Title: Aima Elohim
Part: 1/?
Pairing: Destiel
Rating: M
Warnings: Graphic depictions of gore, (eventual) sex. Laden with angst.
Summary:They might not have been sent to Purgatory by 'normal' means, but there's only one way for them to get out-climb Mount Purgatory, battle their demons, atone for their sins upon its seven terraces, and find whatever's at the peak that Castiel says will get them home. Their path is slick with blood and tears, though what they find at the peak of the Mount isn't quite what they expected.
Notes: So this is a fanfic collab between me and my friend daisychainofoddities. This is the first part, running approx. 9300 words. I wasn't going to post this until we had the entire thing done, but I figure getting some feedback and interest in the fic will make sticking this out until the end easier on both of us, haha. It's really emotional to write and takes a lot, so.
I'm not going to distinguish between my parts and hers, just because. :3c HAVE FUN.
Also, reviews and crits are more than welcome! We want as much feedback as possible for this huge-as-fuck endeavor we're undertaking.
Glowing red eyes follow his every move, growls and snarls echoing in the fog.
Dean turns in a circle, head whipping around to look for an escape path, a place to hide, something to duck behind, anything, but there isn't a damn thing, and his stomach twists, throat tightening as fear threatens to paralyze him.
"Cas?" he whispers, voice cracking. He hopes and prays to whoever is up in Heaven listening—knowing his luck it's someone who hates him, and who doesn't hate him in Heaven nowadays?—that Cas didn't abandon him, that he was just doing some recon or looking for a way out or anything besides leaving him to die what would most definitely be a bloody and gory death. He wishes he could trust that Cas is coming back, but he can't, not after everything that'd happened in the last year. Not after Cas betrayed his trust so completely. Dean wants to trust that Cas is coming back, but he doesn't think his heart can handle being shattered like that again. A million agonizing deaths would be better than feeling like his soul was ripped out of his chest.
But he's not dumb enough to voice that thought aloud—he's not about to give these monsters any ideas.
The darkness shifts in front of him and Dean takes one step back, two. Something begins to show itself, emerging from the treeline like shadow come to life. It shifts and undulates, rising up, up, up. Dean follows its metamorphosis with his eyes, heart pounding, blood racing in his ears. A head forms, limbs separating from the darkness. The light—is it from a moon? Dean doesn't dare look away from the monster to see—bounces off of rows upon rows of sharp teeth, the sickly color of gangrene. A tongue lolls, long and narrow, bright red eyes narrowing.
A shiver runs up Dean's spine when the thing smiles. But then the damn thing talks and it's all Dean can to do keep himself at least outwardly composed, though he can't stop the tremors in his hands, the sweat beading on his forehead, rolling down the back of his neck.
"I know you." That long tongue licks at a row of teeth, saliva dripping. "Dean Winchester."
Son of a bitch.
He doesn't take the time to think (there isn't any time to think),-he just picks a random direction and starts running.
Laughter follows him, a twisted noise like stones grinding together. Bile rises in his throat but he swallows it down, adrenaline sending him through the trees at breakneck speed. The things are following him, crashing through the underbrush, laughing and howling. It isn't long before Dean's realizing the monsters aren't making any effort to catch him; they follow him at his pace, just far back enough that, if he was a moron, he would think he actually had a chance to get away.
The bastards are toying with him, like cats with a mouse.
But Dean doesn't have the time to be properly pissed off, because all of a sudden he's running face first into something solid, something that definitely wasn't there a second ago, and all he can think is fuck fuck fuck they're gonna get me and he can hear the clicking and gnashing of their teeth, like they're right behind him, up against his ear. He tries to push off whatever it is he ran into but he can't because something's grabbing him, wrapping around his shoulders and squeezing; he thrashes, fighting to get away, because he's Dean fucking Winchester and he's not about to go down like a bitch.
It takes Dean a few panic-ridden seconds to realize what he's hearing isn't chattering teeth and skin-crawling laughter, but his name, repeated over and over in his ear like a mantra. He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and blinks, taking in the cheap tan fabric pressed into his nose. The arms around him slack when he stops fighting, giving him just enough room to pull back.
Deep blue eyes meet his green and Dean finally lets himself relax, shoulders slumping as he sighs with relief. "Knew you wouldn't leave me high and dry," he mutters, more to convince himself than anything. The faint smile that curls the corners of his lips is forced, fades quickly.
Cas tilts his head in that weird way of his, like a confused puppy, a familiar gesture that Dean doesn't realize he misses until he sees it again. For some reason it makes Dean want to pat Cas on the head—must be the post-adrenaline crash messing with his brain; he flexes his fingers, dispelling the itch to touch the angel.
"Why would I do that?" Cas asks, brows furrowing. Damn, he looks genuinely hurt that Dean would even think that he'd abandon him.
Dean shrugs uncomfortably, rubbing his neck as he backs away from the angel with a mental reminder to himself that personal space is, in fact, a thing.
"I dunno, just freaked me out when you disappeared on me without saying anything," he says, pulling a face and breaking eye contact. Sometimes Cas's intense stares are just too much for him, even more so now that he has to get used to them again. Cas thankfully doesn't reply, so Dean takes the time to assess their surroundings.
Its definitely not what he was expecting to see.
One, they're on a seashore. Two, its light out though the sun's hidden behind a mountain, and three, they're surrounded by people, people covered in soot and ash, men, women, children, the elderly. Just... throngs of people milling about, either staring out at the ocean waves crashing against the rocky shore or staring up at the mountain that juts from otherwise flat land. A few glance at them in passing but not longer than a second or two before moving on, drifting listlessly through the crowds. The air is thick with humidity, and his skin is already damp with sweat and condensation, making his jeans and shirt cling to him uncomfortably.
