Chapter one

The word of God

I bite my pencil eraser, the bitter taste filling my mouth as I stare at the leather-bound notebook sitting on the table in front of me. Already, there are ten pages missing from the book, crumpled up and scattered on the floor around me. I've never been much of a writer—Chuck and Metatron were always the literary ones—but this is something I've been meaning to do ever since Dean Winchester forgot.

That sentence sounds good in my head, but once it's scratched down on paper it loses its appeal, so I rip out yet another page and ball it up in frustration.

It would be easier to simply say it all aloud, but I've waited too long, and now it's too late. Dean Winchester is gone, and everything we might've had is gone with him. The thought makes me want to break down, so I focus on the blank paper in front of me. I need to do this, otherwise I will always feel empty inside, the guilt of repressed secrets weighing down on me like it has been for years.

"Think!" I mutter to myself, thankful I am alone so nobody can witness my slow descent into madness. "What would Chuck do?"

Of course, I can never measure up to Chuck's standards—after all, how can one rival God, even if one is His son? For a moment, I'm weighed with more sadness—that I'd let my Father slip through my fingers just when I needed His help the most—and then my pencil is snapping in half in my fingers and the pain of splinters digging into the tips of my fingers is enough to jerk me back to reality.

I carefully pick the wood shavings out of my flesh and stand up, crossing the motel room to the bathroom where I wash the cuts, which are clean and will heal quickly. That's something I've learned to cope with as a human.

I stand by the sink a few moments longer than necessary, feeling the icy water run through my fingers. A shiver goes through my body, but it isn't entirely attributed to the coldness of the water—I've found that when I get emotional, I begin to tremble. My legs begin to quiver, and I quickly turn the water off and find my way back to the desk before they can give out beneath me. My breathing is slightly ragged, and I take slow, cleansing breaths to relieve some of the tension building in my chest. If I'm going to write anything, I have to focus, no matter how much my emotions try to get in the way.

I open one of the desk drawers and pull out a new pencil, sharpened to a fine point. There are dozens more where it came from; I didn't know how much I would be writing, so I prepared all I had. I can spend years describing my time with Dean, filling thousands of pages simply with the way I felt when I was with him, or I can fit it all into a paragraph, a sentence, a few words.

And eventually, after hours of staring intently at the blank lines in front of me, that's how it starts: with a few words.

It was a Tuesday when I heard the command, passed down directly from God through a chain of angels until it reached me. To this day, I don't know why He chose me to save Dean Winchester; there were many other angels who would have been far more qualified for the job. However, a command from God could not be ignored, so without a second thought I sought out one of Hell's hidden entrances.

Getting in was relatively simple. The reaper guarding the gate was quick to let me pass, watching me with wide eyes as I stepped through the doorway. I suppose an angel entering the land of demons was a sight to be seen, but at the time I paid him no second thought as the door closed behind me, sealing me inside the fiery labyrinth that was Hell.

I'd heard stories of Lucifer's home, dark tales whispered when there was no one around to hear, but had never been there myself. Nothing could have prepared me for what Hell really was like—the tortured human souls screaming and begging for clemency, dark, twisted shadows looming around every corner with hands that grabbed at you and tried to pull you through the walls, and everywhere the smell of despair, almost tangible upon my tongue. I'd never felt anything before, but in that moment, the feeling rushing through my system must have been fear, flooding me like an ice-cold wave of water and chilling me down to the bottoms of my feet.

Searching for Dean Winchester, one soul among billions, took weeks. Each day, I felt my apprehension build, worried that I would be stuck wandering the red-washed halls of Hell forever, the cries of the tormented ringing in my ears and the temperature alternating between boiling hot and numbingly cold. I smote demon after demon, so many I lost count, all the while looking for the man who was so important that God had commanded his resurrection.

The day I found him, I had almost given up. I could feel my grace weakening with every moment more I spent in Hell, my angelic powers becoming increasingly limited. I'd spent so much time among the screams of the damned and peering around every corner that disappointing God seemed like a reasonable option, but it was the words of a demon that finally led me to Dean.

"Wait!" he cried as I prepared to smite him. My hand stilled inches away from his sweat-beaded forehead, and he continued, "I know a Dean Winchester."

