SPN Fic: The Sharp Edge of Earth (6/6)
That took care of one hound, and that was great and all, but the rest were circling them, drawing slowly closer over the rocks. Dean bit the inside of his cheek as the memories surfaced from the back of his brain: Sam's tear-streaked face and a clock chiming midnight; claws and teeth ripping his skin open and deep-throated barks.
He'd say one thing for this Castiel dude, he was handy with that sword of his. Dean again was relieved he was even there - hallucination or not. Given a choice between facing a pack of hellhounds without Castiel, or with, Dean would go with Castiel. True, he wouldn't be there in the cold open for the hounds to chase except Castiel had led him there - but Dean wasn't torturing human souls any more, either.
Yeah, add it up however he wanted, Dean thought he was still caught in the negative numbers, although he was inching towards zero. Maybe. For the first time in decades, Dean let himself believe that maybe, maybe, he could get above it.
He turned back towards Castiel, and for the first time since he'd met him, believed in his realness. This was happening - he wasn't currently getting his skin sliced off, or cutting others open until they screamed with sounds Dean never thought human voices could make.
The pain from the burn on his shoulder flared, a hot itch beneath his skin. Castiel's wings were close enough to touch and for a moment Dean almost did, lifted his free hand towards them on impulse, recalling the muscled strength and soft give of them back in the small cave. He stopped, wondering what the fuck he was thinking, and wondering if that was a trespass he shouldn't do anyway, not if he wanted to keep his hand.
Of course, a pack of hellhounds surrounded them, so Dean didn't let himself hope too hard. He'd assume a default of screwed, thank you very fucking much; it was a lot smarter than letting himself relax. They weren't in the clear yet.
Castiel turned and met his gaze with a hard, determined look that both steadied and unnerved Dean. That shit was real enough, all right.
Dean gripped the knife, the blade already darkened with hound's blood, as Castiel climbed up next to him and raised his sword.
Running the possibilities over in his head, Dean couldn't see a good outcome for this. The hounds would bring Dean back to Alastair, and either Dean was Alastair's plaything on the rack again, or Dean went back to torturing. Castiel, they'd either tear to pieces - which, given what Dean had seen of Castiel so far, they might not manage to succeed in doing - or more likely, capture him and have him tortured.
Earlier Dean had looked on that possibility clinically - as an opportunity, nothing more. Now the concept that Castiel could be under his knife, strapped down on the rack, made Dean's stomach lurch.
"Castiel?" he said.
Castiel's expression had gone harder, his eyes on the hounds as they drew nearer. His whole body had gone preternaturally tensed and still.
The hounds got closer.
"If we're going to do something, we need to do it," Dean muttered.
Dean felt the heat of the hounds' breath now, smelled their stench. Goosebumps rose on his arms, his scalp prickling. He kept the inside of his cheek caught between his teeth, using the pain to maintain his focus, because if he didn't, all he could feel was the teeth and claws ripping into him, all he could see was Sam's stricken face. But Castiel was there and ready to fight, and Dean would fight beside him. He wasn't going to let them have him again, no fucking way.
"Close your eyes and get down," Castiel snapped out, loud and sharp.
Automatically, Dean obeyed, from years of training and instinct. He slid down off the rock to crouch in the space between that one and the next, careful to keep his feet away from the pools of water, and squeezed his eyes shut tight. Shit, this wasn't what he had in mind, tucking down out of the way, but if Castiel had something up his sleeve then Dean was willing to go with it.
The flare of light burned against Dean's eyelids, white hot. He heard high-pitched, startled whines from the hounds, then howls, sharply cut off, and a sound like balloons full of jell-o exploding. Something warm splattered over Dean that wasn't water.
Oh, shit.
Silence followed. Dean kept his hands over his head, cold flat of the knife against his scalp, his eyes still shut. It was driving him crazy - he couldn't tell what was going on. He couldn't hear the hounds, didn't hear the sound of fighting, nothing from Castiel at all.
Panic was starting to twitch in his chest when Castiel said, "All right, Dean." Castiel's voice sounded strained, thinner than before.
