Title: What His Soul Can See
Author: apokteino
Rating: R
Pairing: Dean/Castiel (mostly pre-slash)
Genre: hurt/comfort, fluff
Spoilers: up through season four
Warnings: mentions of hell
Word Count: 2,600
Summary: Castiel raises Dean from hell before Dean is tortured and broken (AU).
A/N: I was always really bothered by Dean going to hell (to the point I almost stopped watching), and always had this desire to write an AU where angels aren't dicks. This is the half-result of that. :p

Feedback is loved!

Dean knows it the moment his soul flees his body, weightless for one precious second, then a heavy weight pulls, down and down, fire turning to ice, a chill sense of dread, the opening of eyes he no longer had to a twisted living thing, red as fire but so cold, a thing that beats with a sluggish heartbeat, curved thorns holding Dean down, piercing his skin, somehow physical. He sees a black thing with laughing eyes, a knife in hand, and then -

Light.

The black thing - the demon - screams and turns to wisps that scatter in the light, and something warm and formless grabs hold of Dean, enfolding him, touches like smoke, and he dimly sees hell respond to it, twisting in on itself in an attempt to retreat, but the touch doesn't hurt Dean at all. There's no sense of pressure, just a presence, moving around Dean in scattered pieces, like Dean's looking through glass.

He looks elsewhere, eyeless, and sees huge curved shapes that end in sharp blades with no hilt, just miles of razor sharpness, and they curl around Dean for a second, then extend, curl, extend.

It speaks, a vibration in his head. You are raised, Dean Winchester.

What the fuck? Dean answers, the words echoing in his head for a long moment before echoing outward, words written in waves.

The things - the wings, he realizes - curl around Dean again, and they actually touch him this time, and he flinches, but the touch is more of a caress than a cut. When they touch him, he gains a sense of the other what is holding him, and it's ... amused. For a long second, Dean considers fighting, then decides he's got no reason not to trust this - entity. The warmth is captivating, and Dean is weak.

What are you? he thinks, knowing somehow the other will hear.

I am an angel of the Lord, it replies, serene as you please.

So it begins.

Dean, from poking around with parts of himself that aren't entirely arms, can tell he's in a bubble of sorts. He's not entirely shapeless, but somehow he realizes that he's not entirely solid, either. He doesn't feel cold, not like when he was in hell, except he's pretty sure he's still in hell, because beyond the barriers he can press against is that same cold, a flash here and there of twisted flesh, like hell is inside some monster, veins of pain and darkness running through it, passing by.

They are moving, Dean realizes next. Upward, except there's no up and down, no gravity, just being here and then being there.

He sees it when black wisps attack, twisting themselves into flat, sharp knives, cutting away at the moving wings, and the creature - no, the angel, Dean might as well admit it now, groans. The steady movement does no ease, however, and Dean heads a thought its way: You're hurt.

There's a sense of surprise in turn. I will not falter.

Not what I asked, dude.

Amusement and puzzlement, and the next time the wings sweep inward, they brush across Dean again, and Dean feels the jolt of it, the jolt of something being exchanged, like hands meeting in passing, but so much more powerful.

The pain is temporary, the angel says, and you are worth the cost.

Really? Dean replies, can't help the skepticism.

God commanded it, the angel replies.

Dean falls silent. He's not sure what to think of that. He's not sure what to think of hell, of being rescued, if this is really a rescue, and wonders if he's not staying in hell, just where he's going. One thing he doesn't doubt is that this is real. It feels real in a way real life didn't, all the sharp edges of reality exposed. He focuses on his surroundings instead, notes he can still see hell, warped and faded, feeling most of all the surrounding angel, formless and bright, save for the wings, which glitter faintly, like diamond is embedded. That part seems to have the most form, the most recognizable to Dean's eyes - to what his soul can see.

He feels the sudden deep shudder of the angel, and panics for a second, feeling himself come apart, splatter against the walls holding him in, and the angel lets loose a sound like a pressure wave, and then Dean sees it - demons, hundreds of them, most formless black like the ones he'd seen on earth, but others half smoke and half human, scarred and twisted faces, a hand with the fingers twisted and curled in, and Dean shakes. This is Ruby's words come to life, human made into something else. He sees them attach themselves to the angel's wings, to the great expanse and movement, trying to tear it down.

The angel groans, but doesn't falter, and Dean's afraid, but he says nothing, and silently prays, Let us make it.

