Title: Falling
Author: SxyMo0finMan
Rating: T for minor language
Word Count: 2,904
Sequel To: Hell Fire
Summary: Dean wakes up after an awful dream, a dream about his time in hell. In his moment of turmoil, Castiel makes in appearance and tries his best to make the situation better, but only ends up adding to the mess.
Author's Note: This is story is supposed to fit in between the time Dean has caught Sam and Ruby in the diner and the episode "The Rapture". Castiel is just starting to warm up to the Winchesters.

I want to apologize for the blend in styles. The first half was written about a year ago and the half after the bathroom scene was written in the span of the last three days.

The blood of many stains your hands now, never to be washed away.

Always there to taint your skin and remind you; you gave in.

You weren't strong enough.

Dean woke up in a lurch, sweat beading on his forehead and matting in his short, brown hair. He let out a short puff of air, his chest tight and constricted from the stress brought on from his nightmare. With trembling fingers, he ran his hand through his hair, clenching his eyes shut as he tried to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

Sitting up, Dean brought his legs in towards his body with his knees facing outward and the bottoms of his feet together, hands lying palm-down over his ankles. He sat there for a moment, head down and gaze fixated on his fingers, watching as they trembled. The hunter clenched his hands into fists, knuckles now white from the strain. It was just a nightmare, nothing more. I'm here, I'm back.

And yet, Dean still couldn't fully shake that haunting voice. He could still hear it, ringing clear in his ears as the demon laughed and commended him for his good work. Alastair had said over and over that he was a 'natural born', his protégé or often referred to him as "young grass hopper".

Unfortunately, Alastair was right. Dean had been good at torturing, a natural at it in fact. He had held no qualms with tearing a soul apart at the seams, stabbing at the ethereal beings with a heated razor or with stretching them on the rack like taffy. It was sometimes difficult for him to remember just who he had been before his time in the Pit.

And so he'd go down the list, mentally checking off every attribute he remembered, as well as every flaw he saw in his person. He reminded himself of his name and legacy, repeating often the words I am back and this is me.

But who is Dean Winchester, really?

He is a man of little faith, despite the fact that he has seen the faces of angels and has spoken with them frequently. It was just easier to believe in the darker things because he dealt with that every single day of his adult life. Dean had been to Hell, for crying out loud. He had never had a reason to believe in the higher power until Castiel made his appearance. What the angels wanted with him, Dean had no idea, though. He had never really been of a high moral standing before he had sold his soul, but he did whatever he could to make the world livable. With a wild streak a mile long, it was hard to keep honest to both himself and others. He frequented bars, gambled, and had many a rendezvous with various women. Dean was also a hunter, a person who put his life on the line to protect the unsuspecting from whatever ghostie or baddie that went bump in the night; to those who knew what he did for a living, he was a hero.

The hunter let out a groan, the silent mantra of 'this is who I am' and 'this is what I do' adding to his own frustration and doing nothing to calm him down. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing at them to rid them of sleep. For a moment afterwards, his vision was dotted with a white after-image, obscuring is already poor vision due to the ill lighting of the room. A shape in the corner of the room made Dean jump, his heart pounding harder in his chest.

Every instinct in him told him to reach for the gun under his pillow and fire, his muscles tense and ready for battle. The elder hunter felt his chest relax when he realized it was just the old Zenith television set, complete with rabbit ears and minimal working channels, a snort of laughter escaping him at his own stupidity.

He looked around the semi familiar surrounds, checking the corners of the room for movement. Everything seemed to be like how he remembered. His jacket and shirt were flung over the seat near the door, the leather sleeve just barely touching the threadbare floor. On the table were a couple of loose newspaper clippings and the grand-daddy of them all, John's journal. Nothing was out of place there as far as he could tell.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong. His mind was plagued with demons, hands reaching out to run thin, bony fingers along his skin, to grip his chin tight and admonish him for his weakness. Fire licked at the hems of his clothing, engulfing him in the inferno as the smell of burning flesh crashed over him in a wave of roiling heat. The flames brought on the feeling of delight instead of pain, put him in his element and reminded him of his cause. Rip… tear… Rend the flesh to bone. Dean swore he could still hear the din of souls screaming as he cut into them with a sharp-edged knife, just like cutting into butter.

The wave of nausea that came over him was sudden and unexpected, Dean's stomach knotting hard enough to make him double over, hands moving to clutch at his waist, a gasp of pain leaving him. He focused his wide, green eyes on the floral bedspread pulled tight around his knees, following each stitch and trying to count every tiny thread as he breathed deeply through his nose.

