Once Upon A Dream

The first time they touched, Dean was covered in blood; not his own. The creature behind him—Man? Woman? No one could have told by this point—was no longer screaming; it was rasping and gurgling around the hole in its throat where its vocal chords used to be. They had taken up residence somewhere on the ground.

Castiel remembers every detail of the ascent. He recalls the terrible loneliness as he was cut off from communion with his brothers. He remembers all too vividly how cold Hell was, how it was dark only in places where darkness unnerved him, and painfully bright wherever he wished he could not see. When he saw Dean for the first time, the brightness was overwhelming. Castiel had to pause a moment.

In this form, Dean could hear his true voice and see his true shape. It would cause his spirit pain, but he no longer had a body, no corporeal eyes to burn or eardrums to rupture. Castiel spoke as gently as he knew how.

"Dean," he said softly. "Dean."

Dean whirled to face him, eyes wild and dark, chest heaving slightly as he panted his exertion. This one was really giving him a workout. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, sweat on his brow. The extent to which Hell manifested emotions in terms of imitating the physical made Castiel marvel momentarily, but nothing could distract him long from those green eyes, luminescent even sunken in as they were, even ringed with dark shadows and set over the jutting bones of hollowed out cheeks. Castiel reached a tentative hand out toward him, and Dean didn't flinch. He didn't attack. He simply stood there and let the angel's long, pale fingers close around the wrist of the hand that still held a blade dripping with the blood of his latest victim.

"Dean," Castiel said again, trying to show gentleness when he knew nothing of the sentiment, its necessity or its conveyance. "Dean…put down the knife."

Just like that, Dean dropped it. He kept staring at Castiel, seemingly mesmerized by him. It was a disconcerting feeling, having those eyes trained on him so heavily, but Castiel was not one to back down from a challenge. He held Dean's gaze as he lead him away from the rack, one step at a time. He idly wondered how long it would be before someone realized what was going on. Demons had not seen angels in two millennia; they had no reference for the powers of Heaven, for how Castiel could take his time with Dean, be gentle with him, and still appear and disappear without any of them seeing what had transpired.

Unfortunately, it didn't look as if gentleness would be enough.

Just six steps away from the rack, Dean balked. He wrenched his wrist from Castiel's grasp, and Castiel let him go. He could have held him, could have let Dean feel the illusion of shattered bones and liquefied muscle tissue, and dragged him from Hell screaming. That wasn't how he wanted to do this. No one had ever been taken from Hell this way before, and they didn't know what the side effects would be. If Dean remembered him later, he wanted him to remember an ally, not another source of torment.

Still, it took a lot of patience. If he'd understood the human habit of gritting teeth, he would have done it. He was an officer in the armies of Almighty God. He was used to having his orders followed. He was not in the business of coddling soldiers, and he knew that however little he looked it now, Dean was just that: a true servant of Heaven, the righteous man that began the breaking of the seals and the only one who could stop it.

Castiel tried again.

Four hundred tries later, Castiel had barely managed to get Dean twelve steps away from the rack. He didn't understand the man's attachment to something that had to represent untold amounts of pain and shame in equal measure. Still, it wasn't as if no progress had been made at all.

Dean had started to talk to him.

Just little things at first. He asked Castiel's name, and asked him who he was, what he was doing there, where he was trying to take him. Castiel gave his answers, and soon found that Dean was likely to either use up all his patience or teach him more of it. His reactions were never what he expected.

He expected disbelief, doubt, animosity even. He would have been surprised but not floored if Dean had collapsed at his feet in gratitude. He would have understood suspicion. He would have understood almost anything but Dean's first response to his answers.

"Why me? What's so special about me, why do I deserve to be saved more than any of these people?"

"It is as I told you before, Dean," Castiel said with as even a tone as he could manage. "We have work for you."

"And by 'we,' you mean the other angels."

