Chapter One – The First Terrace: The Proud

Just as Your angels, as they sing Hosanna,

Offer their wills to You as sacrifice,

so may men offer their wills to You.

~ Canto XI, lines 10-12

When the blur of battle settled, a macabre detritus of severed body parts and moaning creatures ringed the angel who stood at the center of the clearing, his face devoid of expression but his chest heaving with rapid breaths. His time here in Purgatory – a month? two? Even with his abilities, it was hard to gauge - had been spent in an inexorable whirl of bloodshed and steeply climbing body count. Castiel couldn't be certain that killing any of these things even did any good other than to keep himself alive, if he could even be said to be living in this place. Would slaying the never-ending horde of beasts that came for him keep Dean any safer? He couldn't possibly know, though he tried to tell himself that every monster he had slain lessened the number out there to attack the hunter. But did it really? Did they simply respawn endlessly in perpetuity, forever doomed to snarl and hunt and die and regenerate the next day to repeat the pattern ad infinitum? Was this their Hell? Or, because it was an angel's Hell, was it a monster's heaven, this cycle of death and life and terror and warfare?

Castiel swiped a dirty hand across his face to rid it of sweat and debris, though he couldn't say whether it actually did any good. Reminding himself that he needed to be more vigilant about allowing his vessel to rest, Castiel wended his way out from the trail of carnage to squat at the base of one of the larger looking trees. His Grace weakened every day. He supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised by this; it was neither the first time he'd been cut off from Heaven, nor the most justifiable reason. To be fair, he couldn't be certain whether the waning of his angelic "mojo" was due to a blatant severing by Heaven or simply his presence in this sphere, but the result was the same so it hardly mattered. Musing, he thought perhaps it was lack of proximity rather than a decided action by his brethren, as they'd had plenty of time to revenge themselves for the angelic slaughter while he convalesced in the mental hospital or had been in flight with Meg. So more likely that the dwindling Grace was a result of Purgatory itself. An unpleasant sapping of energy accompanied every attempt to banish a creature, so Castiel had been forced to rely on his hand-to-hand training and, he admitted to himself with a tiny half-smile, some of the dirtier tricks he'd learned from the Winchesters over the last few years.

Reflection on his time with the Winchesters and all that had passed between them had Castiel dropping to the leaf-covered ground beneath the tree instead of merely just hovering to gather himself. He leaned his head back against the rough bark and let his eyes drop shut. A few deep breaths filled his chest before he examined that method of self-examination, the cataloging of his physical well-being. Apparently, acquiring sneaky brawling tactics and an appreciation for unsavory diner food were not the only things the angel had absorbed in his time with his human charges: he'd begun to think of this body, this vessel, as his own, as himself, even in the solitude of his thoughts. When had this temporal collection of cells become a flesh manifestation of his being instead of the transportation ewer that his training and very nature told him that it was? That it should be. But it wasn't anymore. The closer he'd gotten to the Winchesters – the more he hunted with them, commiserated with them, lived with them, felt with them – the more he felt his essence adhere to this flesh and the less he felt the presence of Jimmy Novak's soul back in the dark recesses of his mind. While his first instinct was to clutch at the draining Grace that made him an angel, a darker, guiltier part of him reveled in feeling so … human.

It was all Dean, really. When it came right down to it, the flesh he inhabited felt like a body instead of a temporary vehicle because of Dean. The hunter had always treated him as the celestial being he was but at the same time as something apart from the rest of his kin. The attitude was contagious, it seemed. More than that, Dean had introduced Castiel – often forcefully – to sensations and actions and feelings that he doubted many other angels had ever experienced. The elder Winchester's own humanity invaded his being, weaving intoxicating, seductive tendrils into his essence until he could hardly separate the writhing strands of emotion and experience from his ethereal spirit. He hardly wanted to prize the two apart anymore; the very definition of what "Castiel" had come to mean was underwritten by Dean Winchester's hand.

