Title: Cleansing
Author: HigherMagic
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Balthazar, Dean/OFC
Spoilers: Balthazar? Castiel? Alistair? Okay cool.
Warnings: light torturing, het, canon character death, allusions to dub-con
Word Count: ~4k
Summary: Balthazar and Castiel both rescued Dean from Hell. After torturing Alistair, Dean's a little shaken up, to say the least, and Balthazar just wanted to make sure he was okay. They had a lot riding on Dean, after all.
Notes: Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. ilovealistair on Tumblr prompted me this ages ago (like I literally think more than a year ago) and I finally wrote it. Yay.

He remembers every thrust.

Dean can feel two sets of forlorn blue eyes staring into the back of his head as he walks into the room holding his chained former teacher, leader and master. Alistair's eyes are white, his grin is wide and his teeth are already lined with blood from the undoubtedly rough beating needed to subdue him enough to tie him down to the metal rack. The Hunter's eyes flash down to the ground, taking in the quickly drawn-out Devil's Trap on the floor, some sigils he doesn't recognize marking the edge – Angel additions, he supposes, by Castiel and Balthazar who await him on the other side of the closed door.

"Daddy's little girl," Alistair hisses, baring his teeth in what Dean can only call glee. The Hunter's shoulders roll and he clenches his jaw tight. He remembers every thrust. Every slice of unnaturally sharp blades under his skin, separating his nerves and plucking them like a harp. He remembers every touch, every claw digging into his jaw to force his head up, every finger shoved down his throat to force him to choke on his own vomit, every slide of salt-and-iron-lined palm against the flayed skin of his inner thighs.

He remembers those touches turning reverent, attentive – not just designed to hurt when he stepped off the rack, eyes wild and jaws itching to close around the demon's jugular and pull. Remembers everything. Every tiny technique and detail drilled into his skull like another of Dad's sparring lessons.

His upper lip curls back at the memories, green eyes flashing. It's surprising him, just how much he looks upon this beaten vessel and hates. His fingers tremble around the edge of the demon-killing knife as he dips it into Holy Water and does his damnedest to ignore the voice that had been whispering in his ear for forty years.

"Feels good, don't it, boy?" the demon whispers as Dean steps close, lets himself feel the touch of his old master again as he slides a hand across Alistair's chest, feels the weakness in the human bones, grits his teeth at knowing the strength underneath and being unable to feel that instead. "To hold a blade again?"

Dean swallows back his words, head tilted in defiance, meeting the demon's eyes. He's ready – they both are. Ready to start this dance again. And when the knife slides against Alistair's ribs, cutting deep as though he were nothing more than melted butter, the demon throws his head back and screams, white light flaring within his vessel as the demon soul recoils from the blade's power.

Dean bares his teeth in a large grin. "You have no idea."

They can hear nothing of what is going on in the other room, but it doesn't take a lot of imagination – Castiel and Balthazar both laid eyes on Dean in Hell, when he was 'at his finest', slicing deep into the screaming soul of an adulterous woman, black tinting the corners of his eyes.

Balthazar's fingers curl tight into his palm, anger pulsing into his Grace – "He shouldn't be in there alone," he says, drawing the attention of his friend and brother, and Castiel nods, pressing his lips together tightly, eyes cast low.

"Uriel's orders were -."

"I don't care!" the other Angel growls out, earning a small roll of Castiel's eyes, the younger Angel dipping his head down to the floor in a sigh. "This is the Righteous Man, our only chance to win Hell's war, and we're throwing him back into the hands of his old master!"

"I understand that you're upset, Balthazar," Castiel says, shoulders dropping in resignation, shaking his head. His fingers are curling by his sides and Balthazar knows enough about his younger brother to recognize the signs of unease. Castiel's eyes haven't moved from the door. "I do, and I like this about as much as you do, but the orders were clear."

"Orders," Balthazar repeats with spite, wanting to curse the word as he folds his arms across his chest, wings snapping out before folding back to his vessel and he can catch Castiel's subtle amusement out of the corner of his eye.