"It is God's work we have for you," Castiel retorted, finally letting a little of his irritation show in his voice. "The angels are God's soldiers and messengers, but he holds the power and makes the decisions."

"And God decided that I deserve to be saved from Hell more than, say, some teenage girl who got mixed up in witchcraft without knowing what she was doing? I gotta tell you, Cas, God must be out of his mind."

"What you're suggesting is not only blasphemous, it is universally impossible."

"Right," Dean half-chuckled. His eyes were losing some of that sunken look. They still unnerved Castiel, but not the way they had in the beginning. He didn't know how long they'd been down here together. He should have been able to tell, but time in Hell was different from time on Earth, which was different yet again from time spent in Heaven. He was also feeling more and more separated from his brethren and the power of the Host, and he knew if he was going to get them both out he would have to do it soon…but the time spent with Dean was beginning to mean much to him. The little traces of humanity that he watched slip back in between all the cracks and holes in Dean Winchester's mind and soul made him feel as if he had accomplished something much greater than a simple reconnaissance mission. He couldn't explain it, and he had a feeling that if he had the opportunity to ask a brother about it, he would not. This was something he needed to keep to himself.

He feared he was getting much too close to the human soul in his charge.

The next thousand tries were taken up with Dean trying to convince Castiel to save someone else.

Castiel wanted to be frustrated with the man, but that wasn't the feeling that surged through him when he listened to Dean's impassioned plea that he save the soul of some other, some stranger that Dean didn't know. Even in the bottomless despair of Hell, Dean was still trying to save everyone else. Castiel was beginning to understand why Dean was the righteous man. He still called him out on it on Try Number 1,456.

"Dean, why don't you think you deserve to be saved?"

Dean immediately grew surly and silent, but Castiel was not intimidated. He pressed on.

"You dedicated your life to the care of others, and even now, as the absolute last person in a position to help anyone, you still want to help everyone. You constantly entreat me to save this or that soul, and yet you overlook what is glaringly obvious."

"Yeah, what's that?" Dean's voice was grim, and his jaw was set. Castiel held back a sigh; maybe he'd have better luck on Try Number 1,457. Still, he decided to, as Dean would put it, 'go for broke.'

"Everyone is here for a reason. Some because they made deals, some because they were truly wicked people in life, and some because they were simply lead astray."

"Yeah, so? I'm the first category, right? I made a deal and it landed me here."

"No, Dean," Castiel said, impatience finally getting the better of him just a little. He grabbed Dean's shoulders and shook him, as gently as he knew how. "You made a hugely weighted deal, not in your favor and not for money or fame, but to save your brother. You're here because you have a nearly pathological need to sacrifice your happiness and well-being in order to help those around you."

Dean just stared at him, eyes wide and lips pressed together, determined not to look away even though he wanted to hide from the truth of what Castiel was saying. It made him feel weak, somehow, to admit how much he cared. It always had.

Castiel wasn't finished. He was determined to drive his point home.

"Tell me, do you really think Hell is where a person like that belongs?"

Dean didn't answer.

"Why's it gotta be me, anyhow?"

"What do you mean?"

"Angels are crazy powerful, right? I mean, since you've been here I haven't seen a single other demon, and I haven't had a new customer on the rack, and nobody's even bothered us at all, so…why does an army of creatures as powerful as you need someone like me?"

Castiel granted Dean a small grin.

"Actually, there are many angels who have much more power than I. Even so, there are some things that angels can't do…some ways in which we can't interfere in the human realm, at least not without human allies."

"So…you want to help us with the shit storm we're getting down there?"

"Yes," Castiel said simply.

"And you think I can help you do that?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Dean said after a moment of heavy silence. "So…say I were to agree to help…how would you even get us out of here?"

"Well," said Castiel, as deadpan and emotionless as ever, any sense of triumph feeling, by this point (Try Number 5,498), likely to be premature and short-lived. "You would need to trust me, first of all. Getting here wasn't easy, and getting out won't be either. Hell is a prison, and even if its guards are powerless against me, its walls are still well-fortified. An unshielded human soul would not be capable of surviving the trip."