Dean turns to ask Cas where they are, why they're there, if it was gonna get them back home, but stops himself. It looks like Cas is trying to hide behind him, shoulders hunched, eyes darting back and forth furtively. Dean frowns, turns and takes a quick survey of the area to check for an immediate threat. "Dude, what's wrong?" His voice is pitched low—Cas's anxiety is already starting to affect him.
Cas fidgets, playing with the sash of his trench coat, picking at a loose string with his long, nimble fingers. "It's nothing," he says quietly, looking anywhere and everywhere but at Dean.
Dean scowls and crosses his arms. There's no way in hell he's going to deal with any lies or evasion, not when their predicament is so dire. "Bullshit."
Cas refuses to meet his gaze, shifts his weight from foot to foot. Dean knows he's gonna crack—he knows the small amount of trust still between them is too fragile to keep secrets, especially now—it's just a matter of waiting. At least he thinks he knows. The list of things he really knows about what Cas will and will not do is a helluva lot shorter than he'd thought.
He's proven right about this though when Cas sighs and finally makes eye contact, shoulders pulled up like he's a turtle trying to disappear into the safety of his shell. "They might recognize me," he says, whispering quickly before pursing his lips and looking to see if anyone is close enough to overhear.
'They might recognize-' "They're souls?" Dean whispers back incredulously.
Cas answers with a curt 'yes' and Dean turns back to look at the people—souls, he amends—staring at them openly. A few moments pass in silence with Cas oozing apprehension behind Dean as he looks for any sign that the souls are going to turn hostile and come after them, any indication that they even give a rats ass about the two of them. But the souls just wander around, looking lost and confused and apathetic, and Dean looks over his shoulder at Cas. "I don't think they give a damn about either of us."
The angel relaxes his shoulders a little though his eyes continue to wander. "I suppose," he concedes after further survey of the milling mass of souls.
Dean nods, satisfied that Cas... well, he's still freaking out, but not nearly as much, which is good enough for him. Last thing he needs is Cas going batshit crazy again. If he so much as says one word about bees...
"So where exactly are we?" he asks, gesturing vaguely with his hands towards their surroundings.
"Ante-purgatory."
"Then... Where the hell were we before?"
Cas frowns and looks out towards the sea, stares at the horizon. "We were on the other side of the ocean," he says slowly, pursing his lips like he's still trying to figure it out himself. "This is where souls attempt the ascension to heaven—we were where monsters go when they die." His brows furrow and he adds, "I wasn't aware they were two different places," sounding annoyed that he missed out on this bit of information.
Dean nods. That makes perfect sense, sort of. A little. "Why didn't we end up here when Dick did his asshole magic mojo thing?"
Cas glances at him. "Because Leviathan are monsters; Dick would not have known how to get here." He quirks a brow, almost a perfect mimic of an expression Dean's used in the past. "And bringing us here instead of leaving us to die would have been quite contradictory to his name, I think."
Did Cas just tell a joke? Dean wants to congratulate him for managing to tell one that's actually funny (and in English!), but a question pops into his head and he can't help but ask. "If a Leviathan couldn't find this place, how did you?"
Cas's eyes lose focus and he turns to stare blankly towards the mountain. Suddenly the sun peeks over the mountaintop, bathing Cas in light. It makes his skin look like it's glowing, like its radioactive, sunbeams glinting off the sweat beading on his forehead. It outlines his hair, makes his already too-blue eyes look ethereal in a way that makes Dean's breath catch in his throat. Only in the safety of his mind can Dean admit that Cas looks absolutely breathtaking in that moment, like the holy angel of the Lord he once was, like the celestial being he was before the Apocalypse, before knowing the Winchesters.
But then the moment passes and Cas turns back to face him, the illusion of overwhelming angelic presence disappearing to reveal what's left of the Castiel Dean knew, the Castiel that he'd...
He's talking, Dean realizes, and it takes him a second to even remember what he'd even asked him. "What?" His throat is thick with some emotion he can't—refuses-to name.
Cas glanced at the mountaintop again. "I said I felt... something pull me here. Something in the Garden led me to this place." Dean's face must've given away his next question. "The Garden of Eden, Dean."
"The..." Dean stares at him incredulously. "Why the hell is the Garden of Eden in purgatory?"
"It just is, Dean. And it's our only way out."
"Well how do we get there?"
Cas's smile is rueful and he turns away, walking through the milling souls towards a small fissure in the mountainside. "We climb the terraces of Purgatory."
Dean wishes that didn't sound like a fate worse than death.
It's absurd, Dean thinks, just how defenseless he feels walking through the eerie dawn-washed landscape of ante-Purgatory. There's a stagnant tension here, like the lip-biting, sweaty-handed feeling right before you leap off a cliff or before you open a suspicious letter. Or before you swallow back the lump in your throat called pride and admit to the open air that the sensations twisting in your belly might not be simple indigestion; it might be something closer to love. But he doesn't call it by its name. There are a thousand more pressing matters to attend to before he even begins to address that nameless twitch of his soul.
