[FIC] In the Secret Places of the Stairs (NC-17) 3/3 for Ze_Pink_Lady
Gift type: Fic
Title: In the Secret Places of the Stairs (3 of 3)
Recipient: ze_pink_lady
Author: thevinegarworks
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Torture, mentions of non-con, Hell being a generally scary place, demon!Dean, sexuality.
Spoilers: None; this is an AU from 5x03. Put everything as of 5x04 and afterward out of your mind while reading.
Summary: Castiel has soothed his nightmares since the first night, though Dean will never know of it. Castiel has accepted this invisibility willingly; if it helps Dean Winchester grow into his role, he will oblige without argument and with no need for recognition. He simply wants to help.
Author notes: Title taken from the Song of Songs. All of the languages used herein are the product of copious dictionary-flipping and begging for translations via a sister with a PhD in Classics; translations can be found at the end of the fic itself. Enormous thank you to my beta, M, for refocusing my attentions and getting me on the right path, and also to K, whom I love dearly. Happy Christmas, Z bb, I hope you enjoy it! ♥
Previous Part
This does not happen until nine days later, when Dean has relocated to Bobby's and Castiel has spent the better part of a week in the silent seclusion of a Franciscan monastery.
It, like every other place he has searched, has yielded no results.
He locates Dean by way of a text message sent three days after Castiel wandered into the monastery's dead zone - regrouping at Bobby's for some r&r, maybe i'll see you around?
Dean is alone in a field of rusted cars when Castiel finds him, sitting in the bed of a pickup truck with a moisture-beaded beer bottle in his hand. He waves it through the air and laughs, once, a careful exhalation.
"I don't, uh - I don't know if you can hear me, but -"
Castiel stops before manifesting physically at Dean's side. He draws close, inspecting the half-mast sink of Dean's eyes lazy with alcohol. Dean clears his throat and picks at the soggy paper around the bottle.
"But I hope you can," he says quietly. He pulls at his ear, scratches at the crescent of his throat showing beneath layers of cloth. "Then again I kind of hope you can't, but - do me a favor, if you are listening right now just don't - see, I'm a couple bottles down already so I'd appreciate it if we just never mention this again, okay?"
He lifts his head and Castiel feels a quick thrill of panic before he remembers that Dean cannot see him; he is veiled from human sight, and while it may not be exactly fair it is far too intriguing to see Dean as he is now - unguarded and honest, relaxed under the promises of solitude and secrecy. The walls he so adamantly erects around himself are nonexistent and Castiel is captivated by the ease with which he speaks. Were he to know Castiel was so near, he would withdraw and reconstruct those obstinate borders; Castiel can imagine the quick glint of his smirk, the guarded glaze of his eyes even now.
"Sam's not coming back," Dean blurts through a sigh. "He's going to drop off the radar for a while, hole up and see if he can make some sense out of all of this. I told him it was stupid, but - you know Sam. Tunnel vision." A brief lull hangs heavy in the air as Castiel creeps closer, close enough to smell the tinge of barley on Dean's breath, to see the humidity misting his skin. "Truth is, Cas, I don't know if we're ever going to... mend. Hell, I'm not even sure I want to."
Dean grits his teeth so hard Castiel can hear the ground of enamel, before suddenly his head is tipping back and he is blinking up toward a foggy sky.
"But I don't want to go it alone, Cas. I don't think I can. I mean, you saw me when --"
Another pause swells before he swipes a hand through the air. "Ah, whatever. Anyway so if you're going to help, I'd appreciate you actually helping. And if not, well."
The sentence tapers to silence as Dean swills the rest of his beer and slinks from the rusted truck bed. He tips the empty bottle toward the heavens before tossing it into a trash heap and retreating inside.
Castiel spends the hours after Dean's confession perched at the peak of a mountain that affords him an expansive view of unmapped forests all around. It is quiet, desolate and beautiful as he waits for twilight to wind out. He passes the time in contemplation - sending hope to his blinded brethren, gratitude and fealty and faith to his remiss Father. He considers the world and its strange stillness in the face of a destruction wielded by an enemy too great and terrible for most to comprehend. He considers Dean, the one soul among billions with this weight affixed so permanently to his shoulders, and of Dean's defiance and Dean's tenacity and Dean's relentless capacity to love his brother despite the wedge driven between them, and simply just Dean.
It was always Dean.
From the moment Castiel was dispatched from Heaven with the fires of Hell eating at his wings, all the souls tearing and clawing at his ankles, desperate for a salvation he could not provide, except to one soul among seas of them - Dean.
Dean, who is branded with the mark of an angel; who is fierce and infuriating and flawed and utterly precious for it.
Dean who is loved, intricately and completely, to a depth that is terrifying in its intensity.
Castiel considers all of this and decides that the simple weight of one man against the weight of a world and life eternal is a far simpler choice than he ever anticipated.
He does not wait for dawn before going to Sam.
~ ~ ~
Sam is a good hunter, alert even as he sleeps; Dean has taught him well.
He does not wake gracefully, twisting suddenly from the bed with the gleam of a blade tight in his grip. When Castiel simply nods in greeting, Sam releases a sharp exhale and buries the knife beneath his pillow.
"Cas, what the hell are you doing here?" His voice is low with sleep and Castiel briefly feels he should apologize for waking him so unexpectedly. Sam shoves a strand of hair behind his ear and regards Castiel seriously.
"It's good to see you, Sam."
Sam's mouth opens long before he speaks, his eyebrows knitting in a frown. "You...too. How'd you find me?"
"You told Bobby where you were."
"You whammied him?"
Castiel lifts one corner of his lips. "No. He didn't shield the information and I took the liberty of gleaning it from his thoughts."
Sam doesn't move for a long moment, then draws a sudden breath and leans stiffly against the headboard. Castiel takes the moment to absorb his surroundings - the room is small, cluttered with books. It is still far tidier than any motel in Dean's keeping, which makes Castiel smile to himself. Sam is doing well. Dean will be glad to hear it.
"So, uh." Sam clears his throat and gestures for Castiel to sit. "What's up? Everything okay?"
Castiel clears a stack of books from a chair near the door and sinks into their place. "Everything is fine," he answers. Then adds, after a pause, "as can be expected."
There is a distinct tension coiling in the air, and as much as Castiel wants to believe this is not because of him, he knows it is. Sam does not trust him. He never has. Castiel cannot fault him for it; for one to have such hopeful faith in a charitable Heaven to see and live the things Sam has - for that faith in benevolent angels to be shaken by Uriel's contempt and even Castiel's own less than perfect conduct - it is hardly unwarranted.
"I will not harm you, Sam," Castiel says eventually.
A small laugh huffs from Sam's silhouette. "Well, that's all well and good but from what I've seen, you angels are pretty notorious for double standards." There is no malcontent in the words, just a quiet resignation and a disappointment Castiel wishes desperately he could counteract. Sam prayed once. Even after he learned of Azazel's plan and his role in all of this, he prayed. Only when confronted with the truth of the angels he had for so long held such faith in did he stop.