Dean opened his eyes. Bits of hellhound guts covered him, along with the black blood, and splattered over the rocks and ground. He stood up slowly and saw Castiel with hellhound guts and blood on his clothes as well. Castiel's back was straight but he swayed a little. Dean noticed his breathing was too quick, the first time he'd seen Castiel show that kind of fatigue.
"Uh…what did you do?"
"I unleashed some of my grace at them," Castiel said. "Although I believe it couldn't harm your soul here, I took precautions."
"Oh," said Dean, and instinctively his hand went up to cover his shoulder, which still ached slightly. He looked around at the remains of the pack of hellhounds. "Huh. That was actually…kind of cool."
Castiel gave him a sideways look, and then there was a tiny shift around his eyes, his mouth - he looked almost pleased. Then he put his hand to his face.
"What?" Dean asked.
"It's nothing," Castiel said, lowering his hand. "In Hell, my powers are not what they are on earth or Heaven. This realm belongs to the demons, and they're strongest here. I'm perfectly fine," he added quickly.
Seriously, Dean was starting to like this guy.
"You sure?" Dean said.
"Yes," Castiel said firmly.
"Good, because otherwise the way you're swaying on your feet might have me worried."
"I'm not swaying on my feet," Castiel said, holding himself ramrod straight, abruptly going still.
"'Course not." Dean shook his leg to dislodge some hellhound guts. He breathed shallowly to avoid breathing the stuff in too much.
"Give me a few moments to recover and I'll remove their remains from our clothes," Castiel said, climbing down to join Dean.
"It doesn't really matter," Dean said. "So…now what?"
"I believe we're nearly at the place we need to be. A little further."
"Let's do this, then," Dean said, and started climbing over the next boulder.
Whatever Castiel had done to himself, he didn't seem to be having trouble moving. He went a little less briskly than he had before. Once, he slipped on a wet rock and Dean's fingers closed around his elbow, steadying him. Castiel seemed embarrassed at the gesture, immediately pulling away.
It was best not to think of what Castiel knew still lay ahead of them, what he would have to do to pull Dean Winchester out of Hell - and pull him out of Hell, he would. He let the intensity of the want run loose through him this time, while an insidious murmur at the back of his mind asked what he would do if the orders were to change, if revelation found him and told him to leave Dean where he was, to abandon him. Surely that choice would never come to pass, and he couldn't imagine why his Father would change his mind on something of this much importance.
An insidious weakness filled Castiel's limbs. Using his grace in Hell had drained him more than any battle he'd ever been in. The air itself was against him, seeming to have weight with the press of sulfur and other stenches of Hell. He longed for Heaven, or for earthly mountain tops, for stars, for the stir of wings nearby, letting him know he wasn't alone.
This man, Dean, was brave -- but he was only a man, and he seemed very small indeed against the vast size of Hell. The small stones were sharp, and Castiel noted how gingerly Dean moved up the slope in his bare feet.
There was a comfort in walking side by side, Castiel decided.
They got past the field of rocks, climbing up a dirt slope covered in broken bits of bone and pebbles. Fissures in the ground spat up angry steam tinged with red. Thin spires of rust-colored rock that made Castiel think of human cathedrals rose against the dim gray sky. Hazily, beyond the smoke, the great cavern walls were visible, rising higher than his human eyes could track, although he sensed the full reach of its height, where it met the fold in space that separated it from the curve of the earth.
At the crest of the slope, Castiel and Dean stopped.
"Holy fucking shit," Dean said.
Far below them spread a lake, the surface gone molten from the reflection of the flames that burned on its surface.
"So to speak," Dean added.
The two of them stood a while and watched it burn. Castiel hadn't intended that they should stop, but with both of them tiring, it seemed natural to do so. Dean sat down and drew his knees up, staring down at the lake, and after a moment, Castiel joined him, even though he knew they couldn't afford to stay still like this for long.