So he fought the brutes that growled in the dark because he owed it to Dean. He owed it to Dean to repay his faith and loyalty with protection. Salvation. He meant to save Dean, with his own mortality if necessary. He would thrust his dying breath from himself like a spear if that was what was needed to ensure that Dean /

Because Dean's survival meant everything to him and he had nothing but that left to lose, the angel did something he hadn't done in quite some time: Castiel, fallen so far from Grace, turned his face to the sky and prayed to his Father.

"Please," was all he could manage aloud, "please …."

So he simply clasped his hands together, dropped his haggard face with its scraggly growth of hair into his upturned palms, and thought of Dean. If anything of prayer still reached his Father, still pricked at his inscrutable heart at all, Castiel couldn't afford to be too proud to bend his head in supplication. He prayed fervently to his Father to hear him, to guide him to whatever end would allow his first, best friend to leave this place unscathed.

A hitch in Castiel's breath had him furrowing his brow in confusion. Perhaps he had been more remiss in resting than he'd thought, as he detachedly noticed that his eyes were watering and the breaths leaving his chest quavered. The more he rested and prayed for his friend, however, the more he found himself succumbing to shuddering gulps of air, trembling limbs, and streaming eyes.

Perhaps Dean had taught Castiel more human traits than he had believed. The angel had learned to weep.

Give unto us this day the daily manna

without which he who labors most to move

ahead through this harsh wilderness falls back.

~ Canto XI, lines 13-15

"Where's the angel?"

The words were as much a weapon to him as the knife in his hand, jammed underneath the nose of yet another monster.

"Where?!" the hunter shouted at the face that merely sneered back at him.

This was getting him nowhere. He'd been getting nowhere for nearly two months now. As good a tracker as Dean was, trying to stalk a supernatural being in a land full of supernatural beings was like trying to follow a bread crumb trail in a world-sized bakery. Every potential trail turned out to be just another piece of another trail or a trail to the wrong thing.

The hunter repeated his threat in a hoarse voice, giving the monster one more chance to help him before his fate locked in. "Where's the angel?" The words seemed to be the only ones that made sense to him anymore.

shifter he currently had pinned to the tree simply snarled and grinned at him, refusing even to overtly refuse to help. Dean's patience had worn thin enough not to care that the creature hadn't gotten a chance to lie to him. He swung back his arm and slashed off the mutt's head, barely waiting for the sickening crunch-squish of the skull hitting the dead leaves at his feet before swiping the blade across the creature's muddy jacket and moving on.

Dean had started to think that maybe the reason why he couldn't find Cas might be that the angel didn't want to be found. He couldn't think why his friend would be evading his help, especially with Dean praying to him every night, but if Cas was still crazy, who knew what was going through the angel's head?

Or maybe Dean had just gotten sloppy. He hadn't slept in days now, so all of his senses seemed muted and his muscles had begun to scream with soreness after even the most minor fights. The hunter had learned very quickly in those first panic-filled days that letting himself sleep at night made him ten times as vulnerable. Most of these creatures had senses keening than any animal on Earth and at first, he'd assumed that meant that moving at night would only put him at a disadvantage. What he discovered, however, was that a damn vampire could sneak up on him a fuck lot faster when it was cloaked in darkness; Dean had nearly lost a freaking leg learning that lesson. So when he did manage to find no sign of creatures stalking him during the day, he'd shinnied up the tallest tree he could find, tied himself to a sturdy branch, and allowed himself to cat nap. If they were going to come after him while he was vulnerable, he'd make it as hard for the fuckers as he could.

But the more time went by with no sign of Cas and no luck getting the piggies under his knife to squeal, the more desperate Dean got. He was chasing his tail and he knew it. He almost thought he could have handled Purgatory's constant fighting and fucking running if he'd had his friend here with him, but he had gotten to the point where the only thing he could focus on was find the angel, find the angel, find the angel. And he knew that made him meat to the monsters in the trees that could sniff him out like a rat.

Dean looked wistfully up at the branches of an oak that toward above his head. Damn, he was tired. He wanted nothing more than to hoist himself up, find a good branch, and zonk the fuck out for at least a day and a half. But his limbs were already watery with fatigue; if he somehow managed to get the strength to get up high enough, he knew he'd either fumble a knot and fall or he'd never be able to have the strength to get back down if something went wrong. And night was coming within the next couple of hours – he'd begun to be able to feel the snap of cold in the air right before the dark would descend – so he needed every ounce of strength just to be able to keep walking and fighting and demanding news of his friend. So he just sighed and kept moving through the gloomy trees.