The frame of the chair creaks when Castiel settles his back into its unforgiving curves. "I agree," he sighs heavily.
"But you're not really on their side anymore, are you?"
"If there were sides in this war, there is only one I would be on."
"Dean's."
It is not a question, but a statement of fact. Castiel nods once, slowly, and Sam mirrors the action. A long moment winds out, thick with conventional sounds of traffic outside, the whir of insects and voices echoing muffled through thin walls, before Sam speaks again.
"You love him."
Castiel stares at his hands. "I love all of God's creations."
The apprehension in Sam's voice gives way to assurance as he clumsily scrubs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, but you love him. More than the others, right?"
It is startlingly different, admitting this depth of feeling to another than it was to admit to himself. Love - he loves Dean. Not as a charge or a friend, not even as a lover, but something much more precious, something treasured and profound. Castiel thinks perhaps he has always loved Dean, that the small particle of himself planted within Dean's remade soul had taken root and grown into something far more complex than he had expected or understood. And that perhaps he only understands it now because he is less of an angel - and that is because of Dean too, this ability to feel in a much more intricate scope that before.
He wonders if there is any possible means to thank someone for that.
"All other facets of this world are but shadows cast by the only light which I can see," Castiel says slowly. When he lifts his gaze to meet Sam's, the line of it is solid and honest, heavy with trust and an affection unbound. It is beyond impossibility to quantify such devotion, but by the soft concern in Sam's face, Castiel thinks he understands as much as he can.
"Your brother lights up the world, Sam."
Again, Sam only nods. "If you're asking for my blessing, Cas, you already have it."
A thank you does not seem enough, but Castiel manages one all the same, the sound of it awkward and small in the quiet.
"Just promise me one thing," Sam says hurriedly. "Make sure you do everything in your power to protect him, okay? Fight for him, fight in front of him, whatever you have to do, just - protect him, please. And I know this is like asking water not to be wet, but - don't let him do anything too stupid. Okay?"
Castiel quirks his lips and bows his head. "I promise."
Sam smiles. "Good."
~ ~ ~
Dean's fingers are clumsy on the wound as he struggles to stitch a new gash across his arm. He fumbles the needle more than once, curses beneath his breath, then takes a quick draught from the whisky bottle at his hip. When Castiel steps suddenly into his space, he jumps visibly.
"Shit," he wheezes, shaking his head. "How's it hangin', Sneaky Pete?"
Castiel cants his head curiously before approaching Dean and taking the needle from him without protest. Dean's fingers are darkened with blood, lines of it creeping down his arm in narrow rivulets. Castiel wonders for a moment what Dean did to himself this time, but thinks better of asking when Dean shoves out a rough breath. "Where were you ten minutes ago? Could have used you before I mangled up my arm more than it already was. Fuck."
Dean sucks in a sharp breath behind a grimace. "I'm sorry," Castiel says, and slows his motions. "I was visiting Sam."
Dean goes perfectly still.
"Rhetorical question, Cas, but - good to know, I guess. How's he doing?"
The needle sews a delicate pattern along the broken flesh as Castiel speaks. "Surviving, like I expected."
A soft snort rolls out of Dean's mouth. "Small victories."
"He asked the same thing of you."
Dean's eyebrows lift as he laughs, shaking his head with a toneless hum. "Runs in the family, I guess. Ow." He winces when Castiel threads a new loop through his skin.
"You're stronger together than you are apart," Castiel reminds him, because he cannot lie even if Dean is reluctant to hear such truths.
"Yeah, well, I can't call him now. You know how lame that would make me look?" The words are accentuated by a laugh, but it is anything but sincere. The hollowness of it makes Castiel ache. "I've crawled back to Sammy enough for one lifetime already, thank you very much."
Castiel glances to Dean's face and is surprised to find Dean staring right back at him in such close proximity. He frowns as he ties off the stitch and snips the fishing line. There are better supplies to be had, but Dean will hear none of it; his father bred it into him to use the simplest solutions for the biggest problems, he had said before. Castiel supposes this is just one instance of such.
"Dean, there is something I must do. Something we must do."
For a moment, Dean does not move at all. He simply watches Castiel, his eyes shifting to move over his face, then settling on what Castiel guesses is his tie before coming back up. "Okay, what?"
The passage of Castiel's palm fitting to Dean's forehead is interrupted by Dean's hand wrapping lightly around his wrist. "Dude, again with the zapping. I do have a car, remember?"
Castiel tucks his hand neatly into his pocket and smiles with one side. "Very well."
He thinks he could grow used to riding in automobiles very easily - especially this one, with its loud music and Dean's in tandem tapping on the steering wheel, and the monstrous rumble of the engine shaking straight down into the marrow of his bones.
~ ~ ~
Dean grumbles fitfully with each church they pass and asks Castiel at least four times why won't this one work?
The sixth church they pass is perfect - aged, small, and built of stone. Climbing out of the car with a ragged sigh, Dean asks again.
"Not all churches are genuine, Dean," Castiel explains. "We need hallowed ground."
Dean quirks an eyebrow as he follows Castiel into the dimly-lit interior. Castiel makes his way to the altar as Dean wanders the deepest shadows, inspecting the few lit vigil lights and the stained glass windows at the far walls. He stops at one in particular and grunts thoughtfully as his gaze wanders the pattern of colors arranged into the semblance of a woman, hands raised, quietly smiling despite the flames engulfing her.
"Anima Sola."
Dean spins at the words. "Anima who?"
"Anima Sola," Castiel repeats with a nod toward the window. He removes the vials from the ambry as he speaks. "She has been banished to Perdition but never burns. The chains around her wrists are broken, even in her prison."
"I'm guessing that has some deep philosophical significance I'm not getting," Dean says as he steps closer and watches Castiel open and arrange the bottles.
"It means that, even after her sins and suffering in Hell, she is still destined for Heaven." Castiel lowers his eyes at how wide Dean's have gone. "You should remove your shirt for this."
Dean hesitates, but obliges with a crooked grin and a shake of his head. "Alright then."
"Kneel," Castiel instructs softly, surprised when Dean does so without argument.
"Cas? What is this for?"
Castiel wets his fingers in the first oil and tips Dean's chin gently upward. "Your protection." Dean seems to accept this fully, watching Castiel's motions with eyes wide and curious.
"Oleum Catechumenorum," he begins and smears a glistening line of oil across Dean's forehead. "Osculetur me osculo oris sui quia meliora sunt ubera tua vino. Fraglantia unguentis optimis oleum effusum nomen tuum."
He traces sigils and symbols into Dean's skin, mapping the dents of his temples and the planes of his cheeks, the bow of his lips that twitches slightly beneath his fingertips.
"Leva eius sub capite meo -" he raises Dean's hands and traces delicate lines and curves into his palms - "et dextera illius amplexabitur me."