"So…wait…you're saying souls can die?"

"A story for another time, Dean," Castiel reminded him patiently.

"Right. Wow." Dean looked slightly shell-shocked at the implied confirmation. "Okay, so how do I get through the wall without becoming…not?"

"I would wrap you in my grace."

"In your…what?"

"In my grace. It's the source of an angel's power, the force that ties them to Heaven. It's not so much my soul as…as the armor my soul wears. And my blood. It's hard to translate it into something understandable in human terms." He sounded genuinely annoyed, and Dean had to grin a little.

"Okay, I get it. You're basically gonna stuff me in your pocket for the duration of the ride, is that it?"

"That is…close enough," Castiel said reluctantly.

"I'm guessing there's more, then."

"You are not in corporeal form. Your body was ruined by the Hell Hounds. Even if it had not been, your remains have been reduced to ashes."

"Ah, the good ole hunter's funeral," Dean said, his voice a sad parody of nostalgia.

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "It's very efficient as a means of preventing spirits from lingering to cause harm, but it also makes my task slightly more difficult."

"Okay. Explain."

Castiel sighed for real this time, and didn't even pause to think how human a gesture it was.

"In order to bring you back, I will have to cover your soul entirely with my grace. It has been…damaged…by your time here. There are jagged holes. I can't remove the memories, and I can't repair all of the damage. I can send you back more whole than broken, but I will have to make you a new body, and…that kind of contact, that kind of angelic entanglement…I don't know what kind of effect it will have on you long-term." Or on me, he didn't add.

"So when you say I have to trust you…"

"…I mean utterly and completely, with your body and soul, mind and heart, your deepest self."

"Geeze, Cas. You could at least buy me dinner first." Castiel tilted his head to the side, confused.

"I was under the impression that you do not require sustenance in this form."

Dean couldn't do what Castiel was asking, what their escape from Hell required. He just couldn't.

Castiel could see it on him, in him: he didn't trust people. He had been open and genuine with only a few people in his life, and they had all left or betrayed him. Each time it happened, Dean's soul curled in on itself further, protected itself from the pain more. It got a little harder to trust the next person that came into his life and asked for it.

And here in Hell, his soul was not some invisible force that could hide behind his body. Dean might manifest a face that was stoic and emotionless, but his soul was still more or less naked to Castiel's eyes. He could see the uncertainty, and the fear. Dean wanted to trust him, but he couldn't.

Castiel decided to just keep trying.

They talked all the time, now. Castiel hadn't actually tried to lead Dean away from the rack in a while. He was no longer sure how many times he had tried, and at any rate, it didn't seem to be working. So they sat, and they talked.

Castiel told Dean about the host of Heaven, his brothers, all members of a unit but all unique in themselves as well. He tried to describe the majesty of the archangels using human language, but was quickly frustrated by his inability to make it translate. Dean laughed; seeing an angel frustrated struck him as somehow hilarious. Castiel tried to be annoyed at Dean's laughter, but he couldn't; the sound filled him with too much joy. Laughter in Hell. Wonders never cease.

Dean told Castiel about his life on Earth. Of course, Castiel knew much of this information already, but he let Dean tell him anyway, heard the story again in Dean's own words and saw it through fresh eyes. Before, Dean Winchester's backstory had been just one in several billion stories of human life. They were all beautiful in their way, all important…but there were still billions of them, and they were still all about people Castiel didn't really know. Now, though, Castiel knew a person, just one person out of all the people who had ever lived. He knew Dean, and Dean's story became the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard.

Sammy, Bobby, John, Mary…Jo, Ellen, Ash…Castiel learned about all of them. He listened as Dean told him about his first kiss. He tilted his head in confusion, trying in vain to understand, while Dean talked with almost as much reverence about his car. He took in every detail Dean shared with him and stored it away like something precious that he meant to keep forever.

