Fire and ash swirled around Castiel in a thick, suffocating cloud as he descended into Hell. Down, down, down he plummeted, hurtling headfirst into the pit. His large wings were tucked tightly against his body as he rocketed downward. His brothers and sisters covered him from all sides, slicing and smiting their way through the army of demons that stood between them and their target. They had been fighting their way through Hell for a week.

Despite the heavy combat surrounding him, despite the fact that he had lost five members of his garrison already, Castiel remained cool and calm. He was completely emotionless, his face a mask of serene indifference as he used an angel blade to cut down the abomination in front of him. He did not concern himself with the human souls screaming out for mercy all around him. He was on a mission, and he intended to complete it. His orders were simple: save the Righteous Man.

He saw the bottom of the pit approaching and signaled his charges to form a barrier above him, blocking the demons from the target. Castiel flared his wings out, slowing his decent. He flapped them, causing great gusts of wind to blow from his body disturbing the mounds of ash and bone lying on the filthy floor as he touched down. As he walked forward the shadows surrounding him dispelled, fleeing to the corners of the room, unable to come into contact with the grace swirling inside of him without being destroyed.

A heavy gate blocked his way; it was made of bone, bound with strips of flesh, and draped with human entrails. Castiel waved a hand and it simply ceased to exist. The sight before him made him stop short. He had been alive for millennia; he had seen the birth of creation, the rise and fall of nations, miracles so tiny and fleeting that they could be said not to have happened at all, and still, nothing he had seen in his entire existence compared to the sight before him.

Dean Winchester's soul had been in Hell for four decades. They were aware that they were too late, that the first seal was already broken, so the sight of the Righteous Man torturing a weeping boy is not what stopped him in his tracks; it was his soul. It should be severely damaged, flayed around the edges, humanity beginning to bleed away, but it wasn't. On the surface, his face was hard, a mask designed to intimidate and inspire terror, but underneath his soul shone, visible only to Castiel.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so bright and pure it hurt to look at. It was swirling inside of him, despairing that it was being forced to hurt another human being. On the surface, Dean Winchester believed himself to be truly evil, but Castiel saw past it, and all he could see was goodness and the conviction that this was worth it if it meant his brother was alive.

A monumental explosion expanded in his chest, and for the first time in his existence he felt emotion; he was in awe of the radiance before him. He had no idea what he was feeling, and that thought didn't scare him as much as it should. He would not let the Righteous Man stay in this place for a moment longer.

Before he could step forward and make himself known, three hellhounds appeared out of nowhere, snapping and growling at the man before him. Dean jumped back in terror; considering the way he had died, it was no shock that he was afraid of them. A sudden rush of protectiveness coursed through his veins. He willed himself through time and space behind the dogs. He grabbed two by the head, smiting them as he slammed them to the ground. The third charged, and he grabbed it by the throat in midair, destroying it. The Righteous Man spun around wildly, his face filled with fear.

He approached wings spread wide. "Dean,"

"Who are you?" he asked. Castiel noticed his eyes were green, like the emeralds mined from the mountains his father had shaped. He began to back away, but Castiel reached out and grasped his left arm firmly in his, stopping him. The feeling in his chest exploded again at the simple touch.

"Do not be afraid. I'm Castiel. I'm here to take you home."

"No, I mean what are you?"

"Deep down you already know."

Dean looked on in awe as comprehension dawned on his face. He reached with his free hand and touched Castiel's wings.

He reached for the swirl of his grace and began melding together the connection between Dean's soul and his body, healing as much of his damaged spirit as he could, knitting the skin and sinew of his body on Earth back together as the connection solidified. Dean looked on in amazement. Castiel felt it again, stronger as his grace reacted to Dean's proximity. He could feel the Righteous Man's soul through the point of contact. It was even more dazzling to the touch than it was to see. Pure love was radiating off of it in waves.

Castiel gripped his arm tighter, beseeching him. "Come with me, Dean."

Dean looked into his eyes, and Castiel felt something inside of him shift and change forever when he nodded yes. His wings spread out and he pushed off from the ground, shooting upward like an arrow, carrying the Righteous Man by his arm; he relished the connection between them. His garrison opened the way and followed him as he ascended, slaying any demon that dared to get too close.

A light shone brightly above them; they were almost out. As they approached, Castiel looked down into the Righteous Man's shining green eyes and felt his stomach swoop; he didn't understand why, but he didn't mind it.

Castiel finished repairing the Dean's soul, and in a heated, reckless moment, he branded Dean as his own to protect. He would bear his mark for the rest of his life. The angel's hair blew back in the breeze as they flew into the warm light above them. He put on a final burst of speed that would take them out of Hell, and as he broke free he shouted his triumph for all to hear. He screamed it with his mouth, his mind, his grace, from every fiber of his being, and it came out in four words: "Dean Winchester is saved."