My grip on his arm tightened. "Tell me," I demanded, eyes flashing.

"He's with Alastair, down in the last circle of Hell—just short of the cage," the demon said, his lips curling upwards slightly despite his situation. "Rumor has it he finally caved."

I should've disposed of him then, since I'd gotten the information I needed, but I couldn't help but ask, "Caved?"

The demon sneered, his black eyes glittering. "Alastair's been offering him a deal since day one: Dean can get out from under the whip if he agrees to take it up himself. I guess the famous Dean Winchester isn't as strong as he says he is, because apparently he took up Alastair's offer." The demon let out a short, clipped laugh. "After only thirty years."

I had heard enough, and with a bright flash of light the demon's vessel crumpled to the rock floor, eyes smoking. With some effort, I transported myself to what the demon had called the 'last circle of Hell', landing in the shadows with a tired rustle of feathers.

The hairs on my arms stood on end as my skin met the coldest air I'd ever felt. If I had been human, I would have died within minutes, but even to an angel the temperature was extremely uncomfortable. The area was still bathed in red, but now there were greens and purples thrown into the mix, and everywhere along the walls there hung strings that resembled thick, sticky spider-webs. While the other circles had been filled with the sounds of millions of souls begging and crying out for help, this one resonated with an immense whooshing sound and an underlying whine that pierced through my eardrums and made me grit my teeth. Mixed in with the white noise were the singular cries of one soul, and I could hear their pleas and screams much clearer than I wanted to.

Cautiously, I edged down the hall towards the sobs, and just before I turned the corner I shielded myself so I would be invisible to demons and souls alike. Then, I stepped into a massive open-ceilinged cavern that was crisscrossed with the spider-web-like strings, vibrating in a non-existent wind. In the center of the large space, bound by hands and feet in the webs, was a man who was bloody beyond recognition, and another man loomed over him, a long, wicked blade clenched tightly in his hand. As I watched, the man drove the tip of the blade into the trapped man's stomach, twisting slowly as the other man screamed and pleaded with him, tears dripping from his empty eye sockets.

A demon stood by the man with the knife, watching the scene with a look that I could only describe as critical. "All right, Dean," he said after a moment. "Let's try something a bit different now. This just isn't satisfying me."

I suppose I must not have put much thought into the previous demon's statement that Dean had, as he put it, 'taken up the whip himself', because when the man withdrew his blade from the bound man's stomach and responded to the demon—who must have been Alastair—with a gruff, "What do you suggest?" my eyes widened and I took a step back.

I'd ventured into Hell with every possible situation in mind, a way to break Dean out for each one, but never once had I considered that I would be rescuing the torturer instead of the tortured. It seemed impossible to me that a man God deemed worthy of saving would be capable of such an awful deed.

I stared at the two of them a moment longer, a reputedly good man and a demon standing side-by-side, working together, before advancing. It wasn't until I was a few feet away from Dean and Alastair that I removed my shield, grabbing hold of Dean's arm with one hand and watching Alastair's surprised face disappear as I quickly transported the both of us to an isolated corner of Hell, far away from the cavern.

We'd barely landed when Dean tore his arm out of my grip and whirled on me, knife still in hand. "Stay back," he warned, pointing the blade at me. "Don't touch me!"

"I hardly see the need for your hostility," I began, taking a step closer to Dean. Faster than I thought possible for a human, he darted forward and sank the knife deep into my chest, retreating and watching with wide eyes as I reached down and pulled the blade out from my flesh, letting it clatter onto the uneven ground. "Considering I've just rescued you from damnation."

"What the hell are you?" Dean said, his eyes wide like a startled deer's.

"I am an angel of the Lord."

"There's no such thing," Dean said, eyes flicking down to the knife laying at my feet. "So I'm gonna say it again: I know you're not a demon because no demon would be dumb enough to snatch me from under Alastair's nose, so what are you?"

I decided that if Dean wasn't going to listen, it would be best to simply show him the truth, so I shrugged off my trench coat and extended my wings through the slits in my starched dress shirt. They had been folded up and compacted beneath the tan material, but now they stretched across the whole length of the hall, pressing rather uncomfortably against the confines of the enclosed space. Dean watched them in silent shock until I retracted them quickly, feeling slightly exposed at showing off that which no human had ever seen before, and pulling my trench coat back on over my wings despite the intense heat.