The second oil drips in tiny beads along Dean's shoulders, catching the lamplight as it falls and settles in the shallow dip of his collarbone. "Oleum Infirmorum..." The skin of Dean's chest quivers slightly below the path of his fingers - "columba mea in foraminibus petrae in caverna maceriae" - the graceful column of a neck, the gentle slope of a sternum and the subtle rise of ribs beneath tender flesh - "ostende mihi faciem tuam sonet vox tua in auribus meis."
He passes through Greek, Enochian, Sumerian, even languages that have no name and that cannot be rendered by any human tongue, covering Dean's body in ancient letters and symbols - axiolêptos on his eyelids, gohed gono, etharsi, brans circling his waist, dozens of others until Dean's entire body gleams with a thin sheen of oil. Dean allows him, and even seems amused by Castiel's thoroughness though he never speaks, only stares up in quiet acceptance and rises to his feet when Castiel instructs him to stand.
The third oil is thick and fragrant with balsam, slick against Castiel's fingers as they map an axis around Dean's body to paint ancient wards along his back. "Sanctum Chrisma..."
Dean turns enough for a sliver of his face to be visible over the cut of his shoulder. Castiel refuses to notice the flutter of Dean's lashes when he follows the line of his spine in a progression slow enough to feel each rise and sink of bone.
"Dilectus - dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui pascitur inter lilia." The words stutter in time with the heightened thump of Dean's heartbeat thudding against the splay of Castiel's palm, planted flat between the hard ridges of Dean's shoulder blades. "Donec adspiret dies et inclinentur umbrae."
He moves around Dean's body and completes the final sigil, then swipes a thin line over his forehead, another to intersect it, and seals the ritual with his lips pressed warmly in the center of the cross.
"Talis est dilectus meus et iste est amicus meus."
The kiss is chaste and simple, but thrumming with a secret energy that catches Dean's breath audibly in his throat.
When Castiel pulls back, Dean's hand curled into the nape of his neck stops him.
"Don't."
Castiel blinks, but does not move.
"Don't go," Dean whispers. He licks at his lips and from this close, very nearly swipes Castiel's too. "Stay," he says, more decisive this time.
"Dean, I -"
He is cut to silence by the sudden rattle of Dean's laugh and the pressure of his forehead resting against Castiel's own. The web of his fingers tightens behind Castiel's neck, trapping him. "Come on, Cas. As much demon ass I've kicked you think I don't know a little Latin when I hear it?"
He can feel the heat from Dean's body even through the space and layers still separating them. It is confusing, if anything; he does not quite know what to do with his hands and the sudden closeness of their bodies is distracting. In all their time together, he has never been this close, in this fashion, to Dean.
It is a fleeting observation though, as Dean is suddenly tilting and shifting and the proximity of his mouth pulls all of Castiel's focus to the heated breath mingling between them.
Dean's mouth is soft, spicy and slick with oil when he presses it to Castiel's. Then, with a quick puff of air and a hushed hum, his tongue is sliding into Castiel's mouth, smooth and wet and entirely unexpected.
Dean makes a small sound of surprise against his mouth the first time Castiel kisses back . When he breaks away, Castiel cannot help but follow him part of the way. "Man," Dean pants with a slight huff of amusement. "You're a quick study, aren't you?" The sound of his voice, pitched low and thick with a heady mixture of anticipation and desire, spirals tightly in the floor of Castiel's stomach.
He pulls his eyes into slits and watches the play of light across the oil marking the planes of Dean's skin, and he wants.
Their next kiss is slick and messy, with Dean's hands finding their way under the outer layers of Castiel's clothing and pushing them away. His own hands are drawn instinctively to Dean's hips, but slip upward into the bend of his waist with the slickness of oil coating his fingers. Dean's kisses are hungry and persistent, and despite Castiel's relative newness to the sensation, they are well matched. Dean seems impressed by it; Castiel smirks in satisfaction in the brief moments their contact breaks.
It is different, knowing Dean's body from reshaping him on a molecular level, than it is being in such direct contact with his flesh - flesh that twitches and flexes beneath Castiel's hands when he slides his hands around Dean's back, or arches against him when Dean breaks the kiss to breathe and Castiel steals the moment to suck on the wet pout of his lower lip. This is not a clinical recreating; this is learning the areas and pressures that make Dean shudder, like the slope of his jaw, sharp with the taste of sandalwood, that makes Dean groan and pull until Castiel's hips fit against his.
When Dean says his name it is low and dark, "Cas," with a thin tremor of need threaded through the sound. He nudges forward until Castiel is forced to take small, stuttering steps back. The hard line of the altar at his back is a brilliant contrast to the solidity of Dean's body at his front. They are flushed from knees to chest, but close is not close enough and Castiel wants to open himself up further and further until Dean crawls completely inside.
Dean works on his shirt without breaking away, knuckles brushing the bare skin of Castiel's chest in quick, fumbling movements. His tie unwinds in one swift slither before Dean is pushing the thin fabric of Castiel's shirt down his arms and rubbing at the bare lengths of skin found below it. Castiel breathes a moan into Dean's mouth at the touch and Dean echoes the sound, a slow rumble that Castiel feels pour into and fill him up completely.
Dean pulls back with not a little reluctance, long enough to kick out of his boots and pop the button on his jeans before he returns, closer than before, and hoists Castiel up onto the altar, crowding the open space between his knees.
"You good with this?" he breathes into the tight space between lips and lips.
Castiel gives a distracted nod and fists a hand in Dean's hair, jerking him closer to get at the taste of his mouth.
Dean helps him out of his shoes and socks, tears at his own jeans until they are a puddle on the cool slate and removes Castiel's remaining clothes just as quickly, hesitating only to let his eyes wander the lengths of Castiel's legs, the breadth of his hips, with a quick dart of pink tongue chasing along his lips. Then there is only the human heat emanating from Dean's skin where Castiel's fingers smudge through the oil on his back and scratch at each sigil with dull fingernails; miles of tanned skin, the thrilling hardness of Dean pressed into the crease of Castiel's hip, and Dean's fist closing tight around Castiel where he needs the friction most.
The movement is slightly disorienting when Dean flips them and lifts himself onto the edge of the altar instead. Any protest Castiel may have had dies on his lips when Dean's knee pulls tightly around his waist, locking their bodies together in a sudden and surprising jolt. "Cas," he says roughly. His hands grapple along Castiel's shoulders up into his hair, catching fast and pulling back to look him in the face.
Dean's eyes are dark and flecked with bright slivers of gold in the thin rim of color edging his pupils. "Cas," he repeats. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."
Castiel smiles and mouths at the curl of Dean's wrist. "You're not dreaming."
Dean shivers and hums when Castiel wraps an experimental hand around him and strokes, once, twice. "Swear it," he pants as his eyes fall shut.
Castiel licks at the long line of throat on display before him when Dean tips his head back. Dean feels heavy in his hand, too hot and smooth. Castiel wishes he could take a longer time to appreciate the fine details of Dean's anatomy, memorize each dip and contour and freckle - not that he does not know them already, but exploring them this way is so new and terrifyingly intimate - but Dean is impatiently rubbing at his shoulders and tightening the tendons in his neck with each breath. "I swear," Castiel breathes against Dean''s throat; there will be time for memorization later. "You will remember this."