Cas gasped and sat upright in bed. The sheets were coated in sweat and twisted around his legs. A dream, it was only a dream. Well, more of a memory, actually; the memory of raising Dean from perdition. He sank back down into the pillows and rolled to find his hunter sleeping next to him. Cas wrapped his arms tightly around Dean, holding him close as he remembered the dream. He recalled the feelings spiraling through his grace as he flew, dragging Dean behind him. Now that he was human, he could identify the emotion easily; love. Cas had been in love with Dean from the second he had laid eyes on him. He grinned in the dark and nuzzled into Dean's neck, inhaling his familiar scent.

He was so in love it hurt, but he was waiting to tell his hunter. Dean didn't deal well speaking about feelings, and Cas didn't want to scare him off. So he would wait until Dean was ready to hear it, no matter how long it took.

Dean snuffled in his sleep, so Cas rubbed soothing circles into his skin. Still his hunter was restless, so Castiel began whispering to him in Enochian words of love so profound they had no meaning in English. He relaxed, and Cas felt himself drifting. He needed sleep; they were leaving for Kansas City in the morning to complete the first trial. As he descended back into dreams, he whispered into his hunter's hair, "OLANI HOATH OL, Dean."

Castiel and Dean sang happily to Kansas at the top of their lungs as they drove through the sprawling suburban streets. Sam reached from the passenger seat and switched the radio off, earning him a glare from the singing men; Crowley ignored them all and stared pensively out the window. Kevin wasn't with them; he had stayed behind to watch over a still sleeping Joshua.

"What the hell, Sammy?" said Dean in irritation.

"What? It was too loud."

Cas peeked his head around the seats from the back to scowl at Sam. "One does not simply turn off Kansas."

Dean grinned hugely. "You heard the man, Sammy. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Sam slapped Cas' hand away as he lunged forward to turn it back on. "We're here anyway. And enough with the Lord of the Rings references, Cas. You're turning into a bigger nerd than Dean. And your shirt collection is getting seriously out of hand." He meant to sound bitchy, but he was grinning as he gestured to the angel's Star Wars t-shirt.

"I like it," said Dean with a scowl to his brother.

"Good for you, Jerk. We're here."

"Bitch," mumbled Dean as he parked the Impala by a mailbox that said McKiernan on it. The house was like all the others: two story, white picket fence, all American suburbia. There was nothing special about it except what would be visiting it tonight.

"Well, let's get this show on the road," said Crowley, eager for what was to come. They all got out and shut the doors with a satisfying metallic creak. Dean opened the trunk and unloaded the duffels containing their supplies: goofer dust, salt, shotguns, and shells along with the demon killing blade.

Dean knew there was no time to lie to the man and scope out the joint. They would just have to tell the truth about why they were here and hope he listened. Worst case scenario, they would tie him to a chair in a protective circle, but he wasn't dying; not on his watch.

They rang the bell and waited. Footsteps could be heard on the other side before it swung open. The man who answered was in his mid-thirties with dark hair and kind brown eyes. "Can I help you?" He spoke with a soft Irish accent.

"Donald McKiernan?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, who's askin'," said Donald nervously.

"You didn't happen to stop by a crossroads about ten years ago, did you Donald? Maybe you met someone with red eyes?"

The color drained from Donald's face. He dropped his head and gripped the door frame tightly with a trembling hand. "So, it's time is it? Well I'm ready. Take me," he said.

Castiel reached out to touch the man's shoulder. "We're not here to hurt you. We're here to save you."

Donald's head shot up, hope flaring to life in his eyes. "May we come in?" asked Cas.

"Sure, just... please help me." He beckoned them all over the threshold and looked nervously up and down the street before closing the door firmly behind them.

"A hellhound?" Donald looked from Sam to Dean to Cas and back again as if hoping someone would laugh and it would all turn out to be a big joke.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so," said Sam softly. Dean offered the man his flask and he took a deep pull with a shaking hand.

"Sir, where is your sister now?" asked Cas. Dean smiled at his angel. Cas was focused and sincere and the fact that he wanted to make sure there was no one to get caught in the crossfire of this fight was awesome. Actually, everything about Cas was awesome, because he loved him. God that felt good to think about. Cas was perfect and he loved him. Donald speaking broke him from his daydreaming.

"My sister's name is River. I sent her to a friend's house for the weekend. I didn't want her to be here when…" he broke off, looking faint.

"That's good, Donald. We're going to help you, don't worry," said Dean reassuringly.