And after all, he's not certain he can even fully rely on the tousled-headed figure walking a few paces ahead of him. Dean can't seem to banish that aching reminder of Castiel's transgressions; he can't mute the clanging bell in his head that warns him to trust no one, and especially not Cas. Even if Dean is able to eventually forgive him for all he's done (which Dean believes may not be in the cards for a very, very long time—and he hardly expects to survive that long anyway), he can't be sure that Cas is much of an ally at this point. The fallen angel is broken, splintered into bits by guilt and regret and shame and whatever else Lucifer had carved into his daft little head. Dean watches Castiel's every footfall with dread, expecting the trench-coated shape to sink to the ground and go comatose at any moment. Dean sighs quietly, and if Cas hears it, he doesn't make it apparent.
They're walking in near-silence, which is for the best, since they have no idea what could be listening for them, possibly hunting them, at this exact moment. Dean doesn't even know if Cas has a determinate destination in mind, or if he's simply following some kind of ineffable angelic instinct. Maybe he's just bluffing, too proud or too ashamed to admit that he's just as lost and out of his element as Dean. But then, he has to have some idea of where they're going, some inkling of how to get out of here.
At least, that's what Dean is telling himself.
Realistically, there's no reason Dean should be following Cas anywhere. For all Dean knows, they could be walking off a cliff in a matter of seconds. But there's nothing else to cling to, no other lifeboat within sight, and so Dean resigns himself to this grim fate. Still, he can't help but voice the nagging questions surging through his mind.
"Cas," he whispers, glancing around to make sure nothing is coming for them, "where are we going? What's the plan? Are we looking for something in particular or…?"
There's a pause before the angel responds, and Dean can make out the muscles working in Castiel's shoulders. "Dude, come on. Give me something to work with here," Dean hisses. Cas stops suddenly and swivels around to face Dean, who very nearly walks face-first into him.
The angel's eyes flicker warningly as he replies, "We are going to the Gate. Keep your voice down."
Dean gulps. Cas's face is a mere inch or two from his own, and he notices for the first time the faint lines spiking out from the corners of the angel's eyes, the dusky purple half-moons beneath them, and the faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. It strikes Dean all at once that Cas isn't simply weakened by angelic standards—he's fragile even for a human. The clammy heat radiating from Castiel's forehead is enough to worry Dean deeply, because this is the very last place he would like to be stuck nursing a hapless man-baby for God knows how long. "You feelin' okay?" Dean asks, feeling immediately the futility of his question; of course he isn't okay. Neither of them are okay.
But Cas doesn't shoot off some sarcastic reply like Dean expects him to, he just nods and flicks his eyes away. "I'm fine, Dean."
It's an unconvincing response, but he turns away and starts walking at a brisker pace, so Dean has no choice but to accept it and follow. "What gate are we talking about?" Dean presses, his voice barely audible.
"The Gate to Purgatory-proper."
Dean squints at the back of Cas's head in confusion. "What? I thought we were already in Purgatory."
"We are. But not all the way."
"So, what, this is like the lobby?"
"It's not a motel, Dean."
Dean can't exactly argue with that. There's a painful lack of pay-per-view porn here. "Why are we trying to get all the way into Purgatory, then? I thought the point was just to get out altogether?"
"Yes. And the only way out is up and through."
"Fantastic," Dean groans. "I guess going up beats going down, though."
"This isn't the time for innuendo, Dean."
In spite of himself, in spite of everything, Dean can't help but laugh. It's an awkward, unnatural sort of sound, clawing from his throat without warning. It sounds even more bizarre juxtaposed with the desolation of their surroundings and Dean wishes he could suck it back in, swallow it down, and keep it locked away. "I didn't even mean it like that, but it's good to see you're learning."
"There."
The angel comes to a standstill, gazing up at what seems to be a sheer stone wall a few hundred feet beyond them, his face unreadable. The blue eyes are squinting, lips pulled into a little pink knot. Dean folds his arms beside Cas and stares questioningly at him.
"What? What are we looking at?"
"The Gate," Cas replies simply.
"Where? That?" Dean verifies, perplexed. "Cas, I'm not seeing anything."
Cas nods dismissively and murmurs, "We'll have to be convincing."
"Okay, enough with the cryptic bullshit. What the fuck are we doing?" Dean demands.
"Follow my lead. Don't say a word."
Dean's mouth hangs open in disbelief as he watches the angel calmly walk away toward the cliff wall. "Who made you Batman?" he grumbles, before jogging to catch up.
As they approach the wall, Dean finds himself inexplicably unable to keep his eyes all the way open. It's as though the sun is sparking in his vision, but he can't actually see any light source. In fact, he doesn't see anything but the rock wall, a blurred texture of grey behind the tears in his eyes. No, he concludes, it's not a light he can see—but there's the distinct sensation of being blinded. It doesn't make sense, but then, he supposes that should really be the norm for him by now.
"Avert your eyes," Cas whispers over his shoulder. "The Gatekeeper is low in the ranks of Heaven, but he is still an angel."
"Gatekeeper? You mean there's a dude up there somewhere?" Dean mumbles, struggling to walk in a straight line with his vision almost totally wiped.
"A servant of the Lord."
"Right, that. Whatever. Why can't I see him?"
"An angel's true form is overwhelming for you," Cas explains, exasperated and perhaps a little disappointed.
"So he's just gonna let us through?"
"It's unlikely."
"Well, that's encouraging."
"Just let me speak to him."
"What are you gonna say? Cas, what happens if he says no?"
"He may strike us down."
"Oh, good."
"And even if he lets us pass, the Gate could close on us before we are through."
"What? Dude, the odds are not in our favor here."
"They never are," Cas responds softly, a sigh heaving through his thin frame. The burning in Dean's retinas is nearly unbearable now, and he can't help but cry out when the invisible light suddenly flares, almost as though in anger. Dean crumples to his knees and instinctively wraps his arms over his head, like it was a tornado swirling toward him and not a stinging flood of celestial light.