He studied Dean's profile, the close-cropped hair, full mouth, the line of his jaw, his neck, the curve of his ear, the freckles that showed slight on his face and more on his lower arms. This was vastly different and yet the same as the image he'd seen before going into Hell. That seemed a long time ago, even as angels measured time.
Dean turned, and he seemed startled to find Castiel watching him so intently. Turning away quickly, Castiel got to his feet.
"It's time," he said, and held out a hand to help Dean up.
"Time for what?" Dean said, ignoring it. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing.
Castiel noticed blood staining the place where Dean had stepped. There was nothing to be done about it now, and it didn't look like a lot. He would restore Dean to all the clothes he'd died in once he'd pulled him out. Hell had cheated - Dean was not exactly as he was at the moment of his death.
"We're near one of the smaller and lesser known exits to Hell. I'm going to pull you out."
"Oh." Dean's hand went up, his fingers twisting the amulet he wore. "Seriously?" He looked terribly young for a second, almost eager, before the harder façade returned.
"I am deadly serious," Castiel said, wondering why Dean should doubt him, after everything. He frowned, wondering at the sharp sting of irritation he felt, and why it wasn't completely unpleasant.
He reached a hand out to Dean, who drew back with a feral wariness, holding the blade of the knife between himself and Castiel. "What?" Dean said flatly.
Something slotted together in Castiel's head, and he understood. "I should've asked first. Allow me to explain: the exit is up there." He leaned his head back, looking upward.
"Up there," Dean said. "You mean we have to go…"
"It would be best if I used my wings and carried you."
"Oh, oh, wait just a second there, Hawkman." Dean backed up further and held up his free hand. The black blood of the hounds was on his jeans and his shirt, though not as much on him as on Castiel, who hadn't wanted to spare the energy to clean it off this time. "Wait. You mean we have to fly?" He swallowed hard, and the fingers of his empty hand twitched convulsively.
"It would be the best way, yes."
"Forget it. Uh-uh. I knew this was a bad idea anyway. Like I said, you should've just left me where I was." Dean's voice was a fraction unsteady, eyes going flat and dull, almost as remote as when Castiel had first seen him in the cave room where he was torturing souls.
Castiel needed no heightened angel senses to spot it this time, for the surface mask to grow clear for him. He noted the way Dean's hand twitched into a fist and opened again, how he stepped backwards.
"You have a greater purpose," Castiel began.
"Yeah, you said that already," Dean said tiredly.
"Why are you so stubborn?"
"Why are you?"
"Fine," Castiel said, his irritation increasing to an unaccustomed degree. He took a deep breath to calm himself - this anger was unseemly. One thing he'd learned: he couldn't force Dean to do anything, unless he used brute physical force. Another strategy was in order. "You go back to Alastair then," he said, and it was like something had sliced through his chest.
Castiel began to walk along the crest of the slope in the direction of the cavern wall that rose hazy in the distance. He didn't look back.
He went many yards before he heard Dean speak behind him. "Castiel."
Castiel stopped and turned.
Dean held the blade of the knife down low along his thigh, arms hanging loose at his sides, lines of his face softened - pleading and lost. "I'm afraid of flying," he said. "But not as much as I want to go home. I have to find my brother." He swallowed. "Sam. I need to get back to Sam."
"Your devotion to duty is admirable," said Castiel, walking back towards Dean.
"Duty," Dean said, like he didn't quite know what the word meant. "Been looking after Sam my whole life. But it's…I wouldn't call it duty. He watches my back too. Not sure when he got taller than me. He's always…he's always been stubborn though. And he does this sad puppy-eye routine that sometimes he does on purpose and sometimes he doesn't even know he's doing it, and man, how it'll work on you. He has this way of connecting with people." Dean let out a shaky breath. "He's smart ass, a good kid, and I left him alone up there and…I gotta…"
"Then let me," Castiel said. He'd moved in close without Dean pulling away.
"What the hell," Dean said, resigned. "How do we -"
Castiel turned. "Put your arms around my neck, I'll carry you on my back, between my wings."
