How I Met Your Brother

by Tibbins

Missing scene from 'Let the Actions Speak'. If you were wondering what Castiel told Sam at the picnic, this is it. The story of how Dean Winchester was saved, and how he saved Castiel right back. Implied Destiel.

Another fic so soon? It's almost as though I've already had this written and was waiting to post it until it would make sense in context...

This is a missing scene from my fic 'Let the Actions Speak', it can probably be read as a stand-alone but will definitely make more sense if you have read that one first.

Written for a prompt given to me on Tumblr by the lovely Kohumi and inspired by a fantastic fic called Set Me Free by the wondrously talented MissAnnThropic, at least, those are their name on AO3, I don't know if they have accounts here.

Enjoy ^_^

Cas sat with Sam on the hood of the impala, watching Jack throw stones into the lake, twisting his wrist low to send them skipping over the water like Sam had shown him. Dean was asleep on the picnic blanket to their right, one elbow sticking out from under his head, knees tucked up slightly. He'd probably be stiff when he awoke, and cold; the sun was beginning its slow descent towards the horizon and although the temperature hadn't dropped dramatically yet, the wind had picked up from slight breeze to more constant chill. Not that Cas felt it beyond his intrinsic knowledge of what the temperature was, but Sam and Jack had already put on their jackets. Still, by silent agreement they all let him sleep. He needed the rest and Cas could always heal his aches when he woke.

This lunch outside had been a great idea of Dean's, getting them all out of the bunker for some sunshine and quality time, something which none of them had been able to appreciate lately, particularly Sam. He had taken the loss of the Apocalypse World survivors hard, and the ambiguity of Jack's current state harder still, so seeing him smile and joke and gently poke Dean with a long stick until the still-sleeping hunter batted at the offending weapon and rolled onto his side was something of a relief.

"I'm real glad we did this, Cas," Sam said quietly, watching the branches of a willow tree where they trailed lazy patterns in the water, "I don't know how he knew that this was what I needed but..." he gestured at the beautiful scene around them, the beginnings of spring making itself known; flowers beginning to emerge from the earth, greenery budding on branches, the sound of demanding chicks hassling their poor parents for food. They'd taken a walk around the lake, the three of them, left Dean sleeping, though Cas had made sure to keep the area within reach of his enhanced senses, just in case. They'd returned not twenty minutes ago, and all of them seemed much calmer for it.

"Are you surprised?" Cas asked, a smile in his voice, "He knows you better than anyone, as you know him."

"I thought I did," Sam replied, a shadow crossing his face, "I thought I knew what he needed, but when he- last time he needed something I just couldn't figure it out. I let him be Agent Page and I gave him beer at breakfast and I tried to take him to a strip club. I felt like a kid, like I was trying to cheer him up in the stupid little ways that kids do. I didn't know how to fix the problem so I just tried masking it with stuff he liked. It didn't work."

"I'm sure he appreciated the effort nonetheless," Cas said diplomatically, "as you appreciate his efforts in cleaning up the bunker and doing your laundry and suggesting this. Isn't it the same? It doesn't fix the problem, but it helps."

Sam sighed, a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from his very core, his eyes fixed on Jack's next stone that was too heavy to make a good skipping stone and the corner of his mouth twitched up as it hit the water with a disappointing plop. Jack wasn't deterred though, searching through the pebbles on the very edge of the shoreline, muddying the water by stirring up sand. Cas saw worry in Sam's hazel eyes, even through the stress and pain of loss there was a constant, gnawing worry. Cas knew it, he felt it too.

"What does fix the problem?" Sam asked him suddenly, "We've still got so much going on; I need to be there for Jack, for everyone that's left, for Dean, but I don't know how. I can't even go into the library anymore. I stood outside it for twenty minutes this morning, but I couldn't go in, couldn't even look. I just kept seeing Maggie-"

He buried his face in his hands then. Not crying, like would be expected of someone in this position and in this much raw pain, probably forcing the tears down because of the boy skipping stones only yards away. Keeping up appearances, a lifelong habit.

"I failed them, Cas," he mumbled through his fingers, "I failed all of them."

"What could you have done differently?"

"Something."

Cas' heart went out to the man. Sam had grown so much in the last few years; ever since Cas had returned from the Empty Sam had been different, he had taken on the parental role in Jack's life while Dean had kept his distance, trying his absolute best to make sure that Jack never felt the same loneliness that he had as a child. Cas would be forever grateful to Sam for fulfilling his promise to Kelly when he himself couldn't. Not that that was why Sam had done it, of course, he was just that kind.

"Do you-" Sam began, then he dropped his hands from his face and shook his head, expression closing in on itself, "never mind."

"What?"

"Nothing, it's… it's stupid."

"Tell me anyway."

Sam shot him a look, cautious, like he was worried Cas wouldn't understand, but after a moment the need to speak the thought aloud won out.

"Do you think maybe Dean was right? That we should've let him go when he asked us to? We lost over twenty hunters, Cas. Good people who didn't deserve to die. And Jack had to burn off who knows how much of his soul to save us. Would it have been better to let Dean get in that damn box?"

Cas chewed on his bottom lip; his immediate reaction was no, of course they were better off for having Dean here, how could Sam even think otherwise? But he knew that would be unhelpful, it was clear that Sam already hated himself for thinking it.

"Perhaps," he said instead, "but could you have lived with yourself if you had?"

"Lives would have been saved,"

"But not you brother's."

"It was what he wanted,"

"So?"

Sam's lips quirked at that. "I know," he said quietly, "as wrong as it is, even after everything Michael did, I would rather have Dean."

"Me too," Cas said, with a small smile of his own, "cursed or not."

Sam gave him a strange look but didn't press his odd wording, seeming to sense that it wasn't entirely for him to understand. They fell silent for a little while, watching as Jack eventually grew bored of throwing pebbles and began inspecting the insects that gathered around the roots of nearby plants.

"I know what it's like to lose people under your command," he said eventually, "to be the only one left and feel like you failed them because of that."