"Shh," Cas hushes, and Dean can feel the ripple of displaced air as the angel moves to stand in front of him, successfully managing to minimize the burning light by a fraction. "Be silent." Dean feels the weight of the Gatekeeper's blaze like a yoke around his neck, like screws in his head, and he knows he couldn't possibly speak even if he wanted to. Through the ringing in his ears, he can barely tune into the garbled words Cas is speaking.
"Hello, Brother."
The echoing, bell-toned voice that responds sends a feverish ache down Dean's sinuses.
"Castiel. It is an honor."
"Thank you."
Dean's face scrunches in surprise, pressed against the dry ground. The Gatekeeper sounds almost reverent of Cas, a cadet addressing his general.
"It has been eons since we last had words, Brother."
"Yes. I have been preoccupied," Cas replies coolly.
"Raising the Righteous Man is a monumental task," boomed the Gatekeeper. "What brings you here, Castiel?"
Dean swallows nervously, waiting to hear Cas's excuse for being in Purgatory.
"God has blessed me with another task," Cas declares. Where are you going with this, Cas? Dean wonders fearfully. But the angel continues without hesitation. "I have been sent to ascend the levels of Purgatory, as guide to this human." Dean can't see anything beyond the ragged shadow of Castiel's tennis shoes in front of his face, but he can feel the angel gesture back toward him. There's a tense lapse in conversation, and Dean wishes desperately he could look up and see the Gatekeeper's face, try to gauge how Cas is faring, but he can't. So he waits.
Finally, the ringing voice utters, "This human. Is this the Righteous Man?"
Dean can almost feel the inner struggle surging in Cas's head.
"No." What? Dean thinks, panicked. "This is simply a wayward soul our Father wishes to make an example of, that he may return to Earth and warn humanity of the consequences of sin."
There's a little prickle of pride in Dean's heart. He's successfully taught an angel how to lie to his own brother. He should feel ashamed, but he really doesn't.
"And his soul?" the voice echoes. "Is it pure?"
"The purest."
"Then he shall pass without peril. Rise, mortal."
Dean felt his limbs bending not of their own accord, his body elevating to stand upright. His eyes are still tightly shut and watering from filtered light, but he takes a shaky step forward, and then he feels the vaguely reassuring pressure of Castiel's fingers around his arm. They struggle toward the fiery sun of the Gate, Dean whimpering helplessly as he raises a hand to try and block it out. He can feel the wall now, stony against the tips of his shoes, utterly resistant. There is no door here, no hole to climb through, Dean laments. His stomach churns. The Gate has rejected him already, and he flinches in anticipation of being stricken down.
"Thank you, Brother," comes Castiel's voice, distant and mottled though he is only inches from Dean's ears.
"Good luck. Be well." The Gatekeeper's words pulse and buzz in Dean's head, and he wails in agony, feeling as though he'll splinter to pieces any second now.
There is the bruising knock of Dean's knees against the rock wall as Cas drags him forward, and then a lick of white-hot light blossoms violently before Dean's eyes. He's suddenly aware of a searing pain in his forehead, as though he's being branded, and then a deafening scrape of something like metal against stone. "Don't look back, Dean. Keep your eyes closed. Don't look back," Cas is muttering, over and over, his voice more of a vibrating hum than anything else, and Dean can feel the angel's mouth at his ear. "Don't look back. We're passing through."
A powerful curl of electric pain shoots through Dean's limbs and he can feel his lungs punch out a broken scream, even as his ears fill with the pulse of his own heartbeat and his voice is silenced. Then comes the faint pressure of an arm around his waist, holding him up as the fallen angel and the broken man pass through the Gate, into the primary level of Limbo.
"Te deum."
Dean can taste copper on his tongue, the thick wetness of blood trickling from a corner of his mouth as his body shakes with tremors, the aftermath of passing through the Gate. A memory floats up from the slush that's left of his brain, of Bobby hunched over a worn and tattered book, 'The only thing this damn book's tellin' me is there's seven 'levels' in Purgatory, but it doesn't say how to get there.' The memory is bittersweet, but he hangs onto it for its comfort, for the way it rings with the feeling of home and safety.
Sharp stone grinds into his shoulder, scraping his knees when his legs buckle, bringing him back to the present. Shit. He doesn't think he can survive another gate, if they're all gonna be that bad. Especially not seven of them. He swallows around the blood in his mouth, his throat sore from screaming.
Cas's arm around his waist holds him up like he's light as a feather; Dean's arm is slung over the angel's shoulder, his fingers wrapped around his wrist in an iron grip. Dean tries not to lean into Cas but his body refuses to cooperate, legs going every which way no matter how hard he tries to control them. He doesn't know where Cas finds the strength to carry him, where he finds the determination and willpower to continue on, never stumbling, carrying Dean up, up, up, as the rocky path beneath continues ever higher.
Tears continue to stream down his cheeks, colors dancing across the backs of his eyelids as his eyes try to adjust to the lack of burning, soul-searing angelic light. Hesitantly he lets his eyelids open a crack, squints as the world slowly comes into focus.
The path before them is narrow, leaving just enough room for the two of them to squeeze through shoulder-to-shoulder—its no more than a crack in the mountainside, the rocky walls recede and protrude at random. But Cas weaves to and fro, guiding Dean away from the worst of the sharp rocks, pulling him close when the path narrows even further.