Dean goes wild and alive within a heartbeat, burning with energy and purpose. He swallows every sound Castiel has to offer and guides Castiel's hands where they need to be. He wets Castiel's erection with his mouth and the feeling is exquisite and overwhelming; winces and pants when Castiel's fingers enter him, but says don't, don't you stop, it's good, it's good. It is quick, and messy, and Castiel wishes he could suspend the instant indefinitely when he first pushes into Dean and is crushed beneath the wash of perfect pleasure at the heat and tightness there.
Even when the coordination it requires to kiss is lost to the push-pull rhythm that's become concentric to Castiel's very existence, they remain as close as they can. It is more sharing air than actually kissing, Castiel occasionally licking into Dean's open mouth that gapes against his own. Dean makes a low noise from the center of his chest and clutches at Castiel's hips, groans there, yeah, and cries out when Castiel sinks his teeth into the oil-slick bend of taut flesh where neck blends into shoulder.
The tension in Dean's body snaps and slackens with a sudden wetness between them when Castiel tongues the flesh between his teeth, a fractured agapêtos on his breath. He curls his hands around the backs of Dean's shoulders and holds him still, moving into him with the shape of Dean's name falling from his lips as his pleasure crests and coalesces into one hot liquid core.
His own handprint, emblazoned permanent on Dean's shoulder, and now the bruise of his mouth sunk into the soft meat of Dean's neck - even these marks do not seem enough. Castiel clings tighter and traces the runes of his name across Dean's chest, slippery and shaking with uneven breaths. "Mine," he breathes into the backward arch of Dean's throat, the taste of balsam and salt sweetly bitter on his tongue.
It is sticky and somewhat clumsy and undignified, but this small succession of minutes and tide of sensation is more perfect than any Heaven Castiel has ever known or imagined in his infinite existence.
He expects to be surprised by that, but is not.
He expects to be shamed by the blasphemy on his tongue and the long shadow of a cross towering above, but he is not.
Here, in this place, he exists as only one thing.
"Mine," Dean echoes with a kiss pressed to Castiel's temple. The wide bands of his arms lock possessively around Castiel's shoulders and Castiel thinks simply, yes.
~ ~ ~
He finds Dean in a cavernous room carved of stone and lit with fires that burn from no distinct source. The wailing screams and tortured cries that form the fabric of the air are quieter here, though the stench of sulfur and blood are still apparent. This is still Hell, if only a forgotten, quieter corner of it.
Dean's back is turned and even across the distance Castiel can see the jagged scars of dissection marks cut into his skin. He is no doubt Alastair's favorite subject.
"Dean."
"Hey, Cas," Dean replies softly. He does not turn or take his eyes from the stone wall before him. Castiel steps closer and extends a hand toward Dean's fingers, stained with blood and dangling limply at his hip.
"They're all mine."
Castiel allows his hand to linger in a pause before tucking it neatly into his pocket. He studies the hundreds of small vertical dashes carved into the stone and moves to stand at Dean's side, shoulder to shoulder.
"Every one of them," Dean says with a nod. "Alastair kept a record of them."
All at once, it makes sense. Castiel regards the lines with a frown and sighs. "A tally," he says.
When Dean nods, the firelight catches in the reflective black slate of his eyes. "Every one I ever tortured."
Castiel steps swiftly in front of Dean and braces his hands on the sides of his face. "You do not have to remember this, Dean."
"Can you make me forget?"
There is a challenge in the tone, a tilt to Dean's head, and Castiel feels uncomfortably cold despite the stifling heat. He draws a breath before sealing his palm to Dean's forehead and concentrating. Old prayers stream from his lips as he pulls, struggling to free Dean from the weight of his sleep.
Nothing happens.
When he opens his eyes, they are still surrounded by the filth and ichor of Hell. A breath catches in Castiel's throat as his palms drop to rest heavily on Dean's shoulders. He had suspected this would happen. He knew eventually he would grow too weak to build a distance between Dean and his memories of Hell.
He did not expect it to happen so soon, but he thinks perhaps even an eternity from now would have been too soon.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
Dean's tilted grin is starkly out of place in the ash and ruin of such a hopeless place. "Got to know where you came from to know where you're going, right?" His hands find Castiel's wrists and wrap lightly around. "And besides, you're here. Can't be that bad, can it?"
Castiel nods and sweeps the ridge of Dean's cheekbone. "If it will help for me to stay..."
Dean's face goes dark and serious. "Don't."
"Dean -"
"Cas, no. You've helped enough." At Castiel's frown, Dean shrugs. "You told me to forget, and I did - but I do remember you being there. I remember you telling me not to, and that's enough for me. You were there."
Castiel lowers his eyes to rest on the scabbed slices mangling Dean's chest. He remembers the smoothness of that flesh beneath his hands, mapping his name across it, and shudders. The marks, however marred and difficult to see, still burn there. Even in this torment, Dean still carries Castiel's mark.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you," he says as he traces the lines of his name. Kaunan ansuz sōwulō teiwaz is all that is visible through the wounds; Castiel traces the rest - isa ehwaz laguz - and comes away with a bloody fingertip.
"That's okay," Dean says, before suddenly the world is shifting and the stone walls are being eaten away by yellowed floral wallpaper and the bumps of a textured ceiling.
Castiel blinks and turns his head against the pillow when the warm pressure of a hand tightens around his own.
Dean smiles from close by, his eyes glossed with sleep and hooded in the darkness of the motel room.
"You can protect me here, right?"
More information about the names and applications of holy oils can be found here and here.
Castiel is reciting parts of the Song of Solomon to Dean during the protection ritual, the Latin text of which can be found here. The complete translated KJV version can be found here. The phrases Castiel recites are as follows:
Osculetur me osculo oris sui quia meliora sunt ubera tua vino. Fraglantia unguentis optimis oleum effusum nomen tuum. - Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth.
Leva eius sub capite meo et dextera illius amplexabitur me - His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
Columba mea in foraminibus petrae in caverna maceriae ostende mihi faciem tuam sonet vox tua in auribus meis - O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice.
Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui pascitur inter lilia - My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
Donec adspiret dies et inclinentur umbrae - Until the day breaketh, and the shadows flee away
Talis est dilectus meus et iste est amicus meus. - This is my beloved, and this is my friend.
The Greek words used - axiolêptos and agapêtos - mean worth acceptance or precious (masc, nom, s) and beloved, respectively. Source.
The Enochian used - gohed gono, etharsi, brans - means everlasting faith, peace, protect(ion). Source.
The runes of Castiel's name are taken from the Elder Futhark, found on the Kylver Stone, which you can read more about here and here. They are kaunan ansuz sōwulō teiwaz isa ehwaz laguz, which spells out Castiel.