They fall into silence together, merely waiting, when the Angels' heads snap up at the sound of a loud crash. They exchange a look, troubled and afraid, before Balthazar is the first through the door, Castiel following close behind.

Balthazar cannot help but stumble to a halt – Dean, Dean is trapped against the Saint Andrew's cross that they had tied Alistair to, the demon holding him up by his throat. He's bloodied up, choking on air, and without thinking Balthazar attacks, summoning his blade to hand.

He had not anticipated Alistair's reflexes.

The demon is quick, quicker than he'd thought the thing would be, and backhands the Angel with a snarl of disgust, letting Dean drop to the floor. "Get him out of here!" Balthazar shouts to Castiel, summoning his blade to hand as he puts himself between the demon and Dean, hoping that his brother can manage to carry Dean to safety.

"Your little pet's gotten soft up here," Alistair hisses, his very voice making Balthazar's Grace recoil in hatred. Everything about the demon calls out to Balthazar to smite and destroy, the inherent wrongness of the thing like an insult to his very being. The Angel lunges again, landing a blow to the demon's stomach but then Alistair is hissing and reacting and Balthazar feels pain explode in his Grace as the demon's hand lands around his throat and something tightens around his Grace. It feels like he's been uncased in Holy Oil and set on fire – it's burning. "If he'd stayed with me, he'd still be strong. God's little bitches have spoiled him."

Balthazar snarls at that, twisting his blade in his hand to drive it up underneath the demon's ribs, ending him once and for all, but Alistair dodges back, a swift and bony hand driving itself against the Angel's jaw to send him to his knees. "Look at God's finest," Alistair yells, landing another punch as Balthazar scrambles back, trying to recover. "You've managed to take years of work and ruin them. I'll make him my bitch again."

"Go to Hell," the Angel growls back, swinging a leg around and sending Alistair toppling to the ground, and then Castiel is back, crouching down by Alistair and driving his own blade into the demon's heart, and both he and Balthazar watch grimly as the bright red and white light sear out of Alistair's eyes and open mouth, before the vessel collapses, dead and open-eyed.

Balthazar looks up, wincing at the pull on his face but with a thought his Grace is already working on healing himself. "Where's Dean?" he asks as Castiel straightens, holding out a hand to his brother which Balthazar eagerly takes, letting himself be helped up.

"Through there," Castiel replies with a jerk of his head, before he leads the way into the other room. Dean is sitting, nursing his bruised throat and undoubtedly sore body, and looks up when the two Angels enter the room. "Did you get anything out of him?"

The dark shadow in the human's eyes is all they really need to know. Dean's mouth twists in a snarl, upper lip just curling back to expose teeth, and he says nothing.

Balthazar steps forward, hand outstretched towards Dean to heal him, but the human flinches from his touch, hissing out a low warning. "Don't -." But then it's too late, and Balthazar leases some of his Grace into the human's vessel, allowing himself to heal and knit back together bruised and battered flesh until Dean looks normal and is back to full health.

Dean immediately stands, wiping at where blood is still caked to his lower lip, and steps away from the Angels. He takes a deep breath and cannot look at them. "Is it true?" he asks, almost too low to hear, and Castiel and Balthazar exchange a look. "About the first seal? Did I…?" It is only then that he turns, expression dark and guarded but eyes so open, unable to hide behind his own shields when his old master had so easily broken them down. "Did I start the Apocalypse?"

"The Apocalypse was one of the biggest group efforts imaginable," Balthazar replies blandly, taking a step towards Dean, only to halt when the Hunter goes tense and growls in defense. "No one man can be blamed for it, Dean. Don't let that demon bastard get under your skin."

Dean folds his arms across his chest, eyes dipping down, nails curling into the thin skin at the inside of his elbow. He feels restless. "Well, if I'm all done here…" He's through the door before either Castiel or Balthazar can stop him, the Angels exchanging another look briefly before Castiel's shoulders slump.

"Go," the dark-haired Angel murmurs, corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "I'll clean up here."

Balthazar returns the soft smile, before winging away to chase after the Hunter, to make sure he doesn't get himself into any trouble.

