Dean Winchester was in Hell for longer than forty years. But he hadn't lied when he told his brother that. He simply didn't remember all of it.

It had taken the angels nearly seven years by Hell's reckoning to break through the first defenses. They descended in blinding light, bolts of divine justice assaulting the Pit. But it was all merely a distraction. One angel, his Grace subdued to nearly nothing, broke off from his brethren and shot like an unlit comet into Hell. His gunmetal-gray wings did not blaze with glory and his sword, held naked in one hand, did not flame with righteous wrath. In fact, with the spectacle of the struggle overhead, he went nearly undetected.

The angel flitted among the chains and racks, deaf to the screams and pleas of the damned. He was searching, desperately and intensely, for one specific broken soul. He had to descend to the seventh circle until he found what he was looking for. The soul was so shattered, so steeped in blood and pain that it was nearly unrecognizable. The angel stooped low and alighted on the rocky ledge where the soul stood by a torture rack, completely ignoring what was going on overhead. Upon seeing the angel, the soul immediately went on the defensive, raising one of its torture tools as if to attack the angel.

The angel attempted to speak, to reassure the broken soul, but it had been so many centuries since he had communicated with a human that his voice overwhelmed it, sending it trembling to a corner in fear and pain. The angel paused, angry with himself, and tempered his voice.

"I am here to help you," he told the soul. "I am here to bring you out of this place."

The soul quivered and did not reply. The angel moved forward, only to have the soul withdraw even further. It only belatedly occurred to the angel that the soul might find his appearance frightening, so he reformed his body into something resembling human. He stretched out a hand.

"I will not harm you," he said. "Please. You must come with me now. We don't have much time." When the soul still didn't respond, the angel grew impatient and strode forward, ignoring the soul's attempts to escape. He reached down and took hold of the soul by his left shoulder.

For one brief, uncontrolled moment, the angel's Grace flared brilliant white in Hell's gloom. He was caught off-guard by the flash of power and was not swift in containing it. The soul screamed in fear and pain, prompting the angel to release it. He looked down. On the soul's shoulder, where the angel had gripped him, was a perfect hand-print, gleaming in shifting blue-white.

The angel stared down at the mark. He had never seen anything like this before. He had no knowledge of this happening. Of course, they had never tried to rescue a soul from Hell before, so it could be perfectly normal, for all he knew. The soul was keening in pain, rocking back and forth and trying to cover up the mark with its hands.

The howls of approaching demons shook the angel out of his reverie. The release of Grace had attracted attention to their location. They didn't have long until a legion of demons descended on them, and though he was a mighty warrior of God, the angel didn't like his odds alone. So, ignoring the soul's cries, he seized it around the waist and flung them both into the air, his wings carrying them upward.

But it was too late. To the angel's horror, he saw the last of his brethren retreating from the Pit, and the gates of Hell sealing themselves behind the Host. He had taken too long in his task and his brothers, thinking him lost, had abandoned the mission. The angel desperately tried to contact his superiors, begging for orders, but he was given only silence in return. He was alone, cut off, and trapped in Hell.

The angel was a being created to follow orders. It was his entire existence. Now that he had none, he was at a loss for what to do. There was also a distressingly large horde of demons hunting the seventh level for him, their bloodthirsty cries sending chills through his temporarily-corporeal body. The soul's struggles were getting more frantic so the angel, with little other options, flung himself toward the nearest cave in the Pit wall.

It was, thankfully, empty, so the angel pushed the soul in rather unceremoniously and drew a barrier across the opening of the cave. It would hopefully be enough to keep them undetected for the moment. The effort it took to keep his Grace contained was greatly taxing, but he knew the consequences should he lose control—again.

The soul had retreated to the furthest reaches of the cave, still nursing the shoulder with the strange mark. The angel stared at the soul, somewhat nonplussed. He was not accustomed to thinking for himself, and the prospect of having to do so was daunting. Leaving the soul for the moment, the angel turned to the mouth of the cave, gazing across at the Pit beyond.