Title: In the Secret Places of the Stairs (3 of 3)
Recipient: ze_pink_lady
Author: thevinegarworks
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Torture, mentions of non-con, Hell being a generally scary place, demon!Dean, sexuality.
Spoilers: None; this is an AU from 5x03. Put everything as of 5x04 and afterward out of your mind while reading.
Summary: Castiel has soothed his nightmares since the first night, though Dean will never know of it. Castiel has accepted this invisibility willingly; if it helps Dean Winchester grow into his role, he will oblige without argument and with no need for recognition. He simply wants to help.
Author notes: Title taken from the Song of Songs. All of the languages used herein are the product of copious dictionary-flipping and begging for translations via a sister with a PhD in Classics; translations can be found at the end of the fic itself. Enormous thank you to my beta, M, for refocusing my attentions and getting me on the right path, and also to K, whom I love dearly. Happy Christmas, Z bb, I hope you enjoy it! ♥
Previous Part
This does not happen until nine days later, when Dean has relocated to Bobby's and Castiel has spent the better part of a week in the silent seclusion of a Franciscan monastery.
It, like every other place he has searched, has yielded no results.
He locates Dean by way of a text message sent three days after Castiel wandered into the monastery's dead zone - regrouping at Bobby's for some r&r, maybe i'll see you around?
Dean is alone in a field of rusted cars when Castiel finds him, sitting in the bed of a pickup truck with a moisture-beaded beer bottle in his hand. He waves it through the air and laughs, once, a careful exhalation.
"I don't, uh - I don't know if you can hear me, but -"
Castiel stops before manifesting physically at Dean's side. He draws close, inspecting the half-mast sink of Dean's eyes lazy with alcohol. Dean clears his throat and picks at the soggy paper around the bottle.
"But I hope you can," he says quietly. He pulls at his ear, scratches at the crescent of his throat showing beneath layers of cloth. "Then again I kind of hope you can't, but - do me a favor, if you are listening right now just don't - see, I'm a couple bottles down already so I'd appreciate it if we just never mention this again, okay?"
He lifts his head and Castiel feels a quick thrill of panic before he remembers that Dean cannot see him; he is veiled from human sight, and while it may not be exactly fair it is far too intriguing to see Dean as he is now - unguarded and honest, relaxed under the promises of solitude and secrecy. The walls he so adamantly erects around himself are nonexistent and Castiel is captivated by the ease with which he speaks. Were he to know Castiel was so near, he would withdraw and reconstruct those obstinate borders; Castiel can imagine the quick glint of his smirk, the guarded glaze of his eyes even now.
"Sam's not coming back," Dean blurts through a sigh. "He's going to drop off the radar for a while, hole up and see if he can make some sense out of all of this. I told him it was stupid, but - you know Sam. Tunnel vision." A brief lull hangs heavy in the air as Castiel creeps closer, close enough to smell the tinge of barley on Dean's breath, to see the humidity misting his skin. "Truth is, Cas, I don't know if we're ever going to... mend. Hell, I'm not even sure I want to."
Dean grits his teeth so hard Castiel can hear the ground of enamel, before suddenly his head is tipping back and he is blinking up toward a foggy sky.
"But I don't want to go it alone, Cas. I don't think I can. I mean, you saw me when --"
Another pause swells before he swipes a hand through the air. "Ah, whatever. Anyway so if you're going to help, I'd appreciate you actually helping. And if not, well."
The sentence tapers to silence as Dean swills the rest of his beer and slinks from the rusted truck bed. He tips the empty bottle toward the heavens before tossing it into a trash heap and retreating inside.
Castiel spends the hours after Dean's confession perched at the peak of a mountain that affords him an expansive view of unmapped forests all around. It is quiet, desolate and beautiful as he waits for twilight to wind out. He passes the time in contemplation - sending hope to his blinded brethren, gratitude and fealty and faith to his remiss Father. He considers the world and its strange stillness in the face of a destruction wielded by an enemy too great and terrible for most to comprehend. He considers Dean, the one soul among billions with this weight affixed so permanently to his shoulders, and of Dean's defiance and Dean's tenacity and Dean's relentless capacity to love his brother despite the wedge driven between them, and simply just Dean.
It was always Dean.
From the moment Castiel was dispatched from Heaven with the fires of Hell eating at his wings, all the souls tearing and clawing at his ankles, desperate for a salvation he could not provide, except to one soul among seas of them - Dean.
Dean, who is branded with the mark of an angel; who is fierce and infuriating and flawed and utterly precious for it.
Dean who is loved, intricately and completely, to a depth that is terrifying in its intensity.
Castiel considers all of this and decides that the simple weight of one man against the weight of a world and life eternal is a far simpler choice than he ever anticipated.
He does not wait for dawn before going to Sam.
~ ~ ~
Sam is a good hunter, alert even as he sleeps; Dean has taught him well.
He does not wake gracefully, twisting suddenly from the bed with the gleam of a blade tight in his grip. When Castiel simply nods in greeting, Sam releases a sharp exhale and buries the knife beneath his pillow.
"Cas, what the hell are you doing here?" His voice is low with sleep and Castiel briefly feels he should apologize for waking him so unexpectedly. Sam shoves a strand of hair behind his ear and regards Castiel seriously.
"It's good to see you, Sam."
Sam's mouth opens long before he speaks, his eyebrows knitting in a frown. "You...too. How'd you find me?"
"You told Bobby where you were."
"You whammied him?"
Castiel lifts one corner of his lips. "No. He didn't shield the information and I took the liberty of gleaning it from his thoughts."
Sam doesn't move for a long moment, then draws a sudden breath and leans stiffly against the headboard. Castiel takes the moment to absorb his surroundings - the room is small, cluttered with books. It is still far tidier than any motel in Dean's keeping, which makes Castiel smile to himself. Sam is doing well. Dean will be glad to hear it.
"So, uh." Sam clears his throat and gestures for Castiel to sit. "What's up? Everything okay?"
Castiel clears a stack of books from a chair near the door and sinks into their place. "Everything is fine," he answers. Then adds, after a pause, "as can be expected."
There is a distinct tension coiling in the air, and as much as Castiel wants to believe this is not because of him, he knows it is. Sam does not trust him. He never has. Castiel cannot fault him for it; for one to have such hopeful faith in a charitable Heaven to see and live the things Sam has - for that faith in benevolent angels to be shaken by Uriel's contempt and even Castiel's own less than perfect conduct - it is hardly unwarranted.
"I will not harm you, Sam," Castiel says eventually.
A small laugh huffs from Sam's silhouette. "Well, that's all well and good but from what I've seen, you angels are pretty notorious for double standards." There is no malcontent in the words, just a quiet resignation and a disappointment Castiel wishes desperately he could counteract. Sam prayed once. Even after he learned of Azazel's plan and his role in all of this, he prayed. Only when confronted with the truth of the angels he had for so long held such faith in did he stop.
The frame of the chair creaks when Castiel settles his back into its unforgiving curves. "I agree," he sighs heavily.