"You must think I was stupid for making that deal, but she's my sister. Our parents were gone and she was all I had." Tears started streaming steadily from his eyes. "She was so little and she didn't deserve it. River was my responsibility. It was my job to look after her, and I fucked up. I just couldn't let her die," he trailed off, lip quivering, eyes haunted with the memory of his sister being gunned down.

Dean felt his heart twist in sympathy; he remembered when it had been his Sammy that was hurt, when he had been the one who screwed up. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as the bitter memory overtook him completely.

"Whoa, whoa, Sam. Sam! Hey! Come here. Let me look at you." His hand touched his baby brother's back, and when he pulled away it was stained red. So much blood, Sam was losing too much blood. His mouth was stained with it.

"Hey, look at me. It's not even that bad. It's not even that bad, all right? Sammy? Sam!"

His brother's head was lolling, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. He had to keep him awake. "HEY, listen to me. We're gonna patch you up, okay?" His hands cupped the sides of his face, willing him to be alright. "You're gonna be good as new. I'm gonna take care of you. I'm gonna take care of you. I've got you. That's my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother? Sam? Sam! Sammy!"

Sam slumped into his arms, completely still. This couldn't be happening. This wasn't happening. "No. No, no, no, no. Oh, God." His baby brother was motionless in his arms and he wasn't breathing. He was gone and Dean howled his agony into the night. "SAM!"

Cas was there in an instant, his hand warm and reassuring, snapping him out of the memory. He leaned down and whispered in his ear, "It's okay, Dean. Look at your brother. He's standing in the kitchen. He is alive and well, and all of that is over. It's okay."

Dean took a shaky breath and looked at his brother; he was too tall, his too long hair, his ridiculous puppy dog eyes happy and full of life. His breathing evened out as Sam smiled at something Crowley said. Sam was alive. It was going to be okay. He squeezed his angel's hand in thanks before turning to Donald. "I don't think you're stupid. I know why you did it. I would have done it too."

He didn't tell Donald that he had done it because he didn't want him to know that they had failed to save him and he had gone to Hell. The poor dude didn't need that. Nevertheless, Donald's eyes sparkled in relief that someone understood. Dean stood, filled with determination to save this man.

"Crowley," he called. Crowley and Sam came into the room looking expectant. Dean looked at the former demon. "This Is your party, man. How do you want us to play it?" Crowley looked surprised that Dean was relinquishing control, but took it in stride.

"Alright, boys. We need goofer dust lining the inside of that closet and in front of the door; Donald will be safe in it. We need salt at every window and door except the front. We'll use the salt to funnel the hound into this room and fight the bitch here."

They all nodded in agreement, impressed with Crowley's plan and got to work. Salt was laid at every window and door except the front. The hall was lined with it, so it only had one way in, funneling it to the living room. Donald went in the closet at 11:55. They loaded their guns with rock salt, and Dean relinquished the demon killing blade to Crowley before they all put on the holy fire glasses that would enable them to see the hound coming.

As the clock struck midnight, growling started in the entryway of the room; the lights flickered and went out. Their heads whipped around to see a spectral black dog made of shadow and blood standing in the doorway; the hellhound had come. It started barking viciously, broken yellow teeth barred, gleaming wickedly in the moonlight.

In the split second before the fight began, there was dead silence; it was almost peaceful. Then the dog charged sending furniture crashing around the room. It was heading straight for Cas; Dean and Sam fired a shot at the same time, catching it in the shoulder and the gut. It yelped and changed course; it was heading for Sam. It knocked the gun out of his hands and sank its teeth into his shoulder. Sam shouted in pain and Dean fired off another shot, hitting the hound in the back. While he was reloading, Cas fired off his shells. Still, the dog bit down harder. Any more pressure and iit would snap the bone.

Crowley forsook his gun and charged the hound with the knife. He jumped onto its back; the dog immediately let go of Sam and started bucking wildly, snarling, trying to throw Crowley off. Dean rushed in to help his brother while Cas took careful aim and fired at the hound again. Crowley raised his arm and made to plunge the blade through its skull, but it bucked hard enough that the blade flew out of his hand and clattered to the carpet. Cas dove for the knife; he grabbed it and rolled out of the way before he could be trampled by the rampaging beast. Dean grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hauled him out of harm's way.

"Are you hurt?" Dean bellowed.

"No! Take care of Sam, I have to get to Crowley!"

Dean nodded and squeezed his arm before turning his attention back to Sam's shoulder. Cas rolled to his feet and dashed for his friend who was clinging on for dear life to the hound's back. Their eyes met, and a silent communication passed between them. Cas threw the knife and watched as if it were moving in slow motion as Crowley deftly caught it. The hound finally succeeded in throwing him over its head, pinning him underneath its body. It snapped viciously at his face; the former demon caught it and held it at bay by the throat.

