Dean was dead in Hell longer than he was alive on Earth.
The memories were muted through his waking hours but in dreams they came again, those forty years of brimstone choices. The horrors of the pit would walk behind him for the rest of his days, the death that stalked at his left shoulder. In quiet moments he could it whispering in Alastair's voice, asking that same dread question.
Are you ready to let go?
It wasn't the pain that broke him. Dean had learned well at his father's knee the myriad ways pain could become a weapon, a tool, an excuse. The loss of his wife had hardened John Winchester's soul to a diamond edge. Pushed against it, Dean had been given no choice but to bleed, made stronger by the webbing of a thousand and one tiny scars.
And Alastair knew it, all of it, his skill stretching far behind the scalpel. What he had offered Dean was nothing more or less than the chance to rest. For the first time since his mother died, he was being given permission to stop.
To let someone else carry the burden, even if (especially if) that someone had not volunteered to take up the weight. From his earliest days, responsibility had been Dean's watchword, and he knew better than most that responsibility was always all or nothing.
It had taken thirty years of blade and scourge for Dean to see that he could choose nothing, that to say yes to Alastair was to say no to obligation. No to staying strong, to taking it on the chin, to sacrifice. No even to Sammy, who deserved better for a brother.
He held out a decade longer than he might have because of that fear, that last thin thread that bound him to the mortal skein. Somewhere up above Sam was searching, wasting the life Dean had bartered for researching loopholes in the laws of Hell. He owed it to his brother to resist, so that if Sam should succeed there would be something left worth saving.
Now, with the end of the world bearing down, the horror Dean felt at being cast back to the Pit was tempered by an instant of relief. Only an instant, less than the span of a breath, a single beat of the heart, but it was there and it shamed him. Here there would be freedom from decisions that could alter the fate of mankind.
Here there would be only one choice, to endure or to let go, and the answer was always only a matter of time.
The first time around he'd woken already chained, orientation given in the form of Alistair's smile as he cut through ribs to fondle the lobes of Dean's lungs. To find himself unfettered and alone was almost worse, the small reprieve granting little comfort when he knew so well what was to come.
He thought of escape but it was vague, reflexive, the last twitch of a dying muscle. Where was there to go? The entreaties of the lost were all around him, crying out with one voice the same excuse Dean had given Gabriel.
Forgive us, hallowed be thy name, have mercy, we didn't know oh Lord we didn't know-
But under the choir of screams came something new. The clash and clang of sword on sword should have blended into the rattle of chains, but Dean had seen battle too often not to recognize the din of war. In the distance pure light flared, bright even against the backdrop of fire, winking out a complex rhythm.
It should have been meaningless, but somehow the knowledge was there, the translation effortless. This was the last go/no go point before they ventured too deep to withdraw and the order was go, go now. He pulled his wings in tight and flipped forward into a dive, as smooth and sure as if he moved through water instead of superheated void.
It was then that Dean understood what Gabriel had done.
With awareness came a deepening. Castiel ripped downward at an incredible pace that left Dean no time for fear. He could feel the angel's perfect trust, in his wings and in his brothers, in the Father he had never known. He would succeed in his mission, if God wished it so, and if he should fail, if he should fall into the depths and never rise, that too would be by way of the Father he loved so well.
Thy will, Father, thy will be done-
It was the only prayer he knew. It gave him comfort as his garrison faltered behind him, as the death cries of his brothers bloodied the air. Hellfire licked at his pinions, crisping black the delicate interlocking barbs. Just ahead loomed a forest of chains, capable of cleaving him in twain at this speed if he hesitated for the barest of seconds.
Castiel did not hesitate.
There was no fear as he wove between the rusted strands, only a singing joy, the challenge of the unpredictable updrafts in this dark place something he took up with utter gratitude. He (they) were deep indeed now, Grace stretching out toward the soul bound to it by the sigils of duty and redemption. The anguish of countless souls tore at his concentration, but in this tedium of suffering Castiel was given to bear up only one. The righteous man.
And Dean saw himself through Castiel's eyes.
He had known himself before to be a small thing, made of dust and spittle and just as easily returned to it. But in Castiel he was made large, the focus of a singular and terrible faith. Dean stood before a rack holding a writhing soul there was no disgust in Castiel at the sight. Nor did he find Dean beautiful. He judged him not yet found him the pinnacle of his Father's creation, this flickering mortal spark with whip in hand.
In the instant before Castiel was upon him, Dean found himself quite suddenly himself again, turning in response to Alastair's cry of rage. Turning and looking up, into a luminance that would have burned out his eyes had he been alive.
And oh, he was a beautiful thing, Castiel, beautiful in the way the stoop of a falcon is beautiful, form and function indelibly knotted, designed for just this thing, to climb high and cut down. His Grace unbound by a vessel and expanding through dimensions, a tesseract of impossible color, the blue at the heart of all lesser shades that pretended to the hue. The wings muscle and bone, tendon and feathers, the angel not otherworldly after all but tied to it by way of wind.
Dean fought when the angel gripped him. He could do nothing else, for all of this had happened before his past self's fury touching him only distantly. But through the connection formed by burning touch he felt the angel trying to squash the small, prideful hope that God might return to speak with the righteous man, that in saving Dean, Castiel might be the one to bring his Father home.
Thy will be done-
Dean opened his eyes to a world gone dark.
No, not gone dark, simply still dark. He was back in Bobby's living room, Sam's frantic shouts echoing against the walls.
"Dean? Dean!"
Dean's first attempt at an answer was a high squeak. He covered it over with a cough and swallowed hard. "Here, Sammy. Right here."
"What the hell did he do to you, boy?" The wheel of Bobby's chair ran over Dean's foot as he crowded close, patting Dean down with one hand to check for blood. Dean accepted the manhandling without complaint, all too grateful for the grounding touch. "You were dead quiet for a minute there."
Dean's laughter had an ugly edge that made Bobby's hand go still. "A minute, huh? Guess I got off light, then. Not like you, Sammy."
He sought out Gabriel, turning to face the area of thrumming power near the couch. A foreign memory rose and he knew that where Castiel was blue, Gabriel was green. His human mind quaked when it tried to capture the shade, jolting with pain before offering the compromise of new grass and velvet moss.
"Could you do something about the lights?" Dean asked.
The archangel packed an incredible amount of sarcasm into a single snort. Bobby shifted and Dean caught the other man's wrist before he could aim the Colt. There was a brief tug of war over the weapon before Bobby let go. Dean emptied the gun of its ammo and tucked the bullets into a pocket.
"How about now?"
Gabriel snapped his fingers and light flooded the room, diffuse but all pervading. The archangel smiled at Dean. The expression was hard to define, what anger remained softened and very human. He raised a brow in question and Dean nodded.
"Yeah, you made your point."
"What the hell-" Sam sputtered, "What did he do, Dean?"
The saturated light served only to highlight the fever flush across Novack's cheeks. Dean waited for vessel to take its next breath before he allowed himself to do the same, bringing them back into alignment.
Gabriel didn't do anything, Sam. I did it all and I didn't even know, didn't listen when Castiel tried to tell me. Like a puck ass kid throwing rocks at a pigeon and crying his head off when he kills it. I took his wings and his faith and shit, that's all he was, so what the hell is left?
"I fucked up, Sammy," Dean said, "I fucked up so damn bad."