Sam looked at him, pushing some stray hair back from his face and tucking it behind his ear.

"Bum mission?" He asked,

"Quite the opposite. It was the most important mission of my life," Cas paused a moment, "I never did tell you the story of how I raised Dean from Hell, did I?"

Sam started at that, twisting his torso around to face him, all of his focus concentrated on the angel, "No. I- you didn't."

"I was desperate to prove myself," Cas said with a sigh, "Anna had fallen only a few decades before and I had taken her place as garrison leader in all but title, our reputation had taken a hit because of Anna's rebellion but there was little opportunity for any significant victories to try and rectify that. Still, our garrison was the most disciplined, the most tenacious in pursuing a goal. We had never failed a mission for Heaven."

He felt himself puffing up a little. Pride may be the most deadly of the sins but it was the only one angels seemed to have in abundance. To take pride in being a good soldier, in following orders without question, in knowing one's place. Perhaps the thought should make him cringe now but it didn't. To walk through the hallways and feel the respect of your siblings, knowing that you had done your part to earn it. There was a pure kind of dignity in those memories that Cas was reluctant to let go of.

"At the time, I thought that was why I was chosen, but now I'm not so sure; perhaps they thought I would be a good decoy, or maybe they were hoping to get rid of me because of my reputation as a rebel among the higher-ups, though, of course, I wasn't aware of that." His throat tightened, as it always did when he thought of Naomi and the parts of himself that he had lost thanks to her… treatments. He wondered if he would ever regain those memories, he wasn't sure he wanted to. "Regardless, they placed me with fourteen other angels, the best of the best, leaders of their own garrisons, and they gave me command. There were three other groups sent as well of a similar size. An army. We hadn't been needed in such numbers since Lucifer's fall. We seemed to be much harder to kill back then."

He smiled wryly at Sam, who was watching him, rapt.

"As soon as we got word that the Righteous Man had arrived in the Pit, we were sent to retrieve him. And so we laid siege to the gates. My garrison were strong, we worked well together and they trusted me as well as any angel trusts their superior. Implicitly, whether or not it's wise."

He remembered it well. A lot of his memories of his time in Heaven had gone fuzzy around the edges—probably the result of his bouncing from angel to human and back again, the loss of his grace and its diminished power—but that war... every detail was as sharp as the day it happened, like each moment had been painstakingly sketched onto glass, preserved forever.

Xxx

They were the last of the groups to arrive at the gates; Castiel had hoped to use the distraction at the main point of entry to see if he could find a side entrance but Hell had closed all other ways in and out, would have closed the main gates too if that action was reversible. So they threw themselves into the assault; demons and almost-demons and hellhounds and twisted creatures that had once been human souls, tortured into madness and forgetting their human forms, all of them fell before his blade. But there were always more; perhaps some were even the same ones, they were still in Hell after all, torment was eternal here. He and the others pushed forwards, breaking through the gates after only a year of fighting, but that was barely the first hurdle, on the other side, as expected, was a veritable wall of damned creatures, all intent of destroying them. The bloodshed was unending; angels didn't tire and neither did demons, though while the latter revelled in the violence and chaos of it all, after a decade the angels began to flag. Hell was oppressive to their very beings, everything that it was made of repelled them. The power of such a place attacked more than just their physical forms: once past the threshold of the gates, they were bombarded with the prayers.

The walls of Hell kept them in usually, but once they were inside the bubble popped and the screams began. Thousands upon thousands of them, praying to God, to His angels, to anyone who was listening, cursing them or begging them to help, save them, stop the torment that they had brought upon themselves, either with a deal or a lifetime of vice. Some angels fled at the onslaught and Castiel couldn't blame them. Whether or not you believed the souls here deserved their fate, it was another thing entirely to hear it. None under his command retreated though and Castiel redoubled his efforts to make an opening, using the screams as motivation. He couldn't aid all of them, but there was one, one voice in the millions that he could help save. He tried to pick it out, to focus on it, but as he had no idea what Dean Winchester's voice sounded like, it was impossible. He did choose one young male with an American accent, and pretended that it was the Righteous Man. It was good enough, he fought for that voice, even as Kevial was surrounded and torn apart, his grace shredded and tossed aside with no hope of retrieval. It was the first loss of the battle and it was his, but he forced himself to press on. He had sent Kevial to scout from above, to try and see if they were almost through; a reckless decision, they would know they were through when they got there, and it had cost Kevial his life.

He sent Lanariel back to the edge of the fighting to recuperate after a hellhound had badly rent one of her wings and there she was caught by a group of demons who dragged her, screaming, back into the Pit.

She rejoined the battle twelve years later, her eyes flickering with corrupted grace, and Castiel cut her down himself.

He too was beginning to weaken, his grace starting to compress under the pressures of this place, where everything was blood and sulphur and bile. In a way to combat this he changed his form to a more compact shape; his earthly vessel, James Novak, only with the dimensions skewed so he was larger than the average human. He kept his wings, of course, mostly for practicality's sake but also so that he would be recognisable as an angel in the way that the Righteous Man thought of them, if he was still human enough to recognise anything. It had been sixteen years on this plane since Dean Winchester had died on Earth, no doubt he was being given special attention by Hell's best torturer, Alastair, to break him, to break the first Seal, if he hadn't already.

Perhaps it was that desperate thought that caused him to dash through a brief crack in the defending forces the second it opened. It was pure luck that he had been right next to it and he just acted. The opening closed behind him just as quickly and although he hadn't gone completely unnoticed, the distraction at the gates proved too large for more than a few creatures to peel off and attack, though once he had dispatched them, he knew that he wouldn't have long before the very presence of his grace drew attention like a beacon.

Xxx

"So I fled into Hell. I abandoned my garrison, left them to face the hoards of demons without me. It shouldn't matter, they were all commanders, one of the others would have been capable of leading, but it felt like a betrayal. I knew when Hell sensed my presence, I knew it because I heard my garrison, my siblings crying out for mercy as they were overwhelmed. Hell had been content to keep us fighting at the gates eternally, it has enough creatures to spare, but the moment it knew that one of us was inside it ended the battle."

