The river Styx is black as pitch, foaming up as it sloshes against the unyielding rocks. They're all sharp and dangerous looking, and Castiel knows that demonic weapons have been made from them in the past. The scent of sulfur hangs heavy in the air, bubbling up noxiously from the river. He tests it, crouching down and dipping a finger in the briny mess, and, like he'd expected, it burns. The water is corrosive and eats its way through Castiel's flesh, tearing its way all the way down to the bone.
He heals the finger easily, shaking off the last of the water, but the burn of it lingers on even after Castiel has coaxed his skin into reforming over the digit. So he won't be wading then.
It's easy enough for Castiel to fashion a small boat out of his grace to protect himself, figuring that any manmade material would probably be eaten away just as surely as his finger had. He steps into it, moves with the rock of it through waves that should not exist in such a small river, and when Castiel pushes off, he doesn't look back.
He's swept along with the current, left without a prayer of controlling his direction even if he tried, until it looks like the river is about to collide with a huge cliff-face.
Castiel braces himself, ready to take off if need be or simply prepare for impact. But he needn't have worried, because that's when the mouth of the cliff opens up before him, a huge jaw of stone swallowing the river Styx whole.
The water crashes against its jagged teeth with a deafening roar, dropping off into unknowable darkness, with no way to predict what lies beyond. Castiel hangs on tight, trying to be ready for whatever may come. He grips the sides of his boat, feeling the darkness of the river surrounding him, and in that moment, he's never felt so alive.
The angel feels fear once again, and he'd forgotten how exhilarating it felt – falling fast and taking the plunge head on. It's taking destiny by the throat, and, despite how turbulent the river is, he's never felt more in control.
I'm coming Dean, he thinks, just before the blackness engulfs him.
The giant maw closes around him, just narrowly missing his tiny boat as he's whipped one way and then the other, jostled relentlessly by the fierce current. A few flecks of water spray up, and they sting where they touch his skin, sizzling against the flesh of his arms and face.
Castiel ducks, trying to avoid the worst of it, and he's just in time to miss the gigantic figure made of even darker black than the surroundings that sweeps towards him. It hisses and Castiel can dimly feel the sensation of claws tearing into his back, shredding his wings and trench coat in the process. The air stinks of sulfur, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out, remembering what Crowley had said about the demons. He'd seen some truly fearsome creatures on his last descent into hell, and he has no doubt in his mind that Crowley had been telling the truth about them.
The thing shrieks, and Castiel worries that it can smell his blood. It could be about to go in for the kill for all he knows, but he curls up tighter into himself, willing his grace to hold him up. He can feel it starting to slip as he's distracted by the pain, but Castiel can't afford to think of what might happen if he were to fall into the acid river. Instead, he puts all of his energy into keeping his grace a solid shield between him and the corrosive water buffeting him from side to side, sweeping him deeper and deeper into the pits of hell.
There's another shriek, but this one sounds pained, and it's followed by the sounds of clashing teeth and flesh being ripped apart. It's being attacked. Another gurgled cry and both noises fade into the distance, sounding like they're far behind him already.
Cas straightens up, gingerly feeling around himself to touch his mangled wings. Blood trickles down his back as he does, and it's hot against his fingers, but Castiel doesn't have enough energy to do anything about it while using his grace to shield him from the Styx. He tries to ignore the awful sting instead, the pain that courses through him in waves, radiating out from his back.
An injury to his wings means disaster, but Castiel won't let himself think of that now. At least not until he's tried to fix it.
His eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and he can see things staring at him from every angle, peering out from cracks in the rock – rock that seems to be bleeding. Castiel figures that they're there because they smell the fresh meat of his injury, but as he looks around it quickly becomes apparent that the things in the darkness are hiding from him. They're curled up in the walls of the cavern made from human flesh, arms and legs sticking out at various points or tucked into their cubbyholes, all simply watching him with blood-smeared faces.
It's unnerving.
The last time he was in hell, Castiel had been surrounded by a phalanx of other angels, their combined grace lighting up hell so bright that nothing had dare cross their path until they'd penetrated much deeper. And apparently, they'd taken the scenic route; his vessel's stomach turns with disgust. But then it's gone.
He's swept along too fast to see what the creatures do after he's out of their reach, and the next thing Castiel knows is that he's crashing into the far bank with an incomparable force.
The boat grinds to a stop at the foot of a hill made of bones that seems to loom from out of nowhere, and Castiel looks around hurriedly, trying to reorient himself. The river continues on at an almost acute angle, dropping off into further darkness more abruptly than should be possible.
There's no indication of where it might lead.
Castiel weighs his options - though he doesn't suppose the hellhounds will be found in it's waters - and settles on getting out here. He re-absorbs his grace, the boat shimmering out of existence with its purpose served, and he puts it to work on healing his wings immediately.
His body goes slack from the pain, but that is of no import. Not compared to the disaster of permanent mutilation. Bracing himself on his hands and knees in the bones, Castiel keeps silent as his grace works to stitch his wings up like fire racing across his back.