"But you're not really on their side anymore, are you?"
"If there were sides in this war, there is only one I would be on."
"Dean's."
It is not a question, but a statement of fact. Castiel nods once, slowly, and Sam mirrors the action. A long moment winds out, thick with conventional sounds of traffic outside, the whir of insects and voices echoing muffled through thin walls, before Sam speaks again.
"You love him."
Castiel stares at his hands. "I love all of God's creations."
The apprehension in Sam's voice gives way to assurance as he clumsily scrubs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, but you love him. More than the others, right?"
It is startlingly different, admitting this depth of feeling to another than it was to admit to himself. Love - he loves Dean. Not as a charge or a friend, not even as a lover, but something much more precious, something treasured and profound. Castiel thinks perhaps he has always loved Dean, that the small particle of himself planted within Dean's remade soul had taken root and grown into something far more complex than he had expected or understood. And that perhaps he only understands it now because he is less of an angel - and that is because of Dean too, this ability to feel in a much more intricate scope that before.
He wonders if there is any possible means to thank someone for that.
"All other facets of this world are but shadows cast by the only light which I can see," Castiel says slowly. When he lifts his gaze to meet Sam's, the line of it is solid and honest, heavy with trust and an affection unbound. It is beyond impossibility to quantify such devotion, but by the soft concern in Sam's face, Castiel thinks he understands as much as he can.
"Your brother lights up the world, Sam."
Again, Sam only nods. "If you're asking for my blessing, Cas, you already have it."
A thank you does not seem enough, but Castiel manages one all the same, the sound of it awkward and small in the quiet.
"Just promise me one thing," Sam says hurriedly. "Make sure you do everything in your power to protect him, okay? Fight for him, fight in front of him, whatever you have to do, just - protect him, please. And I know this is like asking water not to be wet, but - don't let him do anything too stupid. Okay?"
Castiel quirks his lips and bows his head. "I promise."
Sam smiles. "Good."
~ ~ ~
Dean's fingers are clumsy on the wound as he struggles to stitch a new gash across his arm. He fumbles the needle more than once, curses beneath his breath, then takes a quick draught from the whisky bottle at his hip. When Castiel steps suddenly into his space, he jumps visibly.
"Shit," he wheezes, shaking his head. "How's it hangin', Sneaky Pete?"
Castiel cants his head curiously before approaching Dean and taking the needle from him without protest. Dean's fingers are darkened with blood, lines of it creeping down his arm in narrow rivulets. Castiel wonders for a moment what Dean did to himself this time, but thinks better of asking when Dean shoves out a rough breath. "Where were you ten minutes ago? Could have used you before I mangled up my arm more than it already was. Fuck."
Dean sucks in a sharp breath behind a grimace. "I'm sorry," Castiel says, and slows his motions. "I was visiting Sam."
Dean goes perfectly still.
"Rhetorical question, Cas, but - good to know, I guess. How's he doing?"
The needle sews a delicate pattern along the broken flesh as Castiel speaks. "Surviving, like I expected."
A soft snort rolls out of Dean's mouth. "Small victories."
"He asked the same thing of you."
Dean's eyebrows lift as he laughs, shaking his head with a toneless hum. "Runs in the family, I guess. Ow." He winces when Castiel threads a new loop through his skin.
"You're stronger together than you are apart," Castiel reminds him, because he cannot lie even if Dean is reluctant to hear such truths.
"Yeah, well, I can't call him now. You know how lame that would make me look?" The words are accentuated by a laugh, but it is anything but sincere. The hollowness of it makes Castiel ache. "I've crawled back to Sammy enough for one lifetime already, thank you very much."
Castiel glances to Dean's face and is surprised to find Dean staring right back at him in such close proximity. He frowns as he ties off the stitch and snips the fishing line. There are better supplies to be had, but Dean will hear none of it; his father bred it into him to use the simplest solutions for the biggest problems, he had said before. Castiel supposes this is just one instance of such.
"Dean, there is something I must do. Something we must do."
For a moment, Dean does not move at all. He simply watches Castiel, his eyes shifting to move over his face, then settling on what Castiel guesses is his tie before coming back up. "Okay, what?"
The passage of Castiel's palm fitting to Dean's forehead is interrupted by Dean's hand wrapping lightly around his wrist. "Dude, again with the zapping. I do have a car, remember?"
Castiel tucks his hand neatly into his pocket and smiles with one side. "Very well."
He thinks he could grow used to riding in automobiles very easily - especially this one, with its loud music and Dean's in tandem tapping on the steering wheel, and the monstrous rumble of the engine shaking straight down into the marrow of his bones.
~ ~ ~
Dean grumbles fitfully with each church they pass and asks Castiel at least four times why won't this one work?
The sixth church they pass is perfect - aged, small, and built of stone. Climbing out of the car with a ragged sigh, Dean asks again.
"Not all churches are genuine, Dean," Castiel explains. "We need hallowed ground."
Dean quirks an eyebrow as he follows Castiel into the dimly-lit interior. Castiel makes his way to the altar as Dean wanders the deepest shadows, inspecting the few lit vigil lights and the stained glass windows at the far walls. He stops at one in particular and grunts thoughtfully as his gaze wanders the pattern of colors arranged into the semblance of a woman, hands raised, quietly smiling despite the flames engulfing her.
"Anima Sola."
Dean spins at the words. "Anima who?"
"Anima Sola," Castiel repeats with a nod toward the window. He removes the vials from the ambry as he speaks. "She has been banished to Perdition but never burns. The chains around her wrists are broken, even in her prison."
"I'm guessing that has some deep philosophical significance I'm not getting," Dean says as he steps closer and watches Castiel open and arrange the bottles.
"It means that, even after her sins and suffering in Hell, she is still destined for Heaven." Castiel lowers his eyes at how wide Dean's have gone. "You should remove your shirt for this."
Dean hesitates, but obliges with a crooked grin and a shake of his head. "Alright then."
"Kneel," Castiel instructs softly, surprised when Dean does so without argument.
"Cas? What is this for?"
Castiel wets his fingers in the first oil and tips Dean's chin gently upward. "Your protection." Dean seems to accept this fully, watching Castiel's motions with eyes wide and curious.
"Oleum Catechumenorum," he begins and smears a glistening line of oil across Dean's forehead. "Osculetur me osculo oris sui quia meliora sunt ubera tua vino. Fraglantia unguentis optimis oleum effusum nomen tuum."
He traces sigils and symbols into Dean's skin, mapping the dents of his temples and the planes of his cheeks, the bow of his lips that twitches slightly beneath his fingertips.
"Leva eius sub capite meo -" he raises Dean's hands and traces delicate lines and curves into his palms - "et dextera illius amplexabitur me."
