pieces (Destiel)

Purgatory

Castiel knelt beside a stream.

The water was gray, and so were the trees that stretched long, long arms of spindly branches, fracturing the light. It streamed down to the leaf-littered ground in columns. Curves of white rock broke the surface of the water, which washed over them and the rocks that made up the riverbed, but it too was unclean. He cupped it in his hands, rubbed them together, rubbed them over his face. The water cleansed but did not purify, did not remove the taint of this godless place.

Behind Castiel, the wind moaned through the trees. The wind here was as cold and desolate as the land was colorless. He could not risk resting here long. The Leviathan would pick up his trail at any time. He had avoided them for two days, but he knew they grew closer, felt their wickedness stir his grace, just as they inevitably sensed him.

Dean's voice came to him through prayers, hundreds of them: beautiful words he did not deserve (Where the hell are you, I'll find you, we'll find you, we're going home) and did not answer. Castiel ached for him, but Dean would not understand.

Castiel must remain in Purgatory. He deserved to remain after what he had done to Heaven, after what the Leviathan had done to Earth because of his hubris. His chest ached where they had attempted to claw their way out. Nothing of them remained inside of him; they had escaped entirely when his vessel was obliterated, but he would always feel them, he supposed: a flesh memory. Dick's death had forgiven nothing.

There were no other angels in Purgatory. He felt to its edges when he first arrived but detected no grace but his own. Fearful for Dean's life, he had run like a coward. He could only hope to ward off the Leviathan long enough for Dean to find a way out. And if there was no way out, Castiel would do what he could to ensure Dean's continued survival.

+

Dean should have saved himself, not searched Purgatory for a fallen angel, but of course he did; of course he searched for Castiel; of course he pulled Castiel to his chest and embraced him. He took Castiel's face between roughened palms and kissed him hard.

Dean was dirty, his clothes imbrued with blood, a grisly catalog of what he had faced in his search for Castiel: vampire, human, werewolf, Leviathan. Purgatory had altered him, hardened him, but it had not polluted his soul. Castiel perceived its radiance flowing from Dean's every pore.

"Told you I'd find you," Dean said into his mouth.

"Dean," breathed Castiel.

When the wind blew next, it did not feel as cold.

"I prayed to you," Dean said, pushing a hand into Castiel's hair. "Every night."

Castiel leaned into the familiar weight of his fingertips. "I know," he mourned.

Dean stiffened and pulled back just enough that Castiel witnessed the hurt in his eyes, the flicker of his eyelids at the realization that Castiel had heard him, had received Dean's prayers, and done nothing.

"You know?" Dean challenged. He stepped several feet away, curling his hands to fists. His eyes glazed over, like a storm. The wind again blew cold, and that's when Castiel noticed the man at the edge of the clearing.

He was tall and bulky, with a wolfish grin-a vampire by the smell of him. He watched them with dark amusement, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with it.

"Dean," Castiel warned and stepped in front of him, placing his body before Dean's as a shield. But Dean huffed and walked around him, stopped halfway across the clearing.

"Cas, this is Benny," he said thickly. He jutted a thumb over his shoulder. "He knows the way out of here. Benny, this is Cas."

"I gathered as much," Benny said. His voice curled in a southern drawl. "You wanna tell the class why you ran off and left our boy alone, hot wings?"