Hell was even worse than he had imagined, a seething, repulsive hive of the damned, filled with blood and wrath and nightmares. The stench of blood and hot metal permeated the air, and a crimson light filled the place. For the first time since he watched the greatest of the archangels plunge from Heaven, he felt afraid.

Shaking out his wings as if to shake away the unwanted emotion, the angel retreated from the cave mouth and returned to the soul, which had stopped rocking back and forth and was now staring accusingly at the angel. It was a mere shade of a human, gray and wispy, its only color coming from the blood and pain clinging to its skin like filth. Disgusted by its state, the angel tried to cleanse some of the grime away with his Grace, but the soul flinched away from his holy touch.

Frustrated and losing patience, the angel crouched until he was on eye-level with the human. "I am not going to hurt you," he said again. "I was sent to rescue you. Do you understand me? I am your ally."

The soul stared at him blankly, not comprehending his words. The angel flared his wings angrily. "Do you know what I am?" he demanded. "I am an angel of the Lord. My name is Castiel."

There was still no recognition on that face, a ravaged reflection of what it had been in life. The angel, Castiel, leaned forward. "My name is Castiel," he repeated slowly. "And you—your name is Dean Winchester."

For one brief, unmistakable moment, those colorless eyes flashed green.

XxxXxxX

It was like waking up from a nightmare. He remembered the pain, decades of it, taken apart piece by piece, healing, only for it to begin again. Screams—his own, always screaming. And then, and then...freedom, of a sort. The taste of blood on his lips and destruction at his fingertips. And then they weren't his screams, but other voices, drawn by his own hands like a conductor enticing music from an orchestra.

But something had changed now. There was a voice close by, not screaming, not urging him on to greater acts of depravity. No, it was calm, gentle even, appealing to that distant part of him that was still human, still alive...

It was so hard, to pull himself from the morass of blood and pain and darkness. The memories that he had spent years trying to suppress came sliding back, the memories of his humanity, shining bits that made his darkness even more foul by comparison. He struggled against it, growling and snarling in feral desperation to drown out the returning light.

It was too late. He was too far gone. The darkness was easier, safer, hiding the guilt and shame. He was evil-bad-no good-a failure. He deserved the darkness, the fear, the wretched agony.

"I am not going to hurt you."

It had been a long, long time since anyone had not tried to hurt him.

"I was sent to rescue you."

No! Must not hope. Hope was false, just another way for them to rip and tear and cut. There was no hope. There was no rescue.

"I am your ally."

He had no allies. He was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

"My name is Castiel."

There were no names in the Pit. No identities. Just blood and pain and death, death, death.

"Your name is Dean Winchester."

The soul felt himself go still. For one brief, shining moment, he remembered. My name is Dean Winchester. The memories slipped away but he clung to that thought. My name is Dean Winchester. It was a lifeline, pulling him from the turgid waters. It was slow, painful, but gradually his mind began to clear.

"My name is Dean Winchester." The words were hardly more than a croaking whisper, forced from unwilling lips by a reluctant tongue. He blinked, and for the first time in years, was aware of his surroundings. He let out a yell of surprise and scrambled backwards until his back hit a hard, rock wall.

It was shaped more or less human, but was so fundamentally not. Its arms were too thin and long, jointed wrong. Its body was similar, too long and thin, too supple, covered with armored plates that were too regular to be natural. Its face had the appropriate features, but its eyes were over-large and spaced wide apart, solid gold with neither pupil nor sclera. Its skin was completely smooth and flawless, and pure white. A pair of dark gray wings draped around it like a cloak, the feathers appearing to be made from cloud and smoke.

He stared up at it, wondering what it was and why it was there. It gazed back at him, its expression unreadable. Neither seemed inclined to speak first. It stirred, feathers shifting restlessly, and a responding flash of sensation shot through his shoulder. He tore his eyes from the other and looked down. Seared into his flesh was a hand-print, glimmering in shifting blue-white light. It felt like heat and ice, prickling and soothing all at once. He reached up and fitted his hand over the mark, and the other twitched.

"You said your name," it spoke, and its voice was like a bronze bell, thrumming and humming with bass undertones and a shrill vibrato.