He finds Dean in a bar. The Hunter moves fast for a human, and his car is very heavily warded – in an abstract way, Balthazar is proud of Castiel for marking and erasing him so thoroughly from the Angels' tracking system, although the rest of him is grumbling in frustration when he manifests himself in the darkest corner of the bar Dean is inhabiting, eyes narrowed as he briefly scans the place for any hostiles. There are none – merely humans in varying levels of drunkenness getting on with their inhibition-lowering and iniquity-diving. He smiles to himself, allowing himself to relax and merely observe as Dean drinks away his guilt and self-loathing and makes sure the Hunter doesn't get himself into too much grief.

He can feel that his eyes are not the only ones on Dean – there is a group of three women eyeing him hungrily also from the other side of the bar. If they looked past Dean, they would see Balthazar staring back, but their eyes are completely focused on the strong, slumping shoulders of the Hunter, the movement of his throat as he throws back another finger of whiskey, the strength in his arms and legs and the stretch of his lips when he pulls them back over his teeth against the sour sting of the cheap liquor, Dean stifling a rough sound against one hand as he signals for another with his other hand.

One of them breaks off from the pack soon enough. Balthazar had expected that. Hell, it might even help Dean to loosen up, let go a little and bury some of his grief and hatred between the woman's legs. What he does not expect – what makes him frown and sit a little straighter – is the flare of anger he feels towards the woman for doing so.

It's not her fault, of course – she has done nothing wrong. She's pretty, and polite when she approaches Dean – not so forward to be blatantly obvious, not so subtle to be ignored. And she's making Dean smile, bitter though it is and sharp at the edges to warn off a more sober woman. She's pretty – hot as fuck, if Balthazar is being honest with himself, would definitely take her himself around for a spin or two – and it's when she places a gentle, comforting hand on Dean's shoulder, taking a seat on the barstool neighboring his, that Balthazar realizes why he feels so angry.

Dean is smiling.

Dean never smiles at him. That wouldn't bother Balthazar, not really, but his soul is so bright when he smiles – like when a smile reaches the eyes, the Angel could tell when Dean's heart was in it or not. He's smiled at Castiel, at his brother, at this random woman in a bar. But not at him.

Why the Hell not?

She's smiling wider, getting Dean to talk, and Balthazar can see him opening up to her now – his shoulders are leaning back, legs spreading just slightly to turn towards her; more accessible, easier. And his soul is brightening despite itself at the attention and obvious lust in her eyes. Within two rounds they're headed out of the bar, her entire hand wrapped around his forearm and waving goodbye to her green-eyed girlfriends.

Normally, Balthazar would go over to pay the lonely ladies some attention of their own, but something compels him to follow Dean. To fly, and watch as his car starts, and as he drives, the woman's hand cupped around his erection and rubbing herself against his side. Watch as Dean smirks and allows a sucking kiss to be tattooed to his neck. Forces himself to go inside when Dean takes her in, fucks her face-down into the mattress until she's clawing at the sheets and screaming Dean's name. Until his hand is knotted in her hair and arching her back to claim her mouth. Until Dean stutters inside of her, hips pressed rough and tight to the full curve of her ass as she trembles and whimpers in pleasure and sighs in satisfaction, slumping to the mattress.

All the while, his Grace burns hotter and hotter in anger and he is having a hard time resisting the urge to manifest himself in the room and throw the woman out by her hair like the caveman he suddenly is. It's so damned uncivilized, and completely uncalled-for. He just doesn't understand why he's feeling this way.

Maybe because Dean never once looked her in the eye during or after.

Maybe because Dean isn't smiling anymore.

Dean is a gentleman, for anything else he is. He waits until she showers and dresses, and even offers to drive her back to the bar – an offer she politely refuses, insisting on calling a cab. An insistence Dean casually shrugs off, his smile completely gone from his eyes now, and he waits outside with her until the taxi pulls up and they part with an awkward smile, leaving Dean to return to his motel room alone. He'd rented a separate one from the two-queens he'd had before, and looks like he has no intention to return to it.

Balthazar finally allows himself to manifest, shoulders relaxing as the opaque camouflage of his wings relents, revealing himself to the human.