The second oil drips in tiny beads along Dean's shoulders, catching the lamplight as it falls and settles in the shallow dip of his collarbone. "Oleum Infirmorum..." The skin of Dean's chest quivers slightly below the path of his fingers - "columba mea in foraminibus petrae in caverna maceriae" - the graceful column of a neck, the gentle slope of a sternum and the subtle rise of ribs beneath tender flesh - "ostende mihi faciem tuam sonet vox tua in auribus meis."
He passes through Greek, Enochian, Sumerian, even languages that have no name and that cannot be rendered by any human tongue, covering Dean's body in ancient letters and symbols - axiolêptos on his eyelids, gohed gono, etharsi, brans circling his waist, dozens of others until Dean's entire body gleams with a thin sheen of oil. Dean allows him, and even seems amused by Castiel's thoroughness though he never speaks, only stares up in quiet acceptance and rises to his feet when Castiel instructs him to stand.
The third oil is thick and fragrant with balsam, slick against Castiel's fingers as they map an axis around Dean's body to paint ancient wards along his back. "Sanctum Chrisma..."
Dean turns enough for a sliver of his face to be visible over the cut of his shoulder. Castiel refuses to notice the flutter of Dean's lashes when he follows the line of his spine in a progression slow enough to feel each rise and sink of bone.
"Dilectus - dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui pascitur inter lilia." The words stutter in time with the heightened thump of Dean's heartbeat thudding against the splay of Castiel's palm, planted flat between the hard ridges of Dean's shoulder blades. "Donec adspiret dies et inclinentur umbrae."
He moves around Dean's body and completes the final sigil, then swipes a thin line over his forehead, another to intersect it, and seals the ritual with his lips pressed warmly in the center of the cross.
"Talis est dilectus meus et iste est amicus meus."
The kiss is chaste and simple, but thrumming with a secret energy that catches Dean's breath audibly in his throat.
When Castiel pulls back, Dean's hand curled into the nape of his neck stops him.
"Don't."
Castiel blinks, but does not move.
"Don't go," Dean whispers. He licks at his lips and from this close, very nearly swipes Castiel's too. "Stay," he says, more decisive this time.
"Dean, I -"
He is cut to silence by the sudden rattle of Dean's laugh and the pressure of his forehead resting against Castiel's own. The web of his fingers tightens behind Castiel's neck, trapping him. "Come on, Cas. As much demon ass I've kicked you think I don't know a little Latin when I hear it?"
He can feel the heat from Dean's body even through the space and layers still separating them. It is confusing, if anything; he does not quite know what to do with his hands and the sudden closeness of their bodies is distracting. In all their time together, he has never been this close, in this fashion, to Dean.
It is a fleeting observation though, as Dean is suddenly tilting and shifting and the proximity of his mouth pulls all of Castiel's focus to the heated breath mingling between them.
Dean's mouth is soft, spicy and slick with oil when he presses it to Castiel's. Then, with a quick puff of air and a hushed hum, his tongue is sliding into Castiel's mouth, smooth and wet and entirely unexpected.
Dean makes a small sound of surprise against his mouth the first time Castiel kisses back . When he breaks away, Castiel cannot help but follow him part of the way. "Man," Dean pants with a slight huff of amusement. "You're a quick study, aren't you?" The sound of his voice, pitched low and thick with a heady mixture of anticipation and desire, spirals tightly in the floor of Castiel's stomach.
He pulls his eyes into slits and watches the play of light across the oil marking the planes of Dean's skin, and he wants.
Their next kiss is slick and messy, with Dean's hands finding their way under the outer layers of Castiel's clothing and pushing them away. His own hands are drawn instinctively to Dean's hips, but slip upward into the bend of his waist with the slickness of oil coating his fingers. Dean's kisses are hungry and persistent, and despite Castiel's relative newness to the sensation, they are well matched. Dean seems impressed by it; Castiel smirks in satisfaction in the brief moments their contact breaks.
It is different, knowing Dean's body from reshaping him on a molecular level, than it is being in such direct contact with his flesh - flesh that twitches and flexes beneath Castiel's hands when he slides his hands around Dean's back, or arches against him when Dean breaks the kiss to breathe and Castiel steals the moment to suck on the wet pout of his lower lip. This is not a clinical recreating; this is learning the areas and pressures that make Dean shudder, like the slope of his jaw, sharp with the taste of sandalwood, that makes Dean groan and pull until Castiel's hips fit against his.
When Dean says his name it is low and dark, "Cas," with a thin tremor of need threaded through the sound. He nudges forward until Castiel is forced to take small, stuttering steps back. The hard line of the altar at his back is a brilliant contrast to the solidity of Dean's body at his front. They are flushed from knees to chest, but close is not close enough and Castiel wants to open himself up further and further until Dean crawls completely inside.
Dean works on his shirt without breaking away, knuckles brushing the bare skin of Castiel's chest in quick, fumbling movements. His tie unwinds in one swift slither before Dean is pushing the thin fabric of Castiel's shirt down his arms and rubbing at the bare lengths of skin found below it. Castiel breathes a moan into Dean's mouth at the touch and Dean echoes the sound, a slow rumble that Castiel feels pour into and fill him up completely.
Dean pulls back with not a little reluctance, long enough to kick out of his boots and pop the button on his jeans before he returns, closer than before, and hoists Castiel up onto the altar, crowding the open space between his knees.
"You good with this?" he breathes into the tight space between lips and lips.
Castiel gives a distracted nod and fists a hand in Dean's hair, jerking him closer to get at the taste of his mouth.
Dean helps him out of his shoes and socks, tears at his own jeans until they are a puddle on the cool slate and removes Castiel's remaining clothes just as quickly, hesitating only to let his eyes wander the lengths of Castiel's legs, the breadth of his hips, with a quick dart of pink tongue chasing along his lips. Then there is only the human heat emanating from Dean's skin where Castiel's fingers smudge through the oil on his back and scratch at each sigil with dull fingernails; miles of tanned skin, the thrilling hardness of Dean pressed into the crease of Castiel's hip, and Dean's fist closing tight around Castiel where he needs the friction most.
The movement is slightly disorienting when Dean flips them and lifts himself onto the edge of the altar instead. Any protest Castiel may have had dies on his lips when Dean's knee pulls tightly around his waist, locking their bodies together in a sudden and surprising jolt. "Cas," he says roughly. His hands grapple along Castiel's shoulders up into his hair, catching fast and pulling back to look him in the face.
Dean's eyes are dark and flecked with bright slivers of gold in the thin rim of color edging his pupils. "Cas," he repeats. "Tell me I'm not dreaming."
Castiel smiles and mouths at the curl of Dean's wrist. "You're not dreaming."
Dean shivers and hums when Castiel wraps an experimental hand around him and strokes, once, twice. "Swear it," he pants as his eyes fall shut.
Castiel licks at the long line of throat on display before him when Dean tips his head back. Dean feels heavy in his hand, too hot and smooth. Castiel wishes he could take a longer time to appreciate the fine details of Dean's anatomy, memorize each dip and contour and freckle - not that he does not know them already, but exploring them this way is so new and terrifyingly intimate - but Dean is impatiently rubbing at his shoulders and tightening the tendons in his neck with each breath. "I swear," Castiel breathes against Dean''s throat; there will be time for memorization later. "You will remember this."
