Episode 7: Into the Mystic (Part 2)

Nov 25, 2011 19:02



Previous Part





The next few hours were the longest Dean ever stood through. Since the night he'd carried Sam out of their burning home, protecting people had always come naturally to him. To stand within arms' reach of a friend in pain and not be able to help, however? It ate him up from the inside, and it sure as hell tempted him to do something reckless.

His gaze kept slipping to Gordon, who remained deep in conversation with four sallow-faced, bald men, their heads turning Dean's way every now and then.

Dean wanted so badly to speak to Cas and make him look up again, but he was afraid Gordon would notice. If Gordon found out Dean and Cas knew each other, they'd be screwed.

Not that their current position was, by any definition of the word, rosy.

There were five stakes on the square, Cas had been tied to the first, Dean to the third. They were close enough that Dean could make out the symbols Cas's jailers had burned into the leather around his hands. More angel-binding magic, Dean didn't doubt, just like the circle of sigils on the ground. They'd neutralized Cas good and proper.

It must've been the only way to subjugate his grace.

Dean had wondered briefly if Cas's current shape was an approximation of his true form, but going from the bits of information Cas had volunteered over the years, Dean doubted it. Neither did Cas look like Jimmy anymore.

The proportions were all wrong, Cas's torso strangely elongated, his hips too narrow. What Dean had seen of his face was blank and eyebrow-less. Worst of all, the one look they'd shared had held no recognition on Cas's part.

Dean had a hunch now why their link went cold. If his former inmates tortured Cas with spells, maybe he had retreated to the farthest corner of his consciousness. Dean had experienced the relief of detachment first hand, in Hell. He also knew it was an escape that didn't last.

Sure enough he had to watch Cas shudder, cyclical shivers wracking his manufactured form.

Jaw clenched, Dean strained against his own fetters until his fingers turned white. Numbing his hands would get him nowhere but he couldn't help it.

Grappling for a way to calm the fuck down, Dean invoked the quiet of the desert and thought of long cloud shadows on red sand. For a second, the taste of ice-cold water was back in his mouth and reminded him of his mother's steady voice, the way she'd said she believed in him. It allowed him to breathe out, relax his hands, and start again.

Dean ran his fingertips over Gordon's knots as best as he could, looking for flaws, and all the while he kept talking to Cas in his head, reaching out in the one way open to them.

Cas, he tried. I know you can hear me, part of you always can. Was it his imagination or did Cas take a deeper breath?

Hang in there, man, Dean continued. I'll get you out of here I swear.

Dean kept half an eye on Gordon and the pate-squad and ceased fiddling with his ties when Gordon returned. He expected Gordon to lug him away and was racking up excuses that could prevent it because Dean did not want to leave Cas. To his surprise, though, Gordon made no move to untie him.

"Having a good time?" Gordon asked in that flat, humorless way of his.

"Not as good as you," Dean countered and nodded at the people Gordon had left behind.

"Them?" Gordon asked and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Vermin. They're useful though. One of them's going to take me to the registry."

"Take you?" Dean echoed although his heart jumped with relief.

Mouth curling into a slow smile, Gordon reached out and squeezed Dean's shoulder. Jesus, when had that bastard become all hands?

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Gordon asked.

"You want an honest answer?" Dean gritted out. To his horror, Gordon leaned into him and hooked his arm around Dean's neck, the two of them slotted together like drinking buddies. Dean smelled the metallic tang of old blood oozing out of Gordon's skin and saw the dark crescents under his fingernails.

"You're not a lamb following its shepherd to slaughter, Dean," Gordon said, his voice calm and factual. "The only reason you haven't fought me harder is because you're waiting for the directions to Sam's whereabouts."

Dean said nothing, and Gordon patted him on the back of the head. "Did you really think I would tell you?"

"You're going to leave me here?" Dean asked and tried not to shudder with gratitude when Gordon stepped away from him.

"No," Gordon answered and turned to leave. "I'm going to find out where your brother has holed up and I'll take you there. I'll make you look at his true face until you understand what he is."

Until I agree you were right, Dean thought and clamped down on an impatient reply. He knew he should concentrate on Gordon and cater to his delusion, but his gaze drifted back to Cas.

When Gordon left, would he finally get a chance to speak with him?

"I'll also strip the skin off your back," Gordon continued, and Dean whipped his head around to stare at him.

Gordon shrugged and used his thumbnail to pick something out of his teeth. "What?" he asked. "Like you expected something else." He dropped another gaze at Cas and nodded at Dean.

"Try not to piss off the angel," he said. "I hear he Hulks out when he's pissed."

You have no idea, Dean thought and stood very still as Gordon wandered off.



When night came around, the sky turned a deep, muddy gray and twilight fell over the town. The shapes and colors of the square leaked away into a uniform gloom, and the monster-assembly left for the shelter of their houses. No lights came on in the windows, so Dean assumed they sat around in the dark. Or maybe they all had bat sonar and night vision, who knew.

After the last of the townspeople had left, Dean waited for as long as he could endure before he started whispering.