His head shot up again. "My name is Dean Winchester," he declared firmly.

The other nodded. "Yes. I told you my name. Do you remember?"

He frowned slightly. "Castiel," he said slowly, remembering the words that had drawn him back from the darkness.

The other nodded again. "Yes. I am Castiel."

He eyed the other warily. "What are you?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

The other emitted a sound like a bow being drawn across the lowest strings of a cello. "I am an angel of the Lord," it said in a flat tone. "I am here to bring you out of the Pit."

"Angels aren't real," he said, the words coming automatically. The other only stared at him with the blank, gold eyes. He shifted uneasily. "Why me?" he demanded. "Why rescue me?"

"Because I was ordered to do so," the one called Castiel replied. The multi-layered tonality of its voice echoed and vibrated in the enclosed space.

He pushed to his feet, using the cave wall to haul himself up. The other rose effortlessly as he did so. "But why me?" he asked again. "I sold my soul to a demon. Why should I get rescued?"

"I was ordered to bring you out of the pit," Castiel said again.

"But why?" he spat. "Why would angels care about me? What did I ever do to deserve this?" The angel was silent, still staring with its blank eyes and expressionless face. The human soul crossed his arms defiantly. "What if I refuse to go?" he demanded.

"Why would you refuse?" the angel asked, sounding perplexed, though its face remained as blank as ever. He scowled, unable to think of a reason.

"What do you want in return?" he growled.

"I was told to bring you out of the Pit, nothing more," the angel replied.

"Nobody does stuff for nothing," he pushed.

The angel tilted its head to the right. "Sometimes good things do happen," it said softly.

"Not to me," he said belligerently.

The angel made that strange sound again, only this time it sounded like a violin, soft and crooning. It looked over its shoulder. "The demons should have passed us. We should move on." It stepped to the mouth of the cave and there was a shimmer like an invisible curtain parting.

He edged forward, reluctant to get too near the angel. What he saw beyond the cave mouth made a swirl of nausea swirl in his gut. There was a sheer drop outside the cave, inaccessible to anything except the air. The angel poked its head out and looked around. Then it reached back toward him. He stepped out of reach. The angel turned to stare at him, wide-eyed.

"What is it?" it demanded.

He scowled, unwilling to admit the reason behind his reluctance. But the angel continued staring at him expectantly. "I don't like heights," he finally admitted.

The angel blinked for the first time, so suddenly that Dean jumped in response. "Dean," it said gravely. "You are dead. There is no reason to fear what will not harm you."

Trust an angel to be so damn logical. He scowled even harder. "I still don't like it," he muttered.

The angel looked back out the cave mouth. "If you have another option, I'm willing to hear it," it said.

He wracked his mind, but could come up with nothing. "Fine," he finally muttered, shuffling forward. The angel reached out again and wrapped its arms around his chest.

"I won't drop you, Dean," the angel murmured into his ear, and then flung them both into space.

XxxXxxX

It took everything in Castiel to hold himself back. The oppressive weight of Hell bore down on his Grace, making him ache to fling off his disguise and shine pure, holy light into the unclean places. But he didn't dare risk the precious cargo in his arms, the trembling, delicate soul of Dean Winchester.

His strong wings carried them upwards, though his way was often blocked by webs of chains and nasty little things that darted to and fro on bat-like membranes. He was constantly on the alert for any signs of demons, his senses strained to their capacity.

Dean was silent and grim, back pressed to Castiel's chest and hands clamped on the arms that held him in place. He felt spectral and insubstantial, no weight to burden Castiel. His form had no temperature, either, except for the mark on his shoulder, where it brushed against Castiel's. He could feel the heat-ice sensation through his armor, piercing down to his very Grace. It confused him, this mark. He would have to question his superiors when they returned to Heaven.

Castiel winced at the thought of his home. He did not like his chances of succeeding in his mission on his own, but he knew he had no choice but to try. Even if he perished in the attempt, it was crucial to get Dean Winchester out of Hell. Perhaps if he could simply get him to the surface, then Castiel's brothers would sense his presence, and all would not be lost.