Cas felt his face twisting as he remembered the voices in his head, great warriors, pleading for a quick death.

"I think they were hoping to draw me back out if they tortured the others," he continued, taking a deep breath and comfort in the delicate scent of honeysuckle and lilac and damp earth that accompanied it. "Dozens of angels crying out for me specifically to help them. Some of them lasted for years. I could have followed their cries, I might have even saved some of them. Instead I turned away."

"Oh, Cas," Sam said, it wasn't the beginning of a longer thought, merely the reminder that he was there and that he was listening. Cas had never told this story before. Neither of the brothers had asked about it and Cas hadn't wanted to reopen old wounds. Still, it felt right that he talk about it now, to Sam.

Xxx

It was not the Hell of Crowley's reign that greeted him; stone halls, demons confined to meat suits, ego and efficiency; the Hell of Azazel's rule was a labyrinth, or perhaps it was the opposite. There was so much empty space it felt like flying through a black hole. Even the constant background hum of the angels back in Heaven had been cut off, only those screaming for mercy and the prayers of those souls still human enough to remember what prayer was remained; he had never felt so alone. There was nothing to see but flashes of demonic energy, the stench of rot and pain and sulphur, the cacophony of insanity in his mind and nowhere to hide from the occasional demon patrol that would attack him on sight. He followed the gentle tug of the Righteous Man's soul, they'd been given that much by their superiors at least, an imprint, not enough to visualise, but enough to be certain when he laid eyes in it.

It was a strange descent. Not only was he getting weaker each day, his wounds taking longer to heal, the power of Hell beating down on him relentlessly, but it felt… empty. It was draining, more draining than he would have expected. Constant battle would have kept him alert, finding his way through twisting paths would have engaged his mind, but as he flew towards Dean Winchester there were no landmarks, no walls, nothing to indicate that there was anything except for the prayers and that tug and the infrequent encounter with a feral creature. He was beginning to get anxious; he had left his siblings to die all so he could complete the mission, but would he even make it that far? Angels were not supposed to be in this place; it was everything they stood against, concentrated and acidic and it was grating on his very grace.

It was almost three years before he reached the cages and by that time he was fatigued in a way he had never been before; the prayers had grown louder and now actual voices joined them, hands grasping through bars, some to claw, others to beg. He ignored them. These souls were damned for a reason after all, none of them had been deemed worthy of salvation so there was no point even acknowledging them.

Still, striding through the rows of cages was… uncomfortable, it was hard to ignore the prayers when the ones praying were so close, it was hard to turn his head from a sobbing child—what had they done to deserve eternity here?—from a woman half-deranged with pain, from a man convulsing on the ground. The not-air around them all was thick and cloying, those in the cages might not need oxygen, but most of them probably weren't aware of that yet. Indeed, many of those he passed had scars on their throats, some still dripping open. His hands balled into fists as they longed to reach out and take away that pain; that is what angels were made for, to heal, to help, to aide humans. Of course they were warriors, but if he stood aside and did nothing, how was he better than the demons who had trapped them here? What was he fighting for if not for them? He had to shake himself at that traitorous thought, focus, you have a mission. Heaven needs you.

So he spread his wings once more and flew past the remaining cages, towards the source of the tug. Attacks from Hell's swarms were becoming more frequent now as he delved deeper, more twisted creatures lunged at him from the dark, those that had forgotten what light was. He reminded them with a flash of grace; eyes burned, demons howled and alerted others. They were all searching for him, he knew it; they knew that he was inside and they knew what he was there for, it was only luck that the very nature of Hell made it difficult to find anything at all, including an angel actively trying to avoid detection.

He wondered if Heaven had sent more angels after him, or if they had simply given up the mission as a lost cause. Dean Winchester had broken the first Seal after all, he had felt the snap inside his grace as the Seal splintered, a warning of something new, something only spoken of with an air of reverence and skepticism in Heaven. There was no turning back, the Apocalypse had begun. Dean Winchester would be needed to house Michael, but that need was much less pressing than protecting the other seals. He should be with them. Instead he was here, in this festering space of pain and despair. And here he would stay unless he could find the Righteous Man. He knew that as surely as he knew the names of all the prophets. He would not leave Hell without Dean Winchester. He had abandoned his own for this mission, he would see it through. The tug had grown clearer over the past few days, a more solid directional pull than just vaguely downwards and the singular demonic entities became groups, leaving him weaker with every pulse of grace he had to expend.

Forty years since Dean Winchester had arrived in Hell, Castiel found him. Or at least, he found a heavy fortification of demons and hellhounds and other monstrosities. They were clearly guarding something, and Castiel knew what. He kept his distance, scouted out the defences, staying out of sight. But he knew that there would be no easy gap to slip through this time, he was going to have to force his way in. He dropped back for a moment, feeling the strain in his wings, even his limbs were beginning to shake with the tremendous power that Hell exuded. He could turn back. As soon as he left Hell the security measures would become laxer, making it easier for another group of angels to retrieve the soul later. He had not been made for a battleground such as this, there had never been shame in retreat. But the soul had been in Hell for a long time already, Dean Winchester might be pure demon by the time Michael was ready to claim his vessel, and that just wouldn't do. It called to him, now he was close enough to hear it, though his view was blocked by the demons. It sounded… angry. Anger, guilt, pain and… was that relief? Was the soul aware of his presence?

Gathering his grace he shot towards the wall of demons, hoping that the element of surprise would give him an edge. They were definitely surprised at the arguable stupidity of his move but they rallied quickly and the battle began in earnest. Castiel fought with everything he had. His wings were razors and shields, his blade sang in his hand and his grace whipped around him, boiling eyes in their sockets and leaving only husks behind; the soul became agitated, probably distressed that his saviour was outnumbered and alone. Castiel sent a surge of grace towards it, burning demons in the way, aiming to soothe, to show the soul all the might of his Heavenly purpose.