The one thing Dean wouldn't talk about was Hell. What he had done since he arrived, what he had endured…he never brought it up, and Castiel would never ask. He knew Dean didn't want to open that door, didn't trust him that far. He was beginning to despair of ever completing his mission, because at this rate he thought that maybe Dean never would.

Still, when he imagined an eternity in Hell, talking with Dean…he thought it was probably well that his brothers could not reach him as he thought these things. They would not like how appealing he found the idea. Despite the gaping emptiness where his connection to his family used to be, Castiel was…warm. He was content here with Dean, sharing the minutiae of their lives Before. Even if they never made another memory, they could sit for decades like this, just sharing.

Castiel was running out of time.

It was a moment like any other between them. They were sitting side-by-side, so close together their shoulders were brushing, the rack all but forgotten in the background, and they were quiet. They didn't always talk; sometimes they just sat, and thought together. Castiel didn't mind the silence; he found it oddly soothing with Dean there beside him. Either of them could speak whenever they wanted to, but Castiel had nothing to say at the moment. It was Dean who finally broke this particular silence.

"Cas, you're an all-powerful angel of the Lord, right?"

"No one is all-powerful but God, Dean."

"You know what I meant."

"Yes," Castiel said, a rueful little smile crossing his face for a split second. "I am quite powerful."

"So if you really wanted to, you coulda just dragged me outta here by now."

"I could have done that, yes."

"Why haven't you?"

Castiel was quiet.

"Cas?"

"It would have been incredibly painful for you."

"'Something I know nothing about," Dean said sarcastically. "C'mon…there's gotta be another reason. Aren't your superiors gonna get kinda antsy if you don't come back soon?"

Castiel sighed, resigned.

"I want you to trust me," he said reluctantly. He looked at his hands as he spoke, trying to distance himself from this shameful confession. It might have started out as a practical concern, but now Castiel wanted it, and wanting it so badly made him feel weak, tainted. Angels weren't supposed to want things for themselves. "I want you to think of me as a…a friend, not as another source of pain."

Dean was quiet for a long time.

Then, he made a sound that Castiel didn't recognize. Castiel turned to look at him, curious, and was transfixed by what he saw.

If he thought he could see Dean's soul, he'd been wrong. Yes, he was beginning to see the man Dean had been on Earth break through to the surface, but the man Dean had been on Earth had been so guarded that his closest kin did not really know him. Even his dysfunctions served a purpose; they were left on display, because they allowed Dean to put up more walls between his true self and the people who were always poking and prodding, trying so hard to get under his skin.

Nothing had prepared Castiel for the final break. He had seen Dean angry, violent, unhappy, stubborn, pensive, sarcastic, relaxed, and even tentatively happy. He had never seen him vulnerable, however. He had never seen him cry. What he was seeing now…well, it scared the hell out of him.

Dean was not a loud, messy crier. The sound that had alerted Castiel had been so soft as to be almost nonexistent, just a little shaky huff of breath. But there was no mistaking the tears that slipped silently out of the corners of Dean's eyes and rolled down his face…one, two, three. Just three tears, but when Dean looked at him, Castiel saw a river of pain there. The man was drowning in it.

Castiel didn't stop to think about his actions. He had watched humans for thousands of years, and he knew what they did to comfort one another, just as he knew that Dean wasn't one for open displays of affection or comfort. It didn't matter, because apparently he, Castiel, was. He reached out and wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, pulling him close. To his surprise, Dean didn't pull away. He nestled closer, leaning heavily against Castiel's form with a grateful outtake of breath that was still too tremulous for Castiel's liking. He squeezed Dean's shoulder gently. If Hell could manifest the spiritual as the physical to cause pain, then he would be the first in Hell's history to commandeer that power and use it to give solace instead. Dean buried his face in Castiel's neck and breathed in and out, little warm puffs of air that Castiel could feel like brushes with the ebb and flow of Dean's soul.