Distracted by his worries, Castiel did not sense the danger until it was too late. The smoke-form of a demon boiled towards him, manifesting a screaming face and a pair of clawed hands. Castiel freed one arm and summoned his sword, slashing at the demon. It howled furiously and fell back, but not before Castiel felt searing pain down his wings.

The first demon had only been a distraction to allow a cloud of others to descend on the angel, ripping at his wings. Castiel tried to wrench away, but they grasped at him from all sides, their talons sinking into his flesh and shredding. They shrieked in triumph, gibbering happily as they tore at him.

Castiel writhed in their grasp, trying desperately to defend himself and protect Dean at the same time. The human was fighting with his bare hands, striking at any demon that came within range. But more descended on them with every moment, their cries attracting still more. Castiel felt his hold on his corporeal form grow weak and, having no other choice, simply let go.

The detonation of Grace started small, Castiel's form dissolving into an orb of intense, white light. Then it exploded outward in wave after wave of sacred energy, incinerating every demon it touched. Hell erupted into a cacophony of outrage, every demon, every monster, every unclean thing clamoring in protest and howling for revenge. Every last one of them abandoned their tasks and flung themselves toward the Grace, hoping to be the first to reach the injured angel.

XxxXxxX

When the light faded, Dean found himself lying on solid ground. He opened his eyes cautiously. He was alone. There was no sign of the angel. In the distance, the echoes of hunting cries bounced from rock to rock. Dean pushed himself to his feet. There were a few torture racks nearby, the victims abandoned by their inquisitors. Dean ignored them and looked around. He was in the ninth level of Hell, only just above the bottom of the Pit. He shivered. He'd never been this deep before.

Dean wasn't sure what he was supposed to do next. The angel had told him it would get him out of here. He tried to remember what it looked like topside. He had a vague impression of wide, open spaces, a sea of blue, and air that didn't reek of blood and brimstone. He shook his head. He had to find the angel. Even if it couldn't keep its promise, Dean wasn't about to abandon it in Hell. It didn't stand a chance.

He set off walking before that thought stopped him cold. What did he care if the angel died? Since when did anything matter to him except that he wasn't on the rack, that his screams of pain weren't echoing in the crimson air? Muttering curses under his breath, Dean stomped off towards the next level.

It wasn't hard for him to move about unnoticed. Most of the demons were searching for the angel, and a single broken-down soul was of little interest to them now. He slunk among the stones, winding through the chains, always making his way upwards. He wasn't sure where he was supposed to start looking for the angel, but he knew that his best chances were in the upper levels.

Dean reached the barrier between the ninth and eighth levels, and stood there for a moment, staring at it. It was a hedge of vines, so tangled that he could barely see through the thicket. Growing from the vines were thorns as long as his forearm, black and shiny with razor points. The pathetic, shredded remains of souls were caught on the thorns like bits of wool.

Dean stretched out his hands and tried to pull the vines apart, but one of the thorns caught his wrist and he hissed in pain, jerking backwards. A wisp of his form pulled free, trailing from the point of the thorn. Dean clutched his arm as if to stem the throbbing pain that spread from the injured limb to the rest of his insubstantial body. He gazed at the hedge in despair. How was he possibly supposed to get past it?

He lowered himself to the hard, hot ground, wracking his mind for any idea. But the pain was a distraction and his mind wandered. He had sold his soul to a crossroads demon. That was why he was in Hell. He had chosen, knowingly, to condemn himself. Why, then, did an angel think he was worth redeeming?

"You're my brother, and I'd do anything for you."

It was like a bolt of lightning striking him with such force that he nearly toppled sideways. The memory burned bright in his mind's eye. A face filled with absolute trust, laughing, crying, screaming in anger, and calling his name. A boy curling up to his side, seeking protection from the monsters in the dark. A man supporting his injured body as they sought shelter.

His brother.

Dean's eyes opened wide, and though he couldn't see, their color darkened, grew more intensely green, shining out from his colorless, wispy body like bright stars. "I have a brother," he whispered to himself.