"Cas. Hey, Cas."

Dean squinted through the shadows, searching for the outline of Cas's huddled form, but if he'd hoped Cas had faked his oblivion, that he would acknowledge Dean as soon as they were unobserved, he was disappointed. Cas didn't react to his voice, and he remained so still he could have been another block of frozen lava.

"Yeah, you've never been much of a talker, huh," Dean murmured and tried not to let the ache in his heart drain the last of his courage.

All through the night Dean kept working on his restraints. He circled his wrists, strained the leather and, when the shadows grew darkest, bent forward to chew on the straps, doggedly corroding the tight loops with his teeth.



By morning, Dean's wrists were raw and sore but the ties had slackened considerably. They still wouldn't allow his hands to slip free, partly because of the rope that Gordon had fixed on top of them, partly because the leather of Purgatory was goddamn sturdy.

For the last half-hour or so, Dean had been preparing for a trick his Dad had taught him: how to dislocate your thumbs and ditch restraints in three easy steps. It was, in Dean's current case, easier to accomplish than John's other move of last resort, which involved breaking the bones in your hand and pulling free before the swelling set in.

It probably said something about Dean's childhood that his Dad let him in on these maneuvers when Dean was only eleven.

Problem was, Dean couldn't get a good grip on the joints in his left hand. Gordon had strapped his wrists too close to one another, and he was still manipulating the ties when the sky brightened and people began to file into the square. Many of them carried plates and covered pans, preparing what Dean assumed to be a communal breakfast.

Tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Dean swallowed and checked on Cas. Hands closed around the leather rope that tethered him to the pole, Cas knelt like he was sunk deep in meditation. He hadn't moved at all during the night. In the rising dawn, however, Dean saw that Cas's skin looked...more large-meshed than before. On his elbow and cheekbone Dean even discovered black streaks, like tears in the fabric. If this was a good or a bad sign he didn't know.

As the square grew noisier with the clatter of dishes and people talking, the fine hairs rose on the back of Dean's neck. He knew he was running out of time, Gordon might fetch him any minute. But even if he broke free now, how would he untie Cas before the townspeople stopped them?

He was still racking his brain for a solution when Cas tensed and his hobbled hands closed into fists. Frowning, Dean looked up, searching for the disturbance that had cut through Cas's stasis.

From the north side of the square, four figures approached the stakes. Unlike some of the other Purgatorians Dean had seen, their otherness was pronounced enough that no one would mistake them for human.

The one in the lead, a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a long face, walked fast despite his limp. He had a high forehead, made even more pronounced by his receding hairline, and a square flat nose, much like a horse's in fact. More striking than that, though, was his barrel chest and the sharp, concave hollow of his belly underneath. The way his eyes fixed on Cas and Cas alone set all the alarm bells ringing in Dean's head.

Pulse hammering faster, Dean tried again to get a grip on his left thumb but to his dismay, his fingers had turned stiff and clumsy after his night-long struggle with the ties. It didn't help that the square went quiet, the people settling down as if they'd come to watch some spectacle. A few of them even drew closer to the center of the square and squatted down within spitting distance of Cas's binding circle.

As Dean watched, a mottled bird with a woman's head flapped into the square and landed on top of Cas's stake.

"Had a good sleep?" someone said by Dean's shoulder, and Dean started, completely surprised. He'd been so absorbed by the change of atmosphere on the square he hadn't even noticed Gordon's arrival. To Dean's growing dread, Gordon had his knife in hand and looked like he was about to cut Dean off the stake.

He'd take Dean away which, hell no, he couldn't do, not now.

"Ah, fuck, no," Dean blurted, and his eyes switched back to the creatures that closed in on Cas before he could stop himself.

Gordon raised a brow. "Curious?" he asked and nodded at the small procession.

The guy with the horse face had reached the binding circle, and his followers fanned out behind him. Dean watched with his breath bunched up at the base of his throat.

"What are they doing?" he asked, although he had a good idea. Sure enough, Horse Face planted his feet apart and began murmuring.

"Enforcing the spell," Gordon confirmed. "I've seen it before. Not exactly family TV." As they watched, Horse's companions fell in like a troupe of background singers, and a shiver ran through Cas's body.

"You know," Gordon said, "my sister used to draw angels. Came home from Sunday school one day and doodled them on every piece of paper. She had real talent, too."

When Gordon stepped closer to the stake and lifted his knife, Dean tensed, ready to pounce on him the second he let Dean off the metal ring. But Gordon seemed distracted, his passive face tilted in Cas's direction. "Didn't think they'd look like this," Gordon mused. "Angels."

Yeah, no, they don't, usually they wear trenchcoats, Dean thought, overstrung on the edge of desperate, willing Gordon to get going already. Horse Face raised the volume, the harsh syllables of whatever language he was using cutting the air like claws. Cutting Cas too, by the looks of it.