There's nothing on him yet, and so Castiel hesitates for a moment before getting back to his feet, panting into the bleached femur directly beneath him. It hurts a lot more down here in hell than it ever did on earth, and he can feel the absence inside of him, like some of his grace was either used up or has deserted him.
Grace or no grace though, he came here for Dean.
That's the thought that propels him on, stumbling through the shifting piles of bone in search of the hellhounds that Crowley had assured him he would find.
Eventually Castiel sees three figures gliding towards him from out of the constant darkness, but they're definitely not hellhounds.
The demons approach until Castiel can see their faces clearly. They're all unremarkable to him, all three of them women. They don't appear to be afraid of him though, and they surround him in an instant.
"Oooh, Castiel," one hisses, her hands sliding up his thighs as she kneels at his feet, "such a pretty little angel,"
"Look what we've caught this time," another one sing-songs, voice grating in Castiel's ears, and he tries to block it out. She's touching him too, fingers dipping beneath his trenchcoat, attempting to coax it off him.
Taking a step back as he tries to dislodge them is a mistake though, because he simply backs into the last of them. She grabs him by the hip, her other hand darting between his legs and closing around his testicles. That's the moment Castiel finally understands Dean's expression 'got him by the balls' and it's definitely not a pleasant thing. "Mmm, baby, we're gonna have some fun with you,"
"Release me." Castiel demands, grabbing for his blade and pointing it at the other two who are steadily creeping forward towards him again. They just laugh, continuing forward. "Get back!"
"Aww, isn't he sweet?" The one holding onto him asks, breathing the words against his throat and following them with a swipe from her poisonous tongue. It tingles against his skin, but Castiel holds himself completely still, refusing to acknowledge her.
"Shed our blood and you'll bring the dogs," one warns, still approaching but at least cautious of the blade he carries. And really, that sounds like a great plan to Castiel.
"Then flee from here," he threatens. He knows better than to think that an enterprising demon such as Crowley is simply working the crossroads still, "your master Crowley assured me I would be escorted by the hounds of hell, but you are simply in my way."
"Don't you want to have some fun first?" The dark brunette asks, yet she frees his crotch, lifting her hand instead to Castiel's face, twisting his head towards her. "I could make it so good for you," she rubs her body against his as she speaks, whispering the words like a seduction on his skin, "surely you can spare a minute."
"I ought to smite you where you stand," Castiel informs her, gripping his blade tightly in case he must use it. "Unhand me, you foul creature." The power surges up under his skin, prickling at the surface from the indignity of this abomination's touch, and she leaps back with a shriek in the next second as her skin sizzles from the contact.
"What are you doing?" She screams, hands brushing ineffectively against her skin in an attempt to stop the burning. "Make it stop!"
"I am making love to you," Castiel assures her with a smirk, "surely that is what you intended."
His grace is made of pure love and faith, something she could never hope to handle, and the vengeance tastes sweet in his mouth as the other two demons flee without a backward glance.
"No!" She screeches, "not like this!" Her skin is starting to bubble, blistering wickedly. "Stop! Help me!"
Castiel steps over the still writhing body on his way. It's too late for anything to be done, even if he was of the inclination to accept her repentance. Pure grace is a poison to them; she'll be nothing but a pile of viscera in a few hours.
He continues on his journey, picking his way through the bones in search of the hellhounds. Hopefully the death of the demon near the shoreline will draw them to him, but just in case, Castiel listens for their vicious bark, waiting for the cacophony to begin.
It's not long before they start up, distant growls and snaps that alert the angel to the hellhounds' presence. He can hear the piles of bone shifting, yelps that seem to indicate an unexpected slide, and they're getting closer and closer until finally the beasts are in view.
They're giant dog-like creatures, but the form is subtly wrong, bent just out of shape as they charge, all slobbering mouths and grinding knives for teeth. They have no pelts, simply twisted muscle and bone, rippling ungracefully as they run. On closer inspection, their teeth actually are knives, bits of blades and razors jammed up into their jaws, the origin hidden by a bloody froth.
"Halt," he commands them, holding his hand out.
Immediately the hellhounds freeze, stumbling to a stop, and they stand there with sides heaving, eyeing Castiel with bloodshot and remarkably human eyes. Blood and saliva drip from their mouths, their faces twisted with exertion. But they're not past recognition. One in particular carries Dean's scent.
"Ellen, Joanna Beth, it is regrettable to find you here," he addresses the two in the front of the pack.
The smaller one makes a noise that's half a howl and half a whimper in response, dropping her head, though in pain, shame, or something else, Castiel cannot identify. Dimly, he remembers her as a young blonde smiling at him from across the table in Bobby Singer's house, then only as a memory obliterated by fire in saving the Winchester boys. Including his Dean.
"I am here for him – Dean. Will you take me to him?"
Joanna barks out an agreement before turning back to her mother and the rest of their pack, growling out something that Castiel hasn't a prayer of understanding. He can guess it was a dismissal though, because as she trots forward a few more steps to close the distance between them, the rest of the pack turns and runs off, scrambling over the hills of bone, awkwardly scrabbling for purchase on the shifting piles.