And then another memory, cradling a heavy, unresponsive weight in his arms as precious blood slipped through his fingers and a last breath rattled in his ears.

"SAM!"

"Sam." He breathed the name like a prayer. He had a brother named Sam. That's why he was in Hell. He'd traded his soul for Sam's life.

The hedge of thorns rattled, making Dean jump. The vines were writhing angrily, twisting and flailing in fury, but they were receding. They pulled away, parting enough to form a narrow opening. Dean leaped to his feet and bolted forward, unsure of how long the hedge would be parted and not daring to waste a single moment. He turned out to be correct because the thorns rattled back into place the moment he was through and into the eighth circle.

The eighth circle didn't look much different than the ninth, still eerily empty of demons. He looked around, uncertain for a moment, and then began trudging upwards. He hadn't got far, maybe a mile or two, when the mark on his shoulder began thrumming. He'd almost forgotten about it, already growing used to the way it glimmered at the corner of his eye. But now it was practically humming against his skin, and it was freaking him out.

He stared down at it but it hadn't visibly changed, still swirling blue-white. But he could hear it in his chest and in the back of his teeth, like the bass turned down so low your ears could barely pick it up. He reached up and fitted his right hand over the mark. He abruptly lurched sideways as if yanked by an invisible hand.

"What the—?" he muttered to himself, snatching his hand away. He waited to see if anything else would happen, but the mark just kept thrumming. Cautiously, he placed his hand over it again, and once more he stumbled sideways. "All right, all right," he mumbled, turning and starting to walk in that direction, his hand still covering the mark. "Freakin' angels..."

One mile turned into two, and then five, and still Dean was following the tug and hum of the handprint on his shoulder. At one point he had to navigate a nasty maze of razor-sharp glass, but thankfully his mostly-insubstantial body didn't suffer too much damage. He dodged into cover when a demon bounded by, driving a whole pack of hellhounds in front of it. Dean had yet to get over his fear and revulsion of the beasts. Being able to see their true form only made it worse.

Finally, after what seemed like an entire day, Dean clambered down into a narrow gulch and was confronted by something he was certain did not belong in hell. It was a great sphere, about ten feet in diameter, and completely covered in feathers. They were all gray, ranging in shade from pale silver to nearly-black. It floated a few feet above the ground, suspended by multiple wings that unfurled from the sphere, flapped a few times, and folded back into place, constantly shifting over the surface.

Dean walked around it a couple of times and pressed his hand to the mark on his shoulder. It had definitely led him to this...thing. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um...hello?" About half a dozen eyes blinked open, scattered around the sphere like bright jewels amidst the feathers. Dean jumped backwards in surprise, but the eyes were all fluttering weakly shut again.

Dean... He heard the word in his head rather than with his ears, but he instantly recognized the orchestral voice.

"Castiel?" he demanded in consternation, staring at the creature in front of him.

Dean... came the angel's voice again.

"It is you," Dean whispered. "Okay... This is...creepy, but I think we can handle it. Um...are you okay?"

No. The attack weakened me. Another half dozen eyes winked open, focused on Dean, and slid shut again. I must rest...regain my strength.

"Okay," Dean said again. "What do you need me to do?"

Keep watch. Ensure we are not discovered.

"Yeah, I can do that," Dean said. He looked around the gulch again. "How long do you think it'll take?"

I don't know. The angel's voice sounded exhausted and strained. Dean nodded slowly.

"Okay, then." He scrambled out of the gulch and examined it from the top. The angel was barely visible, well-concealed from the casual eye. Dean sat on the edge and looked down at the angel. "I have a brother," he announced suddenly. "His name is Sam. I sold my soul for him."

Castiel was silent for a long moment. I...know, the angel said, and there was a strange emotion Dean couldn't identify. He misses you.

Dean absorbed that quietly. He wished he remembered more about Sam other than his face and the fact that he would do anything—literally anything—for his little brother. He wished he remembered more about his life other than scattered images and vague impressions.

Castiel's wings rippled and a single eye opened amid the feathers nearest Dean, a brilliant blue with a dilated pupil. It studied Dean for a long moment. Dean stared back. Then, gathering up his courage, Dean asked, "So, do all of your kind look like this?" and waved vaguely in the angel's direction.