"You're kidding. No, you're not." Dean looked down at the knife in his hands. He turned it, tracing his thumb along the flat of the blood-stained blade.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and then Dean drew back his arm and hurled the knife away from him as hard as he could.
It turned over and over, glinting as it fell towards the surface of the burning lake.
Then Dean moved up close behind him, and Castiel felt his body gingerly push against Castiel, and Dean's arms went carefully around him and across his chest.
For a moment nothing happened; they were two guys a little too close for Dean's comfort. Then Castiel's wings snapped wider, with a sound like a sail catching the wind, black shadows spreading on either side. Dean felt the push of them against his arms.
"Jesus fuck," Dean muttered, his stomach plunging as Castiel leapt from the top of the slope. They fell for a few heart-stopping seconds towards the lake before rising through the heated air.
So. Okay. So maybe this guy really was an angel.
The flames of the lake leapt higher, licking upward as if trying to snatch them out of the sky. The horizon line tipped from the wave of vertigo that hit him, and Dean stopped looking down, kept his gaze straight ahead, Castiel's dark hair tickling his nose. It seemed impossible he could carry Dean's weight - he was a lot smaller than Dean, after all, yet the wiry strength of Castiel's body and wings seemed as secure as riding in the Impala. Didn't keep his heart from hammering in his chest or his mouth going even drier (he wanted water so fucking much).
Dean started to sing softly under his breath, rover wanderer/nomad vagabond/call me what you will, fighting off dizziness as Castiel turned his body and swept them upwards, following the line of the cavern wall that rose like an endless cliff.
Eventually, the air began to smell less like sulfur - it still stank, but Dean caught other things too, earth and stone, which were present down below but masked. The memory-scents of gasoline, vinyl, hot metal, gun oil, that stupid herbal shampoo Sam sometimes used, beer and old wood, and hamburgers followed, rushed suddenly in at him.
Castiel's body tensed beneath his grip and he wobbled in mid-air. A small sound escaped him, hard to catch but it sounded a lot like a stifled grunt of pain. Their ascent slowed, and they started to drop.
"Castiel?" Dean said, gripping tighter and wondering if he might puke.
With a twist of his upper body, Castiel aimed for the wall, reached out and found handholds, stopping their fall with a lurch. They dangled there, Castiel's wings spread against the wall, Dean clinging to his back.
"My wing," Castiel said. "It was injured early in the siege."
"I get it," Dean said. "Harder to fly with the extra weight."
"The weight of your human body would be nothing, normally. But we're in Hell, my strength is lessened merely by my being here, even without my injuries."
Dean paused. "Take me back down. It's over."
"No." The word came out sharp and fierce.
A wind whistled over the rock face, carrying with it the stenches from below. Dean didn't dare look down even for a second.
"How do we get out of here, then?" Dean thought he could feel Castiel's heartbeat along with his own. The surface of Castiel's wings was strong, soft but pliant against his arms, and not really like feathers. They made Dean think more of his old leather jacket.
"We climb."
"Climb? You want us to climb the fucking Cliffs of Insanity?" Dean snorted.
"You want to get back to your brother?" Castiel turned his head, trying to look Dean in the face; Dean felt his body shift beneath him. "Then you'll climb," he said, brittle and hard.
He reached back and gripped Dean's bicep, holding him tightly. Dean got what he was supposed to do; he sidled himself over, leaning on Castiel's wing, until he could grip the wall. Castiel's grip steadied him, and then Dean had his toes in footholds and his hands around the handholds in the rock.
Beside him, Castiel kept his wing hovering behind Dean as they began to climb together. Finding hand-holds and foot-holds wasn't that difficult, since the surface of the cavern wall was varied and rough, but Dean's feet and his palms stung. After a while he started seeing traces of blood on the rock as he moved his hand from one hold to the next.
