Chapter 1 - Quid Ego Video

"Listen to me, Dean Winchester... what you're feeling right now is not death, it's life. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see, feel what I feel... let's go take a howl at that moon."

wake up, little hunter

Dean opened his eyes, and a new world splayed out around him.

He felt like he was seeing for the first time. It was almost beautiful. All the little details he never would've noticed before came to life... the intricate wood grain of his night stand, every fiber of his bed sheets, he saw everything. He turned his eyes to the demon leaning over his bed. At first, he was met only with the face of Crowley's vessel, looking down at him almost fondly. His temples throbbed, and he blinked.

And that was when he saw Crowley's true face.

It was indescribable. Red eyes and black skin and teeth and blood and power. He didn't know how he could've looked at him for so many years without seeing it. Without seeing what he truly was. Crowley's vessel was humble, but his true form was that of a King. Dean blinked again, and the face he was used to returned. Crowley smiled softly at him, which surprised him.

Dean sat up slowly. His body didn't hurt, though he was still caked in blood and covered in injuries. He felt oddly detached from his own skin. He glanced down at the crook of his forearm, and the Mark glowed with vibrant orange and red energy.

"It doesn't hurt anymore," was the first thing he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. Warmth radiated up his arm from the First Blade, which felt comfortable and right in his hand. He felt calm. He felt at peace. He felt good.

"I know," Crowley said gently.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he admitted, lifting his arm and examining it. Energy radiated out from the Blade, rejuvenating him. "I... Metatron killed me." He looked down at the gaping wound in his chest. "I'm not dead."

"You're like me now, Dean... but I think you already knew that."

He'd heard Crowley's words from a distant place when he'd been under... they'd dragged him back. Called to him from the shadowy veil he'd been trapped in. And now he was awake, and alive... and...

you're perfect, now

"I'm a demon," he said, and he should've been horrified. Disgusted. He should've taken the Blade in his hand and stabbed it into his stomach. But he didn't feel like that. He didn't feel much at all, actually, aside from the ever-present calm that the Blade provided him.

"You are," Crowley agreed. His smile fell, but the King still looked pleased. He glanced towards the door. "Your brother will be back any minute, once he finds that he can't summon me," he said. "We need to go."

Yes. They did. His thoughts were wild and unbidden, the world around him seeing almost surreal, but one thing he knew with certainty was that they had to leave. He needed to get himself in order and get his questions answered before he saw his brother.

Not to mention... would Sam show mercy for him, if it came down to it?

He was a demon. A demon with the Mark of Cain and the most powerful weapon in the world held tight in his hand. He wasn't positive that his brother would be able to rationalize himself out of killing him... or at least trying to.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He kept his firm grip on the First Blade.

"Someplace safe," Crowley answered cryptically, stepping away from the bed. Dean rose to his feet. He was steady. Crowley reached forward, laid his hand on his shoulder, and in a split second, the two of them were gone.

"Damn it," Sam cursed under his breath. He'd been sitting in the dungeon for over ten minutes, waiting. He retried the summoning three more times, and still nothing. No answer from Crowley. The bastard was the one who started the whole disaster; he was the one who dragged Dean into accepting the Mark and the taint it left on his soul. He should have to face the consequences of the mess he'd created.

Sam's last fraying strand of composure snapped, and he kicked the bowl of herbs to the other side of the dungeon. It cracked against the wall and shattered into dozens of pieces on the ground. Fuming, he slammed his fist into the concrete wall, not caring that the skin of his knuckles split under the force of his punch.

He leaned his head against the wall, choking back a sob that bubbled out of his throat. Tears burned in his eyes, and he struggled to keep them from falling. He couldn't break into pieces, not now. He had to find a way to bring Dean back. Heaven was still locked, okay, but there had to be a way to get to his brother's soul and put it back where it belonged. There had to be some way to heal his body.

With no way of knowing where Cas and Gadreel were, or if they were even alive, or if they'd actually managed to retake Heaven, the demon king was still his only option. Once he convinced said demon to bring Dean back, he was going to end Crowley permanently. He didn't know how, didn't care how. They'd been foolish enough to let Crowley live last time, and look where it had gotten them.

He was alone and his brother was dead, and if they'd just slit Crowley's throat a year ago after the angels fell, he wouldn't be where he was right now. He tugged his phone out of his pocket and quickly called the demon. Predictably, after three rings, he got Crowley's voicemail.

"Too busy inflicting pain to answer. Leave a message."

"You listen to me, you son of a bitch. My brother is dead because of you, and if you don't get your ass here and fix him I am going to make it my sole mission in life to hunt you down and erase your existence from the face of the Earth, do you understand me? This is your mess, and if you don't clean it up, you will pay for it." Sam hung up the phone and stared at it for a few moments.

He flung it against the wall. Its remains joined the tipped over bowl on the gray floor of the dungeon.

"Hey. Hey buddy, are you okay?"