"Cas," Dean breathed, voice husky and full of unshed tears. Castiel shushed him gently and wrapped his other arm around him, pulling him closer still and pressing his face into Dean's hair.

"Whenever you're ready," he said gently. "Even if you never are."

Castiel wasn't sure how much of an angel he actually was anymore. He'd lost track completely of how long he'd been with Dean in the pit, and he could feel that his powers had waned to a mere fraction of what they had once been. He thought he might have just enough left to get them out, but he wasn't sure.

He definitely didn't have enough left to keep shielding the both of them. He could feel the little bubble of protected, timeless space he'd created around them slowly cracking and dissolving, hairline fractures melting into fist-sized holes, tearing into wide, gaping spots of dangerous weakness. Before long it would be gone, and then he would not only be trapped here, unable to lift himself home, Dean would be trapped here as well, placed back on the rack or—somehow worse—handed a knife again, made to torture and maim other souls.

This scared him more than contemplating his own fate, so it was the latter he focused on. He didn't have time or energy to spare for fear.

Dean still wasn't ready. He wanted to be, badly. Castiel could see it in his face, the apology writ clear across his features every time they lapsed into silence and he found himself still unable to let Castiel in. It hurt him that Dean couldn't trust him yet, but it hurt him even more to think that Dean was torturing himself over it.

"It's okay, Dean," he said, the several hundredth time Dean gave him that sad little grimace and lowered his eyes. Castiel reached out and lifted Dean's chin lightly with two fingers. "I will wait as long as I am capable for you to be ready."

Something in Castiel's words made Dean's brow furrow. He pulled away slightly.

"As long as you're capable?"

Castiel realized his mistake, but said nothing. He would not tell Dean more if Dean did not ask him outright; he didn't want to lie, but he also didn't want Dean to feel pressured into this.

"Cas…what does that mean?"

If Castiel were the cursing type, he would have cursed right then.

"It means…it means that my powers are weakening."

"Weakening how?"

"It is not of import," Castiel said, making a last-ditch effort to get Dean to drop the subject, or lapse into moody silence. It didn't work.

"Cas," Dean said firmly. "Weakening how?"

"Weakening, as in disappearing. Right now I barely have enough left to keep us shielded as we have been all this time." He didn't tell Dean the rest, his fears about what would happen when he could no longer protect the both of them. He didn't want to put that on Dean's shoulders.

He didn't have to. Of course, Castiel should have known by now: if Dean saw an opportunity to blame himself for something, he would take it. And if by doing so he could feed his savior complex, then that was even better. Castiel watched the realization dawn across Dean's features: eyes widening in understanding, brow furrowing, jaw clenching…here it comes.

"Dammit, Cas! You mean this whole time you've been losing your angel mojo while you've been waiting for me to be ready, like…like a virgin on prom night?"

"I don't—"

Dean got in his face then, barely a breath away and glaring so fiercely that Castiel's words stuck in his throat.

"Were you really gonna just sit here and let your power drain away waiting for me to make up my mind to go with you?"

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that, but…yes." Because Castiel had toyed briefly with the idea of pulling Dean up by force if it came down to the last moment and he still had not decided…but he wasn't sure he could do that. The angel he had been would have had no problem with such a betrayal, but the man he was becoming could not stomach it, even to save himself.

Even to save Dean? Of course…if he'd known for certain that Dean could survive it while he was fighting him the whole way, he might have done it anyway, to save him. But he wasn't sure, and that wasn't a risk he could take. He held Dean's gaze as the other man tried to decide whether to punch him in the face or not, making up his mind not to be sorry for the way he had come to feel about this human. He watched as the tension drained from Dean's shoulders, and felt Dean's grip on him ease.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean said again, voice much softer this time. He pulled Castiel in close, burying his face in his neck in a gesture that had become familiar to both of them. Castiel felt Dean's warm breath against the skin of his neck, felt the softness of hair brushing his jawline, felt his own arms wrapping securely around Dean's body. He felt a strange ebbing in his spirit, and realized that the walls he'd built around them were coming down at last. He tightened his grip, preparing for the cold and the noise and the blades, and pressed a kiss to the side of Dean's head.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said softly.