Bowed under the string of incantations, Cas cringed, and a flicker of pale blue light showed through the tears in his skin. For a brief second, Dean's heart jumped with recognition and hope, then Horse's words rolled over Cas and a gasp dropped from Cas's lips. The air seemed to thicken around him, another shudder shook his slender frame, and suddenly Cas's wings materialized like leaves unfolding from thin air.

At this point, Dean wasn't breathing at all.

Gordon gave a low whistle. "That's new."

Dean had only seen the shadow of Cas's wings before but even those had been magnificent, pinions curving out over Cas's shoulders and wing-span flashing on barn roofs.

The things Horse had manifested on Cas's back came nowhere near that. They were a travesty, broken, tattered things that looked like they were made of paper and string. Trembling, they moved with Cas's breath, rising and falling with his shoulders.

Dean had taken a step in Cas's direction before he knew what he was doing, and Gordon took a hold of his elbow. "Nuh-uh, I wouldn't," Gordon said and pointed at the top of Cas's stake, where the small harpy was spreading her wings and taking off, making for the safety of a nearby roof. "See? If they mess up, there'll be a blast radius. Better keep your distance." When Dean didn't react, Gordon narrowed his eyes.

"Dean?"

Dean felt Gordon's fingers dig into his arm but he didn't respond, his attention drawn to the spell-workers. Horse finished his incantation and one of the creatures, a gangly woman with arms that reached to her ankles, dropped into a crouch and spider-walked closer to the circle. All of them seemed to gravitate toward Cas, slinking along the angel-trap like cats around a fishbowl.

"Dean," Gordon repeated. "Tell me something. Have you lied to me?"

He pulled at Dean and asked something else, but Dean had stopped listening. Cas's wings trailed on the ground and, fake or not, Dean felt the strong urge to gather them up, to brush the dust from the feathers and fold them carefully against Cas's back. He could imagine it so well, his hands running over curved bone, telling Cas without words that everything would be all right.

Movement slowed around them, and the sounds of the square drained away until Dean heard nothing but the blood rushing in his ears.

On the far side of the angel trap, Horse took a saw from one of his companions and stepped into the circle, careful not to smudge the sigils. Cas ducked his head and tucked his wings against his body, making himself even smaller.

"Why have you come all this way, Dean," Gordon said, his voice drifting through Dean's haze just as his hand closed on the hollow of Dean's shoulder. "When they tell me Sam isn't here?"

At this point, only three steps separated Horse from Cas. The spell-worker reached out, lifted Cas's left wing and Dean, knowing what would happen next, drew in a deep breath and made it happen: he bore down on the base of his thumb, dislodged the joint and yanked his hands out of the ties, first one, then the other.

Gordon flinched but Dean was faster, socked him on the jaw and crashed his elbow into Gordon's face. When Gordon fell, Dean snatched his knife and bolted across the square before Gordon hit the ground. The spider-limbed woman rushed at him but Dean ducked the sweep of her arm, reached the angel trap and kicked the sigils into a blur. A screech tore through the air, the source of it hurtling closer as Dean grabbed the metal ring and slashed through Cas's ties.

Gordon's blade severed the symbols that had been etched into the leather and Dean heard a crack like a light bulb popping. He whipped around and saw the harpy wheeling around in mid-air, aborting her attack. Horse also stared at Dean, his eyes wide with surprise and his hand frozen on Cas's wing.

The she-spider set a hesitant foot into the broken circle and Dean clenched his hand around Gordon's knife, his heart jackhammering in his chest.

Come on, Cas.

The change in Cas rolled in like the tide: light dawned under his paper skin, flooded the cracks along his veins and brightened beneath his lashes. For one long breath, everything froze and sound remained suspended, then Dean's shoulder flared with heat, as white fire exploded from every pore of Cas's imposed body.

Dean dropped with a gasp and pressed his face into the dirt, folding his arms over his head as Cas's grace lit up Purgatory like a supernova.

V

The Door

Once the storm had passed over his head and roared out beyond the outskirts of town, Dean squinted up from the shelter of his arms. Dust billowed over the square and settled slowly, feeble rays of light catching in the swirls. Empty chairs and tables emerged from the collapsing dust clouds, and the square lay eerily quiet. Cas had disappeared, the ties that had bound him lying in a limp coil on the ground.

Dean drew a breath and pushed up on his feet, sweeping his gaze over the smoking heaps of felled monsters. Breaking free, Cas's grace had razed through them like a bushfire, burning the clothes off their backs and leaving nothing but charred flesh. Those who lay with their faces turned up had their eyes scorched from their sockets.

None of the Purgatorians had remained standing.

Dean coughed and licked his lips, tasting sand. He grimaced, reset his thumb, and picked up Gordon's knife. His head felt like it had been filled with cotton and blood still rushed in his ears like the sea. Dean cared little about it, though, because the warmth was back in his shoulder and he followed it out of the square.



Leaving the town behind, Dean climbed over a low wall and dropped onto a strip of tall grass and nettles. Birch trees circled the meadow, their trailing branches swaying in a mild wind. Up ahead, the wall of the volcano rose like a frozen wave.