He hadn't been moving for even half an hour when the hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle. Fatigue or not, Dean's hunter instincts set in and every muscle froze as he stretched out with his senses to try to find the source of danger. A dry limb crackled to his left and Dean's head whipped around. Moving on nearly soundless feet, adrenaline coursing through him like a drug, Dean picked carefully over the dry ground until he found himself staring at his stalker's back. The creature's body stiffened as he lifted his head to scent the breeze.

Vampire, Dean thought with a wry half-smile. Can smell the blood on me. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife.

In a whir of motion, the vampire spun to face Dean, snarling as they tussled. Dean managed to pin the bloodsucker against a tree, his arm braced across the taller man's chest. The vamp snarled and writhed against Dean's grip, but he managed to keep the thing braced against the tree trunk. Maybe the hunter wasn't as tired as he thought. A tiny smirk pulled at the corners mouth.

"Calm down; take a breath," Dean said, if for no other reason than prove he could remember other words. Once the vampire had shaken his hair out of his face and pulled back his fangs, Dean asked, "Where's the angel?"

To Dean's surprise, the creature gave him a tiny smile, his eyes lighting with mischief and recognition. "You're him," he said smoothly, hungrily. "The human."

A bit shaken – had he gained a reputation amongst the monsters in his search for Cas? – Dean slammed him against the bark again and spat out, "Where's the angel?!"

"I don't know," the vampire retorted with a smirk.

Well, Dean had had just about enough of this bullshit. With a quick flip of the blade in his hand, the hunter pinned the vamp's arm against the tree, jerking the knife just a bit to let the fucker know he didn't appreciate the attitude. Rolling his shoulder and sizing up the growling blood junkie, Dean knew he wasn't going to get shit from this pony-tailed jack ass, so he bent down and picked up the strange-looking scythe the creature had dropped and sliced through its neck, letting the tree do the work of collecting the body.

Dean had barely gathered himself when another fanged freak came barreling out of the scrub and tackled him to the ground. Cursing himself for not being aware of the second attack, Dean struggled as the vampire above him snarled and snapped in his face. He'd managed to drop the scythe just out of reach – how the fuck did that always manage to happen? – and his knife was still buried in the tree, so the hunter just did what he could with bare hands to keep the thing from tearing him to pieces. He fought his hardest but he knew, after just a few seconds, that it wasn't going to be enough. Dean was too tired, had been too startled, the vampire was too strong. It wasn't going to take this jerk long to get the upper hand, pin him down, and rip him to pieces. As he fought with his last few rounds of strength, Dean managed to send out a quick thought: iI'm sorry, Cas. I wasn't fast enough …./i

But a blur of motion and noise streaked over him and the vamp was gone, rolling on the ground a few feet away, now under the meaty arms of another man – another vampire? – that raised a weapon that looked like it had been made out of a giant spinal column. Dean shuddered at what beast could possibly have supplied that spine, then thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't found out. The bigger man hissed, his fangs dropping out, as he swung the spine club down and silenced Dean's attacker.

The hunter watched him wearily once he gained his footing, raising the newly-recovered scythe as the vamp in the dark coat rose slowly from the ground. It seemed to have no immediate intention to charge him, but Dean Winchester hadn't survived a hunter's life this long for being foolish. Well. Not all the time, anyway. So he just kept his weapon as steady as he could and watched the other man as he wiped grimy palms on his coat.

A tiny quirk of lips formed around a slow Louisiana drawl. "What, no thanks for saving your hide?"

Over a week of constant hiking and killing had taught Dean to swallow his pride and admit – at least to himself – that Benny had earned his trust. And the vampire had turned out to be manna from Heaven in a strange package: not needing to sleep, Benny watched over Dean as he managed to catch a few hours of sleep every night. The search for Cas may not have yielded any more positive results than before he met up with the vampire, but Dean had more energy because he could actually sleep now, so they covered more ground and made more headway. Every now and then, the creatures they came upon and hacked apart seemed to know something, even if they weren't talking, and Benny proved nearly as good a tracker as Dean, given that he'd had plenty of time in Purgatory to recognize patterns. Several times, they'd managed to pick up trails that Dean could feel were leading to something big; he couldn't say why he knew it, he just … iknew/i. As if he could feel Cas getting closer.