The protective ring around Dean Winchester broke and the would-be guards scattered; some fled, most died. When the last of them had been cut down, before more could come, Castiel got a look at Dean Winchester's soul for the first time. It was… horrible. It wasn't bound by rack or chains, thought there was a rack, and a screaming soul was trapped on it. The Righteous Man was carving strips of the soul's imagined flesh but his head snapped up when his guard vanished and he whirled around to face his salvation.

Castiel approached slowly and the soul mirrored him in retreat, an animalistic snarl rippling from its throat. It looked human, this soul had not yet forgotten its earthly form, though it had a permanent bloody stain streaked across its bare skin and its face was twisted in feral distrust and malice – probably a result of the barely-healed scars and open wounds criss-crossing its entire form: bite marks and the lashes from whips, knife wounds and ragged slashes possibly from some kind of saw. In some places the skin hung in flaps, in others it was tight and shiny with burns. Castiel would be capable of healing that once they got out of here, but it was a disturbing sight all the same. He extended his hand and the soul flinched back.

"Come with me, Dean Winchester."

The soul bared its teeth, tinged orange with blood diluted with saliva. Castiel tried not to show his disgust. This is the creature that Heaven deems worth saving?

Still, there was something about it. It didn't shrink away from him or run to him, it just glared at him defiantly, there was something interesting in that.

"I am an angel of the Lord, I will not harm you."

"Alastair!" The soul screeched, suddenly frightened, "Alastair!"

It calls for aid from a demon? Curious.

He knew he did not have the time to talk this wretched soul into coming quietly, not with a thrum of power appearing in his periphery; Alastair probably, even among angels he was known, and feared.

"I apologise for any discomfort," he said instead before using his wings to propel him forwards quicker than the soul could retreat. He grasped it by the shoulder and the Righteous Man screamed as his flesh sizzled from the contact with his grace.

Almost a full demon, he thought, but not quite. Not yet.

He shot upwards, Dean Winchester thrashing in his grasp. Castiel pulled him in tight, after all this he would not risk failing Heaven because he simply dropped his prize.

It was a few days before a demon found them, despite the flurry of frantic activity he could feel pulsing from the place, and all that time the soul fought him. Growling disjointed words like 'No' and 'Alastair' and 'back', also a few choice curse words that Castiel would not repeat.

Castiel curled one wing around his writhing charge as he fought the demon. He didn't need both to fly. He actually didn't need to fly at all. Anywhere in Hell was floor if you demanded it be, though not all of Hell's residents had figured that out yet, but for travelling directly upwards flying was necessary, it was also quicker.

The soul had crowed with delight when the demon appeared, but hissed when Castiel blasted it with grace and it disintegrated.

"Why did you want it to win?" Castiel asked. It didn't really matter, it wasn't relevant to the mission, the wants of the creature in his arms had no bearing on its fate but still… Castiel was curious.

"Back," was all the Righteous Man said.

"You will go back." Castiel said. Deeming now as safe a place as any to rest. He shouldn't need it, but he did. So he dropped onto a suddenly solid surface and for the most part let Dean Winchester go, holding on only by the soul's wrist. "You will be returned to life on Earth. You have important work to do for Heaven."

"Screw you." It said, trying its best to wrench itself from Castiel's grip, but even in his weakened state, Castiel held on easily. Ignoring the soul for the moment, Castiel gingerly spread his wings, wincing as the lacerations on them pinched and stretched. He seemed to have stopped healing almost entirely now. The pain was easier to ignore when they were moving, but it would benefit him in the long run to keep track of the damage, knowing his limitations in a fight was vital, and he knew that there would be a lot more fighting before the mission was done. The human watched him suspiciously, eyeing his wings.

"Angels aren't real."

This was perhaps the most perplexing thing the human had said. Castiel turned his attention from his wings and back to the soul in front of him.

"You sold your soul to a demon."

"Demons are real."

"I'm an angel."

Dean said nothing to that. Castiel gestured around them, to the sickly red-grey dimness and the screams of the damned.

"We are literally in Hell. You didn't think there might be an opposite?"

Dean just shrugged. "Take me back."

"I already told you-"

"Alastair."

Castiel squinted at the soul, "I don't understand."

Dean scoffed and turned away from him as much as Castiel's grip allowed. Clearly, he wasn't in the mood to explain himself and Castiel was too tired to push. Tired… that was a new feeling. One that didn't sit well with him given his current location. He might not need to sleep but he did need to rest, he needed a few hours to not expend any grace or use his wings. That was… not ideal. But if he was going to recover enough strength to get the Righteous Man out of here then it was necessary.

He got forty minutes before a patrol of three demons found him. He burned one of them with grace but that left him feeling drained and weak. His fight with the others was sloppy and resulted in a few new injuries, one of them almost grabbed the soul in his arms but Castiel used one of his wings to slice through the creature's flesh, removing its reaching arm and causing it to stumble backwards. He advanced, suddenly furious that this thing had dared try to harm his charge.

Castiel was not fool enough to think that they could linger after that, no matter the protestation of his wings. He flew, more slowly than he would have liked. For once, Dean Winchester didn't fight him, and for that he was grateful.

Xxx

A month and several resting stops later and the demons were starting to pinpoint his location and trajectory out of Hell so he now had to fly horizontally as well as vertically just to keep them from swarming him. It was taking more time and energy than he had to spare and he was starting to think that he would be unable to complete his mission. He also had to keep hold of Dean at all times, he had lunged for Castiel's angel blade more than once, though had yet to be successful.

"If I let you go, will you try to run or attack me?" Castiel asked him as they alighted on the non-floor once more. Castiel's legs actually gave out from underneath him as they hit a solid surface and he crumpled ungracefully. That was embarrassing. His wings trembled with strain and he let them relax behind him, not folded tightly into his back or stretched out. Dean eyed them, then eyed him, and shook his head.