Calm down, ground yourself. Breathe. In… out… In… out…

But it wasn't working.

His stomach still rolled, the tang of bile rising to touch the back of his tongue. The hunter swallowed hard, trying to keep it all down, ashamed by his body's adverse reaction.

It was just a nightmare. He wasn't in hell. He was here, on planet Earth and breathing again. There were no monsters hiding in the shadows, well, at least none more so than usual.

He let his eyes pass over the room again as he willed his stomach to settle. It's then that he noticed the empty queen bed beside him, old bed sheets pulled back at the corner and pillows all askew. Darling Sammy was out of bed and missing. Dean clenched his fists as he thought about that, his head going through all the possibilities of where Sam could be and falling on only one. That one made his stomach burn hot and churn all over again.

Ruby. Sam was out with that hell bitch again, Dean just knew it, and doing God knows what. He stared a hole into the mattress, head turning over all the things that the demon spawn could be getting his brother into, none of them good.

He still remembered walking in on them in that diner, bodies littering the floor and seeing her smiling at Sam. There was a glint in her eyes and he hadn't liked it, had wanted to carve out her eyes to never see it again. The way she looked at his brother, like he was some pet toy to fawn over and pat on the head for doing such a good job, made his blood boil. And that one time, when he rounded the corner of that fucking crypt to find Sammy with his hand outstretched towards Samhain, the demon witch coughing up white gray smoke and staggering across the floor until he was brought to his knees. Sammy had done that, his Sammy had somehow banished a supposedly immortal superbeing with his voodoo mind tricks. Oh God.

Dean clapped a hand to his mouth, scrambling to pull the blankets from around his legs. He stumbled from the bed on unsteady legs, lurching towards the open bathroom door, not bothering to turn on the light to guide his way. His shoulder clipped the hard wood of the door frame, a sharp pain jolting through his right arm as he staggered into the small room and crashed to the tile floor in front of the toilet, knees screaming in agony as he leaned forward to grip the cool bowl of the porcelain seat.

He heaved and heaved, but nothing would come up. Each time he bent over the bowl, it felt like his stomach was forcing its way up his throat, the twisting pain almost too much for him to handle. Dean let out half a sob, his head banging against his clenched fingers.

"Why did he bring me back for this?" he asked, voice broken and rough.

"Because it was God's will," came a voice from behind him. Dean let out a muffled shout, hand slamming down onto the rim of the toilet. He swung around so that he was now wedged against the wall in between the toilet and the counter. The angel was just standing there in all his glory, tan trench coat rumpled with one lapel folded inward and the other overly wrinkled. Castiel's face was blank, his lips pressed tight into a thin line as he looked down on the hunter.

"Cas," Dean breathed out, "A warning next time would be nice." He brought his knees up to his chest, his head falling to rest against his kneecaps. Castiel observed the hunter for a moment before moving to put the toilet lid down. He lowered himself down to the seat slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"We questioned our orders, too," Cas said, looking over and holding eye contact with the older Winchester. Dean shifted uncomfortably under the angel's gaze. It felt like Castiel was boring into his soul, picking apart the pieces that held him together so that he was cracking, vibrating at apart at the seams.

"Why should we risk ourselves for one insignificant human soul?" Castiel continued, looking away from Dean and at a point on the wall. The Winchester let out a breath, his chest loosening as the weight of the angel's gaze left him. He was thankful that the other found a towel rack more interesting than his wrecked being. "But God said you were needed, useful for a higher purpose, so we laid siege on Hell."

"Fire licked at our wings, crippled a lot of my brethren. Many were lost as we tore through the levels to get to you. But we were too late."

Dean cringed. He looked down at his shaking hands, clenching them into fists to stop their tremors. He remembered the smell of sulfur engulfing him, the elation of ripping into a new soul, and then a bright light. It had burned him, seared his dark eyes and had him smoldering. He remembered screaming, dropping to his knees, and clapping his hands over his ears to block out the piercing screech that even his shouts of "Sam! Sammy, help me!" couldn't drown out. In his final moments in Hell, he remembered cool, blue eyes and the outlines of an inhuman face.

"I was the first to reach you. You were burning, screaming for your brother, a connection to your humanity, but you were not human. When I reached you, a demon had already taken your place."