More of Dean's muscle and motor control returns the further they stumble from the gate, and he wills his legs to pick up some of the slack, wills his feet to take one step, two—partly because he doesn't want to weigh Cas down with his humanity and frailty, partly because he just can't trust that Cas won't decide to drop him, leave him behind.
Dean grits his teeth and blinks furiously, trying to make his eyes focus, and he attempts to put more of his weight on his own legs, to take some of the burden off of the angel. They're not having it though and his knees give out, violently pitching him forward. But Cas is there to catch him, murmuring "I have you Dean, I won't let go, I have you," like a prayer, his grip sure, never faltering.
Dean's suddenly hit with the feeling of deja vu, like Cas has said those exact words to him before; something in his chest spasms, his throat tightening with unnamed emotions.
They walk like that for what seems like eternity before Cas stops, carefully lowering Dean to the ground. "It's safe to rest here," he says, his usually deep voice hoarse and weak.
Dean lets himself be set on the ground, his body splaying out as he leans back against a boulder. Cas settles beside him, coat scraping against the rocks noisily. They sit in silence save for their labored breathing, and once Dean thinks he has the strength, he turns his head to check on Cas, wincing as his neck protests the movement.
He may be an angel, but he's a fallen angel, with a vessel that's showing some serious wear and tear, and it's more obvious than ever. Cas's face is pale and waxy, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat. His usually wild, wind-blown hair is plastered to his skull, stringy and matted like he's been living on the streets for weeks. Dried blood—Dean's blood—cakes the side of his neck, stains the collar of his dingy hospital scrubs, his coat. Cas's deep blue eyes stare blankly at the rock wall in front of them, chapped lips parted as he breathes slowly.
"Cas..." Dean lifts his arm slowly, reaches towards Cas as if to brush his hair from his forehead, but lets his hand fall into his lap.
"I'm fine, Dean." Cas whispers the words, licks at his lips.
"You sure as hell don't look like it."
"I... will endure."
Dean sits up with a jerk, ignores the way his muscles scream at him for moving so suddenly. "You're gonna do a helluva lot more than 'endure'," he growls, the word 'endure' curdling on his tongue, twisting his mouth.
Cas's eyes flicker towards him, though don't actually focus on him. "I will do what I must to get you home," he amends, shrugging one shoulder in a gesture that's painfully human, painfully resigned.
It's like the bottom of Dean's stomach drops out when he hears those words, like someone's stuffed a black hole in his chest and it's swallowing him whole. His hand shoots out to grab Cas's chin, ignoring the way it twists his battered body, turns his head to face him. Cas's eyes look down, though, and Dean tightens his hold on his chin. "Look at me, damn it," he whispers hoarsely, waiting until Cas does so slowly, hesitantly. But their eyes do meet eventually, and the power of that gaze makes him freeze, words caught in his throat. But he forces them out because they need to be said, because he will not let Cas do what he fears he's going to do.
"You're getting out of here with me, you understand? I fucking refuse to leave without you."
The angel says nothing, simply stares at him with wide eyes, lips parted as if to speak though he doesn't make a sound.
Dean's hand slides from Cas's chin to cup his cheek; his worry increases as he feels just how feverish and clammy he really is, like he's caught a bad case of the flu. "Promise me, Cas. Promise you won't leave." Because, damn it all, he knows he can't handle it if he leaves again, knows he won't last long topside without his angel with him, in whatever capacity he can have him.
Cas takes a deep breath then releases it in a long, shuddering sigh. But he isn't saying the words, isn't making the promise Dean so desperately needs to hear, and God but that makes Dean's insides roil, his blood run cold. Cas won't even give him this assurance, won't just make the goddamn promise-
"I promise you, Dean. So long as you want me, I will be here."
"Damn right you will," Dean replies with false bravado, pulling away to lean back, looking up at the pale blue cloudless sky. He ignores the lump in his throat, the moisture in his eyes, and hopes Cas will be smart enough to do the same. He tells himself there isn't time for chick flick moments in Purgatory and dedicates himself to actually resting his body while they have the chance.
Dean squirms a little until he's comfortable and lets his eyes drift closed.
They sit in comfortable silence, until-
"So, who was the dude guarding the Gate?"
"He is not a 'dude', Dean."
"Fine, whatever. Who's the angel? He got a name?"
Dean can feel Cas staring at him. "Paeoc."
"Paeoc?" What the hell kind of name was that? "I bet he got his ass beat as a kid, with a name like that."
"Dean."
"Alright, alright."
More silence.
"So, this Paeoc guy..."
Cas sighs, exasperated, and Dean grins to himself. "Yes?"
"Sounded like he has a little crush on you."
"Dean, angels do not have 'crushes'."
"Uh huh."
Cas sighs again. Dean cracks open an eye, takes a peek at Cas's face, because he can't quite tell whether or not Cas is actually annoyed or just pretending to be. But the angel is smiling so Dean chuckles and closes his eye, letting himself lean against Cas's shoulder slightly.
He must have drifted off because he's being woken up by Cas's gentle hand on his shoulder. His eyelids flutter open and he stares up at the sky, trying to gauge how much time has passed. It's close to sunset, the sky painted in purples and pinks, the shadows cast by the sun elongated.
With a quiet sigh Dean sits up, stretching his arms over his head reflexively. When he realizes he doesn't feel any pain, he takes quick inventory of his body. All of his aches are gone, cuts and scrapes healed—even the bone-deep weariness he's come to expect has been washed away. He feels rejuvenated, feels good in a way he hasn't felt in, well, years. A smile blooms on Dean's face—a real, honest to God smile—and he stands up, offering a hand to Cas, pulling him up to stand too.