Humming under his breath, Dean glanced over at Castiel, whose face was impassive and calm. He'd given himself over to the immediate task of climbing, but Dean noticed the way his eyes flicked up the cliff-face, and then down, and sometimes over to Dean - checking on him, thinking ten steps ahead. Castiel's dark hair stuck up in a spiky mess, clotted with hounds' blood. It struck Dean again how ordinary this guy came across as, and yet not. Slim neck, strong chin line, full mouth - his eyes were unusually blue, and of course there were the friggin' wings, but beyond that, with his intense focus, and the sense of an infinite amount of things kicking around beneath the quiet features, the uncanny beneath the stillness, he was anything but ordinary. Mostly, beyond the uncanniness and behind the intent stares, Dean had seen how much Castiel wanted to make things right, the distress in the face of suffering.
It had been forty years since Dean had seen anything or anyone that looked like that - that looked at him like that.
As they climbed, Castiel's wing kept hovering right behind Dean, blocking some of the wind. Every so often the wing brushed against Dean back by accident, but every time it happened, it gave Dean the impression it might've been purposeful. It pushed back his panic, as if there was a net ready to catch him if he fell.
Hand over hand, Castiel found the climb painstaking and slow. The pull on his arms and legs didn't tire him - it was his wing that troubled him, a thread of hot pain that ran along the top of his wing, originating where he'd struck the wall. He couldn't carry Dean's weight, but he managed to keep his wing spread, sheltering Dean, as he appeared to be extremely nervous about falling. Dean took several moments to change each handhold, letting go slowly before grabbing the next.
Castiel enjoyed the sound of Dean's humming, rich and low in his throat, as he had the man's singing voice. It was a warm sound, chasing away loneliness. Possibly he shouldn't think such things. He could almost hear Balthazar's comments on the matter.
He hoped Balthazar and the others had escaped Hell already. Perhaps they were looking for him, but with the Righteous Man truly missing now, they would give up, regroup and find another way to fulfill God's mission. Castiel didn't dare try calling to them, the demons would hear. For now, he and Dean were relatively safe, here at the upper reaches of the very edge of Hell.
After many more hours, as humans might measure it, of climbing, they reached the exit. Nothing marked the spot as unusual save for a slight hollowed-out curve in the rock wall that was a little too smooth to be accidental.
"This is it?" Dean said, halting his climb when Castiel halted. He appeared skeptical, clinging to the rock, all fatigue and hope drawn clear on his features, raw and exposed as the cliff face.
"Yes," said Castiel.
"Doesn't look like much," Dean said, and the mask was back in place, his tone dismissive.
Dean was very exasperating, Castiel decided. Impatient, demanding, suspicious, expecting everything to be exactly what it appeared to be. Dean clung to the wall, the fingers of his left hand gripping convulsively, and Castiel caught the faint tremble in the man's shoulder muscles. Castiel's irritation was gone like it had never been. Anger replaced his annoyance, turning to the things that had been done to Dean Winchester.
He snapped off the thought, which veered too close to doubt. Everything happened for a reason, part of the larger pattern, and God had a reason why Dean had been tortured, and he had a reason why he should be rescued from Hell now.
Castiel scraped the back of his arm over a sharply jutting piece of rock until he bled. Dean's eyes widened as Castiel gripped the rock and dipped the fingers of his other hand into his own blood. He painted the sigil into the circle, then spoke the phrases he needed, Enochian familiar and easy on his lips. The sense of erosion abated, that tide of Hell that threatened to encroach and devour his being.
White light blazed along the lines of the blood sigil, starkly illuminating Dean as he turned his head away. The rock shimmered, rippling like water.
Castiel reached his bloodied hand towards Dean's forehead, and paused.
"To take you through, I need to carry your soul in its true form. You can't stay in the semblance you're in now."
The light defined Dean's features in unnaturally sharp detail, every hair and freckle and curve of his face and body. He didn't say anything, his fingers tightening on the hand-holds on the rock.
"Your soul, while it's brighter than I'd expect given what you've been through, is battered and damaged. If I put it back into your body as it is now, the shock of it could drive you mad. I don't have the power to fix it permanently, but I can ease the transition for you, I can temporarily bury your memories of Hell. They'll return to you gradually, in fragments, until you remember everything. Letting it out a little at a time should be safe. Had you been here for much longer, I wouldn't have been able to do even that much. My powers have limits."