Dean's eyes were strange things. They were green, which was not unusual, though they had flickered black a few times since Castiel had taken him. Again, considering the position Castiel had found him in, that should be unsurprising. But while a lot of the souls here had had eyes glazed over with pain or apathy or fear or even acceptance of their fate, Dean's were sharp and alert. They calculated everything and projected nothing and he seemed suspicious, guarded and careful. It was intriguing to say the least. Perhaps there was indeed more to this human soul than he had first thought.

Castiel let Dean's wrist fall from his grip and Dean jumped backwards, snatching his arm up to his chest and scratching at where Castiel had held him until he began to bleed. But he didn't run or attack, so Castiel left him to it. His self-inflicted wounds would only re-heal when he stopped scratching, only the damage intended for the soul itself would remain.

Time passed and still Castiel did not rise. They were as safe as they could be at the moment and he felt the sluggish pull of his grace trying to knit together his many wounds. He sent it towards his wings; those were what he needed most, and what the demons tried to target when they attacked, but it was an increasingly slow process. In the meantime, Castiel watched Dean. The soul kept a distance from him but didn't stray too far. After a while he began to pace in a circle with Castiel at its centre, his posture tense and aggressive. It almost felt like Dean had set up a perimeter around him and was scouting for danger. This amused Castiel, a human guarding an angel. The whole thing was so absurd he actually laughed. Dean flinched at the sound and whirled to face him, staring at him in outright shock, as though he hadn't heard a laugh not tainted with evil in decades. He probably hadn't. Come to think of it, neither had Castiel and he hadn't realised how badly he'd missed the sound.

"What's funny?" Dean snarled at him.

"That you seem to be protecting me. It's humorous."

Dean looked unsure at that, downright unsettled even.

"Fine, die then." he spat, dropping to sit cross-legged on the 'floor', arms tightly folded. "See if I care."

Castiel squinted at the strange soul. He does care, he realised suddenly. Even though he hates me, he recognises that I'm trying to help.

"Apologies," he amended, "I didn't mean to offend you."

"Take me back." Dean said after a pause.

"Back to Alastair?"

Dean jerked his head.

Castiel tilted his.

"Why?"

"Why does it matter? Take me back and go home."

"It matters," Castiel said calmly, "because my reason for being here is to retrieve you. God commanded that you be saved. If I were to return you to your torment, I would be going against God's will, against Heaven and my purpose. I would also be forfeiting my life, as I do not have the physical strength to return you and then escape Hell. If I am to die, I would like to know if it would be worth it."

Dean stared at him for a long time, those eyes seeming to search his very grace as they mulled over his answer.

"Not worth it," he said eventually, turning away, "not for you."

Castiel frowned at the soul in front of him. This was nothing like he had expected. He had had images of a pitiful creature that would sob its gratefulness for rescue, glad for an end to the tortures of Hell's most depraved. Instead, this one wanted to go back.

"You don't deserve to be here, Dean Winchester." Castiel said gently.

Dean flinched.

"Shut up."

Castiel didn't argue the point, he didn't have the energy and they had lingered too long as it was. He stood and stretched his wings; some of the deeper claw marks had begun to close and the deeper tissue damage had mostly healed, it was the best he could hope for.

Surprisingly, when he saw Castiel stand, he didn't try to bolt. Instead he walked towards him and extended his arm.

Castiel took it and flew once more.

Xxx

"Behind you!" Dean yelled mid-flight. He had been pressed against Castiel, his head hooked over his shoulder. The more Hell's influence faded from his soul, the more of what Castiel liked to think of as the real Dean came into view and the more of Dean Winchester that he saw, the more intrigued he was. Dean was surly and irritable but he had an intelligence and a razor wit that Castiel liked. Apparently, Dean did not like flight, and so had begun to cling as though afraid that Castiel would drop him, despite his attempts at reassurance. Truthfully, Castiel did not mind. And seeing as Castiel's own senses had dimmed to a dangerous level, he was grateful for the extra pair of eyes, especially seeing as Dean seemed to have changed his mind regarding demons and whether or not he wanted Castiel to win against them.

Castiel spun, bringing one wing around to shield Dean as he swung with the opposite arm, his blade sinking into the neck of the attacking half-soul. It shrieked and hissed unpleasantly and scrabbled its claws along the wing that was covering Dean's form. Castiel cried out but did not pull it away, to do so would expose Dean, and he would not see the Righteous Man harmed. He kicked the almost-demon away, ripping the blade out as he did so, yanking it across. The body fell into the depths of the Pit, its head flapping unnaturally on the remaining sinew keeping it strung to the torso. Another demon lunged at him from behind, landing on his back and sending him spinning off-kilter, grace now pouring from the joints where his wings met his human-shaped back. Castiel curled himself around Dean, wings in tight as the demon tore at his back and bit at his neck, it was a sign of how weak Castiel was that those teeth could even break his skin. He endured the onslaught until there was a slight pause in the attack, then he acted, swinging one of his wings out with enough force to dislodge the demon and following the momentum around, blade aimed for the creature's heart. The blade hit true and the demon screeched as it died, following its brethren in a fall.

Only two this time, he thought as he dropped Dean on the now-floor and collapsed in a heap where he landed, that was unusual these days. He was more likely to come across groups of three or four lately. They were closing in on the gates, he knew, but he didn't know what awaited them there. An army of Hell-spawn certainly, but would there be any angels to help him, to finish the task of saving Dean Winchester? Castiel was fully aware that he might not make it out the other side of this mission. In fact, he had almost hoped for it. The guilt of sacrificing his garrison weighed heavy and the idea of returning to accolades and praise disgusted him. He had to finish the mission, and then he could die of his wounds. There was honour in that.

But now… he wasn't even sure he could make it that far. The stench of Hell was all around him, seeming to feed on his very grace. He couldn't endure it anymore, he wasn't strong enough, he-

"Hey, open your eyes, you winged dick," came a ragged voice from in front of him. Automatically Castiel obeyed and the hard edges of Dean Winchester's face swam into view.