"How're you feeling?" Dean asks, looking Cas over quickly. There's more healthy color to his skin, and the lines spider-webbing from the corners of his eyes have faded a little. A little of the tension in his chest eases. He tells himself it's because it means he won't have to carry Cas all the way up the mountain, fights down that warm twitch of his soul.
Cas tilts his head. "I feel... better," he says finally with a slow nod.
Dean doesn't get the chance to ask just how good 'better' was because Cas is walking away quickly, further up the rocky incline, and Dean scrambles to follow after him. "So where're we going now?" he asks once he catches up, falling in stride.
"To the next terrace," is Cas's reply, said over his shoulder without slowing down.
Okaaaaaaaaaay. "And what exactly are we gonna find there?" Dean squints ahead. It looks like the path is leveling out, which means they're going be at the top of the 'terrace', or whatever.
Cas comes to a sudden halt, and Dean scrambles to a stop to keep from running into the angel's back. His eyes flick around quickly, just in case there's some danger that made Cas stop, but he doesn't find anything.
But then Cas starts speaking.
"With each terrace, we will atone for our sins—we will repent, be washed clean, made fit to ascend to heaven." He glances at Dean over his shoulder. "Our goal is not heaven, but the path is the same." And then he's hesitant, biting at his lower lip, head bowing. Its that little hesitation that puts Dean on edge, raises the hairs on the back of his neck like he's being watched.
"This will not be easy, Dean. We will be forced to face our numerous demons before we can continue onward; we will be broken, and then made whole again."
Dean swallows. That definitely doesn't sound like a walk in the freaking park. Then again, they're in Purgatory—he'd be stupid to expect anything to be easy. "So what, we go on a hike, beat up the skeletons in our closets, and we can go home?" False courage comes easily to him, always has, and it helps relax the tension in Cas's shoulders.
Cas huffs. Dean can't tell if it was supposed to be a laugh or not. "An understatement, but yes."
"Then what're we waiting for?" Dean passes Cas and continues up the slope at a brisk pace. He can see where the land flattens out, and crests the hill quickly. "Lets get this shit over with."
But then Cas is calling his name, desperate, fearful, and Dean looks over his shoulder to see what's causing the angel distress as he takes another step.
Boot connects with what feels like marble, and the world disappears in white.
Dean's eyes snap open.
The first thing he notices is that he's in a suit. He knows he's in a suit because it itches, its tight across his shoulders and he can feel a collar hugging his neck, snug against his chin.
The second thing he notices is that he's in a courtroom.
Dean's sitting at the defendants table, though with a cursory glance to his side he realizes he has no defense attorney. It's just him, alone. There's an itch between his shoulder blades, the insatiable itch that comes from being watched, and he turns his head.
The back of the courtroom is filled to the brim with familiar faces. Some faces he can put names to—Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Garth, Adam, Andy, Ash, Bela, Gordon, Olivia, Pamela, Missouri, Rachel, Gabriel, Jessica, Sam, Sarah, Jesse, Lisa, Balthazar, Jody—while some he can't—faces he's seen on autopsy tables, in pools of their own blood in their homes, dying with the demon blade thrust into their chest. But he knows they're all people who have been affected by him some way; he can't say how he knows, but he does.
"Your honor, we call Mr. Dean Winchester to the stand."
God, he knows that voice.
Dean whips his head around so fast he almost gets whiplash, stares at the man standing before him, one hand behind his back as he gestures Dean towards the stand. Seeing his face after so long... Dean's throat tightens, his vision going watery as he blinks away tears.
John Winchester's lips twitch into a smirk as he repeats the gesture. "The stand, Dean," he murmurs, and Dean staggers to his feet, his legs carrying him mechanically. In his head he's trying to talk to his dad, trying to ask why he's there, why everyone else is there too, what's going on, why he's on trial. But his body won't respond, and he's left to ride as a passenger in his own meatsuit as his body places his hand on a bible, takes the oath, then takes the stand, settling into the leather chair. He knows from watching enough court TV with Sam that this isn't how this is supposed to work; there's supposed to be a jury of his peers, a judge, plea bargains and investigations. But he knows this isn't an ordinary trial, and it's not like he can do anything to protest anyway. He can't even talk with his own damn mouth.
His father paces back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. "Please state your name for the court."
You know damn well what my name is. Dean's mouth moves of its own accord. "Dean Winchester."
"And do you know why you're here today, Dean?"
No. "Yes."
John nods and stops pacing in front of Dean, leaning his hands on the wooden partition between them. "Enlighten us."
And then words begin to flow from his mouth, endlessly, like a waterfall.
"I'm proud. I think I'm better than you because I think I raised Sam better than you ever could. I think I'm better than you because I think I handled mom's death better than you did.
"I think I'm good enough to handle things on my own even when proven otherwise. I think I'm too good for emotions, that I'm too good for 'chick flick' moments. I think the world revolves around me, that my problems are bigger than everyone elses, that my friends and family should drop everything to help me, no matter how small and menial the task."
No I don't! Dean screams in his head. This is bullshit! But somewhere in the back of his mind he knows his denial rings false, knows that the words his body spoke were truths he's clung to despite all evidence of the contrary.
His dad nods, like he already knew the answer. He begins to pace again, taking the time to stare out at the multitudes sitting in the courtroom. "And how many have suffered or died for your pride?"
Dean's yelling and railing in his mind falls silent. How many...?
But his body seems to know the answer. "Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. The people I couldn't save because I was too proud to ask for help, the people I didn't save because I assumed I knew all the answers. Friends who have been hurt or died because I refused to see reason, and all the innocent souls who have suffered because I was too proud to admit I didn't know what I was doing.