We will, the angel answers, prayer heard.

The wings cut into the formless shapes with each push, slicing them in half, turning them to dust, again and again, and yet more come.

Dean sees this, a relentless tide, but the angel that holds him is just as relentless.

Dean waits for a lull to speak, doesn't know how long it takes, but they seem to pass one barrier, the demons there falling away into the cold dark, sunning themselves on the gnarled flesh of hell as the angel passes.

Who are you? Dean asks.

I have told you, the other replies. Do you doubt it?

What's your name? Dean tries instead.

He can almost feel the head tilt, the puzzled attention. Castiel.

Dean, if he had breath, would take one. Thank you, Cas.

I have no need of thanks, it replies.

You should take what you can get, Dean says, and he knows he's being prickly and an asshole, but he can't help himself. Something inhumanly powerful has hold of him, and terror and relief mix in him, resulting in careless words the way he always did with Sam. Sam - the deal. If Dean broke the deal, Sam would die. But Dean did go to hell, Dean is in hell, he's just not ... where expected. But would that break the deal? Is Sam dead?

What about my brother? Dean asks.

I have no knowledge of his current state, the angel - Castiel says.

That's helpful.

It is intended to be, Castiel says without a hint of irony. Then, I amuse you? There's a rumble of something deep within, something loud and dangerous and close, almost a threat.

Sorry, Dean says quickly.

The feeling leaves as soon as it comes, the steady warmth returning. Dean stays there, lulled into silence, the feeling strangely easy. He doesn't think Castiel was really offended, and there's no need, no body clamoring for something, just his mind, quiet and still within a battle he narrowly sees. Time passes, but there are no minutes or hours to clock things by, just a smooth passage, uninterrupted.

He sees it when the larger demons come to attack. These ones aren't simply smoke, nor the half-formed humans, but something else entirely, glints of color in the darkness. They tear a rent in Castiel's wing, and for the first time, Castiel does falter, the steady wing-beat pulled into randomness, the one wing lagging behind.

Dean hears nothing, instead he feels the furious cry of Castiel, met and matched by the rage of the demons. He begins to know their words, the same way he hears Castiel:

We will have you you can't hide we'll take you back you belong here you won't escape we'll tear you apart you belong here.

Castiel's response, wordless but strong, is to hack at them with his wings - they hover, Dean breathless inside, as Castiel fights them all off, and one by one they are injured, pieces cut away, and then the steady curl and extension of the wings begins again.

Dean quivers, then relaxes.

You are safe, Castiel tells him, and they are words Dean has wanted to hear for so long, and to hear them now is weird and exhilarating. He believes Castiel.

Am I really? Dean asks. I didn't deserve to be saved. I made that deal, and I'd make it again.

You are human. Therefore, you are flawed. A pause. But I have never seen a soul shine so brightly as yours. You were easy for me to find; the others searched, but I found you.

Dean has no idea what to say or think to that. So he says nothing, and waits, rests.

Castiel continues on, relentless.

They seem to pass through another barrier, like hell is a set of rings, and Dean has become so attuned to Castiel that he can feel the minute relaxation in the thrust of his wings, the sense of accomplishment. He spends years inside of Castiel, listening to the steady wing-beat, almost like a heart-beat. It seems to speak, that sound, telling of unrelenting force, the unbreakable will behind it.

Are all angels like you? Dean asks, into the silence.

I don't know, Castiel answers. I don't know what I'm like to you.

There's something weirdly honest about the words. It settles Dean, even though the answer doesn't really tell Dean anything. Why now? Dean asks. You - your kind - you've never been around before.

I am here now, Castiel says. And I will not abandon you.

Even if you had orders?

A long pause. I can't imagine receiving such a foolish order, Castiel replies.

Something sparks in Dean, lights and doesn't go out. How long have we been here?

Many years, as time passes in this plane. It will take many more for me to fight my way out.

Dean mulls over this. He's not, he decides, particularly disturbed. This state isn't so bad. It's strange, but he's quickly getting used to it, the sensation of having a body and yet not, like his mind wants to remember having a body, so it's there, but only sort of, like there's too many sensations for a body to feel. He ponders this without knowledge of the passing of time, and then finally asks, Why you, then?

I fell down with you, Castiel says. The moment your soul passed, I followed it. You do not deserve hell, Dean.