"Dean," he said, as though he were pleasantly surprised by the soul's presence, "are you hurt?"

Dean scoffed and ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit that had replaced the scratching, for which Castiel was grateful.

"Am I hurt? Your wings look like a freaking bead curtain right now."

"I- I don't know what that means."

"It means they're shredded, idiot. And I left my emergency surgery kit in my other soul so unless you can mojo yourself better, we're grounded."

"They will heal," Castiel said, struggling to push himself to sitting, "it may take some time before I can fly again. I apologise for the inconvenience."

His words came out more biting than he meant them but astonishingly, Dean smirked until he walked out of Castiel's view and around to presumably inspect the damage.

"So he's got some sass in him after all, good to know," he said, "hey, why do you bleed blue mist?"

"It's my grace, it's what I use to heal myself, what makes me an angel," Castiel explained between heavy breaths that he shouldn't need.

"So it's probably bad that it's floating away then."

"It will replenish."

"And how long will that take?"

Castiel grimaced as Dean poked at a deep scratch on his back, "I'm not sure."

"Great."

They lapsed into a long silence, hours passed and Castiel was still losing grace faster than it could restore itself. That was worrying. If he died here, what would Dean do? He could not escape Hell on his own, he couldn't even hide. Castiel had to get him out, or at least keep him safe until his siblings launched another mission. He would not allow Dean's soul to be returned to Alastair, no matter what. He had only just begun to heal, purely from the lack of constant torture and an angelic companion, freckles previously hidden by gore now dotted Dean's form, his eyes now sparked with emotion when something amused or frustrated him, he spoke in confusing slang and no longer jumped away from Castiel as soon as they paused to rest. Castiel could not let that light be dimmed again.

That was all that mattered. It was more than his mission now, it was something he wanted desperately, to keep Dean Winchester safe.

"Dean," Castiel said, his voice measured, Dean, who had taken up his pacing again, stopped and backed up so he was in view.

"I think we are going to have to delay your return. I'm sorry."

Dean rolled his eyes, "Whatever, man, take the time you need, it's not like I'm going anywhere without those flappers anyway."

"I'm not going to make it out of Hell," Castiel continued, ignoring the change in Dean's expression, a slight tightening around the mouth, "but I can protect you. I can change my form, concentrate my grace into a shield around you. It won't be using energy on flight or movement so it will not weaken and my grace will replenish more quickly. No demon will be able to get through. You will be safe until my siblings come for you."

"Okay..." Dean said, "And if you get back to full power before that happens, you'll just pop back out, right?"

Castiel smiled, suddenly sad that he would never see Dean Winchester restored to life. "No, Dean. My wings are too deeply damaged, it would take more grace than I possess to heal them enough to fly again, and changing my form into something non-sentient would be permanent."

Dean was shaking his head violently, "No, hell no."

"Dean-"

"I'm not gonna just sit in some angel-bubble for who knows how long just so that you can get out of babysitting duty. You are not leaving me here alone, you understand?!"

"My siblings-"

"They ain't here!" Dean yelled, "I'm not pinning my hopes on some feathered assholes who don't even care where you've been for the last decade."

"You'd rather pin your hopes on a dying angel who can't fly?"

"I'm pinning my hopes on you." Dean snapped, "You're the most stubborn son of a bitch that I ever met. You just took out two demons when you've been flying on fumes for weeks straight and you wanna give up now?"

"I'm not giving up," Castiel insisted, trying not to give sound to the frustration that only Dean had been able to bring out in him, "I'm being practical. There are other angels, Dean, and I can protect you long enough for them to get here. This is the only way I can think of that will make sure you never end up in Alastair's hands again. This is the only way to save you."

Castiel sensed rather than heard Dean's flinch,

"I never asked you to save me," he said, his voice shaking with rage, "I never asked anybody to save me. I'm not some freaking damsel in distress princess locked in a tower, I got myself here. I made a deal and I knew where it was going, so don't act like I didn't sign up for this, like I don't deserve everything that I get. There are people here who were tricked into their deals, or were too young to know what they were selling, that ain't me. You wanna go out in a blaze of glory? Go die for one of them instead."

He stepped forward and prodded at Castiel's back again. "Now I'm not an angel surgeon but I know a little something about first aid, so I guess the first step is to stop you from bleeding, leaking, whatever, right?"

"Dean, wait-"

But Dean had already pressed his hands directly onto what was probably the wound losing the most grace, right at the joint of his wings. Castiel cried out. Pain lanced through him, then horror as his grace began to pull at the soul so valiantly trying to help him as though attempting to steal its energy. Castiel jerked forward, away from Dean's touch, and rolled to face Dean, holding a hand out in front of him, "Stop!"

"Don't be such a baby," Dean scoffed, "I know a wadded shirt would be better but-"

"That was incredibly dangerous." Castiel said, a growl leaking into his voice. "You're lucky you didn't explode."

It had been like a shot of adrenaline in a human brain, a sudden rush of energy, intense and overwhelming.

"Dramatic much?"

"For a human soul to come in direct contact with grace is not something to take lightly." Castiel admonished, "I don't even know what would happen, it hasn't been done in eons."

Dean crossed his arms, skeptical, "I'll tell you what happened, you've stopped leaking."

"What?"

Dean just raised an eyebrow so Castiel craned his neck and tested his wings. Dean was right, the superficial damage on his wings had closed over, even if he could feel the deeper tissue trauma. It would take less time for his grace to replenish now. That didn't mean he wasn't angry.

"You're welcome," Dean said with a smug smile.

"I could have destroyed you."

"I'm already dead."

Castiel clenched his jaw, "and I would be unable to reverse that if my grace had absorbed you."

"That sounds like a you problem. My problem is making sure that no one else dies for me, you got it?"

"You're… infuriating."