Dean's shoulders immediately go tense, and he's on his feet, back to the wall. "What the Hell do you want now?" he demands, his fingers twitching like he's desperate to reach for a gun but it's too far away for him to get to, and he knows it. "Haven't I done enough for you assholes today?"

Balthazar can't resist the urge to roll his eyes. "For all your bluster, would you honestly deny us if we asked for you?" he says, asking the question partially because he's actually curious about the answer – which is weird, because not three days ago he couldn't have cared less what came out of Dean Winchester's mouth.

Dean raises his chin in defiance, shoulders straightening, and doesn't reply. Figures.

Balthazar sighs. "Look, Dean, we overstepped our bounds today, and we know that. I wanted to make sure that you were alright."

"You know what?" Dean hisses, taking a step closer to the Angel. "I'm fucking fine."

"Yes, I could tell," Balthazar replies with a gesture towards the door where the woman just left. "Your soul is practically singing with joy over the cheap lay."

Dean's eyes narrow, and a dangerous flare of hatred and anger has started right in the pit of his stomach. Balthazar can see it, as in-tune to Dean's soul as he suddenly is, and the force of it makes him take a small step back. Just a small one, but enough that the action is noticeable, and Dean's mouth curls up in the same smile he had reserved for Alistair. "That," he says, very slowly and evenly, "is none of your fucking business, Voyeur Extraordinaire. You can kindly zap your ass straight back to Heaven if you're about to get all high-and-fucking-mighty over my one night stands."

"I wasn't…" For once, Balthazar feels lost for words. The red fire in Dean's soul is distracting him, and he can't find it in him to say that he wasn't watching because of her, or out of any sense of righteous judgment.

Dean's eyes are bright with anger and he turns away from Balthazar, heading towards the bathroom, presumably to shower. "Yeah, well, however you get your cloud-seeding done, don't bring it back here."

With the click of the bathroom door, Balthazar's voice – and his anger – returns to him like a blow to the head. The Angel shakes himself, anger returning strong and hot, and without thinking – really, rational thought can be dismissed completely when it comes to Dean Winchester – he is already winging his way through the bathroom door, almost colliding with a half-naked Dean because the room in the bathroom is so restricted.

"The fuck -?" And then Dean is silent. Silent because Balthazar's mouth is on his, his hands wrapping tight around the human's tense shoulders and shoving him back so his hip collides with the sink, stumbling round until his shoulder collides with the wall and finally there's a point to brace against, and Balthazar is caging him in, powerful wings invisible but very much there and making sure Dean stays exactly where Balthazar wants him.

"You always –" Another kiss, searing Dean, hot like a brand against his mouth and the human hasn't even caught up enough to start fighting back yet. "- have your two cents to add, don't you?" One hand moves from Dean's shoulder to the brand, the handprint curling around Dean's ribs where he had helped his brother pull Dean out of Hell – Castiel's print is still red and raw-looking against Dean's shoulder, but Balthazar's has healed up nicely, silver-white and barely raised. Dean's body shivers at the touch. "The Righteous Man." He snarls the title, the words that his leaders had intoned to him so seriously.

"Fucking Angel puppet, more like," Dean hisses back, the red fire in his soul flashing in his eyes now, pupils so wide and black in the dim light that Balthazar can hardly see the green anymore. He had fashioned Dean's eyes himself, and when he looks at them now, they're gone. They are not what he made.

But Dean's not pulling away – not doing much of anything, really, just breathing hard and loud in the minimal space between the two men, his gaze heavy and guarded on Balthazar's face. "Well?" he finally demands, spitting the word when Balthazar doesn't say anything for a long while.

Finally, the Angel growls. "Shut up," he snaps, shoving at Dean's shoulders just to hear the satisfying thump of flesh hitting the wall – hears the sharp, pained hiss Dean gives and can't find it in himself to acknowledge or care about it.

Then, their mouths are clashing together again, just so that Balthazar can ensure that Dean will obey his order, for once, and remain silent. All too easily – far too easily, and soon – he feels the Hunter's fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer in, and he goes, because he can feel the low thrum of arousal underneath Dean's warm, flushed skin, can feel the tired pulsing of his soul in eager desire to please and be pleased.