Dean snorts. I'm hardly a saint.

You are in the ways that matter.

Unaccountably, Dean feels embarrassed. He lets the emotion linger, then pass. Castiel takes his silence as he always does, calmly and without remark, like he knows Dean needs them, sometimes, to feel alone in his own head, but most of the time, Dean wants to talk. Him and Castiel - they're stuck together, for who knows how long. He can still faintly see Castiel passing through hell, the twisted shapes Dean doesn't want to see, so he focuses on Castiel instead, large and unknowable. What about you?

You wish to know me? Correctly guessing the meaning of the question, this time.

Tell me, Dean asks. I want to know everything. You're all I have, Dean thinks, but doesn't voice that last part, and hopes Castiel doesn't hear it.

Rather than directly answer, Dean feels something vaguely like bubbles rise, little spots of light and warmth arising, and he touches one -

Heaven. He sees it, dimly, know it forcefully, and sees thousands like Castiel, each a different sound that carries along the same wavelength, a seething voice.

Dean starts away in surprise, and the vision fades.

You have touched my grace, the angel says. As I have touched you. Watch and see.

Curious and strangely unafraid, Dean touches another.

These are the things Dean knows:

Castiel is both like and unlike his brothers. He feels the same devotion towards God, the same love for God's creations, but he is different in how he aligns his feelings to humans, that he can feel things humans can feel, and hidden deep within that is a curiosity that never dies, the same part of Castiel that hovers around Dean, soaking in his presence, infinitely puzzled and watching for more information. He notes every twitch Dean makes, and Dean is the closest he's ever been to a human being, the first time he's wrapped a soul within his grace, safe.

Castiel both likes and is frustrated by Dean, by the countless questions and asking the same one over and over, Why me?

These are the things Dean doesn't know:

Why Castiel cares. Why God gave the order. What that means. How long this journey will take (years, already, years and years, and Sam must be getting old), what happens at the end of it. Dean might as well have Castiel's hand clasped in his own, and wonders how either of them grasped in the first place or will let go.

It's a mystery why Castiel sees what he sees in Dean; the memories, of course, are easy to share, the same way Castiel shared his, but beyond that, many of Castiel's feelings are unclear at best. That strangely alien tint to everything Castiel does leaks into here, into the space between them, and the steady wing-beat in Dean's ear, saying, Almost there, almost there.

Castiel's wings are scarred. Where once whole feathers lay, sharp as anything could be, are broken feathers, ends cut away, long slashes into the line of them, some scarred, some healing.

Dean knows when they fully break from hell because Castiel's wings heal, curling around him, no longer beating, just weightless. Dean grabs onto them with every strength he has, every bit of his soul he can bring to bear. He's had peace, and now that he has it, he wants to know nothing different. He sees only Castiel surrounding him, warmth and light, and thinks the world out there must be dark in comparison.

I must place you in your body, Castiel says.

No, is Dean's reply.

Castiel heaves a sigh, feathers rustling, but not moving away from Dean's desperate grasp. You will see Sam.

Dean's grip loosens a bit, but not entirely.

Then, I will be there with you.

Promise? And exacting such a promise once would have made Dean feel like a girl, feel like a fool, but Castiel would simply be puzzled by that, so he doesn't. The past is weightless.

Yes.

Dean gasps. His lungs fill with air, chest rising, and he's constrained and crushed, body erratically moving, breathing in and finally breathing out, hands shaking, darkness around when he opens his eyes. Absolute darkness. He flails, puts his hands on the wall in front of his face, scant inches away, and realizes he's in a coffin. He kicks instinctually, punches upward to a sharp pain in his hand, but makes no dent into the wooden box. He's panicking, almost hyperventilating, and then he hears something, a scratching sound up above.

The wood splits, dirt falling inward onto Dean's face so he can see nothing, coughing helplessly, and he feels a hand grasp his own, and with irresistible strength begin to pull him upward.

His body follows helplessly, and he's blinking dirt away, sees that the sun is shining. Another hand appears under his arm, pulls him forward again, and he's falling against someone's chest. Everything is bright and sharp and real and oddly painful.

He looks up, and a pair of blue eyes look down. Castiel's eyes, eyes he's never seen, but he knows them nevertheless.

"You are raised," Castiel repeats, voice rough, palm on the side of Dean's face, a thumb along Dean's lower lip.

Dean laughs.