With his free hand, he plunged the knife into its gut and ripped it forward, its blood cascading down upon him like baptismal waters. As he bathed in its blood, Crowley looked beautiful and terrifying, like a man struck with a divine message to be shared with the world. It could have lasted for a second or an eternity, Cas wasn't sure. Then Crowley was pushing the carcass off of him and standing up slowly. Cas rushed to help Sam to his feet; he seemed fine. The angel turned his attention to Dean.

"Are you oka-"

He was cut off by a noise. They looked over to Crowley. He was covered in blood, his head was thrown back, maniac expression on his face, his body bathed in moonlight as he shouted his bloody triumph to the heavens. Crowley looked fierce, and in that moment, they didn't know whether to feel awestruck or terrified.

Crowley, Castiel, and Dean stood around the kitchen table, a bowl of the hellhound's blood in front of them. Sam was in the living room helping a shaken Donald clean up the splintered furniture. He was going to make hex bags for Donald and River to go on the run with. When the gates were closed, they would call him and let him know that it's safe.

"Are you ready?" asked Cas.

Crowley nodded, pulling a piece of paper from his bloodstained coat pocket. He looked it over for a moment, set it on the counter, and then recited the spell. "CANA OM DARR."

Crowley dropped to his knees shouting in pain. His arm began to glow with light that flashed between colors so quickly it was difficult to decide which one it was. His face twisted in distress, and Dean moved to help him, but it was already over. Just as quickly as it had started, it had finished. "I'm alright, mate," he said softly and Dean helped him to his feet. "I'm alright."

They said their goodbyes to Donald and loaded up in the Impala. "Dean, you look beat. Let me drive. My shoulder hurts too much to sleep anyway," said Sam. Dean was surprised, but he tossed him the keys.

"Thanks, Sammy."

Crowley made to open the passenger door, and Dean stopped him confused. "What are you doing?"

The former demon scowled. "I just completed the first trial. I think I earned shotgun. Besides, don't you want to sit with your angel?"

Dean blushed, but took the point, letting Crowley slide into the front seat next to Sam. They took off; the lines on the highway flashing by in the dark were hypnotic. Cas pulled on his arm, and he was too sleepy to protest. He slid down in the seat, resting his head in the crook of Cas' neck. He felt his angel carding long fingers through his hair; he thought about telling him he loved him, whispering it into his neck, but he didn't want to do it half asleep.

Cas held onto his sleeping hunter tightly. He was happy in a bitter sweet kind of way. The first trial was done, they all survived, and they were going home. Losing Crowley would be awful, he didn't even want to think about it, but maybe it would be smooth sailing to the end. What could possibly go wrong?

Abaddon paced, back and forth along the grass. She had taken another vessel; a pretty little redheaded hooker. She had already done things to the whore's body that she could never have imagined in her worst nightmares. The demon laughed cruelly in the night, relishing the young girl's screams inside of her.

But she wasn't here to dick around like this; she had a purpose. One of her hellhounds had gone missing. Upon investigation, she had found the slain body at an empty house, drained of blood. That wouldn't have been so bad, but she had found a paper with a few words of Enochian on it laying on a counter, and those words had made her scream into the night.

Someone had undertaken the trials; the Winchesters. Their stench had been all over the house. Oh, she couldn't wait to get her hands on Dean and make good on her promise to rip his pretty, green eyes out. It did throw a wrench in her plan to put the Apocalypse on the rails though. She couldn't very well release her master if she were locked in the pit forever.

She was a Knight of Hell, the elite, one of Lucifer's chosen soldiers. But she was the last of her kind, and she needed backup to take the Winchesters. That's why she was sulking around Stull Cemetery in the middle of the night. This was the place the Winchesters had sealed Lucifer in his prison. The last place the cage was opened was where the connection between she and Lucifer would be strongest. She dropped to her knees and opened the personal link between a Knight of Hell and her Master.

"Father,"

"My child," the words whispered in the night. She shivered perversely, aroused at his voice. The temprature plummeted, freezing the plantlife around her solid,

"The Winchesters have undertaken the trials. I need help. What am I to do?"

"I have chosen another Knight to join your ranks. He still needs to be pushed over the brink, but when it is done he will hunt the Winchesters down. He will hunt them as relentlessly as an attack dog that scents blood."

Abaddon cocked her head, eyes flashing black. "Who father?"

An evil, ominous laugh rumbled from the cage. She threw her head back and laughed with him as a name resounded through her head. Yes, he would be perfect.