even though there's no way in heaven or hell or the middle ground that it could ever be that way, so he tries not to get all that comfortable, even with as simple as it would be to lull himself into the happy place brought on by the other's close proximity.

it happens all too quickly, at least, that's what it feels like; breaking through spacetime, back into the dimension he belongs to, and of course the transition from the intangible to the tangible is blocked from his consciousness. he doesn't remember those last words, the grate of them over every inch of his being as his soul is bound once again to his body. a body that lay broken and bloodied and decayed in an unmarked grave, a hole in the ground meant for nothing but a hunter, because their kind could never deserve anything more than that.

his mouth tastes like dirt, dry and gritty and there isn't a single point on him that doesn't hurt – ache from disuse – and clawing up through the clumps of grit and grime finds him gasping out a thick breath once he's broken the surface, eyes narrowed into slits from the too-bright shine of the sun overhead. it's sensory overload, too much too soon, and he's so damned disoriented that his stomach momentarily revolts against the rest of him, twisting and turning in that painful i'm gonna hurl way that upends everything and turns the earth upside down until it sees fit to right itself.

he doesn't puke. holds all that bile at the back of his throat by sheer force of will as he pulls himself up from the shallow grave, head feeling as though it might just split itself open, but it's driving force enough that he walks the empty road for what feels like a lifetime – maybe more than one – the sun beating down at his back, asphalt shimmering from the heat in front of him until he finds the abandoned convenience store.

and a mirror.

of course he's going to check himself out – because you can't remember being made into kibble for a hellhound and dragged to hell, hell itself and then find yourself digging up out of a hole in the ground and not check for anything weird, out of place. ( can you? no, of fucking course you can't. ) and there they are, the same old familiar scars in all the same familiar places, no broken bones or marks that he's never seen before until he raises the left arm of his shirt. there it is, plain as day, darkened and standing out in stark contrast even against tanned skin, raised and almost angry.

the print of a hand as though laid in paint, burnt sienna over golden brown, shining like a new scar. he places his own hand over it, the brush of fingertips in a test as his eyes narrow at his mirror image. he tries to remember – because there has to be something there – and he can't, and it scares him so badly and makes him so angry that it's all he can do to pull his shirt back down into place. ignore it. because he has to find sam, has to find bobby, take everything as far back to normal as they can go.

it'll all come around.

it has to.

doesn't it? )