A strange jolt of energy zipped through Dean's shoulder at that thought. He rubbed at it, a bit absently, until he realized that the origin of the electric sense of awareness hummed through the handprint burned into his shoulder. When Benny called back to him to say, "I don't think he knows anything," Dean just sneered.

"Oh, he knows," the hunter said smoothly.

He stalked over to the monster coughing and sputtering at the base of the maple tree. Another burst of hot sparks zinged through his shoulder. He bent down and closed in on the creature's face.

"Where is the angel?" he asked calmly.

After a moment's hesitation and a quiver of fear at the intensity in Dean's eyes, the creature managed to choke out, "There's a stream …"

Dean's heart felt like it was hiccupping its way into his nasal passages. "Go on," he growled.

"Stream, in a clearing not far from here. I can show you…"

Dean sneered. i So you can slip away or leave us high and dry? Fat chance/i. "How 'bout you just tell me?"

"Three days journey," he manages, "follow the stream. There's a clearing. You'll find your angel there."

Finally! But he couldn't look too excited. Not yet. He threw an assessing glance to Benny, who simply tilted his head in confirmation.

"You know what, mutt?" Dean said. "I believe you."

Dean drove the knife up through the monster's jaw, he felt like smiling for the first time since he'd landed here months ago.

Even as we forgive all who have done

us injury, may You, benevolent,

forgive, and do not judge us by our worth.

~ Canto XI, lines 16-18

Castiel didn't hug him back. That fact stuck in his mind as he trekked behind Dean and the vampire, crashing through the crackling undergrowth heading away from the stream. Dean had hugged him after jogging down to the bank of the water where Castiel had been rinsing the grime from his face. The hunter looked happier than he had done in Castiel's presence in so long, and his friend's expression of complete elation at finding him had torn at his heart nearly as much as staying away had done. Castiel had been so overwhelmed by an ebb of conflicting emotions that he hadn't even thought to return the basic, simple gesture of Dean's arms clasped around his back. Stupidly, Castiel wished for the opportunity back, a chance to connect – even on the briefest level – to the being that meant more to him than anything had in millennia. Perhaps ever. His opportunity had come and gone and Castiel couldn't help but long for it in the tense silence of their journey.

The angel's mind whirred as they moved through the desiccated forest. The angel couldn't bring himself to regret seeing Dean again – especially now that being in his presence meant a much more concrete way to protect him – but he also couldn't help but berate himself endlessly that this was the very basis of why he'd chosen to run in the first place. Dean was in danger every second that the seraph was at his side, and if anything happened to his charge now, with the man so close Castiel could reach out and touch his worn leather jacket, there would be no end to the penance he would need to inflict upon himself for eons to come. Yet again, Castiel's willpower crumbled to feebleness in the face of Dean Winchester's determination.

Cas, buddy, I need you.

The phrase had been his undoing. He'd never been able to turn away Dean in a time of need, and the fact that the typically stoic hunter had actually worded his emotions, his open admission of Castiel's value to him, so nakedly had the last of the angel's determination to flee and draw the leviathan away evaporating beneath him. The fact that the elder Winchester had been so readily able to forgive his cowardice and abandonment in his relief to find his friend again decided Castiel's reaction as well. He had stopped arguing with the hunter, pointedly ignored glares from the surly vampire as they left the stream bank.

Castiel knew that telling himself he'd be better equipped to protect Dean if he was close by was just rationalization, but it did have some truth to it. As they trudged along, he reached out with delicate tendrils of his fragile Grace, scanning for any threats to their safety. Perhaps if he managed to keep Dean safe until they reached this supposed human portal out of Purgatory, the hunter would remember him with this same kindness and value, and someday be able to forgive him for his greatest transgression: the abandonment yet to come.