This is one of my many forms, Castiel replied, the blue eye still focused on Dean. I find it most conducive to my healing.

"Oh," Dean said. "Kind of crappy for you, though, pulling the short straw."

The eye winked. I don't understand... The angel sounded puzzled.

"You know," Dean said with another vague wave. "Coming down here by yourself, trying to pull me out. Couldn't they spare you any back up? Your bosses?"

Many of my brethren came, Castiel said in an unmistakably stiff tone. We assaulted Hell's gates for seven years. I was chosen to retrieve you, but I lingered too long. They were forced to retreat.

Dean was taken slightly aback. "Sucks, dude," he finally murmured. "Sorry about that."

You are not at fault, Castiel replied coolly. Dean scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and went back to watching the ravaged landscape.

Time meant very little in Hell. There was no waxing or waning of the carmine light, no stars or moon or even sky by which to tell time's passing. There was simply the present, stretching out into agonizing infinity, each moment identical to the last. So Dean had no idea how long he sat in silence, watching monsters creep and ooze and scuttle past in the distance.

There was a soft sound, like the sigh of feathers and silk, and then a quiet thud. Dean looked down. Castiel had once more taken the humanoid shape, but there were scars and dark stains on the armor, and the wings looked tattered at the edges. The angel's expression was as blank and still as ever as the golden eyes fixed on Dean.

"I believe I am ready to continue on," the angel said solemnly. Dean scrambled down into the gulch to stand in front of the angel.

"Are we gonna fly again?" he asked apprehensively, not looking forward to that particular mode of transportation.

Castiel spread the insubstantial-looking wings, examining them silently for a few moments. "I am not completely recovered yet. We will have to travel by foot."

"Okay," Dean said quickly in relief. Castiel touched the hilt of the sheathed sword and turned to face the uphill slant of the gulch.

"This way." The angel started walking without seeing if Dean would follow. Dean caught up in a fewlong strides, but found that he couldn't walk comfortably next to the angel, not with the constant movements of the storm-cloud wings. So he settled for trailing along behind, scowling at the angel's back and wondering why it bothered him so much.

"You been here before?" he finally asked when the silence became too much.

Castiel turned to look at Dean without stopping his forward motion. "No," the angel replied. "Why do you ask that?"

Dean gestured vaguely. "You seem to know your way around."

The angel turned front again. "I was given what information I would need to complete my mission."

"But it's been done before," Dean pressed. "Souls rescued from Hell? I mean, how would you people know what Hell looks like if you hadn't been here before?"

"Heaven's knowledge encompasses all things," was Castiel's neutral reply. After a moment, the angel continued, "It has never been done before."

Dean blinked at the angel's back. "What?" he asked blankly.

"We have never rescued a soul from Hell before," Castiel repeated dutifully.

Dean stopped in his tracks. Castiel, perhaps sensing Dean's faltering, stopped as well and turned to face the human soul. "Never?" Dean echoed.

Castiel said nothing, not seeing the point of repeating the words a third time. Dean continued to stare at the angel. As the moments of silence stretched, Castiel's head tilted inquiringly. "What is wrong?"

"You've never rescued a soul from Hell, but you decided to start with me?" Dean demanded.

The angel made that musical cello sound, and it abruptly struck Dean that the angel was sighing. "I told you before, Heaven chose to save you. I was ordered to bring you out of the Pit."

"But you didn't tell me why," Dean snarled in a flash of anger.

"I don't know why," the angel replied, and for the first time there was an edge to the symphonic voice. "I was given orders. I follow my orders. That is all I know."

"You never asked?" Dean forgot his anger in confusion.

"Why would I question my Father's orders?" the angel asked wearily.

Dean blinked a few times. Something clicked in his head at the angel's words. He understood the sentiment, he just didn't remember why. A father's orders were sacrosanct, to be followed at all costs, to whatever end.

Weren't they?

Castiel turned and started trudging back up the gulch, wingtips dragging along the stones. Dean shook his head to clear it and hurried to catch up.