Dean turned around. The steady warmth of his handprint scar indicated Cas was close, but try as he might, Dean saw neither hair nor hide of him. Maybe he couldn't, now that Cas had no vessel. Walking along the wall, Dean gave up on looking for his friend and settled for his other senses.

Cas had been invisible around him before but this time Dean could feel his presence in the air and in the sound of the meadow. The grass rustled with ghostly footsteps, and the flutter of wings mixed into the whisper of the birch trees. Even those noises seemed hesitant and wary, though, and Dean began to suspect that Cas hung back on purpose, uncertain perhaps whether he should approach.

"Cas?" Dean asked and the warmth in his shoulder dimmed, a sign of Cas withdrawing further.

Dean frowned, not sure what to make of Cas's retreat. He'd assumed Cas would be happy to leave. Why would he avoid Dean?

The implication that Cas was hiding from him stung more than Dean wanted to admit, but he went after his friend all the same. Holding his throbbing left hand against his chest, Dean followed the sound of Cas's footsteps to the birch wood.



Cas waited at the edge of the trees, and for the first time Dean looked at the angel outside a vessel. Cas was still mostly translucent but his human-shaped grace had thickened like bottle-glass and blurred the trees behind it. No more trace of the fire and lightning Dean had unleashed on the square; in this state Cas seemed almost fragile.

Dean drew closer only to stop when Cas flinched. Running his eyes over the vague outline of Cas's wings, Dean bit his lip, fascinated in spite of himself.

Perhaps Horse's spell hadn't quite washed off because Cas's grace attracted matter: birch leaves clung to parts of him like scabs and defined his shape, outlining the bow of his arm and the curve of one cheek.

Cas shivered like a wet cat and shook off most of the leaves before he backed away into the shadow of the trees.

He acted like a spooked animal, Dean thought, and who could blame him. Whatever offense Cas's defensiveness might have given him crumbled into nothing. Of course Cas wouldn't trust anyone to come near him right now. With ever more leaves settling on his shoulders and sticking there, Cas looked tired and stranded, a soldier who'd forgotten the way out of the trenches.

Cas's weariness struck a chord and flooded Dean with compassion, reminding him that their experiences had been very much alike. Both had shed blood on the frontlines, both had lost their bearings in the middle of war and had come back not knowing how to look into the mirror anymore. But no matter what else Cas had done, he'd fought to the last. Now he needed someone to help him off the battlefield.

A deep calm settled over Dean as he realized that in this case he could actually help - not with a grand gesture, but with patience. Cas needed a friend, someone who waited until he was ready to climb out of the ditch. Dean's mind might balk at the concept of profound bonds but this he understood, this he could deal with.

Slowly, Dean rolled his sleeve up over his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he put his hand over the handprint scar, no sleeve in the way this time, and waited.

Dean didn't reach out, not with words and not with thoughts, but after a little while he felt another hand cover his. The touch was careful, almost insubstantial until suddenly solid fingers brushed over Dean's knuckles. The pad of Cas's thumb felt rough and warm, as if Cas had invoked the body he'd claimed and made his, the one that remembered Dean.

When Dean opened his eyes Cas stood no more than an arm's-length away from him, daylight falling through his barely-there shape. He did seem a bit more defined, his body, for lack of a better word, flickering like air over hot concrete.

Throat squeezing tight enough he couldn't have spoken if he wanted to, Dean brushed a yellow leaf from Cas's cheek. The curve of Cas's face was smooth against his fingertips, like a river stone or the inside of a shell. Maybe Cas's current appearance should've alienated Dean, but to him Cas was still Cas, the same person who'd once swiped a cheeseburger off Dean's plate and watched over him after Alastair sent him to the hospital. If anything, Dean thought Cas in his air-and-light guise looked beautiful, slight and resilient, graceful in every sense of the word.

Dean's gaze dropped to Cas's chest and before he knew what he was doing, his hand reached for the spot where he'd burned a seal into Cas's flesh-and-bone body. He rested his fingertips against the see-through skin and shivered, suddenly shocked by his own breach of private space. Before Dean could backpedal, however, Cas brought up both hands and closed them over Dean's.

Dean.

To hear Cas's voice, even in his head, filled Dean with so much relief his chest suddenly seemed too full. Cas's face had features now, a narrow nose, a mouth, and eyes that were filled with a soft, blue light. Cas blinked slowly, and Dean couldn't help but smile.

"Hey buddy," he said, his voice too thick but who would notice, here? "You ready to go home?"



If Dean hadn't knocked him out, Gordon would have been toasted extra crispy like the rest of the town's population. As it was, he'd been unconscious for the light show and only pieced together what happened after he woke up.

For reasons that escaped Gordon's understanding, Dean had bunted him out of the way and released the angel. Without the sigils to tamper his power, the angel must've unleashed the wrath of Heaven - or Hell, depending which sphere he'd crawled out of. Gordon pictured something like the firestorm that burst out of the Ark in Raiders, a movie he had watched on the big screen when it first hit theaters.