"Hey, I never claimed to be an angel, pal. And I just saved your feathered butt, so maybe stop with the name-calling and make with the healing so we can get out of here. Look, whatever soul damage I got from that weeny little shot you're gonna fix later anyway, right? So we might as well use it. And no more stupid talk about becoming a shield or whatever. We get out of this together or not at all, because I'm telling you right now, if your 'siblings' show up, I ain't going with them."

Castiel grumbled but refrained from mentioning the fact that Dean would have little to no say in the matter if it came to that, but his anger dimmed into a warm glow that he didn't quite understand, unexpectedly touched at Dean's obvious wish for him to stay alive.

Xxx

Things became marginally easier after that, Castiel regained his ability to fly within a few hours and they set off once more, energy restored. Dean was generous with his soul, though never more than one short burst at a time, Castiel was explicitly firm on that point, and he had to admit that Dean had been right, it gave him an extra edge in battle and he was going to need that it they were ever to make it to the gates. Even if it made him tainted in the eyes of Heaven, even if it meant that his grace was so weak he needed to tangle it with a human soul; it was filthy, it was unheard of, it was the most beautiful thing Castiel had ever experienced. For on receiving Dean's gift, he saw, he truly saw what was under the layers of trauma and guilt and despair and rage that Dean gathered around himself. He felt his soul as pure and glorious as it had been before Hell, not unmarked truly, but bright and delicate and good. Castiel kept those thoughts to himself. They were not right, they were not related to the mission. But Castiel took to staring at Dean when they paused to rest, trying so hard to see what he could feel when Dean touched his wings. Sometimes he did, the first time Dean smiled at him without sarcasm or malice, he saw it then and it caught his breath.

Dean slowly began to open up about things that he missed on Earth. He talked about food, and women, and his car, and alcohol, but it took him almost ten years to ask about his brother.

"Hey, so you know a bit about me, right?" Dean said, shuffling his feet on the not-floor.

Castiel cocked his head, "I have learned much since meeting you." They were waiting for his grace to rally once more, he had taken a set of claw marks to one of his wings, perfectly placed to sever one of his main tendons. It was excruciatingly painful, but Castiel did not let it show. Pain was just a thing he could ignore and it was worth ignoring it so long as Dean didn't think he needed some 'soul juice'. Castiel was worried about how much soul was now blended with his grace. He would return it, of course, when the oppressive pressure of Hell was gone, but it was weakening Dean day by day and he didn't know how much more he could give without doing something irreparable.

"I mean, from before. You know about my life, right? That I was a hunter and we killed a lot of bad things?"

"I was given a summation."

"Right. So… you know about my brother."

"Of course." Castiel didn't elaborate. He didn't like thinking about the boy with the demon blood. They had gotten word on the battlefield of what Sam Winchester was becoming without his brother there to guide him, and it had been prophesied as to how it would all end. He did not like to think of Dean becoming a vessel for Michael any more, it felt less like the natural order of things and more like a preventable loss.

"He's dead, right? I mean it's been, what, nearly fifty years? Hunters don't live that long."

"Actually it's only been a few months on Earth," Castiel said, "your brother is alive."

That put a light in Dean's eyes like Castiel had never seen before, "Really? You better not be screwing with me, man."

"I'm telling the truth. Or at least, he was alive when I entered Hell, I don't know what's happened since."

"He's okay," Dean told him, "Sammy's tough, tougher than me. He's fine."

Castiel said nothing. It was clear that this was important to Dean and he didn't want to ruin it by informing him about the demon that was currently his brother's only companion.

"We're gonna get out of here," Dean said, a small, hopeful smile on his face that buried itself deep into Castiel's chest, "I'm gonna see him again."

"Yes."

Xxx

"And he was right." Cas concluded, smiling at the sun now resting on the horizon, glancing at Sam to see light glinting off his wet cheeks. Jack was back to skipping stones in the lake, concentrating fiercely, "We got through. We got close enough to the gate that I began to hear snatches of angel radio again, I sent out a signal, told them that I had the Righteous Man but I needed help to get him out. Heaven rallied, sent all the angels it could spare, including my original garrison. Hell's army was as numerous as it had ever been and we lost even more angels in the fight. But Dean lent me his strength and we managed it. Together."

He felt pride welling up in him again, again that fatal sin that he clung to. But if there was one moment in his life that he deserved to be proud of it was that one, when he had flown through the hoard of demons like a bullet, ignoring the creatures that harried at him, and come out the other side, unfurling his singed and battered wings to reveal Dean's grinning face,

"Did we make it?"

"Yes, Dean," Castiel had said, his arms holding the human soul just as tightly as his wings had, "we made it."

Xxx

It had taken several days for Castiel to recover enough to be able to take on the task of healing Dean. The other angels had tittered about the presence of human soul intermingled with his grace and Naomi had requested a meeting for once Dean had been returned to Earth, a meeting he would not be able to attend because of Pamela Barnes' and then Dean's own interference. But he was praised by his superiors and promoted to official commander of his garrison, despite the fourteen angels in his charge that he had allowed to die. Though the garrisons of those fourteen did not forget as quickly.

Dean had not allowed any other angel near him while Castiel was healing. Zachariah tried and even Michael paid a rare visit but Dean sent them both away without a conversation and certainly without a healing. When Castiel was deemed well enough, he was instructed by an annoyed Zachariah to begin the process himself.

"You're the only one he can seem to stand," he huffed, practically shoving him into the room where Dean was being kept and closing the door behind him.

Dean was crouched in a corner defensively, but he stood when he recognised Castiel.

"Your siblings are all dicks," he said by way of a greeting, "all they wanna talk about is the Apocalypse and using me as a meat suit, it's gross."

"We don't interact with humans much." Castiel explained, "I'm afraid we are very practical creatures."

"Like I said, dicks."

"I am one of them, you know."

"Nah," Dean said, "you're different."

"Thank you?"

Dean laughed, it was small and shaky but it was real. "So it's time now, right? E.T. goes home?"

"Those are not your initials."