XxxXxxX

Castiel reached the limit to his strength not long after that last conversation. His Grace had recovered enough to allow him to assume another shape, but little more. He did not wish Dean to know how weak he was; he did not want the human doubting his ability to defend them should the need arise. But his fears were allayed when he ground to a halt somewhere near the border to the seventh circle, and Dean immediately plopped down onto the nearest comfortable-looking patch of rock and promptly lost consciousness.

For a moment Castiel was alarmed, afraid that his charge had somehow taken injury. It was only gradually that he realized that Dean was asleep. He stared down at the human. The souls of the damned were not allowed rest or respite from their torment. That Dean could sleep at all was proof of his returning humanity. The knowledge heartened Castiel. Perhaps not all was lost, after all.

Gingerly, mindful of his injured wings, Castiel lowered himself to the ground next to the human. He did not allow his attention to wander; Hell was lethal to one of his kind and he couldn't afford to let his guard down.

Dean slept fitfully, twitching and quivering. His soul-form had become more solid, color beginning to return to his flesh. Castiel reached out and brushed Dean's skin with the tip of one finger. There was a barely-detectable warmth. More proof that Dean Winchester could be saved. The human moaned softly and Castiel wondered what he saw in his dreams, but could not spare the energy to peer inside Dean's mind. So instead he returned the favor Dean had done him earlier and kept watch while the other recovered.

Dean flinched himself awake, rising up with a rock clenched in his fist. Castiel reacted before he could stop himself, whirling away from the soul and drawing his sword in a smooth, unthinking motion. Dean startled, dropped the rock, and scrambled backwards, raising one hand to shield his face. Cursing himself, Castiel sheathed his sword.

"I apologize," he said gently. "I did not intend to alarm you."

Dean looked as frustrated and embarrassed as Castiel felt. He dropped his arm and cleared his throat. "Yeah, no problem." He looked around. "How long was I asleep?"

Castiel shuffled his wings together. "Does it matter? Are you ready to move on, now? We should not stay in one place too long."

The truth of his words were realized a moment later when a hellhound leaped over the edge of the gully and landed square on Castiel's shoulders, driving him face-first into the stony ground. Castiel tried to push himself up, to throw off the beast, but the hellhound's weight kept him pinned down. It clawed at his armor, talons screeching and throwing off sparks as hot slaver sprayed the back of Castiel's neck.

The hound yelped and flinched, shifting its weight enough for Castiel to roll out from underneath it, knocking it to the ground. Without rising from his back, Castiel drew his sword and thrust it into the hellhound. The blade pierced its shoulder, not a killing blow, but at least a crippling one. Before Castiel could rise and finish the beast off, Dean appeared with another rock in his hand. He brought it down on the hound's skull with all his strength, lips peeled back in a savage snarl.

Dean beat the hellhound until it stopped struggling, until its head was a pulpy mass of pulverized bone and brain matter. Castiel watched in fascination and trepidation. He'd seen humans kill before, seen such feral anger, and it had never boded well.

Dean finally let the rock fall from his fingers and backed away from the corpse of the hellhound. He was spattered with its blood and brains, but he didn't seem to care. He looked around, his expression slightly dazed, and then he walked over to Castiel to offer him his hand. Castiel looked from Dean's face to the outstretched hand, and then allowed the human to help him to his feet.

"You all right?" Dean asked, looking Castiel up and down.

"I believe so," Castiel replied, quickly making his own inspection.

Dean looked over Castiel's shoulder and his eyes widened. "Good, because here comes more."

Castiel whirled around and Dean ducked to avoid his wing. Three demons drove a pack of at least a dozen more hellhounds down the ravine towards them. Castiel tightened his grip on his sword. "Stay behind me," he ordered tightly.

Dean stooped to snatch up a fresh rock. "Not a chance," he replied. "We're not getting out of here alone, right?"

Castiel glanced at him quickly and the human grinned, white teeth flashing in his dirty, blood-smeared face. "Correct," he admitted.

"There you go," Dean said, still grinning.

They both lunged forward at the same time to meet the first hound.