Question was, how did Dean survive the blast? And why did he follow the angel afterwards?

Driven by curiosity, Gordon followed the trail of Dean's scent to the meadow east of town.

He crept closer, surprised to find Dean and the angel standing face to face at the edge of the forest.

From the shadow of the old town wall, Gordon watched the Winchester kid put out a hand and touch the angel's chest. Gordon didn't know what Dean saw when he looked at the angel, but to Gordon's eyes he looked like a close encounter of the fourth kind, arms too long and slender, wings quivering convulsively, and whatever essence that passed for his blood pumping through his veins in pale blue streaks.

Why the hell did Dean even want to go near this thing?

When they first met, Gordon had mistrusted Dean like he'd mistrusted almost anyone. Later he decided Dean was seriously misguided, and later still he despised Dean for his failure to neutralize Sam. Gordon had killed his sister because it had been necessary, because it had been right. He'd built his life on that decision. Dean should have done the same, put aside his personal feelings and rid the world of a killer-to-be.

Instead, Dean chose to protect his brother.

Gordon frowned. He'd been certain that Dean had come here for Sam because who else would inspire that kind of loyalty in him? But Sam wasn't in Purgatory, never had been if the oracle at the hole could be believed. Was it possible Dean had been looking for the angel all along? Why?

Watching the angel fold his wings around Dean, Gordon resisted the urge to fall on the unsuspecting pair and break Dean's fingers until he told Gordon what was going on. He didn't dare go up against the angel though, not yet. Better just to keep an eye on them and learn what he could before Purgatory's version of the wild hunt swarmed in and ripped them apart.

Gordon's ears were still sharper than those of a human and he'd picked up the sounds from the town center a while ago. Listening to the hisses and grunts that no doubt originated in the market square, Gordon imagined the monster inhabitants of Purgatory's outer rim rising from the ground, stretching charred limbs and licking the ashes of their own skin from their teeth.

Like Gordon had told Dean, nothing died in the in-between.

Out on the meadow, the angel lifted his head like a deer. He must've caught wind of the rising monsters too, because soon the two of them hurried off, Dean's defined human soul jogging along next to the phantom shape of the angel.

Gordon waited another breath and took off after them. As he passed into the shadow of the birch wood, he heard the stamp of many footsteps, pounding through the town and speeding up for the chase.



Thanks to a sense of direction Dean had inherited from his father, he found the slope he and Gordon had used to enter the hole in the ground. The way up was just as tricky as the way down but Dean pushed on, climbing quickly out of the volcano with Cas at his side.

They had a head start but when the wind turned, Dean smelled their pursuers. With the stench of burnt flesh heavy in his nose, he led Cas through the birch forest on top of the crater and out onto the highlands. He tried not to let the mile-wide view of crags and dales daunt him but fact was he couldn't even see the sea yet, much less the peak of Mt. Purgatory.

Nothing for it though, Dean thought. Striking out into the open, he chose their direction with the help of landmarks he'd memorized on his way in.

Cas kept up as well as he could but he kept flickering from invisibility to defined shape like a flame in slow-motion. His imprisonment, his fall into Purgatory, and the latest discharge of his remaining power must've weakened him. At one point he even sank to his knees, and Dean had to sling Cas's arm around his own shoulders to help him back to his feet. Cas leaned on him, adjusted his wings for balance, and nodded.

Keep going.

When the ocean finally came into view, they both sped up their pace, drawing on resources Dean didn't know they had left. Which, of course, came back to bite them in the ass.

They'd reached the edge of the foothills, coming to the stretch where the high plain descended to the stretch of marshland that preceded the sea. They still had a long way ahead of them but the sight of land's end and the long, quicksilver line of water made Dean overeager.

Half climbing, half skidding down a rockslide, Dean gained too much momentum, lost control over his footing, and tripped. He would've gone down face first or broken his neck but Cas was with him in a heartbeat and grabbed him around the chest. He spread his wings and turned Dean's fall into an odd mix between a glide and a jump, the two of them remaining airborne for a few seconds before they hit the ground at the bottom of the slope.

Dean crashed to his knees and Cas was flung away from him, landing heavily on his back.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, Dean's heavy breathing set off against the scratch of Cas's wings on the gravel.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, and flopped back against a tall rock. His hand hurt, his lungs burned, and now that his legs had stopped moving he didn't know if he could even get up again. Cas didn't look any fitter, his head canted tiredly against the arc of his left wing. Damn, but they were quite the pair, Dean with his skinned knees and Cas with his feathers sticking out at odd angles.

Noticing Dean's expression, Cas lifted his head.

What? he asked and the familiar blend of annoyance and confusion made Dean chuckle.

"Nothing," he said. His amusement dried up fast, though, when Cas suddenly tensed and peered up the slope, no doubt listening for the lynch mob at their heels. The image of scorched monsters running in packs came unbidden to Dean's mind. He wondered if Spider and the others would ever heal or if the burns Cas's grace had inflicted upon them would remain for all time.

Wouldn't that piss them off.