"How much will I forget?" There was a slight scratch under Dean's words, a break in his normal breathing.
"You'll remember everything up to your death," Castiel said, "and you'll remember arriving in Hell. For a time, all you'll remember next will be waking up back in your body."
"So Alastair, me being tortured, and then cutting into those souls - that'll be gone?"
"Only temporarily, I'm afraid."
"Will I remember this?" Dean jerked his head, indicating the cliff-face. "Will I remember…you?"
"Eventually," Castiel said. "Earlier things about your time here will return sooner than later things."
For a moment it seemed like Dean might ask, again, to be returned to the depths of Hell, to be left behind.
But then Dean said, "What're you waiting for?"
"I'm not sure," Castiel said, "but I think it's best if I have your permission."
The wind, arid yet cleaner now that the portal was open, pulled at them both. Castiel shifted his wing to make sure Dean didn't fall, the light of the portal between them.
"Yeah, okay." Dean said. "Do it."
Castiel touched his fingers to Dean's forehead. The semblance of Dean's body shimmered the way the portal had, and his soul collapsed in on itself, forming a ball of light that Castiel caught very carefully in the palm of his hand. It was hot to the touch and it flared and flickered, transmitting to Castiel the moods and thoughts that made him think of the man he'd traveled with. Dean's soul was agitated, confused. Castiel held it to his chest and pushed his way through the portal.
In the fraction of space between Hell and the Earthly dimension, Castiel shed the semblance of Jimmy Novak's body, hurtling himself and his cargo instantaneously to the place where Dean's body was buried. The force of pulling a soul across the barrier between Hell and Earth shook the air and ripped the ground apart, uprooting tall, strong trees.
The light of Dean's soul and Castiel's own form filled the dark space, revealing the decayed state of Dean's human shell inside a pine box. Beneath the clothing, someone had carefully and precisely stitched the torn flesh closed, as if to make Dean as whole again as possible.
Out of Hell's reach and in his true form, Castiel found it easy to gather his strength again. He restored the decayed internal organs, healed the wounded flesh, smoothed over every scar he could find. Every violation Dean's body had taken, Castiel undid, all save the scar on his shoulder. Since it was a soul-wound, it had to remain. Castiel was startled at the sense of shame and regret that made him hesitate in the middle of his work, fearful of doing more damage.
He finished rebuilding Dean's body and lowered his soul, burning brightly, into his chest, and sent Dean's heart beating again. Castiel drew away, watched and waited as Dean sucked the first agonized gasp of air into his lungs. Dean called for help, his voice thin and hoarse, then began to punch and kick through the wood, fighting his way out of the box and upwards, into the dirt.
The summons arrived without warning, two of Castiel's brothers snatching him away before Castiel could protest, and he was unable to stay long enough to make sure Dean crawled to the surface safely.
There was Sam's face, streaked with tears, the chiming of the clock, the barking of hellhounds before their claws pulled him down, ripping him open. Blackness, and then waking with a hook driven through his body, caught on a web of chains where he screamed Sam's name and no one ever answered.
The next thing Dean knew it was pitch dark and he was lying on his back somewhere so quiet the silence pressed on his ears. The air he drew in seared his lungs; he had to think about the process of breathing for a minute or so until it became less of a struggle, settling back to automatic. He smelled damp earth and wood. His shoulder ached and stung as if he'd been burned, but hours ago.
Dean fumbled for his lighter, gasping for help, and no one answered. His voice was hoarse, the forming and shape of words unfamiliar in his throat. He punched at the lid of the coffin, choking as dirt fell down on his face, into his nose and mouth.
His heart hammering in his chest, chasing off the panic of being confined, buried alive, and suffocated, Dean crawled his way up through the dirt until his hand broke through the surface.
He thought he heard someone say remember this as he pulled himself free of the earth, lay on his back, and pulled clean air into his lungs, the heat of the sun spreading over his face like forgiveness.
Epilogue