Gadreel felt someone shaking his shoulder. He groaned deep in his throat as he slowly came back to himself. There was grass pressing against his face, and he smelled earth and water. He was lying on the ground, flat on his stomach. With effort, he pushed himself up. Sunlight blinded him, and he flinched away from it. There was a young man standing over him - a human, he sensed immediately.

His head swam, trying to put together how he got here. "You alright?" the human asked. Gadreel nodded stiffly, putting a hand to his temple.

"Yes. Yes, I am fine." He was quite sure that wasn't entirely true, but he wanted to rid himself of the human's presence so he could think. "Feel free to be on your way."

After a moment of hesitation, the man left, continuing down a dirt path and into what appeared to be a park of some variety. Gadreel looked behind him. A burbling creek flowed over damp, moss covered rocks. He had no idea where he was. Or why he was here, for that matter-

"Move to the other side of your cell, Castiel, and keep your head down. When they say my name, perhaps I won't just be the one who let the Serpent in, perhaps I will be known as one of the many that gave Heaven a second chance." He locked eyes with Hannah. "Run, sister."

Gadreel gasped involuntarily, his hand flying to the center of his chest. He was wearing his vessel's typical clothing. He tugged down the collar, trying to find some sign of the Grace-focusing sigil he'd carved into himself in Heaven's prison, but there was nothing but smooth flesh there. How was that possible? He'd sacrificed himself so that Castiel could escape and find the angel tablet. How was it that he was still alive? He distinctly remembered the feeling of his concentrated Grace blowing him apart molecule by molecule.

And yet, he was alive

Not possible.

He looked to the sky. There was only one explanation that he could currently think of, but it was one that was so naively hopeful that he didn't even want to entertain it, for fear of being disappointed.

"Father...?" he couldn't help but whisper.

It wasn't possible. God had left them all when Gadreel allowed the Serpent into the Garden. When he allowed his Father's most prized Creation to be tainted by sin.

But how else could he suddenly live again?

Questions for later. He needed to find out where he was, and then find Castiel immediately. He could only hope that his brother had managed to cut off Metatron from the power of the angel tablet, and that the Winchesters were successful in eliminating him. If not, then he feared all was lost. He stretched his limbs, which felt sore and stiff, and set off down the path, silently thanking whatever force that had brought him back. He was not done redeeming himself. Perhaps he would never be done. He would work for all eternity to repair his home, if that's what it took.

Castiel sat in front of Metatron's typewriter, narrowing his eyes at the keys. "This controls the Gates?"

"That's what Metatron's assistant told us," Hannah said. "I am unsure of how he operated it... perhaps the power of it was tied to the angel tablet?"

"No, I don't think so." Cas pursed his lips. "Otherwise the Gates would've reopened the moment I destroyed the tablet."

"Do we truly need to open them again? All of us have been made aware of where the portal is," Hannah said.

"You forget the souls of the humans who have died since the fall," he reminded her. "All of them are trapped in the veil, lost, unable to move onto Heaven. We have to free them." I have to free Dean. Cas settled his fingers on the keys. "There has to be something... Metatron's assistant, Neil, did he say anything else?"

"No. It doesn't appear that Metatron kept him very well informed."

Cas sighed, but then an idea occurred to him. "Perhaps if I destroy it, it will undo all that he's done?"

"It's worth a try."

Castiel drew his angel blade and positioned it so its point hovered just above the keys of the typewriter. As Dean would say, here goes nothing. He drove it downwards, shattering the typewriter into pieces. Blue and white flashed, almost blinding him. He was thrown backwards into the wall as the typewriter let out a blast of energy.

And then something amazing happened.

He felt them.

"My wings," he gasped as he scrambled to stand. "Hannah, can you-" He still couldn't see, the light blocked out everything, but he could hear his sister let out an exclamation of amazement from nearby.

"Yes. Yes, I can!"

He allowed his wings to unfurl on either side of him as the light faded, as if they'd been there the whole time. He saw Hannah do the same with her own pearly white wings. She grinned at him, practically radiating with happiness. He could hear the other angels calling out on the angel radio in joy.

But then her smile fell, and her expression turned into one of confusion. "Your wings..."

"What is it?" He turned his head to the left and right, taking in the appearance of his wings. However, after looking at them... he felt a knot form in his stomach when he realized that the wings framing his figure were not the ones he'd had before the Fall. The ones he'd had since he was created were enormous, with thick feathers colored blue-black like the midnight sky.

They were smaller, now, and tawny brown. He curled them in on himself on instinct as his feeling of unease grew, but they did not make him feel safe like the shield of his old wings had. At closer inspection, they appeared to be molting, almost. Many places were missing feathers, and the ones that remained appeared lifeless.

It made sense, he supposed. An angel's wings were a representation of his Grace. He had stolen, poisoned Grace, so his wings were not his, but Theo's... and they were marked by what he had done to the other angel.

