The Storming of Hell

"The warrior's gift is to willingly storm Hell that Heaven may remain unstained."
- R.V.A. Marcell

Raphael looked up from the ancient manuscript as Uriel strode into the quiet chamber. He disliked commotion or dramatics of any kind, a dislike that was sadly lost on his underlings. Uriel, in particular, felt that a dramatic entrance added weight to the importance of his role.

"Well?" The archangel raised a brow.

"Pythius has confirmed it. The First Seal has been broken." Uriel said, his eyes shining with excitement. "All of our planning has come to fruition, at last."

"Hardly," Raphael stared at the seraphim for a moment then turned away. "But it's begun, finally."

"Your orders, my Lord?" Uriel could hardly stand still, he wanted to be away, working on the plan, arranging the pawns.

"Michael will find out from his own sources soon. We should pre-empt that, I think. Tell Zachariah I will see him in the Court. We will have to decide who we can sacrifice."

Uriel bowed his head. "At once."

Chapter 1

The great chamber was a thousand feet long, and almost as wide. The cool marble floors echoed with the passage of feet, the rustle of wings, as the ranks of the seraphim and cherubim milled around, waiting for the one who had summoned them.

Standing beside the pillars of Heaven; soaring columns of marble and anthracite, porphyry and obsidian, Castiel watched the swelling mass of angels with a feeling of dread in his heart. He had not seen the chamber so filled for more than two thousand years. The last time it had been to declare that Heaven was in a state of War.

Near the tall golden doors, there was a stirring in the crowd. Castiel turned his head, watching as the throng began to part, swirling in eddies as they moved aside.

Michael swept into the room, his fury evident in the speed of his progression, the tension visible in his construct. He reached the dais, striding up the two broad, shallow steps that raised the low stage above the level of the main floor, and turned.

"Raphael! Gabriel!" His voice thundered through the chamber, echoing from the hard surfaces of stone. He saw his brothers walking slowly through the mass of the crowd.

"Explain to me how this has happened!"

The archangel was beautiful, a beauty that had no equivalent on Earth, or any other plane. But now the perfect features marred by his emotion, the black brows drawn together, his wide, full mouth thin and taut, the unearthly blue eyes narrowed and spitting fire.

"Calm yourself, brother," Raphael drawled. "Your wrath is out of place here."

Michael stared at him. "Is it, Raphael? There is one bloodline, one alone, who can break the First Seal of Lucifer's Cage. And now, of that bloodline, only one was left who could have been conceivably used to do so." He paused, turning to glare out over the Host who stood assembled. "And no one was watching him? Explain."

"It was an error in judgement," Raphael conceded, spreading his hands out placatingly. "We could not foresee that he would take the action he did over his brother's death."

Michael shook his head. "No, brother, that's not good enough. Dean Winchester had a year before he was taken to Hell, and he's been held there for four months."

Gabriel stood silently, watching both archangels. When he had heard the news, it had seemed … convenient … in his mind. He could see Michael's fear, beneath the fury. He looked at Raphael thoughtfully.

"Zachariah!" Raphael called the seraphim. "Who had the duty of watching the Winchesters?"

"My Lord, we were not told of their importance until the elder brother had already been taken by hellhounds," Zachariah fell to his knees before Raphael. "My most trusted and diligent team were watching them, generally, but there was the matter of Azazel and the opening of the Hell Gate to be monitored at the same time –"

"Excuses!" Michael gestured imperiously, his anger not quenched. "Bring them here."

Four angels walked slowly toward the dais. Raphael moved aside, withdrawing. Gabriel looked sadly at his brothers, knowing what was to come. He turned away.

"You have failed in your duty and in your obedience to Heaven, my brothers." Michael looked down at them, his face as cold as the marble that lined the chamber. The four knelt before him.

The blast of light from Michael's hands was blinding. The kneeling angels were burned in the heart of the white incandescence, the anthelion reflecting a thousandfold from the pillars and floor.

Michael dropped his hands and looked at Raphael. "Their deaths are on your head, brother."

He turned back to the massed seraphim, his voice ringing out through the great chamber. "Prepare the Host. Gabriel, ten battalions, experienced fighters only. Oriphiel, the same. Get them ready, we leave in five hours to storm the gates of Hell."