Dean laughed again, Castiel decided that he liked the sound very much. "Heal me up, doc," Dean said, spreading his arms out.

Castiel stepped forward, "And that's not my name," he said mildly, raising his hand to begin sending healing grace pouring into the soul in front of him, but before he could, Dean grabbed his wrist and met his eyes.

"What is your name? You never said."

"Castiel."

Dean nodded and released his wrist. "Cool. I'mma call you Cas."

Baffled, Castiel blinked at him, "Why?"

"'Cause it's shorter," Dean said sardonically, "and it suits you. Sounds less stuffy."

"My name is not 'stuffy'," Castiel huffed, flicking his fingers in quotation, though he wasn't opposed to the nickname.

Dean chuckled, "Nah, it's not so bad. But I mean, you've got a better nickname from me than Junkless out there," he jerked his chin towards the door and grinned conspiratorially at him. Cas couldn't help but smile, even though Zachariah was a well-respected and high ranking member of Heaven and he had no authority to poke fun.

"Alright, stand still," Castiel instructed, raising his hand once more. Dean shuffled a little but did as he was told.

Castiel began on Dean's face, healing away the scratches and the red tint to his skin, remnants of the blood he had shed. Under the healing, Dean's hair lightened to sandy brown and the freckles, which Cas had only caught glimpses of before now, came into glorious view. Even his eyes grew more vibrant in colour.

"They look like peas." Castiel mused aloud.

"What?"

"Your eyes, they look like spring peas."

Dean snorted, and a new red tinge appeared on his cheeks, though it was far more endearing than the one he had just healed, "That's gotta be one of the worst pick-up lines I've ever heard."

"I have picked you up many times."

Dean made another amused sound but said nothing.

The ritual continued. Molecule by molecule, Dean's soul was re-shaped into what it had once been, although Castiel knew that he could not erase all of what Alastair had done.

"Are you getting rid of all my scars?" Dean asked suddenly.

Castiel blinked at him.

"I had a long white one here," he pointed to his right elbow, "from a werewolf hunt when I was fourteen, and I had some here," he gestured to his abdomen, though he didn't meet Castiel's eyes, "from the night Sammy left."

Castiel did not enquire, but he recognised the point about scars. They were imperfections on Dean's soul, true, but Castiel had found that they only added to Dean's beauty. They were a testament to what he had been through, a story told through puckered skin and raised tissue. Perhaps they were important to him.

"Do you want to keep them?"

Dean considered, then shook his head, "I don't need to be reminded anymore."

So Castiel erased them and, one by one, Dean recounted the stories of how he had gotten them; most of them anyway, there were some that he wouldn't talk about. He was passing over Dean's left shoulder when Dean stopped him,

"Leave that one."

Castiel actually took a half-step back, "what?"

"You can leave 'em, right? Leave that one."

Castiel placed his hand over the raised mark on Dean's arm, his fingers fit perfectly, "You're sure?"

Dean nodded, "Junkless told me that I'm not gonna remember you. He said that I 'needed to be introduced to angels properly'. Bastard didn't say anything about making me forget the rest though."

"I can make you forget it all if you want." Castiel offered. That was dangerous, he had been given strict instructions to only erase the memories of himself and their escape from Hell, but Castiel had seen him down there, revelling in doling out the torture that he himself had endured. The person that Castiel had come to know would not be able to abide what he had done, perhaps it was best that he forget.

"No," Dean said softly, "I need to remember. I need to know what I can become." After a moment, he shook himself, "so leave that scar, okay? If there's one thing I didn't hate about that place, it's you."

"Very well."

Xxx

Once the healing was done, Castiel raised his palm to Dean's head. He felt an intense sorrow that Dean was not going to recall anything about him, but Heaven had a plan, and Castiel was made to follow that plan.

"Bye, Cas." Dean said with a wobbly smile that Castiel tried to return, "Drop by some time, okay? I'd like to meet you again."

Castiel nodded, though he had no idea if he could keep such a promise.

"Goodbye, Dean."

Xxx

"It took me moments to restore Dean's body and place his soul inside. Heaven told me that it was important he be returned exactly where his body lay, but now I think they were just being petty. I should have left him somewhere beautiful."

"And Dean doesn't remember any of it?" Sam asked, glancing at the figure that had begun to shift uncomfortably, caught in the process of waking up.

"No, but sometimes he'll say things, turns of phrase that sound familiar, that kind of thing. Perhaps part of him remembers. Memory is complicated, it's impossible to erase everything."

They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a few minutes, just taking in the scene, the shadows were getting longer, the temperature was dropping incrementally but despite all that it was serene. This place was truly calming.

"I understand your feelings of failure, Sam," Cas said eventually, "you weren't there for people you felt responsible for and they suffered because of it. But if I had turned back to try and save my brethren, I would not have saved Dean. And the only way to have prevented Maggie and the others from dying would have been to lock Dean in the Mal'ak box and drop him in the ocean. But your choice wasn't so clean-cut as choosing who to save, you couldn't have foreseen these exact consequences, and even if you had, would you have chosen differently? And it's hard, because you cared about them, but you have to forgive yourself. Dean is here, and Michael is dead and those are good things and we will deal with the rest. You proved yourself a wise and capable leader, Sam. Don't let this discourage you from trying to help those that survived. Don't shut yourself off to the possibility that this time, things might just work out."

Dean groaned loudly, stretching out on the blanket, Castiel could hear the clicks and pops of his bones from here. Sam dipped his head onto Cas' shoulder for a few seconds, trembling slightly with the enormity of whatever maelstrom of emotions he was feeling.

"Thanks, Cas," he whispered, "I think I really needed to hear that."

So there you have it. Thoughts?

I have to say I have been wanting to write my own take on Cas rescuing Dean from Hell for a long time now and I hope I did it justice.

Feedback is as always welcome and treasured and fondled with care.

If you wanna come find me on Tumblr, I go by TibbinsWrites. I'd love to talk to you guys.

Love Tibbins xx