Another soft whine from Jo and Castiel turns his attention back to his now solitary companion. She looks up at him with tortured eyes, and Castiel hopes the journey will be short, because he does not want to see this. But his obvious revulsion does not stop her from nuzzling up to his side, nudging at Castiel's hand with her mutilated head.
"I am sorry," he tells her, "I cannot heal you," making his best guess as to her intent. No amount of grace can heal this creature now, and Castiel worries briefly for Dean, but he wasn't among the pack. That small hope will have to be enough for him, as his fingers brush against Joanna Beth's bloody skull.
She barks something to him, looking up to catch his eyes again before she trots away a short distance. When she looks back, it's clear enough in her eyes and in her bark that she wants him to follow. So Castiel sets off after her, trying not to notice the odd gait of the human form bent into that of a dog's.
The hills of bone eventually give way to the fabled lakes of fire, brimstone forming uncertain pathways between the terrible craters. Jo is clearly ill at ease: her tail – which appears to have been fashioned from part of her spinal cord – remains tucked tightly between her legs as she skitters over the rock.
Castiel makes sure to watch his step, following after her cautiously. Screams wrench the air, humanoid figures only vaguely discernible within the flames, and he knows he will not be immune.
On his first journey down into the depths of hell, Castiel had watched his brothers get dragged down into the pits by their wings, miniature explosions caused by their graces as they died. He can still see it in his mind's eye, and the memories match up perfectly with the bluish-white scorch marks marring the otherwise dark stone.
Jo whines urgently from the other side of this obstacle, a clear request for Castiel to hurry, and one he's more than happy to oblige. The air is filled with the stench of sulfur here, and he pulls his wings in as tightly as he possibly can as he crosses the last precarious bridge.
The human forms surge up towards him, high above their heads, and yet clawing fingers reach for him, searching for some purchase to drag him down as well. Dean, the angel reminds himself for courage, sidestepping a fiery hand and quickening his pace as much as he can while keeping his balance without his wings to aide him.
He's yanked backwards suddenly and only just manages to stay on his feet. His wings flare out to help balance him, but that's a mistake. He tries to keep them high up, out of reach of the condemned, but his trenchcoat is on fire and they're tangled in it.
The hand gripping the hem of his coat gives another tug, and Castiel nearly falls, his wings dipping low to save him even as the fire rushes up his coat. He struggles with it, but then there's another touch of flames, one of the burning clinging to the tip of his left wing.
"Jo!"
It's agony as his feathers ignite. He tries to shake the thing off, feeling overwhelmingly like a trapped bird, being pulled down into the fire. A quick flex and it goes flying, smashed into the far wall with the force of Castiel's urgency, but others are climbing up and so are the flames.
And then the hellhound is there.
She whips around his legs, dealing a sharp bite to the flaming arm that still has a hold of him. Castiel can hear the crack of bone and the scream that accompanies, but he's busy hurrying forward towards the end of the rock pile, hearing the fearsome snarls of the hellhound on his tail and starting to feel the tongues of flame begin to lick their way through his coat.
He's free of the lake, and then a ripping noise splits the silence – Jo tosses the remnants of his trench coat from her scarred jaws.
"Thank you," Castiel whispers, falling to his knees to rest. Jo is sporting scarred marks all along the flesh of her sides, and her muzzle is badly burnt. The tip of his wing is singed beyond repair, and it'll be a miracle if he can fly, but Castiel knows that it's only due to the hellhound that he's even alive. She huffs a soft noise, and lays her head in Castiel's lap, smearing blood across the thighs of his pants.
It's not so gross to him at this point. Castiel strokes the exposed muscle and bone of her head, because it's the only thing he can think of to show his gratitude, and she seems to like it. Jo buries her head further into his lap, letting out what sounds almost like a sigh, and they stay like that for a while listening to the screams of the damned. They are frustrated at having lost such a catch, but nevertheless cannot come any further.
It's Jo then who decides it's time to move on.
She gets up with a shake of her twisted body, looking for all the world like a human pet if not for all of the gruesome changes.
Castiel follows her lead and climbs back to his feet, still utterly exhausted, but just as determined to get to Dean as he'd been when he set out.
It's that weary, pained determination that carries him through.
The hellhound leads him past gallows, past cages and past a number of other devices meant to torture, but Castiel barely sees them. He puts one foot in front of the other, cradling his wings close, and his prayer is Dean's name. They cross through deserts, over chasms, past monsters that God never intended and that have never seen the light of day.
He doesn't look up until he hears Jo's barks take on an excited pitch, and he hears her needled paws scratch feverishly against the unyielding stone as she suddenly sprints ahead.
"There you are girl!" A familiar voice greets her, sounding rather pleased.
Castiel tears his eyes from the path, and it's him – that's Dean's figure bent over to scratch the hound behind her misshapen ears.
And then Dean looks up, bright green eyes alight.