"Do you believe me now, Dean Winchester?" I asked, locking eyes with Dean. His were a bright green, the color of moss and green glass bottles and emeralds sparkling in the sunlight, and at the moment they were wide with disbelief. He blinked a couple of times, long lashes brushing his cheeks for the briefest of moments, before clearing his throat.

"All right," he said, eyeing me warily. "What's an angel doing in Hell?"

"I was sent here to rescue you."

Dean's forehead creased, and he looked at me skeptically. "Me? Listen, um…"

"Castiel," I supplied.

"Castiel," he repeated. "No offence, but I don't believe that."

I cocked my head slightly to one side. "You don't?" What was so hard to comprehend?

Dean glanced around him, and seemed to shiver slightly. "There's a reason I'm down here, okay? And not just because I sold my soul. I probably would have ended up here anyway, just later rather than sooner. I'm not exactly the kind of person angels jump through hoops to save from damnation."

I frowned. "There were no hoops involved, Dean."

Dean gave me a strange look. "It's an expression," he said slowly.

"Oh." I added the phrase to the list of things I didn't understand about humans before continuing, "Well, since God has chosen to have you raised from perdition, apparently you are worth, as you say, 'jumping through hoops' for."

"God?" Dean repeated, eyes narrowing. "You're telling me God, as in the-man-upstairs God, is the one who wants me out of here?"

"I'm glad to hear that you understand." I crouched down and picked the blood-soaked blade off of the stone floor and extended it hilt-first to Dean. "Shall we go?"

Dean regarded the knife warily, before reaching for it. However, his hand stilled just short of the hilt, fingers brushing against the worn leather, and his eyes connected with mine. "One more question," he said, eyes flashing. "How do I know that I can trust you?"

I considered this for a moment. Besides the word of God? "You don't," I replied, matching the resolution in Dean's eyes in my own. "You will have to choose to trust me."

Dean hesitated one more moment. Then, his jaw tightened, and his hand closed on the hilt. "Let's go," he said, and for the first time, I saw in Dean Winchester what God must have when he ordered his retrieval: faith and loyalty worthy of that of a righteous man.

I stare down at the words in front of me, feeling a sick, wrenching in my gut. This isn't coming out right at all. The words are all wrong, sentences haphazardly thrown together with either too much detail or not enough. Worst of all, I'm having trouble with us—Dean and I. No matter how hard I try, I can't get the feelings right. Maybe it's because, at the time, I had none.

In a bout of frustration, I rip out all of the pages and crumple them tightly in my hands. However, just before I move to throw them out, my hand stills mid-motion and I stare at it for a moment, studying the bits of paper poking out through my fingers with a sort of detachedness. Then, with a sigh, my fingers open and the paper falls onto the desk, where I smooth it back out and use Scotch tape to secure it back into the notebook. The pencil is slightly smudged, but otherwise, the words are unharmed.

I can't let it go. No matter how wrong the story comes out on paper, it needs to be done. I have to remember everything—every small smile of Dean's, or the millions of moments when the shell I'd hidden behind slowly cracked apart—even if I can't quite write it all down.

My pencil is dull, so I put the point into the electric sharpener I purchased at an Office Max the week prior. It's getting late in the day, the setting sun casting long shadows across the drab room, and I take a moment to stretch my legs as I walk over to the large window and stare out over the city.

Lawrence really is a quiet town. Most people are already in their houses, eating dinner or watching television, and only a few are still milling about the streets, some with dogs, others weaving around parked cars with their bicycles. Watching the Winchesters' hometown, I can almost forget the tragedy that happened here, the event that set Sam and Dean on the path to becoming hunters.

If there were a way to do it all over again, would I stop Azazel? The question worms its way into my mind, and I immediately wish that it hadn't, because I don't want to have to decide. How could I choose between Dean having a normal life, with a family and friends and a heart free of the pain that weighed it down for years, and the path that led him to me?

I look away from the urban landscape, my own heart heavy with grief, and return to my notebook. I grip the newly sharpened pencil in my trembling hand and set the tip to the paper. It doesn't matter what I would choose; I can't change the past, no matter how much I yearn to try.

So, in the light of the fading sun, I settle with recording it.