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]

( 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? )