In the Furnace
"I don't understand," Dean murmured.
He was alone in some crummy motel room, sitting on the end of his bed, staring down at the object in his hands.
It was a curved knife; a weapon of beauty. The handle was ornate, the edge razor sharp. He flipped it over and over in his palms and watched as the blade glinted in the moonlight that shone through the motel windows.
He expected the sight to be mesmerising. He expected primal urges to rise to the surface. He thought that he would crave violence and bloodshed, that the desire to cut and slice and rip and tear would return.
But instead he felt fear. Revulsion.
And he didn't understand.
He had walked into that room. His instruments had been laid out perfectly on the trolley. He had drawn on his memories of hell to come up with the most effective strategy for breaking his victim. He had used the skills that Alastair himself had taught him, and he had tortured again.
Everything inside him had screamed against it, warning him not to cross that line. Torturing in hell was one thing, but to torture up here, as a human, willingly… he had known that it would drive him over the edge. He had told Castiel that if they made him do this, they wouldn't like what he would become.
But they said it was necessary.
So he had done it. He had tortured Alastair for information.
And he had failed.
Alastair hadn't broken.
In fact, with a few choice words, Alastair had broken him. Again.
This time was different, though. In hell, Alastair had broken his morality. He had taken everything that made Dean good, made him human, and he had mutilated it. He had turned Dean into a monster capable of torturing souls and taking pleasure in their pain.
Dean had embraced it. He had enjoyed it.
But then Castiel had come for him, to rescue him, to stop him from shedding blood in hell and breaking the first seal. He had been ten years too late.
For months after his resurrection, Dean had thought there was a serial sadist lurking just below the surface, waiting for an opportunity to delve once more into the blood and screams and glory of torture. It had terrified him.
But at the same time, it had given him an excuse to be a coward. He let himself run when once he would have stayed to fight. He let himself hide when once he would have faced the threat head on. He let himself falter and fear, believing that his strength was bound up in his ability to be ruthless and he was supressing it for the greater good.
The incident with Alastair had proved him wrong.
He had no strength. He had no courage. He was weak, and pathetic, and Alastair had broken him for good this time.
He was nothing now. Useless. A dull blade, a blunt axe, a gun with no bullets, a hunter who couldn't hunt anymore.
The Angels wanted him to stop the apocalypse, to save the world, but he couldn't. He couldn't.
The knife fell from numb fingers and Dean buried his face in his hands, silent sobs wracking his frame.
In the quiet of the motel room, there was a barely audible rustle of wings.
Dean knew without looking up that he wasn't alone anymore, but the knowledge brought no comfort. He didn't want anyone to be witness to his shame, especially not the angel who had fought so hard to save a man who wasn't worth saving.
"Go away, Cas."
Of course the angel didn't listen.
"You are troubled."
Dean raised his head to look at Castiel with dead eyes. "No, I'm broken. And you can't fix me. So just leave me alone."
"You are wrong, Dean. A part of you is missing, but your soul remains intact." The angel's piercing gaze had always seemed to be able to see right through him; if anyone could know the state of Dean's soul, surely he could. After all, Castiel was the one who had witnessed the unspeakable horrors he had committed in the dark before dragging him back out into the light. He should know the truth of what Dean was better than anyone.
"How can you say that?"
"It is true."
"But you saw what I did. And you saw what I… what I couldn't do."
Castiel frowned slightly. "You are troubled because you could not break Alastair."
Dean hung his head. He had spent ten years torturing souls in hell, and the one time that it could have been worth anything, he had failed.
"I do not understand. You were afraid that interrogating the demon would turn you into a monster, but you are disturbed that it did not?"
"I was afraid I wouldn't be strong enough to pull back from the bloodlust when the job was done," Dean corrected him. He had thought that once he got a taste, he would never be able to stop. "But it is worse than that, Cas! I couldn't get the job done in the first place!"
"It doesn't matter. We found out what we needed to know in the end."
"That's not the point. I wasn't strong enough to do the job. To do this job. And it doesn't make sense, because I could torture with the best of them in hell but now that I'm back I can barely hurt a fly! What kind of hunter does that make me? A bloody useless hunter, that's what."
Castiel tilted his head to the side, examining him thoughtfully. "You are not the man you once were."
The words felt like a physical blow. The angel was agreeing with him. He was weak, after all. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," he said hoarsely. "I came back different. I came back wrong. Broken."
Slowly, Castiel shook his head. "No, Dean. Your soul was purified in the furnace, and you emerged from the pit a new creation. One who is whole, and unblemished."
"Painting over my scars doesn't change who I am."
"The healing of your scar tissue was not my doing. The reformation of your external body merely reflected the transformation of your spiritual being."
"Now you are just spouting holy mumbo jumbo crap," Dean accused.
"I could not have pulled an evil man from hell, Dean. That is beyond my power. Before I could raise you from the pit, you had to make a choice. And you made the right one."
Dean frowned. "Choice? What choice?"
"When you got off the rack, you locked away the part of you that was good and righteous in the Lord's eyes, and you allowed your sinful nature to take control. You did this to preserve your sanity, so when you did what you had to you would not suffer the torment of guilt. But when I came for you, my light burned down your walls. I drew you out into the open, so that you when you faced the choice you could do so with your whole heart and mind."
Blue eyes bored into him. "Dean, you saw what I was, and you saw what you had done. Instead of cowering like filth in the dark, afraid of the light, you took hold of your sinful nature – the part of you capable of torture, murder and other wicked acts – and you ripped it out. You rejected evil, utterly and completely. So I grasped your shoulder, and we ascended from hell."
"I don't… I don't remember any of this," Dean whispered.
"You are right, Dean. You are not the same man you were in hell. You are not even the same man you were before the hounds came for you. You left a part of you in the pit, it is true, but you are by no means weaker for it. You have become a better man. A stronger man. You will face the coming apocalypse, and you will stop it. You will save the world, Dean."
"How can you be so certain?"
For the first time, Dean saw the faintest hint of what could have been a smile on Castiel's face. "Because I believe in you."
The End