Dean is tired – Balthazar can feel it in the way his body is heavy against the wall and his breathing is slowing, shaky on the exhale. Still, the Angel is selfish, knowing that even beaten into the ground Dean will have a few words to say when they stop kissing, so he doesn't. The burning anger is receding in his Grace, replaced with something gentler, fire tamped down and glowing hot in his chest.

"Come here," the Angel whispers, pulling Dean close to him and winging their way to the bed. With a thought Dean is clean as though he had been left alone to his own devices, hair fluffy and dry and smelling faintly of shampoo, his skin devoid of sweat and crusted blood gone from under his fingernails.

When he realizes what Balthazar has done, Dean smirks, a small, bitter laugh escaping him. "No point fucking something dirty, right?"

Balthazar's mouth twists down. He should have silenced Dean himself – he should have known Dean wouldn't have remained silent even that long.

"You're not dirty," he says instead of simply waving his hand to plaster his Grace across Dean's kiss-bruised mouth. Dean merely snorts, rolling his dark eyes and looking at some point on the ceiling above Balthazar's shoulder. "You're not dirty, Dean," he says again, fingers curling underneath Dean's chin and forcing their eyes to meet, Balthazar trying to communicate everything he is feeling through his gaze – hard to do, he'll admit, when he's not one hundred percent sure what it is that he is feeling. "You have been marked by Angels."

Dean's mouth twists, eyes dark, but he says nothing. Instead, he leans up, bracing himself on his elbows, and Balthazar meets him for the kiss, long fingers curling through Dean's soft hair, cradling his head and helping him maintain the position, and Dean's heartbeat is flying in his chest, heavy and harsh when Balthazar rolls his vessel's hips, flesh smooth and pliant to his will shivering underneath him as Dean gasps.

There is very little finesse in the way that Balthazar brings Dean pleasure - for all that he has dallied in the sins of his father's land, he has never lain with a man, and doubts that Dean would be willing to bare himself even more to the Angel after such a raw evening. Even so, it seems that all too soon Dean is breathing out heavily against his neck, sharp nails digging in to his shoulderblades hard enough to pull a long groan from the Angel as they both go still, Dean's legs falling lax and loose around the Angel's waist. It's uncomfortable, and tense, but as Balthazar breathes out againt Dean's neck and closes his eyes, the release helps to calm the disquiet rolling around in his Grace.

After a moment, Dean lets out a soft, uncomfortable sound. "So, that was…"

Balthazar rips himself away, flattening his palm over the Hunter's kiss-swollen lips. "Do be quiet, Dean," he said, earning a narrowing of Dean's darkened eyes. He searched the Hunter's face for a long moment before carefully withdrawing, plastering a carefree grin to his face. "I trust that I can leave you to work out whatever lingering issues you might still have. I only hope you think to call me or Castiel before doing something stupid."

Dean rolls his eyes again, shifting back to lean against the headboard while Balthazar pushes himself to his feet, and with a wave of his hand they're both clean. "So, you're just gonna up and leave now?"

Balthazar pauses, half turned away. "Would you prefer I stay?"

He can practically feel Dean rolling his eyes, as the Hunter makes a dismissive noise and rolls over onto his side, digging himself under the covers of his rumpled bed. "Do whatever you want," he says, voice low and rough, and Balthazar gives an exasperated noise, because seriously? Angels weren't exactly known for their free will.

He wings to the edge of Dean's bed, wrapping himself in the air until he fades from sight. Whether or not Dean actually believes he's gone, eventually the Hunter's breaths even out in restless sleep. Hours later Castiel joins him in watching over the Hunter, silent but questions set into his shoulders and the tilt of his head.

"I'll wait out the night," he tells the other Angel, earning a slow nod and a flash of sympathetic understanding from his Brother's gaze. He hates that look. "Is the demon corpse taken care of?"

"Naturally." Castiel's dry reply makes Dean shift, rolling onto his back and turning his face towards the Angels. Even in sleep his brow is furrowed, his shoulders tensed. "Tread carefully, Balthazar."

Balthazar merely smiles.