"Don't be," Dean murmured into his neck. "I'm ready."

Castiel pulled back, startled. He could hear the screams filtering in already, echoing and distorted, could feel the cold starting to seep in at the edges…but Dean's words drowned everything else out.

"Are you sure?" He didn't mean to sound so incredulous. He should be overjoyed that Dean was trusting him, but it seemed very sudden, and conveniently-timed. Dean just huffed an exasperated laugh.

"You're willing to get yourself killed just to make me comfortable? Yeah, Cas. I'm sure. Beam us up, Scotty. Just…" He stopped, looking sheepish and embarrassed. When he spoke again, his voice was small, like a child asking for something it feels it doesn't have a right to. "You'll be there, right? When I wake up?"

Castiel smiled.

"We have been through much together, you and I, and we have much more to do before it's over. We will not be undisturbed the way we were down here. I will have duties to perform, as will you. But I promise you, Dean, whatever happens from here on out…I will always come when you call."

"Okay then," Dean said. He wrapped his arms around Castiel and stepped back into his space. "Let's go."

God is the Father of all creation, but on seldom occasions, his angels have the opportunity to do a little creating of their own. Castiel considered Dean Winchester his masterpiece.

He remade him just as he had been in life, drew every line of him the way God had in His original. Castiel stitched his soul together piece by jagged piece, doing everything he could to make Dean whole again without removing any of the things that made him Dean, made him imperfect in all those ways that were so wonderful and important. He didn't include the many physical scars Dean had collected over the years, but he did leave something new behind.

Perhaps it was vain of him, but Castiel wanted every creature who looked at Dean to know that he had been drawn from Hell, rebuilt from ashes, and that Castiel had been the one to do it.

He's glad of that mark now, even though a part of him hates it. It's a constant reminder of all the things that they shared during the time in the pit, all the things that Dean told him and the way he felt as if he could stay there forever, just talking, with Dean warm and smiling at his side. It's beyond cruel, Castiel thinks, that he is allowed to remember every second, while Dean only remembers the things that happened before he arrived. He knew it the moment Dean was unable to perceive his true form in the convenience store, but it still felt like a knife to his heart when he told Dean his name and there was no recognition.

Sometimes he thinks he sees a glimmer of the man he knew, when Dean trusts him to help, or laughs at him, or allows him in close. The first time Dean called him Cas, he wanted to weep. It's never like it was, but it's something.

Castiel will take it, and he'll wait. It took an untold amount of time to get where they ended up the first time around, but if it could happen in the midst of Hell, he has faith that they will get there again on Earth.

Author's Note: Guys, I...I don't even know. I've just been watching Supernatural a lot during the summer hiatus, trying to catch up in time to watch season eight with the rest of the fandom (which I thus far love being a part of), and I have more Destiel feelings than I know what to do with. They come out in the form of angst-filled one-shots, and for that I am truly sorry. I don't even know if this is good or if the idea's been done before. I was just thinking about something said by castielsmitesyou on tumblr, about Cas's behavior towards Dean and how it can't really be attributed to his angelicness, because none of the other angels act that way and Castiel doesn't act that way towards any other humans. Besides, Cas has been watching humans for a long time, so he probably has a decent grasp of how they tend to do things. Anyway, I kept thinking about that and about how time is weird in Hell and angels are super-powerful, and I was just wondering about other reasons that Cas might relate to Dean differently than he does to other humans. This happened. I apologize.

- The Raisin Girl