Author's Note: So yeah, after that completely useless 11 second teaser for Season 8 came out last night, I was overwhelmed by feelings and ended up writing nonstop for like thirty minutes, with the result that you see here. Posted it to Tumblr but I figured that for solidarity purposes it should go here with the rest of my fic. I have since been informed that that is probably Benny (Dean's new other boyfriend or something?) and not Alistair that we see at 0:03 of the teaser, but I SHALL NOT GIVE UP HOPE. Alistair was too awesome to die like that. Which probably says way too much about me, but anyway... here you go, Love you all. Hope you appreciate all the proofreading I did (plot twist: I didn't do any!)
PS listened to Hells Bells by ACDC for literally the entire time, hence the title.
Dean hasn't been counting exactly how many days they've spent in this shithole that Cas told him was purgatory, but it's been a while. Luckily for Dean the angel had reappeared after that first heart-stopping moment of abandonment and taken out the monsters in a way that was so very Castiel that Dean felt a tiny flicker of hope. Then the angel had turned and told Dean sadly that he couldn't visit the bees from here. Since then the two of them have been half-wandering, half-fleeing through the wild countryside, searching for a way out. Every day the creatures hide away and Dean and Cas gain a few miles, and every night when the two are forced to stop from sheer exhaustion they make up the difference and more.
To Dean, it seems as if Cas has been getting better, coming back to himself under the constant threat of attack. He's somehow been guiding Dean, flashing back to check on the monsters' progress, and taking time out to forage for food and water, all on as little or less sleep than Dean's been getting. After a few days though, Dean can see it wearing out the angel, and he offers to take on the job of finding things to eat. Cas' response is disturbing, even if it does fan Dean's flickering hope a little higher. The angel gets right up in Dean's personal space, the way he did at the very beginning, and tells him in a low, harsh voice that Dean needs to stay on the path Cas is making for him.
"It's too dangerous Dean," he repeats, blue eyes clear for once, and concerned. "There are peo-" he cuts himself off and hurries on before Dean can take note of the pause. "Things out there that want your head. You can't go out on your own. Promise me that you won't?" It kills Dean to look into those eyes and see the effort it's taking the angel to stay in the moment, to keep his old razor-sharp focus together, and he can only nod in silent consent. Cas turns away, and moments later he's muttering obscure animal facts again. But Dean remembers, and he follows Cas' directions.
What might a have been a week later, or two, or maybe a month, Dean breaks his promise. He feels bad, but it's obvious that Cas can't do everything. Dean is having more and more trouble waking him up in the morning to leave, and there is bruising around his eyes that Dean knows is from a deeper exhaustion than anything he has ever experienced. One night, after Cas returns and goes to sleep, Dean gets to his feet and creeps off into the woods. Cas told him that the monsters were moving slower now, and Dean figures he should be alright for a few minutes. Just long enough to find something to eat and bring it back, so that in the morning they could both eat and Cas wouldn't have to stretch himself so thin. Dean isn't totally unprepared- he takes a weapon, a sort of stylized spear that Cas brought back for him that first day. It's a strange weapon, like nothing Dean's ever seen before, and Cas won't tell him where it's from. With a last look at the sleeping angel, Dean slips into the trees.
There's something wrong in the forest, Dean can feel it, something even worse than the seeping despair that usually permeates the very air around him. He is scared stiff, scared deep in his bones in a way that he hasn't been in years. He's only a few hundred yards out but already regretting his decision. There's something menacingly familiar about the darkness, something that Dean can't quite remember and isn't sure he wants to. From behind him, back in the clearing, he hears a sudden commotion. His own name, called once in a panicked voice that could only be Cas, a cry that is cut off abruptly, as though someone held a knife to his throat. Or a razor.
Dean sprints headlong back towards the clearing as the tension in forest snaps. The fear in his bones, the presence he's been sensing, Dean recognizes them, finally, and too late. He skids to a stop as he enters the clearing, eyes darting around. He doesn't see the angel anywhere, and his heart stutters palpably, so that he gasps. Then he catches a flash of tan against the rotten green, the buckle of a belt shining brightly in the weird half-light of purgatory. Off to the side across the clearing, Cas has been tossed against a tree like a broken doll. his limbs are tangled strangely, and Dean can't tell if they're all still attached they way they should be.
Shadows bend and twist between Dean and Cas' still form, and Suddenly there is a third person in the clearing. Dean grips his weapon tighter and paces slowly around the clearing, trying to keep his attention focused on helping Cas, but the man at the center of the space draws his gaze like a magnet.
"You're dead you slimy son of a bitch." Dean knows his voice is shaking but he doesn't care. He's amazed he can speak at all. "I watched you die."
"Oh, come now Dean," Slick words slide on a smooth voice between crooked yellow teeth, and Dean imagines he can see them dripping to the ground like acid, eating away at the fabric of the forest. "Use your brain, boy, like I taught you." His voice cracks like a whip on the word taught, and Dean flinches back from it. "This is Purgatory. This is where the dead things go."
He can't see Cas anymore, the shadows are covering him now. Unwillingly, Dean turns his eyes towards the center of the clearing, and it seems as though the light in purgatory is stained red as it streams past the figure, pooling eerily on the ground like blood. "Give him back, please." Dean's voice is barely a whisper, and he doesn't hear the plea in it until he's already spoken. The man in the clearing smiles wider, opening his arms welcomingly.
"Now Dean," he purrs, words spinning through the air and sinking into Dean like hooks. "That's not the way to ask at all." Dean takes one unwilling step into the clearing, then another, fighting the despair and terror that seems to be winding itself around him like razor wire. "You know exactly how I like you to beg. Say my name Dean. Tell me who I am."
Dean's whole body is shaking but he forces himself to stop walking, to hold his ground as the whole world seems to tilt around him, funneling him towards the shadow before him.
"Alistair," he breathes through clenched teeth, and the night is split with the sound of the demon's laughter.