Amidst the chaos and noise of the rushing angels, Castiel stood beside the pillar, watching the activity with misgiving. Raphael's lack of humility. Michael's fury. This sudden decision to an action that had no precedent in the histories of Heaven, the pieces hung tantalisingly in his mind, separate yet he could feel their connections. The air blew past in a wild eddy, and Michael was beside him.

"Castiel, your loyalty and devotion to our Father, to Heaven, have been unquestioning. I would have you to lead the company that will enter the Inner Circles of Hell, to rescue the soul." Michael looked down at the lesser angel, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"My Lord, I am not sure –"

"Then be sure, Castiel," Michael looked at him, his voice softening as his eyes darkened. "I need someone loyal now, I need someone I can trust."

Castiel raised his eyes slowly, his attention sharpening. "You think it's a plot?"

The archangel looked around the great chamber, scanning the faces of the angels still milling around. He shook his head slowly. "I find it hard to believe my brothers could have failed to protect the man. I also find it hard to believe that any could plot against Heaven. I thought … I'd hoped that insurrection had gone from here with the Lightbringer's downfall." He sighed then shook off his doubt, looking into the seraphim's eyes intently.

"And that is why I need you, to raise Dean Winchester. I know you will not fail."

Castiel bowed his head. "I will not, My Lord."

"Thank you. Gather your warriors, pick only the best, Castiel – the extraction of this soul will be difficult." He turned away and strode through the crowd, across the chamber.

Castiel watched the mass part before him, and close up again behind him. He was shaking, with the responsibility he now held, with nervousness, with doubt. He had never crossed to the plane that was Perdition, though it lay adjacent to the plane of Heaven, adjacent to the earthly plane. The planes lay close, so close that crossing was as simple as leaning across a fence, and plucking a rose from the other side, though the abyss between them was deep. He had heard from others that Lucifer's kingdom was a confusion, an unstructured, shifting creation that drank light and spat out shadow and flame. And they would face the Fallen, leading the hellspawn against them.

He straightened his shoulders, lifting his head. He had a job to do, and he would do it, or die trying. He saw Gabriel, in the corner of the chamber, speaking to Raphael and Uriel. He began to walk towards them.

Balthazar looked up as he buckled on his armour, adjusting his sword belt so that the sheath hung flat, the elaborate basket hilt ready to his hand.

"Quite a promotion, Cas." He commented, his eyes narrowing as he took in the tension in his brother.

Castiel nodded uncomfortably. "It was … unexpected. I need what we have on the Inner Circles, Balthazar. Everything we have. Michael will hold the entrances and the bulk of the hellspawn, but we will be going deeper."

Balthazar tilted his head. "That sounds ominous. We're the rescue party, I take it?"

Castiel turned his head to look at him, his face expressionless. "I don't have time for a discussion, my brother. I need those plans now."

"Sorry. Of course." The angel disappeared.

Leaning back against the wall, his armour heavy and pinching him in places, Castiel let out a long breath. He lacked the ability to lead, he thought unhappily. He couldn't find the balance between discipline and camaraderie. He could only hope that it wouldn't cost them when they were in battle.

He had watched over the earthly plane and his Father's most treasured creations for more than two thousand years. He'd fought demon and angel, here in the halls of Heaven and on the earthly plane. It wasn't his skill or experience he was worried about, he thought. The responsibility for his warriors would lie on his shoulders and he knew, without a flicker of shame or modesty, that there were better leaders for this mission. And worse ones.

Michael had spoken of trust. He wondered if the archangel truly believed that there were those here who would work against them.

The Host stood assembled in the outer Court, at the appointed time. Michael watched them, ten thousand angels filling the vast space from end to end, grouped in their companies, their leaders waiting silently with them.

He prayed to his Father that they were ready. He was aware that his decision had no precedent. It would be seen as an outright act of War. And so it was. He had prayed but still there was no answer.

Castiel stood with his company. He had handpicked the fighters that formed it, with the exception of Uriel. The older seraphim had been appointed to the company by Raphael, over Gabriel's protests. He missed the sure command of Arariel, the certainty of her faith, the brilliance of her strategic thinking. He shook his head impatiently. She was gone, he was leader now.

Michael nodded to Gabriel, and the archangel raised a golden horn to his lips. The notes, like crystal birds, floated out over the assembly, stirring the seraphim, calling them to battle. The melody wrapped around them, lifting them, and as it grew more complex, Castiel felt the change in the fabric of the universe around them, the light brightening, the Court receding, as they crossed over.