Dean cleared his throat. He felt sick again, could feel his stomach rolling. Acid heat rose to the back of his throat and he had to swallow it down. "Yeah, uh, thanks, Cas. But I—"

"I wasn't finished, Dean," Castiel cut across him, his eyes snapping back to lock Dean in his iron blue cage.

"When I reached you, you were no longer human, but a broken wreckage left to rot. But I took hold of you and knitted your soul back together piece by piece. I pulled you up and out of that place to bring you back home. You're here because of me and because of God's will. I would prefer it if you stop questioning your return. You are needed."

Castiel raised himself from his impromptu seat and stepped across the small room, hands clasped behind his back. He took his place in front of the dingy sink bowl and looked at his reflection. He could also see the bedroom from the mirror and the corners of each bed, one obviously slept in while the other on untouched. Cas narrowed his eyes at the lack of Sam Winchester's presence. He knew where the other was, but there was little he could do about it. He wasn't supposed to interfere.

"No offense, Cas, but you didn't do a good job," Dean muttered, turning Castiel's attention back to him. He kept his head down, eyes on his hands so he wouldn't have to meet the angel's hard gaze. He didn't want to see the disappointment that would surely be there. "I'm falling apart here. I don't belong. I don't know who I am anymore or… or what I believed in. You should have just left me there."

Dean could feel the pressure of Castiel's eyes on him and it made him squirm. He felt like some bug that was being observed by an immature brat, some kid that just wanted to squash him into the pavement. And he would have welcomed it.

He didn't even realize Cas had moved until the angel was crouching down right in front of him, the sudden appearance startling him into looking up. Dean was trapped, pinned under Castiel's gaze. He pressed himself as far back against the wall as he could, trying to get Cas out of his personal bubble, but the angel wasn't taking the hint. "Cas— Personal space, please."

Dean didn't know what made Castiel move, either his request or the slight wine to his voice, but the angel stood up and took a half step back. He tilted his head for a moment before holding out a hand for the other to take. Dean just stared at Cas for a moment before hesitantly taking his hand.

"It's only going to get worse before it gets better," Castiel said semi-sympathetically, the phrasing awkward on his lips, as he helped the Winchester to his feet. They stood there for a moment, hands still clasped together. "I meant what I said, Dean. You're needed, here. You're a crucial piece to our endgame."

Before Dean could question the angel any further, Castiel straightened his back and tilted his head to the side as if he was listening to something the hunter couldn't hear, and then he was gone. He cursed at the angel's last few words, their meaning hard for him to fully grasp. What end game? What was that damned angel talking about? Dean let out a frustrated groan, turning quickly on his feet to punch a hole in the wall beside the door frame. He welcomed the bruising pain in his knuckles, letting it ground him. He now had more questions than answers, and Sammy still wasn't there.

Dean heard the door to the room open and close and the clatter of keys on the table. He gritted his teeth as he rounded the corner to find Sam creeping over to his bed.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean asked, startling his younger brother. He stared Sam down, praying that the other couldn't hear the fear and self-loathing in his voice. He could feel his blood pressure skyrocket so that it was pounding in his ears when Sam just shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly said, "Out."

"Out?" Dean questioned in disbelief. He let his eyes slide from Sam over to the keys to the Impala, now lying haphazardly on the table next to John's journal where they hadn't been before. "With my car?"

"Dean, come on," Sam said shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the bed. "It was mine for months. I'm just not used to you being back yet."

Before Dean could fire back with a retort about how long he's been back and that they've had this conversation before, he noticed the odd light in Sam's eyes and how wide his pupils were. Dean moved like lightening across the room and got into his brother's face, reaching up to widen one of Sam's eyes with thumb and forefinger.

"Are you high?" Dean asked just as Sam swatted away his hand and pushed him back.

"What?" Sam asked, looking away and down at the floor. He let out a breathy laugh, hand moving up to rub the back of his neck before looking back at Dean. He squared his shoulders and simply said, "No."

Dean stared hard at his brother, and Sam stared back. The older Winchester could feel the energy vibrating off of Sam, could see him shaking in his bones. There was something utterly alive in the room that didn't belong there, a feeling of alien fear. He knew there was something more behind this, that Sam was lying and Ruby was involved. But he didn't know how to say it without sounding paranoid. And so Dean just passed it off with a grumbled "Whatever" and climbed back onto his bed. He pulled the blankets roughly over him and kept his back to Sam, curling up around his pillow. Dean shut his eyes and tried to ignore the feeling that he was falling, that the world was ending around him. Maybe if he just willed it away, life would be as he needed it, as he wanted it.