"Can you hear them?" Dean asked.

Yes, Cas answered. They've gained on us.

"Awesome," Dean muttered. He peered out over the marshes and his heart sank. He tried to catch a glimpse of Mt. Purgatory but the mountain remained hidden behind the cliffs that lined the shore. With a sinking heart Dean realized that he and Cas would never make it to the Garden before the spill of monster town caught up with them. The rate they were going, Dean doubted if they would even reach the base of the mountain.

The gatekeeper's passing words came back to him, the way he insisted that Dean had to use same door for going in and going out. You must exit by the door you've entered through, he'd said.

Would if I could, Dean thought. Setting his teeth against the legion of smaller and bigger pains firing through his body, Dean stood up and crouched down again at Cas's side. "Can you get up?" he asked gently.

Cas didn't respond but his hands curled into fists, and he pushed himself up of the ground and back on his feet. Dean followed, sensing how much even this simple motion sequence took from Cas. Without a word he slid his shoulder under Cas's arm once more and steadied him around the waist.

"Come on," Dean said. "I have an idea."



Dean had no idea how they did it but after an eternity of stumbling over bumpy ground and sinking ankle-deep into bog holes, he and Cas finally reached the ruined house where Dean had woken up after Gordon's assault.

Once they'd reached the questionable shelter of the crumbled walls, Dean helped Cas to sit down and lean against the wizened stones that remained of the house's foundations. Straightening up, Dean turned around and scanned the salt meadows for their pursuers. There was no sign of them yet but then again, Dean couldn't see very far. The daylight had faded to a gloom and fog rose from the marshes as if it had waited for Dean's return.

If Dean's plan didn't work the only option left would be to carry Cas along the shore and pick his way to the mountain through a wall of thickening mist. In that case their chances of outrunning the monster herd would drop below zero.

Casting another look at Cas, Dean drew a deep breath and walked over to the house's remaining door. He pulled Gordon's knife from his belt and called up the key-sigil the gatekeeper had trusted him with.

Dean didn't know if what he planned to do was even possible but here he was, going against express orders in the hope that a door was a door was a door. If he could open a passageway on top of Mt. Purgatory, maybe he could also force a passage down here.

Drawing the blade of Gordon's knife across his palm, Dean remembered Sula's advice to stick to the rules. He should've known then that he wouldn't be able to follow her instructions. When had he ever?

I'm sorry Sula, Dean thought and hoped that even if he wasn't able to follow through on the original plan, he'd at least be able to improvise another solution.

Stepping back, he licked his lips and recited the request for passage, just like the gatekeeper had taught him.

He might have chanted the chorus of Yellow Submarine for all the good it did. The blood sigils ran at the edges, the door hung crooked from its hinge, and absolutely nothing happened.

Dean clenched his jaw and repeated the summons, forcing his voice to remain steady as he spoke the Enochian words. This time, a faint glimmer flared around the sigils. Dean's heart soared, only to plunge down to ground level when the shine faded away without effect. When Dean tried a third time, nothing happened at all. Weighed down by a wave of disappointment, he closed his eyes and dragged a hand over his face.

To have come this far...

Dean let out a shaky breath and flinched when someone touched his elbow. Surprised, he turned around and found Cas standing right behind him. Cas's face was turned to the marshes and when Dean followed his gaze, he spotted lights bobbing up and down in the fog. For a long moment, Dean could only watch as the lights drew closer.

"I'm sorry," he said at length, "I messed this all up."

Don't say that, Cas told him. He met Dean's gaze and held it, his hand still resting lightly on Dean's elbow. You came for me, Cas said and his astonishment transmitted clearly to Dean's mind. I didn't expect anyone to come for me.

Hearing that, Dean thought his heart would crack down the middle. "How could you think that, huh?" he demanded and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "You're-"

Dean faltered, all of a sudden stuck for words because what was Cas to him? Friend? Family? He could have used any of these designations, but he couldn't push them past his lips. Somehow calling Cas 'brother' wasn't honest, wasn't enough anymore.

Frustrated by his failure to say what needed to be said, Dean shook his head and turned Cas's words over in his mind instead. Somehow it figured that Cas, like Dean, didn't think he deserved to be saved. But there the parallel ended because even in the thick of Hell's torture Dean had known there was at least one person left on earth who cared for him. The thought of Sam searching for a way to help him had given Dean hope until he caved under the years of pain. Now Cas admitted he hadn't even had that?

With a pang Dean remembered the day he'd sent Cas into Purgatory. He'd burned an exorcism into Cas's chest, and he'd hated every second of it but he'd never had the time to explain.

What had Cas thought? That Dean had been grateful to be rid of him?

Without thinking Dean grabbed Cas's arm and opened his mouth to tell Cas everything, how he hadn't wanted to sleep as long as Cas was lost, how he couldn't live with the thought of giving him up, but the words froze on his tongue. Perplexed, Dean stared at his hand around Cas's biceps. Was he going crazy or did his hand glow?