Dean goes wild and alive within a heartbeat, burning with energy and purpose. He swallows every sound Castiel has to offer and guides Castiel's hands where they need to be. He wets Castiel's erection with his mouth and the feeling is exquisite and overwhelming; winces and pants when Castiel's fingers enter him, but says don't, don't you stop, it's good, it's good. It is quick, and messy, and Castiel wishes he could suspend the instant indefinitely when he first pushes into Dean and is crushed beneath the wash of perfect pleasure at the heat and tightness there.
Even when the coordination it requires to kiss is lost to the push-pull rhythm that's become concentric to Castiel's very existence, they remain as close as they can. It is more sharing air than actually kissing, Castiel occasionally licking into Dean's open mouth that gapes against his own. Dean makes a low noise from the center of his chest and clutches at Castiel's hips, groans there, yeah, and cries out when Castiel sinks his teeth into the oil-slick bend of taut flesh where neck blends into shoulder.
The tension in Dean's body snaps and slackens with a sudden wetness between them when Castiel tongues the flesh between his teeth, a fractured agapêtos on his breath. He curls his hands around the backs of Dean's shoulders and holds him still, moving into him with the shape of Dean's name falling from his lips as his pleasure crests and coalesces into one hot liquid core.
His own handprint, emblazoned permanent on Dean's shoulder, and now the bruise of his mouth sunk into the soft meat of Dean's neck - even these marks do not seem enough. Castiel clings tighter and traces the runes of his name across Dean's chest, slippery and shaking with uneven breaths. "Mine," he breathes into the backward arch of Dean's throat, the taste of balsam and salt sweetly bitter on his tongue.
It is sticky and somewhat clumsy and undignified, but this small succession of minutes and tide of sensation is more perfect than any Heaven Castiel has ever known or imagined in his infinite existence.
He expects to be surprised by that, but is not.
He expects to be shamed by the blasphemy on his tongue and the long shadow of a cross towering above, but he is not.
Here, in this place, he exists as only one thing.
"Mine," Dean echoes with a kiss pressed to Castiel's temple. The wide bands of his arms lock possessively around Castiel's shoulders and Castiel thinks simply, yes.
~ ~ ~
He finds Dean in a cavernous room carved of stone and lit with fires that burn from no distinct source. The wailing screams and tortured cries that form the fabric of the air are quieter here, though the stench of sulfur and blood are still apparent. This is still Hell, if only a forgotten, quieter corner of it.
Dean's back is turned and even across the distance Castiel can see the jagged scars of dissection marks cut into his skin. He is no doubt Alastair's favorite subject.
"Dean."
"Hey, Cas," Dean replies softly. He does not turn or take his eyes from the stone wall before him. Castiel steps closer and extends a hand toward Dean's fingers, stained with blood and dangling limply at his hip.
"They're all mine."
Castiel allows his hand to linger in a pause before tucking it neatly into his pocket. He studies the hundreds of small vertical dashes carved into the stone and moves to stand at Dean's side, shoulder to shoulder.
"Every one of them," Dean says with a nod. "Alastair kept a record of them."
All at once, it makes sense. Castiel regards the lines with a frown and sighs. "A tally," he says.
When Dean nods, the firelight catches in the reflective black slate of his eyes. "Every one I ever tortured."
Castiel steps swiftly in front of Dean and braces his hands on the sides of his face. "You do not have to remember this, Dean."
"Can you make me forget?"
There is a challenge in the tone, a tilt to Dean's head, and Castiel feels uncomfortably cold despite the stifling heat. He draws a breath before sealing his palm to Dean's forehead and concentrating. Old prayers stream from his lips as he pulls, struggling to free Dean from the weight of his sleep.
Nothing happens.
When he opens his eyes, they are still surrounded by the filth and ichor of Hell. A breath catches in Castiel's throat as his palms drop to rest heavily on Dean's shoulders. He had suspected this would happen. He knew eventually he would grow too weak to build a distance between Dean and his memories of Hell.
He did not expect it to happen so soon, but he thinks perhaps even an eternity from now would have been too soon.
"I'm sorry," he whispers.
Dean's tilted grin is starkly out of place in the ash and ruin of such a hopeless place. "Got to know where you came from to know where you're going, right?" His hands find Castiel's wrists and wrap lightly around. "And besides, you're here. Can't be that bad, can it?"
Castiel nods and sweeps the ridge of Dean's cheekbone. "If it will help for me to stay..."
Dean's face goes dark and serious. "Don't."
"Dean -"
"Cas, no. You've helped enough." At Castiel's frown, Dean shrugs. "You told me to forget, and I did - but I do remember you being there. I remember you telling me not to, and that's enough for me. You were there."
Castiel lowers his eyes to rest on the scabbed slices mangling Dean's chest. He remembers the smoothness of that flesh beneath his hands, mapping his name across it, and shudders. The marks, however marred and difficult to see, still burn there. Even in this torment, Dean still carries Castiel's mark.
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you," he says as he traces the lines of his name. Kaunan ansuz sōwulō teiwaz is all that is visible through the wounds; Castiel traces the rest - isa ehwaz laguz - and comes away with a bloody fingertip.
"That's okay," Dean says, before suddenly the world is shifting and the stone walls are being eaten away by yellowed floral wallpaper and the bumps of a textured ceiling.
Castiel blinks and turns his head against the pillow when the warm pressure of a hand tightens around his own.
Dean smiles from close by, his eyes glossed with sleep and hooded in the darkness of the motel room.
"You can protect me here, right?"
More information about the names and applications of holy oils can be found here and here.
Castiel is reciting parts of the Song of Solomon to Dean during the protection ritual, the Latin text of which can be found here. The complete translated KJV version can be found here. The phrases Castiel recites are as follows:
Osculetur me osculo oris sui quia meliora sunt ubera tua vino. Fraglantia unguentis optimis oleum effusum nomen tuum. - Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine. Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth.
Leva eius sub capite meo et dextera illius amplexabitur me - His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
Columba mea in foraminibus petrae in caverna maceriae ostende mihi faciem tuam sonet vox tua in auribus meis - O my dove, that art in the clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice.
Dilectus meus mihi et ego illi qui pascitur inter lilia - My beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies.
Donec adspiret dies et inclinentur umbrae - Until the day breaketh, and the shadows flee away
Talis est dilectus meus et iste est amicus meus. - This is my beloved, and this is my friend.
The Greek words used - axiolêptos and agapêtos - mean worth acceptance or precious (masc, nom, s) and beloved, respectively. Source.
The Enochian used - gohed gono, etharsi, brans - means everlasting faith, peace, protect(ion). Source.
The runes of Castiel's name are taken from the Elder Futhark, found on the Kylver Stone, which you can read more about here and here. They are kaunan ansuz sōwulō teiwaz isa ehwaz laguz, which spells out Castiel.