"It's my fault that the Apocalypse started, my fault that Sammy had to go to Hell, my fault he couldn't kick his demon blood addiction, my fault Sam and Cas went crazy, my fault you died, my fault Jo and Ellen died, my fault Cas fell, my fault he tried to become God, my fault the Leviathans are free. But I'm too proud to admit it."
Dean has no rebuttal for this, because every damn word's true.
He's almost always been too proud to admit when something's his fault, those few times he did had to be dragged out of him, and every time he regretted it because he was too damn proud to be emotional and honest and open. All he can do is stare out of eyes he can't control at the sea of familiar faces and pray they all know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could go back and say the right thing, make the right decision, ask for help when he needed it, not be too proud to rely on others.
Emotions boil within him, bubbling and seething, threatening to drag him under until he drowns. His blood roars in his ears, heart trying to beat its way out of his ribcage. All the repressed thoughts and regrets of the past come surging forth to swallow him up and its all he can do to stay afloat.
John's voice, quiet and solemn, floats across Dean's mind, barely dragging him to the present, if this could even be called that.
"You have been charged with the sin of Pride. How do you plea?"
And then Dean's back in control of his body, as if he has been the whole time, and God he can't help the tears that roll down his cheeks, the quiver to his chin, the lump in his throat that threatens to suffocate him because it's just too big to swallow down, too big to push away. It's all he can do to keep from crumbling under the weight of his pride; his shoulders hunch, spine bows out as his curls in on himself.
"How do you plea?"
A sob escapes his lips and he covers his mouth with a hand, squeezes his eyes shut to get away from all those eyes staring at him, waiting for his reply.
Dean works his jaw, tries to get the word out, but he just can't.
"How. Do. You. Plea."
"Guilty," he rasps, voice catching as he finally caves in, body shuddering with sobs. His head falls into his hands and he just cries and cries and cries, until there's nothing left in him, until his eyes are swollen and red and his throat is hoarse.
A hand cups Dean's chin, lifts his head up, wipes away the trails his tears left on his skin. His eyes widen as he leans into the familiar hands, letting gentle fingers caress his skin as he gapes. "M-mom?"
Oh God its her, blond hair in waves that frames her face, eyes warm with love. She smiles and it's like the entire world lights up, like her happiness makes the world spin on its axis. Dean sits up, stares up at her with eyes as wide as any child's. He tries to speak, but she shushes him with a finger to his lips, her eyes crinkling as her smile widens .
She presses a kiss to his forehead, his eyelids, his nose, chin, and cheeks. "My baby boy," she murmurs as she leans back, "It's time to let go of your pride, of the burden it weighs you down with. We forgive you, but it's time for you to forgive yourself."
Forgive himself? Dean lets his eyes flutter closed as his mom wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Yeah, he can probably do that. Or at least give it a valiant effort. And if not, he can at least try to be better.
Yeah, that's something he can definitely do.
When he opens his eyes again, he's kneeling on white marble, hands braced on his thighs, head bowed. It takes a few minutes for his brain to catch up, but it does, and he blinks slowly. Dean lifts his head carefully—his neck is stiff and sore, like he's been sitting in the same position for hours—and takes in his surroundings.
The entire terrace is floored with white marble, the space maybe twenty feet in diameter. There's some sort of mosaic carved into the marble—it's what Dean had been staring at before he woke up, he realizes. Like the carvings were what dragged him into wherever it was he'd gone to.
The marble forms a wall around the mountain, covering the rock face with scarily life-like sculptures. Dean can't spot where the path to the next terrace is, but he can see souls bent double, faces pressed into the floor as if bearing a great weight. Was that what he looked like while he was in the Twilight Zone? He snorts quietly and rises to his feet slowly.
Something... slides off his shoulders, down his back, like he's casting off a heavy blanket. His entire body feels lighter.
No, his soul feels lighter.
Huh.
Dean shakes the feeling, files it away to look at later, and turns in a circle, looking for Cas. It only takes him a few seconds to find him (who else would be standing in a trench coat, staring up at the sky like it holds all the answers?) and he walks up, careful not to trip over any prostrate souls or step on any fingers or heads.
"Cas?" he whispers. There's something about the silence here that he doesn't want to break, so instead of speaking louder he reaches out to touch the angel's shoulder. But Cas doesn't react, just stares up at the sky, lips parted, eyes wide. Dean would say it looks like he's about to cry, but angels don't cry, at least not in his (extremely) limited experience.
Dean's just about to shake the angel to get his attention, but Cas is taking a deep breath, letting out a body-rattling sigh—God, but Cas sighs way too much—and turning to face him. His blue eyes are out of focus, like he's staring at something hundreds of miles away. "Dude, Cas," he whispers again, waving a hand in front of the angel's face until his eyes zero in on him. "Are you alright?" Dean hisses, stepping close so his voice doesn't carry. It's not likely he can disturb the souls scattered across the ground around them, but he isn't going to press his luck.
Cas doesn't give a response, not at first. He just stares at Dean like he's surprised he's there, like he expects him to disappear at any second. He opens his mouth once, twice, like he's trying to speak but can't get the words out. "I..." he begins, brows furrowing as his gaze drops to the ground.
The sentence goes unfinished; Cas pivots on his foot and begins to stride away, leaving Dean to catch up. Once he does he falls into step, doesn't bother to ask where they're going. The only real answer is up, up to the next terrace, closer to their way home.