"What the hell?" Dean murmured and let go of Cas. The light stuck to his skin though, limning his fingers and traveling down to his wrist. Shit but he was turning into Robert fucking Pattinson and didn't that just take the cake.

Before Dean could say anything out loud, though, Cas reached up and touched his fingertips to Dean's. Light spread at once from Dean's hand to Cas and vice versa, Cas's grace sliding over the back of Dean's fingers. Dean stood stock still, shaken by the exchange between grace and what he could only assume was the true form of his own soul. Dean opened his mouth, his breath catching in his throat.

A vague memory hovered just outside his grasp, dragging up an image of shining arms closing around him and lifting him to safety. I know this, Dean thought and searched out Cas's eyes.

The intensity of Cas's gaze left no doubt that he knew what was happening, that he remembered.

Had he always?

Look, Cas said and tipped his chin at the door. Turning, Dean discovered that the key-sigils had brightened with the same shine that enveloped his and Cas's hand.

Try again, Cas prompted, and Dean spoke the Enochian summons for the fourth time, his hand resting against Cas's.

At first, the sigils glowed brighter and more light flared between the cracks of the door. Finally, there was a loud crack, the light snuffed out, and the door started to dissolve, one wooden splinter after the other drifting back into a pitch-black darkness.

"Hallelujah," Dean murmured. He might've grinned, too, but Cas suddenly dropped his hand and the sense of peace that had been moving into Dean fell away. Struck with fresh worry, Dean took in Cas's slumped shoulders and the sway of his legs. Whatever mojo Cas had just transferred to Dean, he'd been in no condition to part with it.

"Cas," Dean pleaded and grabbed both Cas's shoulders. "Hang on, man. Just a bit longer, yes?"

The words had barely left Dean's mouth when the cry of a harpy shrilled through the silence of the marsh. Dean didn't even need to check to know that their time was up.

Looking at the door, Dean realized he'd cheered too soon. So far, only a few holes had opened in the door; the disintegration continued but it happened too slowly. Steadying Cas with one hand, Dean pushed at the door with his foot but he might as well have shoved at a brick wall. By then, even he could hear the feet and hooves crashing through the heather.

"Come on, come on," Dean cursed and turned back to Cas. "Think we can break through this?"

Cas didn't answer but Dean snatched up a half-formed thought, revealing that Cas doubted he'd be strong enough to make it to the other side even if the portal opened.

Which, no. No. Not an option.

"Screw that," Dean grunted, grabbed Cas, and threw himself at the door. At the last second, Dean turned and pulled Cas close, hands clutching at Cas's back and the fullness of his wings. Cas flared in his arms but Dean's own skin burst into light too and this time, grace and soul blended seamlessly along every line of contact. Wrapping as much of himself around his friend as he could, Dean crashed through the door back first and fell into the wormhole.



Gordon had been around for a while, both in the world of the living and the world of the dead, but he'd never seen anything like this. Hidden among the large stones that separated the shore from the marshes like a borderline, Gordon watched Dean and his angel go up in a ball of white light before they crashed into an old door - and didn't come out on the other side.

Unsure of what exactly he'd just witnessed, Gordon stared up at the ruined boathouse. From his position, Gordon saw the old chute of sanded stone which had once been used to lower boats into the sea. He also saw the doorframe on top that now gaped empty.

What had they done? Gordon wondered. Used some kind of spell?

Water sucked at the stones behind him; the tide was rolling in and with it, a dense blanket of fog. Gordon climbed onto one of the rocks to keep his feet from getting wet.

It had to have been spell, he decided. Something that turned an ordinary door into a gateway to somewhere else, and wasn't that interesting. A man might wonder if he could pass through that selfsame door, presuming it had been left open. Gordon smiled.

The sea fog was coiling around him, water rising visible now between the rocks making this place less than ideal for hiding but that was fine. Gordon needed to be quick anyway if he wanted to reach the door before the hunt arrived.

Assume, he thought, just assume that door led back to Earth as he knew it. Oh, he didn't doubt he'd be killed again if he returned; it was the fate of every dark creature eventually, but the idea of a shore leave appealed to him. Bite a few living people, catch a new movie - the options were promising.

Gordon balanced over the rocks, amused by the idea of escape. The smile was still on his face when the fog coiled around his legs, yanked him off his feet, and pulled him back into obscurity.

VI

Harbor

Sam sat in Missouri's rocking chair, watching over his brother. If he didn't know better, Sam would have believed Dean was only sleeping, curled up on his side with his arms folded loosely over his chest. The thing was, Dean hadn't shifted out of that position for the last twelve hours.

The tea Missouri had made for Sam had gone cold, and his back hurt with a tension he couldn't shake. Not as long as Dean was gone, anyway.

Unfortunately, Sam's body still demanded he stick to its normal routines.

Rubbing a hand over his gritty eyes, Sam got up and went to the bathroom. He'd just finished and stepped out into the hallway when he heard a crash and a heavy thump from Missouri's guest room.

His blood running ice-cold from one second to the next, Sam dashed back to the bedroom and found the tea mug crashed and Dean on the floor.

