And in Hell, it doesn't matter how is he. He's good. That aside, he's the best. Beneath his fingers blood runs smoothly like sand. Those who whine, who scream, who die – they don't ask stupid things like his well being. They're just scared and scared is how they die.
Now Cas, he asks those things even though he knows that awake he's falling into pieces, missing and drying and sick; that he wants, that he needs, that he's stepped away from all the light that ever was for him, if any. For this alone, for the audacity to demand an answer like that, he wants Cas in between his fingers, a wreath of death on his throat, a rainbow of bruises. He wants to eat the very last moment of air that escapes his holy lungs.
The people in Hell, they don't compare. He slices and dices them anyway. Can't leave his hands idle when they need, when they mourn. He breaks bones with artistry, plays them like instruments. He always liked good music. He waits for something. Not all of his racks are taken. The empty spaces are so bright. They keep getting his attention akin to a magpie mesmerized by shiny trash. His bride will fill the voids when he gets her.
See, this is the bed for his brother. He'll kiss his temple softly and he'll tell him goodnight, he'll call him by his little name – for the last time and for the first time of plenty when the old teeth will sink under his skin, draw blood, collect tears.
And that is for his almost lover (such a shame he doesn't have wings to rip away anymore, what a loss to a loving and capable hand). The conjugal rack where his bride will roar in jealousy – he almost chose him instead of her; he almost put her away, the love of his life, his blade. The ageless jaw is furious, she will make the bird pay for the insult. Dean stares at the rack and he knows he and Cas will mold into one in many, many ways. Dean will touch and have his everything. Every last drop of blood. He doesn't tell the blade, but he thinks that's how he's gonna make Cas never leave him anymore. He thinks he's gonna rest like that: only hidden in Cas's meaty, honey-skinned thighs it is possible to sleep in Hell. On his rosy lips. In his lifeless eyes. Inside. With the blade tying them like a vow, binding them. To the hilt, everything buried to the hilt. No words. They never had many. Never had enough. Perhaps it's just better that way. Dean just doesn't know how to apologize. He feels like he should. He'll sew his own mouth closed just in case. He'll sew Cas's, stitch by stitch. So maybe Cas won't whine, won't scream, won't really die (and leave).
Like he did. And like he did in Dean's dream, Dean's Hell. He's not here. Dean dreams alone with two empty racks. Cas has the love of his life with him. An incomplete Hell is a parody of itself. It deteriorates quickly. It takes Dean along into decomposition. He doesn't mind all that much. He kills while he can. When he'll dissolve – he'll wake up and that, in fact, he minds a lot. It's a very tedious world outside. Rackless, bladeless, hopeless. With Sams and Cases that breathe and look at him too much – they do that when he's up. Their eyes are wrapped up in pity and pity is Dean's least favorite flavor of life. In Hell, he's the king and queen, for once he doesn't question his choices – no one does. He wants to stay below, where his hand doesn't itch, where he acts instead of thinking, where the blackness is so thick he doesn't see his failure even if he tries. Where a shadow of Alastair's hand pets his back and he purrs. Where something is proud of him.