He gulped. "It seems they've changed," he said quietly, reluctant to say more on the subject. He was almost embarrassed. Vain as it was, he thought that his wings had truly been a thing of beauty before the Fall. But now...

Hannah seemed to be somewhere between horrified and uncomfortable. After a long moment of silence, the female angel spoke again.

"Did you... is it over? Are the Gates open as well?" Hannah asked, glancing around as she rose to her feet.

"I believe so." He put a hand on the surface of the desk. He felt the shaking of Paradise around him. "Millions of souls, all coming in. They'll need to be guided." He flicked his eyes to Hannah. "The Reapers, can you rally them to help? The ones that are left?"

Somehow, Hannah had seamlessly slipped into the role of his second-in-command again, in spite of how quickly she'd lost faith in him just a few days prior. It was a shame that it took Gadreel's life to renew her confidence in him.

Gadreel. His brother who would've rather died than gone back to the prison he was trapped in for thousands of years. Trapped in and tortured in, broken apart and put back together.

He would mourn later. Right now, he had a priority. And that was a particular soul that he knew was currently struggling its way toward the Paradise it had so long deserved.

"Yes. I'll contact them on the angel radio," she said, setting her fingertips on the top of the radio that Cas had used to reveal Metatron's true intentions to the Heavenly Host.

Cas nodded stiffly. "Good. Thank you. I must go."

"Go? But commander-"

"Hannah, please," he said, almost desperately. "Never call me that again. I'm not your commander. I'm not your leader. I'm..." He pursed his lips. "I'm just Castiel, and right now, my friend needs me."

"Dean Winchester, again?" Hannah asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice. Cas didn't respond. "It always is, isn't it?"

"You don't understand," he said. "I owe him everything. I will never be done repaying him for what he's done for me. Thanks to Metatron, he's dead... I have to do what I can for him."

Hannah's expression softened somewhat, and then she asked, "Was he right, Castiel?"

"What do you mean?" He furrowed his brow.

"Did you do all of this for him? To protect him?"

"Nothing is ever that simple, sister." But isn't it, though? Hasn't it always been about protecting him since the very start? "I... I'll return when I can. I want to help rebuild things. I want to fix our home."

"Then why not stay?"

"Because..." He licked his lips, unsure of the proper words to say. "Because my family needs me."

With a flutter of his wings (and oh, did it feel good to fly again, even with his stolen wings), Cas disappeared. He allowed himself to meld with the torrent of souls pouring into Heaven. He searched for the mark of his Grace - his old Grace, the healthy and vibrant and beautiful Grace, not the sad, poisoned excuse that he had now. He knew Dean's soul better than anything, and he knew that he would recognize it instantly.

He searched. And searched. And searched.

Nothing.

This wasn't making any sense. Dean couldn't have gone to Hell, could he? He was the Righteous Man. The Heavenly Vessel. He was... damn it, he was Dean Winchester! Few humans had sacrificed more for the good of the world than he had. If anyone deserved Heaven, it was him.

However, if there was one thing that he'd learned during his time on Earth and his time as a human, it was that people rarely got what they deserved. And Dean had been disturbingly close to Crowley of late. The demon had smuggled Bobby's soul down to Hell instead of allowing it to move onto Heaven. Who's to say that he wouldn't do the same thing to Dean? Castiel felt rage boiling inside of him.

If he couldn't find a way to bring Dean back, he would at the very least find a way to get him the paradise that he'd fought his entire life to earn.

He would have to go to harrow Hell again. And no one would stop him from retrieving Dean's soul - not even the King himself.

It took a strong burst of Grace to get himself from Heaven and into Hell, and when he arrived in Perdition, he felt drained. He'd flown to the endless queue that Crowley had set up after he took over Hades. The fallen human souls in line shuffled aimlessly onward, striving for the end only to be put back where they started. For all he hated Crowley, he could at the very least admire how he redid Hell. The last time he'd gone to Hell for Dean's soul, it had been blood and razors and death, screaming and crying and misery.

Yes, it was a marked improvement.

He began pacing up the line, looking for Dean. He would be toward the back of the line, as he'd only died recently. He walked for an indeterminable amount of time, scanning each forlorn face. None of them noticed him. He wasn't sure how aware they were, but he called for Dean anyway, hoping to get some kind of response farther up the line.

No such luck. Strauss's "The Blue Danube" reverberated though the halls, footsteps echoed, but no one returned his call. He stretched out his awareness as far as he could, searching for Dean, for the bright aura of his soul.

Nothing.

Maybe Crowley had him hidden away? Cas felt anger pulsing in his veins. He would go to Crowley, then. He would find the demon, reach a hand into his chest, and squeeze his twisted red-black essence until he told him where Dean's soul was. And then he would make him pay.

A flutter of his new wings, and he was gone.

Not long after the Angel of Thursday left, a joyous voice rang out In Hell, reaching the ears of all of the damned: "Dean Winchester is saved."