"Dean!" Sam rushed into the room and only skidded to a halt because Dean jerked up a hand.

"No," Dean rasped. "Wait."

Twenty-odd years of trust in his brother made Sam freeze, but his heart still thundered up a storm in his chest. He heard Bobby pound up the stairs, and in the next second the old hunter all but barreled into Sam's back.

"What the hell?" Bobby grunted and stared at Dean. The blanket was still tangled around Dean's legs as he pushed up on hands and knees.

"It's okay," he said. "It's just Cas. He's disoriented."

For a terrible second Sam was certain Dean had come back from Purgatory with his brain in scrambles. "Cas?" he echoed. "Where?!"

He took another step despite Dean's warning, and Dean looked up, his eyes a bright electric blue.

"Goddammit boy," Bobby cursed. "What have you done?" He started forward but Sam grabbed him and held him back out of instinct. "Dean?" Sam asked,

Dean's eyes dropped shut, and he bowed over his knees, back rising and falling with deep breaths. Someone shoved at Sam's shoulder but he was too transfixed to react. Did Dean bring back Cas's grace inside of himself?

"Will you move!" Missouri shouted and squeezed between Sam and Bobby. Startled, Sam made room for her, and the psychic dropped to her knees in front of Dean.

Dean drew another long breath and met her eyes.

"Oh, honey," Missouri said and took his face in both hands.

"It's okay," Dean repeated. "We're fine."

At this, Missouri smiled and Sam's confusion was complete. "I know," Missouri said before she turned to glare at Sam and Bobby.

"Well, don't just stand there you two," she snapped. "Help him up!"



Sam and Bobby took one of Dean's arms each and together helped him over into the next room. Missouri had gone ahead of them and already perched on the edge of Cas's bed, her hand on his forehead like she was taking his temperature.

Cas still lay white as a sheet and motionless, his arm hooked to the IV bag.

"I'm sick of seeing him like this," Dean murmured. "I can tell you that."

"Dean what's going on?" Sam asked, his chest clenching with worry. If Dean really carried Cas's grace inside him how was he even vertical? Sam knew first hand what it meant to timeshare a body with an angel's grace, and from all he knew Dean shouldn't be able to speak, much less walk.

But to Sam's endless bafflement, Dean even left him and Bobby behind and managed the last few steps to Cas's bed on his own. He sat down on Cas's left side opposite Missouri and waited until she'd folded the blanket down to Cas's waist.

"You know what to do?" Missouri asked, and Dean nodded, smiled even.

"Yeah."

As Sam watched, Missouri lifted up Cas's t-shirt. Dean sat quietly for a moment, his eyes closed, his lips once moving soundlessly, then he reached out and placed his hand over the scar he'd left on Cas's chest.

Sam wasn't even aware he'd stopped breathing until he sucked in a shocked gasp, noticing the change on Cas's face, the small frown that formed on his brow.

Cas didn't cry out, he didn't flinch or react in any drastic way. He simply opened his eyes as if he'd just taken a nap. Dean's shoulders sagged a little, and with Dean's face turned away that was all the reaction Sam witnessed from his brother. He did notice, though, that Dean didn't remove his hand from Cas's chest and after a moment, Cas reached up and placed both his hands over Dean's fingers.

"Welcome home, sweetness," Missouri said and, incredibly, patted Cas's cheek. Rooted to his spot by the foot of the bed, Sam waited for either Cas or Dean to speak up but oddly enough, neither of them did.

"I'll be damned," Bobby muttered with a low, shaky whistle, but Sam couldn't even nod to that. He couldn't shake the feeling that his brain had shut off somewhere during the last five minutes and was only now rebooting. Slowly it dawned on him that not only had Dean returned safe and sound, he'd managed what he'd set out to do: he found Cas and brought him back.

Sam made a sound, and he didn't know if it was a laugh or a groan of sheer relief, before flopping down on a nearby chair.

"You okay there, son?" Bobby asked, and there was a broad grin on his face now.

"Yeah," Sam said and, god, it was true, it was finally true. "I'm okay."

Epilogue

On the shore of Purgatory, Gordon Walker stood in the shallows, the water curling round his shoes as the tide retreated. He swayed a little with the wind, his arms swinging limply by his side. As the dawn rose behind the thinning fog, Gordon tipped his head up and opened his eyes. His lips were moving but his words were barely audible over the rushing of the waves.

"He rises," he whispered. "He rises."

Sea foam speckled his face but Gordon didn't wipe it away. "He rises," he chanted, repeating the call over and over. "He rises. The dreamer has stopped sleeping."





[For the complete comic, please visit the artist's post here]

A/N: The author would like to thank nyoka and zatnikatel for their great advice and tireless beta-work. Huge thanks also to slinkymilinky and made_of_tin for the amazing, inspiring illustrations. Last but not least, sincere thanks to eretria who pointed me to the hole-in-the-ground.



Next: Episode 8: Homeward Rolling Soldier

fic: episode 7

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