The horror of the blindness almost outweighed the empty, endless throes of torment.
As though he had been in a nightmare. Only it never ended. The sharp flashes of white-hot pain invaded his psyche, twisted his thoughts and his memories until he was no longer aware or sure of who he was or who he had been. Or if he had been at all.
At first, he had forced himself to think of Sam. In the dark of the pit, he could almost recall his brother's features-almost. It was the closest he would ever come to smiling in all the years that passed him amidst the searing, unimaginable agony that was as constant as Dean was resilient.
Just like a sleepless night, the hours felt like weeks. Just like a nightmare, only he could come to his senses.
Dean Winchester could not wake up.
But he was in chains, blind, deaf and almost numb enough to ignore the anguish. Maybe, he thought, that hell was apathy. Hell was when you stopped feeling. Or caring.
God, was he lost. God, did it hurt.
Every second of every day of every month of every year. White-hot, burning, flaying, ripping and tearing. Dean Winchester was many things, but apathetic was not one of them.
As though a hundred years had passed (or perhaps after only a brief moment), Dean felt as though he could see clearly, suddenly, waking up from a nightmare.
A warm, strong hand on his shoulder squeezed tight, and he had seen nothing but dark until suddenly, a blinding light. He could barely see, but a man's voice echoed in his ears, clear as a bell and beautiful as the day was long.
"Dean," the voice rang out, strong and kind and like nothing Dean had ever heard before. The pain, he noticed, was gone; what remained was the mild pressure of a hand on his shoulder.
"Help," Dean heard his voice rasp, raw, quiet and desperate. The exquisite, other-worldly silence that seemed to contain them was broken when the strange voice spoke again.
"You are safe," it replied. Dean's eyes were beginning to focus, but all he could make out was the vague silhouette of a man.
"Who are you?" Dean asked. Every fiber of his being told him to be suspicious of the possibility of a new, creative form of torture. Somehow, though, his suspicions did not last more than a brief moment. He believed the voice when it told him he was safe; he felt safe.
"My name is Castiel," the voice answered. The name was gentle like a caress, like an embrace to Dean's broken spirit. Though his memories had fled quickly upon his arrival in the pit, and he had been sure that any memories he had had been born of the agony, he was suddenly quite sure of who he was. He could easily recall Sam, his father, his mother, Bobby…
"Castiel," Dean repeated to himself. Though the figure was still but a silhouette, Dean had the sense that Castiel was smiling.
"I will return you. You will not remember me," Castiel replied, increasing pressure on Dean's shoulder.
"Return…" Dean whispered weakly. "I'm not gonna forget," he protested, his voice rising with insistence. If there was one thing he knew, it was that he owed this guy. Again, Dean sensed the other's smile.
The first breath he took, underneath the pounds of dry dirt and pressure, the first thought that buzzed in Dean's renewed mind was the image of bright blue eyes. He did not remember Castiel, nor the voice, nor the light nor that strange sense of safety. Even after Dean felt the sunshine on his skin again, above ground and healed, that fleeting warmth, that light, those eyes-would not leave the periphery of his thoughts. As soon as life returned to Dean's body, and though he would not hear it, the voice would call out, loud and bright and beautiful.
"Dean Winchester is saved."