Dean doesn't know why he's trusting Cas now, why he's not questioning where they're going and why. Maybe it's because he can admit to himself that he doesn't know what to do in this situation; he can admit that he'll follow wherever Cas leads, even if it's off the edge of the mountain back into the depths of hell.
That should scare the piss out of him, but it doesn't.
It isn't long before Cas stops, standing at the base of a gentle incline, still swathed in pristine marble. Dean tries to follow the curving path with his eyes but only gets a few feet before he feels that familiar burning in his retinas, feels pressure on his eyelids, trying to make his eyes close. There's a feeling of static in the air, a buzz like he's standing near exposed electrical wires—the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end, and the static tingle makes his skin itch.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess there's another angel up there," Dean says, his voice still pitched low, scratching his arm idly. He studiously keeps his eyes on Cas, avoiding looking any further up the path to save his sight for as long as he can.
There's a hitch in Cas's shoulders as he breathes, a rigidity to his stance that radiates distress. Dean's hand reaches out on instinct, taking the angel's wrist in his grasp and pulling until Cas turns to face him. Its obvious that something's wrong by the way Cas's face is pinched, eyes rimmed red like he's been crying despite the lack of dried tears on his face.
Dean lets his hand slide from Cas's wrist to his hand, giving it a squeeze. "Dude, if we need to stop, just say so."
But Cas is shaking his head, rubbing at his face with his free hand in a gesture that's so God damn human it makes Dean's heart twist. He looks at Dean then, looks right into his eyes and grimaces. "We don't have time to stop often," he says, shoulders slumping. "I just underestimated how difficult our... my ascent would be." A chuckle rips its way from his throat, hollow and brittle. It takes everything Dean has not to wrap the angel in a hug; he settles for giving his hand another squeeze before letting go.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"I don't wish to burden you, Dean."
"You can stow that 'burden' crap—I'm tellin' you that if you want to talk, I'm here to listen." Dean can't help but feel uncomfortable, what with this being a Class-A chick flick moment, but he's sure as hell not going to leave this unsaid. "I'm here, Cas, and I'm not going anywhere anytime soon."
The smile that blooms on Cas's face is beatific, even through the fine layer of sweat still clinging to his skin, even through the pain of what this level of Purgatory has put him through. It's impossible not to smile back, and Dean basks in the quiet moment before jerking his head towards their path onward. "Let's get this over with," he says, and Cas nods, taking the lead with long strides.
It only takes a few steps for the buzzing in Dean's ears to amplify, for the skin-crawling static to go from uncomfortable to downright painful. Another step and his eyes are sliding shut of their own accord, the world glowing in reds and pinks as holy light filters through the skin of his eyelids.
Another step and his head feels like it's about to explode, like his skull is caught in a vice grip, squeezing like it's trying to push his temples together. A pained whine rips its way from his throat and he stumbles forward under the white hot pressure of angelic presence. By some miracle his feet stay under him, though he thinks he can register an arm wrapping around his waist, offering silent support.
His feet shuffle farther up the path, up the steady incline, Cas guiding him along with murmurs; "A little to the left, we're close now, don't open your eyes, don't look back."
Dean's thankful the ground is still smooth stone instead of jagged rock—he's so over scraping his arms and legs and shoulders against rocky outcroppings—because he can't pick up his feet, can't make his thighs lift his legs enough. All he can do is shuffle forward, one step at a time, head bowed against the endless onslaught of heavenly grace radiating from whatever angel is up ahead.
The buzzing in the air reaches a fever pitch, making his very bones feel like they're trying to rattle their way out of his skin. His eardrums pop as the noise begins to sound like a high frequency whine, like stereo feedback. Dean clamps his hands over his ears, feels his skin slick with blood.
All at once strength leaves his limbs and he folds to the ground, landing on his knees, spine curling, his head pressing against his lower thighs. There's a presence next to him, pressure on the small of his back and he keens as the touch sends fire racing through his veins, threatening to boil him alive.
It takes a few seconds for Dean to realize Cas is talking to whatever angel is guarding the gate, a few seconds for him to realize he can make out every word.
"Let not your pride weigh you down any longer; let it not drag your souls into the fires of Hell. Rejoice! For you are forgiven!"
Dean slips a lackluster "Woohoo" through his grit teeth, but the angel either doesn't hear him or chooses to ignore it. He wishes there was a fast-forward button, something to skip all the holy pomp and circumstance and get them on the other side of the gate, because his body isn't going to take much more heavenly abuse before it freaking explodes.
And then he can feel those eyes on him and he whimpers, digs his fingernails into his skull, trying to hide from the weight of that gaze. There's a whisper of feathers, the tickle of something brushing against the crown of his head, and suddenly the pressure subsides a little, just enough for him to think coherently. The itching and crawling of his skin lessens to a degree, and while the burning presence of grace still hurts his eyes even with them closed, it isn't to the point that he needs to worry about his eyes being burned out of his skull.
He hears Cas gasp beside him and something tells him the angel did the same thing to him, conferred some sort of blessing or angel mojo or whatever it was.
"Rejoice, my Brother, for you have been washed clean of your prideful sins."
There's the unmistakable sound of a sob beside Dean, but there's no time for him to react to it, to offer comfort, because he's being compelled to stand, rising to his feet robotically. He thinks he can hear something like iron scraping against rock, the groan and squeal of rusting hinges, and something pushes him forward, one step, two, three, through something white hot, like molten lava, like the center of the sun, like a supernova.
Then he's on the other side.
The gate squeaks closed, latching with a resounding click.
"Te Dominum."